𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

꒰ 20s ꒱

[cotton-eee]

cotton ! — 20s , she / they , serial reblogger , suna rintaro enthusiast , jason todd fanatic , subby men connoisseur

anti ai and not conservative (obviously)

my blog is NOT spoiler free and reblogs nsfw content please proceed with caution

i am incredibly awkward which is why i don’t interact with people/mutuals much sorry lol

[bambimunson]

ᰔ the beach is hot. ridiculously so.

there are two towels laid side by side on the warm sand, each corner anchored down by yours and johnny’s belongings to prevent the breeze from carrying them away.

the blonde himself, meanwhile, is in a pair of blue and white striped trunks that fit him distractingly well. he’s half-turned towards the board walk, waving to an excited kid or two passing him with their families.

you’d been trying to convince him to put on sunscreen since you got there.

“jonathan storm.”

“don’t full name me.”

your eyes narrow a smidge. between the relentless heat and his stubbornness, your patience was already starting to wear thin. he sighs when he hears the pop of the bottle opening.

“you literally have your butt out on a build board to promote it. you’re being a bad influence.”

he looks back at you then. you’d since shuffled closer on your knees, squirting a generous amount of the white lather into your palm, “the sun doesn’t bother me, babe. you know that.”

you rub your hands together with efficient effort before splaying them against the warm expanse of his back, “controlling fire doesn’t make you immune to sunburn and cancer.”

his jaw works lightly, but this time he lets a protest die on his tongue. instead, his attention shifts out to the rolling waves. you can feel his muscles twitch at the initial change in temperature before they slowly relax beneath your massaging fingers. you take your time spreading it evenly, basking in the skin-on-skin contact as you eventually glide it to his arms, then across the planes of his chest and stomach.

you finally wrap an arm around his neck, pressing against his back and leaning in just enough over his shoulder to wipe the last bit of sunscreen on his cheeks and tip of his nose.

“…okay,” he says after a beat. his ears have turned pinkish, “you’ve gotta stop touching me like that in public.”

“johnny.”

[ranitas4rts]

Iwachan is shy

[finnbennettsource]

[luveline]

I have a baby blurb request if you like the idea! Eddie just being really touchy and clingy on the reader for no particular reason but he literally won’t let her move rooms without following her like a puppy/hanging off of her like a koala. We love our lovesick boy!!!

ty for your request ❤︎⁠ 0.4k, fem

“Oh, Eddie, my sweet angel from heaven.” 

You’re kidding. Mostly kidding, voice soft and quiet as Eddie races back from his trip to the bathroom. There are perfect wet prints on his thighs where he’s dried his hands in a rush. The bed wobbles under his sudden return. He gets his arm around your waist and shuffles up to hook his chin over your head. “Wha’dyou say?” he asks. 

“I said you’re heavy.”

“I don’t think you did.” 

You smile. Eddie smiles the same, his mouth catching the side of your forehead, lips warm and a little chapped. 

“Was there something scary back there?” you ask. 

“In the bathroom?” He sighs dramatically, and manhandles you further into his arms. It gives you a jolt in your tummy of pleasure. “You weren’t there, so. Totally horrifying.” 

“Oh.” 

“Oh…” He turns your head to kiss your eyebrow. “Yes. Very scary stuff in there.” 

“Did you clean it up at any point while I was gone?” 

“It’s usable.” He spots your disgust and nuzzles your head. “Usable for you, so I cleaned it on my hands and knees. You doubt me. You hate me and you think I’m disgusting while I love you enough to get bleach on my good jeans–”

“Shh,” you murmur, raising your hand to curve around his face without moving from your spot below him. You stroke his cheek, shushing him quietly. “Shh, baby. I love you.” 

You do it because it’s corny and it’ll make him melt. He acts like such a character, always loud and brash when he’s so sweet in his centre. Baby talk makes him cringe but he loves it simultaneously, and you love to tease. Better when he goes like warmed taffy against you, all his energy turned to clinging. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, almost embarrassed. 

“And you’re not disgusting. I could never hate you.” 

He scoffs weakly. “Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, you know. Thank you, sweetheart.” You’re laying it on thick, now, but it’s not not real. You love him. You don’t mind babying him. “You’re so good to me.” 

It’s like glue. He’s stuck to you from that moment on, all day long, cuddled to your side as you make dinner, barely parted while you eat. When you need to take a bath, he holds your hand over the tub’s lip, stars in his eyes as you shave your straggly knees.

[finnbennettsource]

Finn Bennett for Behind the Blinds Magazine HS01 WE WERE SUN SF26

[gifchive]

[the-darklings]

ok so i randomly remembered when you wrote that scenario where companion got cuteness aggression and bit bb 😭 what would bobby’s reaction be to her doing that? alternatively what if ls did that to gdgw valarr or aerion lmao?

bobby: DELIGHTED. instantly delighted. you chomp his shoulder because his scrunched up, sleepy morning face was too much and he just lights up. did you just BITE me? and he's already grinning, already pulling you back in. bites you back immediately, obviously. now it's a thing between you both. a game. you're wrestling on the couch at 9am like two puppies and he's cackling and you're shrieking and something definitely falls off the coffee table. bobby's love language already includes roughhousing so cuteness aggression just gets absorbed into that. he'll offer you his forearm like a chew toy when you're staring at him too hard. go on. i can see you vibrating, baby. he's a little shit about it every time.

gdgw!valarr: short-circuits. you bite the curve of his shoulder because he rolled his sleeves up and the sight was simply too much, so you have to mark your territory. and he freezes mid-sentence. blinks. looks down at you with his whole careful composure sliding off his face. ...did you just bite me? and you're like "you were too attractive, it's your fault, actually" and he has no protocol for this. none whatsoever. this man can negotiate multimillion worth deals and stay unreadable through anything but you biting him out of affection has crashed his brilliant brain. goes quietly pink. clears his throat, blatantly pleased by your hunger. the seed is always there, the one that wants to be wanted past all reason, and your teeth in his shoulder just watered it. he doesn't want you to stop. he wants to be CONSUMED. wants your want to have teeth in it, literally, wants proof of appetite pressed into his skin where he can find it later.

tt!aerion: doesn't even flinch. you chomp his bicep out of nowhere because he lifted his shirt to wipe his face, and he just stares down at you, dead calm, teeth marks in his arm, and goes that all you got? because for this man a bite doesn't register as aggression, it registers as flirting. we've covered this. pain and want got crosswired somewhere back in the trailer park years ago and never got fixed. so cuteness aggression from you is just... foreplay with extra steps, basically. he'll flex the bitten arm on purpose. hold it up. inspect the dent critically. you didn't even break skin, stark. embarrassing. and now you have to bite him harder, and he knows you have to bite him harder, and that was the plan the whole time.

[sacrificiallane]

ℒearning High Valyrian 〳 Aerion Targaryen

◟ content   !  ୧ he teaches you high valyrian , and you learn to use it to your advantage ⸝⸝ brief smut!! word kink? idk ! ♡

𝒴our Husband sees himself high above most , equal to some , and beneath no one.

You ― equal , of course. Well , only because you carry his name , that is.

Your Husband is a Dragon , after all , carrying the blood of old Valyria , and seeing himself as something sacred. And you , an addition to himself.

And God’s is he a prideful one.

He's learned the tongue of his ancestors with burning pride. Speaking the old language came easy to children of the blood , he was taught and been praised. And in his mind , his wife , shared not only name , but also tradition. And so he taught you , with the patience of a Husband , the firmness of a Teacher , and the desperation of a man seeing in the practice more than just some simple words…

Because it were the words that used to command the faithful dragon of a rider , and riding a dragon you are ….

"Go on ... say it ," his lips are a breath away from yours , his warm body underneath your own , legs folded to seat you a bit higher. You're both in the middle of your grant canopy bed , tangled in between thin satin sheets and each other limbs. And a gentle summer breeze carries through the opened windows of Summerhall , resulting in a light sheen of sweat covering your exposed skin. Not that Aerion minds it.

"Please ..." you swallow thickly , and his violet eyes watch your throat work.

Not what he wants to hear , but also not entirely unwelcome.

It grands you an open-mouthed kiss , more tongue than mouth , and with the sharpness of his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

"No ," he breathes , "i want to hear the words i taught you. I need to hear you say it."

Oh. Oh.

You quickly correct, "Kostilus." And from your mouth it sounds more like a question than command , unsureness clings to it , and it's not entirely what he wants from you either. A soft laugh rumbles through the man , vibrating against your chest , making your heart race.

He adores the way your tongue rolls when you try to please him with the High Valyrian he taught you ― the pronunciation is never quite right , but it's endearing nonetheless.

His thumb slips between your lips and into your mouth , pressing gently onto your wet tongue with a sweet hum , "the other word."

Your brain goes blank , tasting the saltness of his skin.

"Jās ," you request then , it means 'move'. And a shudder goes through his body , and his hips shift into yours , if only to make you feel how hard it gets him when you speak his ancestors tongue.

His toned arms wrap around you tighter , until your chest is flush with his , and the hammering of his heartbeat becomes undeniable. He is excited.

"Again." It's no request , but a quiet command.

"Aerion ..."

"I said again !" His voice tilts to something more dangerous , possessive. Lips tracking your jaw until his teeth press into skin , meant to make you obey him. His fingers press into your warm flesh , but it isn't soft , bordering on becoming bruising.

And perhaps it's where you take the courage to command him in such way , as your fingers twist into his short silver hair , tugging him by it until he isn’t invading your space anymore. "By the seven , Aerion , Lykirī !" The words slip out of your mouth from memory , and it is all he needs to go utterly pliant.

As if he is truly just a Dragon meant to be commanded with a firm hand.

He is hard , from just your words alone. And the realization holds you captive with quiet satisfaction. His cock strains against your soft thighs , stirred by something primal. And oh he knows you feel it too ... , as he mentally notes the way your own body shifts towards him.

Aerion purrs , as if you've not just tugged him by the hair like he was some brute, "ñuha Jorrāelagon" he mouths at your jaw again , but this time with no teeth , "my love , so good at learning ..." you feel him drag your body over his length , as his arms remain around your waist. "Ñuhon."

And he does it again , and again. Restless palms knead at the flesh of your hips , and his warm tongue slips over the swell of your breasts , tasting your skin with a laziness that has your fingers tighten inside his hair.

He doesn't let his tip slip inside you yet , doesn't really need to do it either.

"Zaldrīzes ," you stammer the only other word you've mastered yet. The meaning not lost to you. "Ñuha ... Zaldrīzes ... oh Gods ―" Your brows knit together when he angles himself towards your clit , dragging you a bit more roughly over his flushed tip.

"Fuck , that's it ..." his tongue slips back into your mouth , and you're half moaning , half tasting him.

And when his orgasm threatens to crash over him , he sheathes himself fully inside of you , rubbing at your clit with measured intensity so you have no choice but to follow him over the edge. None of his spent goes to waste , and you hear him groan into your ear with deep satisfaction when your cunt pulsates around him ...

In the aftermath , he holds you tightly despite the heat. And your skin sticks to his in a way that makes everything feels like it's burning. And maybe that's the beauty of it all.

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 something about Aerion behaving like a Dragon makes me feral, sry

[stellewriites]

through the briar and brambles

aerion targaryen x fem!reader

tags/cw: soulmates au, red string of fate, set in canon but not akotsk compliant, mean flirt aerion, probably ooc aerion bc he’s not a psychopath, readers conflicted but horny lol

as you sat in the crowd, you felt the invisible thread around your finger tug, pulling taught enough that the digit twitched where your hands sat folded in your lap before settling loose again.

you hid your right hand beneath your left and looked back up at the list field. your father, a lesser lord, sat to your right and your younger brother sat to your left, blocking you in from the crowd of other lords and ladies perched in the stands below the targaryen princes.

the crier stepped out into the mud, stopping at the fence splitting the field, and turned towards prince baelor and his brother with a deep breath. you already knew who he was about to announce. the thread tightened on your finger, choking the flesh and stopping the blood, though when you looked down it was unchanged from that morning. you flexed your hand and rubbed at the joint, your lips pinching at the phantom throb.

aerion.

he took delight in snapping your attention towards him, reminding you of his looming presence, niggling at you from afar.

the closer you got, the stronger the hold he had on your fate tie felt. his reach had its limit however; you’d noticed so after suffering through a week of his childish games during the last tourney but three moons back. the tugging had been insistent and never ending after you’d given your favour to another knight, keeping you up late at night even, only for it to stop suddenly as the distance grew between you when you travelled home.

the relief was immediate, but closely followed by a gaping absence, a throbbing grief for where aerion had burrowed and made himself home in the back of your mind. you were restless for the last portion of the trip home, squeezing your own finger in comfort to try and still your foolish need to move and get close again.

it had been like this for two years almost, dipping in and out of each others’ lives, tasting what it could be like together as aerion somehow got more brazen and clever with each meeting and you tried to ignore your budding fondness for him.

you weren’t sure of the exact date you’d first crossed paths, but you could remember the warmth of kings landing and the last of the preparation for egg’s name day celebration rushing around you as you followed on your mother’s heels, determined not to make a fool of yourself.

it was your first visit there as a lady in your own right, no longer a child, a girl holding tightly to your mother’s dress, but a woman that must make her own connections. it was for this reason that your father was looking after your younger brother, tomas, for the day instead of you or your mother.

you were taking lunch with a group of other lesser houses’ ladies and their daughters outside, sat quietly while the older women gossiped among themselves in between sips of wine. it was hot, as it always seemed to be in king’s landing, and your dress felt too thick. coming from the north, it was difficult to find dresses appropriate for the weather, and you only had so much money to spend on the higher priced tailoring at this end of the kingdoms, but the thick cotton you favoured was a touch too heavy for the heat of blaring sun.

your mother had a dress or two held back from her previous visits across the kingdom with your father, so she was faring better than you were, but you knew she’d run out of dresses made of airy material before the week was done and she’d soon be sweating alongside you.

you swallowed drily, and took a sip of your water, peeking longingly at one of the younger women sat with you as she fanned herself in the steady heat. a single drop of sweat trickled from behind her ear to her collarbone where it soaked into the delicate, twisted braid resting over her shoulder.

you looked back down to your hands and sneakily wiped the condensation from your glass into the folds of your dress, hoping the sweat wouldn’t stain the material too noticeably.

you had brought your embroidery with you; a handkerchief for your father that you’d had to restart three times over so far on your mother’s request. your skills in sewing, practical or decorative, were questionable, though you were determined to improve, so you had thought to take the spare time during the visit to keep practicing, hoping to seize the opportunity to ask your peers for any advice if they seemed friendly enough not to boast over your disadvantage.

just as you were starting on the second of your house’s three flowers, you pricked your finger roughly.

“seven bloody hells,” you swore under your breath, your finger rearing back before you sucked on it. you pulled it from your soft mouth at your mother’s harsh glare and dropped your head, your lips a thin, pinched line of regret even as you wanted to shake your hand out to ease the throbbing.

“hmm. unable to tell where the needle will be?” one of the other ladies spoke up, humming disapproval.

“it can be a terribly tricky thing to get the hang of when you’re first starting, i’m sure,” a second piped up before sipping at her wine with a smirk. “i remember my elissa struggling… when she was little.”

you kept your mouth closed, having no urge to tell them that you’d been learning since you were five as most girls did, you’d just never been able to pick it up quite as quick. the careful hand for fine details escaped you.

“perhaps you should find the maester to look at it if it was so painful as to yell. the walk may steady your hands for when you get back so there are no further accidents,” your mother suggested bluntly, giving you no option to decline.

you tightened your clenched hold on the handkerchief, thread hanging loose and needle discarded on the table beside you, and nodded with a wane smile.

“of course, mother.” you stood and left the garden, following the path back to the castle. when you looked down at the soft silk in your hand you wanted to cry, the tiniest speckles of blood stained the pale material from your finger.

you would try again. perhaps the fifth attempt would be the most fortuitous.

you wiped preemptively at your dry eyes, the familiar ache of building tears enough to have you reflexively reach up while quickening your pace to reach the maester’s working quarters.

“what upsets you, my lady?” a voice called out, pulling you to a temporary stop as you turned to find the man it came from.

his eyes were intrigued as he took in your wobbling pout and wide eyes, but he didn’t seem empathetic in his curiosity. you recognised him as a prince immediately from his pale hair and vivid purple eyes. he carried his grandfather’s targaryen looks proudly.

he raised his eyebrows expectantly when you stayed silent, staring. “well?”

“i pricked my finger, just a silly accident,” you tried to laugh off, your nerves turning into shambles over speaking to a targaryen without chaperone.

he scoffed.

“and so where were you hoping to go? to the maestar, to heal such a damning wound?” he mocked.

your lips pinched as he stepped closer, the cruel twist to his features became more evident, but you didn’t move as he lifted your wrist carelessly to gaze at the single, tiny pearl of blood gathering on the pad of your finger.

he cooed with an insincere sympathy, laughing as you tugged your hand away in barely concealed anger and offence.

“i believe the fresh air of the walk will do me more good than an actual visit to the maesters,” you said sharply, feeling your hand twitch and throb where you held it staunchly by your side. “i’m sure they’re quite busy.”

“quite.” he stared at you, like a brightly coloured insect he’d found beneath a rock. unsure if he wanted to poke and prod, but unwilling to look away. the silent attention pulled taut at your nerves.

“is there something i can help you with?” you finally asked, a little brusque, but more clearly anxious as you picked at the small wound with your nail. your manners left bereft and wanting.

“now, now,” he tutted with a barely contained smile. “do not snap at your prince, not when i was simply extending my concerns to a lady walking alone around the castle grounds.”

your eyes widened once more and you wanted to curse your loose tongue.

“please accept my sincere apology, my prince. it must be the heat that has me acting out of sorts,” you said, ducking into a deep curtsy and quickly turning on your heel. you walked away with speed, biting your lip and praying to the old gods and the new that he didn’t—

your hand tugged back towards him sharply, but when you looked he was still several paces away. aerion’s own hand had risen and he was looking just as confused as you were until his eyes caught on your hand and he tilted his head and closed the distance between you.

you saw a pale flash of red from his hand as he lifted yours once more, gentle this time as he rubbed his thumb over the thread linking your pinkies together.

his jaw was slack, the tip of his pink tongue visible behind his teeth as he tilted his head lower, enraptured by the invisible tie between you slowly developing thicker and stronger.

you ran the tip of your middle finger over his own tie and he shivered, the red grew bold in colour. his eyes darted up to yours and you held your breath.

he lifted your hand higher and took your injured finger in his mouth, pressing his tongue flat and broad against the pad to lap at the burst of blood until you came to your senses and pulled it back and stumbled out of his reach.

you cradled your hand to your chest, flushed and hot and no longer able to blame it on the high sun. you gawped at the smiling prince, unable to find words as he looked at you like he wanted a second taste.

without a word more you ran back to your mother and the other ladies as though he might’ve given chase. you slowed your pace as you got closer and stayed quiet for the rest of the day. though his spit had soon dried upon your skin, the heat of his tongue became unforgettable.

the last few days of the celebration were spent trying to avoid aerion as best you could, hoping the connection would break or grow weak, that the gods would realise their mistake. but it did no such thing and the red thread stayed tied tight and you could feel his eyes on you at all opportunities, sizing you up and seeking you out in the crowds.

you’d catch his lilac gaze across feast tables as he sat with his father and brothers, or over his shoulder, benches apart, as a play was performed in honour of eagon’s ninth name day. he found you at every turn, but made no move to come close, apparently aware of how skittish you were and adapting to it.

you’d thought you had maybe managed to lose his interest by the end of the week, having not spoken to him a second time and resisted with all your might the temptation to play and pull at the thread on your end. you could feel him sometimes, testing its give, but you’d ignored it until you’d gotten back home where you scratched and tugged at the thread freely, easing the urge that had grown recklessly in you every time you saw red in your peripheral.

you weren’t mindless, however, and you’d made sure your parents and little brother never caught you fiddling with what they’d see as air on the journey back.

you’d barely unpacked the evening of your arrival home, so distracted by the tie around your right finger, that you were caught by surprise when your parents called for you.

you left your travel trunk for your handmaid to see to in the morning and met with your mother and father in the small library. your mother pulled you to sit by her side, a warm smile gracing her face as she tucked you in tightly so the warmth of the fire would reach you. you longed for the warmth of the south as the snow of your home bled back into your bones.

“you know we’ve done our best to fend off unwanted proposals over the years,” you mother started as your father stared pensively into the fireplace. “tried to protect you for as long as we could.”

“of course,” you whispered as dread seeped in faster than the cold ever could.

“but it is no longer proper, not for a woman of your age,” you mother said. she stroked a gentle thumb over your round cheek, her touch light and fleeting. mourning.

“we’ve received an offer,” your father spoke up, finally looking at you. his gaze was heavier than it had been that morning, he looked at you differently. “we’re considering it.” your mother cleared her throat and your father sighed heavily and looked away. with a nod seemingly to himself he continued, “i’m going to accept.”

who would this man be? a knight, a lord, a kind man or a cruel one? someone powerful enough to have your father back down, at least. you’d always half-thought he’d push you towards becoming a septa with how he coveted you from other men in the region.

you thought back to aerion and wondered if he would stop this matrimony before it had chance to take place. if he heard news quick enough you thought there was potential; there had been enough rumours around the keep during your visit of his jealousy, enough comparisons of his dragon-like hoarding, that you’d believe he’d do so just to prove he could. a flash of his family’s power and wealth, and his control over even the most inconsequential things.

perhaps he’d do it by sending forth a counter offer your father would be unable to refuse. perhaps—

i’m going to accept.

“what house does he bear, father? do i know him?”

your father’s lips pursed.

“we don’t need to discuss this any further,” your mother interrupted smoothly. she ran a hand down your back comfortingly, but it set your further on edge. “the details have not been struck, you will know all you need to as the time comes. for now, you’ve had a long day or travel, you should go rest, as we should. we will speak in the morning.”

despite your unsatisfaction to her non-answer, you knew you’d get no more from her if you pushed. you nodded and bid them both a good night as you left with your heart racing.

before you reached the stairs, you saw your father’s solar door cracked open. with a brief look behind you, you went inside and thanked the old gods that he’d left a candle burning on his desk.

you couldn’t get his pensive look out of your head, the tense hold of his back as he’d refused to look at you, the grey of his beard glittering sharply in the firelight. and no matter how much your mother had smiled, you had seen the worry buried in the lines around her eyes.

you saw the letter, unfolded and abandoned on the corner of his desk.

“…my apologies for placing this letter among your belongings, lord fenn, it was imperative that we discuss this matter without any further delay. i’d have liked to do so in person but the knowledge of our childrens’ fate tie was only made known to me the morn you were set to ride and so…”

your breath caught and you flipped the top of the folded letter down to find the targaryen seal set in red wax.

slowly you released a thin breath and put the letter back down. you knew what it would say, you didn’t need to keep reading. aerion had told his father about you and your fate tie. he had sealed your lives together without a second thought, you had never lost his interest.

—

you pulled yourself back into the present and looked down to the grounds, letting your eyes drift over the opposing knight first before finding finding aerion’s eyes already set on you from where he sat atop his steed. it felt like he had a sixth sense as to where you were at any point in time with the way he could locate you in a crowd, as though you stood out in any regard.

his wrists were crossed nonchalantly over his saddle’s horn, the reigns loose in his hold as he gazed up at you with a small, patient smile. your lips pursed.

he was leant back in the saddle, satisfied and calm despite the charge he was about to ride. he’d caught you looking at the other man and you knew nothing good would come of it, regardless of it meaning nothing. you tugged discreetly at your thread and watched his smile widen before he trotted forward to face his uncle and father. after a brief look shared with his blood, he lowered his visor and turned back to head to his starting place. you watched anxiously, toes curling in your shoes.

it was a blur as the horses moved, your brows tugged together snugly as you desperately tried to keep your squinting eyes on the two men hurtling towards each other. aerion’s lance dropped low at the last moment and broke off into the knight’s leg.

you bit your tongue at the agonised yell, your face pinching in distaste. you didn’t delight in pain like your fated seemed to. you watched as he trotted along, his visor lifted now as he watched the other knight grasp at his bleeding leg with shaking hands.

his eyes lingered between the man and you, a sick pride flourishing in his chest. he was better.

he urged his horse forward with a subtle shift of his hips.

the knight’s squire stood by the injured knight’s side, just short of the horse’s back, where he tugged too roughly trying to release the lance head from his leg. every spurt of blood was accompanied by a new, sharply bitten swear echoing across the flat grounds. the joust would continue if the man didn’t forfeit or move from his horse and aerion was taking his time heading back towards his own squire and second lance.

the injured knight’s squire saw this and tried to corral the horse and his knight back to their end, desperate to hand him his own lance if he couldn’t relieve the pain.

with your heart beating like thunder you watched as aerion waited for the other knight to hitch his lance with tired arms before kicking his horse into action. you waited for him to drop his forearm again, but tugged at your fate thread hard before he could, flinching his arm off target enough to correct his purposely harmful aim. it still hit the knight in the ribs and knocked him from his horse, and aerion was skimmed at his shoulder, but a second lance was not dug deep into flesh and for that you were grateful. perhaps the knight would have a chance to live now.

“father, did you see that? prince aerion was barely even scathed,” your little brother chittered excitedly by your side, clapping along with the crowd as aerion paraded and peacocked for a moment before leaving the grounds free for the next set of knights.

you watched the injured man get carried off away from the stands and tried not to remember his face or name, the colours on his house flag. it’d be easier to ignore the damage aerion caused if you didn’t notice the man’s absence at the next games.

“one day i’ll be able to best prince aerion in a joust,” your brother continued, his arms flailing as he pretended to thrust an invisible joust forward. your father only hummed.

you sat quietly as another two sets of knights won and lost, their names barely having chance to register as your patience wore thin and your attention was pulled to aerion, out of sight but plucking at your thread. gentle twangs and tugs that felt carefully leading, like he was encouraging you to come find him.

your distraction throughout the next jousts must have not been as well hidden as you’d hoped as your father cleared his throat during a break between competitors.

“perhaps we should congratulate prince aerion on his win,” he suggested.

“and wish him luck for the next,” tomas added eagerly, already taking your hand to lead you from the stands despite your hesitance. your brother was barely seven, but his grip was strong as he tried to push through the crowd to get to aerion sooner, only slowing to look over his shoulder at your father to check he was still headed in the right direction.

you father had stayed silent behind you on the walk, only stepping forward once you reached the pair of kings guards stood outside the bright red tent. they recognised you easily enough, but your father still introduced himself for propriety’s sake.

ser roland crakehall let his eyes linger on you over your father’s shoulder for a moment before he dipped into the tent. you heard soft mutterings before aerion’s voice broke through rudely.

“i don’t want to see any guests, send them away, they can find entertainment with my cousin or daeron if he’s been unable to climb his horse,” he scoffed.

you felt heat rush to your face, anger over embarrassment, and you dropped your brother’s hand temporarily to rub harshly at your finger where your thread hung limp. you tugged it harshly, glaring at the tent and hearing ser roland explain exactly who was outside of aerion’s tent waiting to see him, your name whispered with purpose.

the air seemed to still before suddenly aerion was opening his tent flap with a frown, his thumb rubbing at his own threaded finger irritatedly. his eyes softened at the sight of you; you’d be tempted to call the look fond if his smug smile didn’t ruin it, the way he held his shoulders back full of pride and satisfaction. the caution you’d felt in his tugs not long before had all but disappeared now that you stood before him.

you knew he’d be insufferable about your appearance, and gods help you, you couldn’t help but let a small smile of your own grow; your anger all but fizzled out as quickly as it had grown.

“what a pleasant surprise,” he started, sparing but a glance and a nod for your father before looking back to you. “impressed by the performance so far?”

you wanted to roll your eyes, but a lady would do no such thing. and even with your mother absent from your side, busy with commitments back at home, her voice rang loud and you didn’t forget your manners. instead you opened your mouth to give a neutral review of aerion’s violence, but tomas interrupted first.

“it’s been fantastic, prince aerion, you were spectacular!” his big eyes looked up at aerion like he’d hung the stars and you pursed your lips in worry. aerion wasn’t known for his patience and this would be the first time he’d spoken to your brother since he was a toddler.

“is that so?” he asked, turning his attention down. he knelt, lowering himself to below your brother’s height and you stared on in shock. “and are you after becoming a knight yourself one day?”

tomas nodded enthusiastically, leaning into aerion’s orbit inadvertently.

it was easily done; you’d found yourself doing the same over the years, for as tiring and sharp as aerion was, he could be just as charming and quietly calm.

“then perhaps one day we shall train together, hm?” aerion offered, watching as your brother’s eyes got bigger in awe. you weren’t faring much better, unused to aerion playing so patiently, especially with a child, with someone he couldn’t gain something from. “i’m sure you’ll make a worthy opponent,” he joked. “you could train with me when you come to king’s landing to visit your sister.”

there it was.

you stiffened, your smile thinning out into a pinched grimace you tried to hide as soon as you felt it.

“isn’t that right?” he turned to you directly as he stood back up.

aerion delighted in winding you up; he knew you’d declined the proposal, or would have if you’d had the option, but he also knew your parents had said yes as soon as they’d received maekar’s letter all those years ago. this unfound patience, this slow courting, had been for your benefit to grow used to your bound fate. no matter how protective your parents were, you couldn’t really say no. not to him.

it was the lack of choice that curdled your stomach, though you had known all your life it would be like this. the way aerion liked to remind you of his power and parade your obedience around had you acting out like you were still a girl and not a grown woman.

it wasn’t as though you didn’t want to marry aerion. the gods had willed it and though you may have started this proposal hesitant to be fated to aerion brightflame, and the violence that followed him, he had managed to slowly burrow his way closer to your heart. like a rat in search of a warm, dry home.

there was just a part of you that couldn’t help but want to make it difficult for him as nothing ever had been for him before. your mother would call it petty difficulty, but it wasn’t. there was a fondness to your actions that you couldn’t ignore.

“that’s right, of course you can visit as often as you’d like,” you said to your brother. “though we don’t have to think of that right now, i won’t be leaving home any time soon.”

“hmm,” aerion’s mouth pulled down in a moue as he teased, “sooner than you think, perhaps. the gods grow impatient, as do i.”

“i wouldn’t want to test the gods’ patience,” you hummed.

he smiled. “smart girl.” pausing to fully take you in, he smiled as he registered what dress you were wearing. “you look beautiful as always, my lady. that colour suits you.”

“you had it made for me, my prince, i would have hoped you’d pick a colour you thought would flatter,” you said, your tone leaning more teasing than berating. aerion’s tongue poked at the corner of his lips, enjoying your bite, as toothless as it was.

“i won’t have my future wife dressed in anything less than what she deserves. you’re the one that insists on keeping your family crest and colours apparent.”

“we’re not yet married, my prince, it wouldn’t be proper to wear targaryen colours—“

“you could do as you pleased and i would make sure not a word was said about it,” he said decisively.

before you could rebut his push for you to be regaled in red and black, head to toe, every time you stepped foot in king’s landing, your father cleared this throat. aerion dragged his eyes away from you and over to him, barely hiding his immediate switch to impatient boredom at the interruption.

“your skills in jousting flourish each year, my prince.” your father could barely hide his distaste for the unnecessary violence and gore from the fight, but he pushed out the complimentary words nonetheless.

aerion paused, sizing your father up for a moment before looking over at your brother and then back at him. his eyes had dragged up in down in the same lazy way they had to you, but there was no warmth to be found in his gaze now. it instead felt unpleasantly dismissive as opposed to heavily wanting.

“have you spoken to my father today, lord fenn?” the question caught your father off guard and he floundered a for a second before shaking his head and answering no. “hm. you should visit us after the tourney; come back in one of our carriages, im sure your wife will enjoy the sun for a while longer instead of returning to the cold so soon.”

“prince aerion, my wife is not with us on this visit. im not sure—“

“you should discuss it with my father, he has been eager to speak with you on other matters,” aerion said, turning away with a sharp sniff, his nose scrunching as he faced you once more. “he’ll be having lunch with my uncle and cousin in their tent i suppose. you know the way?”

your father pursed his lips at the unsubtle dismissal. he nodded once, stiffly.

“lovely, i’m sure little aegon will be there to entertain the boy,” he gestured down to your brother who had begun to peek inside aerion’s tent. with a sharp whistle from your father tomas moved back to his side with a lowered head, one hand gripping the fabric of your father’s britches behind his knee. when aerion saw your father hesitate, eyes twitching to you, he continued, “not to worry, i can stay with your daughter while you discuss it. it’s not proper to make a lady walk back and forth in the mud and heat, hm? she’ll be in safe keeping with the king’s guard nearby, and i’m sure i can keep her entertained until you return.”

you resented the way you were being spoken about as if you weren’t present, but you’d grown used to it from being young. and you knew tugging on your fated connection would only encourage aerion to do so again in the future to garner a reaction. you almost had to provide attention to him like a treat, reinforcing positive behaviour instead of when you wanted to react in response to his more vile habits.

you watched your father clench his jaw as he realised the trap he was laid in; unable to say no to the prince without upsetting him despite the impropriety of leaving behind his unwed daughter alone with just her fated. it would have every bone in his body screaming in protest, but as the king’s guards shifted on their feet, watching, your father could do nothing but nod silently.

a part of you hated him for it; his cowardice and submission, but as you felt aerion guide you into his tent with a light hand between your shoulders you felt akin with your father. you were not so stupid as to be unaware of the position aerion had placed your family in, even if you were secretly ashamed of how quickly they rolled over for him.

once in the tent, the front flap closed once more and the king’s guard left posted on the other side, aerion surprised you by linking your pinkies.

your eyes darted down to look at where the tie had shortened with your proximity, wrapping and tangling around your fingers tightly to keep them together after being so far apart for so long. seeing your tie act so possessively, so needy, only encouraged aerion you knew. you looked for longer than necessary, entranced by a short, loose drape tickling at your other dangling fingers.

waiting for an explanation or for his next move, you looked back up at him.

“why do you avoid me?” he asked softly, once again doing the opposite of what you’d expected. he stared into your eyes deeply, unwaveringly focused on you in his tenuous grasp.

“i- i don’t, i do not avoid you, m—“

“you do,” he corrected before you could continue to stutter out an excuse. “you’re frightened,” he spoke aloud your secret plainly, offering space for your fear to breath. “you need not fear me, we were made for each other by the gods; old or new, i care not to know. but there is nothing to be afraid of, i know you shall not disappoint me.”

your eyes darted away, his words settling an anxiety deeper into your bones than before.

“you cannot guarantee that,” you whispered. finding a pinch of bravery at your very core, even as you hid from his gaze, you continued in your hushed tone, “and you cannot guarantee you won’t disappoint me.”

he scoffed, like the idea wasn’t worth thinking about.

“you want for compassion,” he said after a brief silence, reading you easier than a book.

he tilted your chin back to face him with his spare hand, his eyes amused, almost kind. you pursed your lips, feeling petulant.

“you will learn to want for your prince and what he gives you.” his hand dropped to your waist, his fingers rubbing at the cooling silk he’d draped you in, rubbing as though hoping to dig through the sleek material to feel your skin instead.

your ‘brows tugged down into a frown at his words, delighting him further as his sly smile grew.

“it’s not wrong to hope for tenderness,” you let the words continue to slip, contrasting the hand reaching towards his belt. the pads of your fingers trailed across the soft, expensive leather, starting from his stomach and ending at his hip.

“aren’t you tired of gentle hands and careful words?” he asked, hushed, his voice placating. “you may enjoy my touch more than you are expecting.”

his fate-tied finger curled unbearably tighter before releasing, his full hand moving instead to hold yours more securely. he brought it up to kiss your knuckles, his pale lashes fluttering over high cheekbones as his lips brushed your soft skin, before he rested your palm over his heart.

“you’re spoiled,” he noted, not unkindly, of your need for sweet handling. “but if i cannot oblige my tenderhearted wife, who am i to bend to?”

“i’m not yet your wife—“

“yet.” his thumb rubbed at your pinky finger laid across his doublet, catching the buzzing, red thread. “but inevitably.”

your gaze dropped to his plush lips, watching the words form on his tongue. you almost wished you felt a cold indifference to the prince, but his touch sent bees swarming between your ribs.

he tilted his head close and nuzzled your noses gently before nudging at your cheek, then finally letting his lightly parted lips brush against yours.

he stayed gentle in the kiss for longer than you’d expected, but the eager brush of your tongue, curious against the gentle curve of his upper lip, had him tugging you forward and curling over you. his hands moved to cradle you close, stilling your nervousness with an arm around your waist and stealing your breath with a hand at the back of your neck.

you were all encompassed. it should’ve felt claustrophobic, it should’ve felt embarrassing knowing his guards were mere feet away, likely listening, barely separated by thick cotton, but it didn’t.

wantonly, you tugged at his doublet, making no real move to escape him. your elbows were tucked in close to your ribs, your hips close to his, and you begged with the gods not to let anyone see how you moaned softly, desperately, into his mouth as he gasped and groaned against yours.

his hand dropped to your backside and your mouth moved to kiss along his jaw, desperate to find the air he was insistent on stealing from your lungs. you quietened your whines with a bite to his shoulder, growing frustrated when he laughed, unable to feel the strength of your teeth through the thick material lining his jacket.

feeling mean, but feeling free of consequences, you dropped one of your hands back to his belt, using it as a guide to find his stiffening cock through his trousers and squeezing it. his laughter broke off into a moan, huffed directly into your ear. the sound so addictive you were ready to do it again until he pushed you back.

your stomach dropped as you stared at him with wide eyes. you’d gone too far, you’d acted like a whore and now he wasn’t interested, you’d—

“how long do you think your father will last with mine before he’s sent back?”

you blinked; aerion’s hands were suddenly dropping to his belt, fiddling with the complicated clasp shaped like a dragon’s head as you tried to catch up. why were you talking about your fathers right now?

“depends,” you huffed, a little out of breath. aerion dipped close to kiss you once more and your eyes closed at the here-and-gone-again feeling. “how badly have you worn away at your father’s patience this morning?”

aerion scoffed, finally pulling his belt free and working at the loose tie to his britches before pausing, a serious look coming over his handsome face. “hm. perhaps we’ve not got long then.”

he tugged you back towards him.

“aerion—“

“the sooner we put a targaryen baby in that belly, the sooner the wedding shall have to be,” he whispered. your heart thumped painfully loud and your stomach lit alight with flutters. you shouldn’t. your mother would kill you, aerion was just testing your strength of will. “no more delaying it, my sweet.”

he kissed your cheek with a wet smack and began lifting your skirt.

you watched him drop to his knees before you, trousers half open and cheeks a ruddy, excitable pink as his hands climbed higher up your thighs, spreading them as you struggled to stay stood steadily beneath his eager pawing. heat spread thickly, like honey, between your legs and the urge to tell aerion to stop disappeared.

your right hand drifted to his blonde hair, tugging at what you could of the short length to keep his eyes up on you.

“it would satisfy the gods?” aerion licked his lips at your question, his eyes flickering to what laid between your spread legs for a moment.

“it will satisfy me,” he answered truthfully. “and i will satisfy you.”

the slow brush of his thumb back and forth across the soft skin of your inner thigh broke your gaze momentarily, a shyness overcoming you, even as you nodded. with a growing smile, you held up the ruffle of your dress skirt at the front and loosened your hold on his hair.

the confidence in his voice that he would please you had you forgetting the precarious position you were both in, and the first hungry lick of his clever tongue to your cunt had your body singing and your voice calling out louder than it should have given the lack of privacy the tent offered.

he’d managed to wring your first orgasm out of you and stood to shove your hand down the front of his open britches by time the familiar sound of your father’s voice returned outside the tent.

you laughed into aerion’s snarling mouth, legs still shaky and sweat clinging to your temples, as your father called for you.

“another time,” you whispered, holding his palm to rest over your belly. you kissed him once more, briefly. “the gods have willed it.”

[mayhemi]

dex needs constant reassurance during sex. he could be pounding into you, making you see stars with his cock, and he would still be asking you if he's doing okay.

"am i- is this okay? baby, tell me m'good-- please" he's whining muffled words into the crook of your neck as his tip slams against your g-spot repeatedly, enough to have you clawing at his back, leaving angry red marks on his skin.

he's focused solely on your pleasure, he gets off when you get off. so when you're too fucked-out to reply to him, he's panicking. he doesn't understand that he's making you feel so good to the point where you can't form a coherent sentence.

"is it not good? oh god- do y'not like it?" he tends to spiral, so you have to talk in order to keep him going. "i-it's good, dex-- fuck!-- feels s'good" your fingers card through his hair, tugging at the blonde strands, which earns you a choked whimper.

"y-yeah?" he moans out whorishly, his breath hot against your neck. he's desperately trying to keep his pace from faltering. "tell me- can you tell me y'love me? p-please?" he snakes his hand down between both of your sweaty bodies and rubs tight circles on your clit, causing you cry out and arch into him further as pleasure shoots through your limbs. "love you!" you mewl, the only thing you can say when he's making you feel like this.

your orgasm crashes over you with his name lingering on your tongue, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him obscenely. he finishes directly after you, he was only holding off because he always makes sure you cum first. he doesn't want to be selfish, after all.

he collapses on top of you, practically panting. his cock is still sitting inside of you, his warm release settling. he'd probably never admit it, but your words of praise are his favorite part of sex.

© mayhemi | all rights reserved.

[bambiibun]

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ HOW THEY WOULD KISS YOU.

featuring: aerion, daeron.

cw: mdni, afab! reader, suggestive, mentions of blood, mentions on having a boner, and mentions of being drunk, mentions of tits, these are my headcanons !!

notes: i was gonna start with 'how they would fuck you' but felt a little too much for my first post lol. anyway enjoy, i love these men sm !!

── .✦ AERION.

We all know this man is intense. When he kisses you, he does it like he means it — leaving no part of you unconquered. He’ll kiss anywhere he can get his mouth on: your lips, your neck, your shoulder, even in public. He literally does not care. You’re his. He claimed you like a dragon claims his prize, and he wants everyone to know how proud he is of his treasure.

Aerion will leave marks on your skin too — bites and hickeys placed strategically on spots you cannot easily hide. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he couldn’t care less. A dragon does not concern himself with such stupidities. Why would he hold back, when you're like a feast open for him to take whenever he wishes?

And when he kisses your lips he literally has no mercy. It won't start tender or slow, no, he dives in from the first second, finding any way to make you gasp against his mouth so he can slip his tongue into your wet heat — he might claw at your arm, might bite your lower lip until it bleeds. This man doesn’t mind hurting you a little. He’ll make it up to you later — he always promises between kisses, not even pulling back to talk or breathe properly. He’s so desperate and overwhelming that you can’t help but let him have his way with you.

── .✦ DAERON.

I’d give this man a prize if he doesn’t get a boner within the first two minutes of making out with you. If you thought Aerion was desperate, just wait until you meet his pathetic older brother — grasping at your clothes, trying to silence his whimpers against your mouth. Because Daeron is loud. And messy as fuck.

If he’s drunk enough, he’ll kiss you right there in the tavern, shame completely dissolved in his wine-clouded brain. And gods, he’s touchy. Let your guard down for even a second and his hands will find their way to your tits like they have a mind of their own. If you scold him, he’ll grunt a half-hearted apology against your lips only to try again the moment you get distracted.

Oh, and sometimes he has to pull back from your mouth for a few seconds. He gets so overstimulated he’ll combust if he doesn’t stop — or maybe he’s just trying to keep his dick from straining too obviously against his pants. He’ll stay there with his eyes closed, whispering a quiet curse as he presses his lips to your neck, breathing hard, before diving back in to claim your mouth again.

© bambiibun 2026.

[kthologue]

how to train your dragon — aerion targaryen

synopsis. history will remember you as aerion brightflame's wife and whisperer.

contents. fluff, established relationship, protective and possessive!aerion, wife!reader, ooc aerion

notes. he tries soooo hard to pretend he is not at your beck and call.

The morning light spilled pale and golden through the tall windows of Summerhall, catching upon the silver threads in your embroidery.

The door opened without ceremony.

“Father, what brings you to this side of Summerhall so early?” you asked, setting aside the hoop before rising to offer the courtesy due your husband’s sire.

Maekar stood framed against the corridor’s shadow, his expression carved from the same stone as the mountains of the Dornish Marches. There were few men in the realm who looked perpetually braced for battle even within their own halls; your father-in-law was one of them.

“Your idiot husband,” he muttered, striding inside as though the word itself had propelled him.

You did not so much as blink. “Your son,” you corrected gently, gesturing for him to sit.

He declined the chair with a dismissive flick of his hand, pacing instead before the hearth as though the fire might offer counsel.

“He has refused to attend the tourney at Bitterbridge,” Maekar said, irritation threading through every syllable.

You paused only briefly, though your thoughts moved swiftly. Bitterbridge had not been quiet of late; grain levies had tightened, rumors of hoarding had begun to circulate, and lesser lords who resented the crown’s interference had nevertheless grown loud in their demands for royal relief whenever their smallfolk turned restless. A progress to the Reach would not be undertaken for leisure, nor even for spectacle alone, but as deliberate theater of the Iron Throne's presence.

“I suppose my dear husband considers disputes over grain beneath his notice,” you murmured, retrieving your embroidery needle and aligning it with deliberate care.

Maekar snorted, though whether at your assessment or at Aerion himself remained unclear. “Thank fuck someone in this cursed family has sense."

You allowed yourself a small smile. “If you have come to enlist me as emissary, I fear you misjudge the difficulty. Aerion would sooner invite open rebellion than permit me to depart his sight for a fortnight.”

“Yes,” Maekar replied darkly, “that appears to be the fucking problem.”

The bluntness might have scandalized another daughter-in-law; you merely folded your hands in your lap and regarded him with patient attention. For all his severity, Maekar did not waste his visits on trivialities.

“He refuses on what grounds?” you asked.

“He claims the Reach is quiet enough without our presence,” Maekar said, voice tightening. “He insists that to answer every minor grievance with a dragon’s shadow is to encourage further complaint.”

You could almost hear your husband’s voice.

“However,” you ventured, “a prince’s attendance would remind those same lords that their harvest depends upon the stability of the crown.”

Maekar stopped pacing and looked at you fully then, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Precisely.”

You set the hoop aside altogether now, giving him your undivided attention.

“I wish my son to understand that ruling requires more than posturing,” Maekar replied. “The smallfolk grow anxious, which breeds discontent.”

“And Aerion’s absence,” you concluded softly, “might be interpreted as indifference.”

Maekar’s silence confirmed it.

You knew your husband’s tempers, his pride, the peculiar intensity with which he guarded what he deemed his own. You also knew the quieter truths few others witnessed: the way his restlessness eased at your touch, the rare unguarded smile reserved solely for you, the impatience that melted into something almost boyish when you praised him.

You said at last, “ You hope that my presence will render the journey tolerable.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched, almost conceding humor. “I hope your presence will make refusal impossible.”

You laughed softly at that. “Father, you attribute to me a power I do not claim.”

“Do not pretend modesty,” he countered. “He listens to no man at this court without calculating advantage, yet the fool listens to you.”

You rose and crossed to the window, gazing out across Summerhall’s rolling grounds where banners stirred in the mild breeze. Somewhere within those halls your husband would be engaged in some private irritation, convinced that the world misunderstood him.

“The Reach will receive a prince more favorably if he arrives with his princess beside him. Let them see that he can be… tempered.”

The word hung between you.

To tame a dragon was to risk being burned; to refuse was to risk letting it devour the fields unchecked.

“And if he refuses even then?” you asked quietly.

Maekar met your gaze without flinching. “Oh I can assure you that he will not.”

You arched a brow.

“He would rather march into a nest of vipers,” Maekar said dryly, “than admit before you that he shirks responsibility.”

A reluctant smile curved your lips. That, at least, rang true.

“Very well,” you said, returning to your embroidery only long enough to secure the final stitch in the dragon’s wing. “I shall speak with my husband.”

Maekar inclined his head, relief masked as gruff approval. “Convince him,” he said simply.

As he turned to depart, you added lightly, “You understand, of course, that if he agrees, he will insist I remain within arm’s reach at all times.”

Maekar paused at the threshold. “If that is the price” he replied, “the realm can endure it.”

“Sister!”

The brightly unfiltered cry preceded him down the corridor, and a moment later Aegon flung himself toward you with all the enthusiasm of youth, his hands fastening into the folds of your skirts.

“Yes, my love?” you asked, laughter threading softly through your voice as you steadied him with a hand upon his hair, smoothing back the unruly silver-gold strands.

He tipped his face upward, solemnity attempting to replace excitement and failing entirely. “Is it true,” he demanded in a whisper far too loud to be conspiratorial, “that Aerion has refused to go to the Reach because he says it is dull?”

You arched a brow. “Your brother does not find anything dull,” you replied mildly. “He merely prefers his spectacles grand.”

Egg huffed, the sound caught somewhere between indignation and admiration. “Will you make him go?” he asked at last.

There was no mockery in the question; to him it was simply the most practical solution available. If Aerion resisted the realm, the realm would send you.

“I will speak with him,” you said.

“That means yes,” Egg replied immediately, relief blooming across his features. “He always listens when you speak.”

“Always?” you teased.

“He pretends he does not,” the boy insisted, tightening his grip upon your skirts as though afraid you might deny it. “He argues and frowns and says dreadful things about peasants and banners, but then he does what you suggested as if it were his idea all along.”

You laughed then, unable to help it. "Really, now?"

Egg said, straightening with exaggerated seriousness. “Someone must know how to handle him.”

“And you believe it is I?”

“You are the only one who does,” he replied, the certainty in his tone unshaken. “When he is angry, he looks for you. When he wins, he looks for you. When he is bored, he comes to you. He does not even realize he does it.”

The simplicity of the observation struck more keenly than Egg could have intended.

You brushed an errant curl from his forehead. “Your brother is not so easily managed as you imagine.”

“Well, I did not say managed,” Egg corrected, with a dignity he had likely borrowed from some half-remembered lecture. “I said handled.”

The distinction drew a quieter smile from you.

“He frightens the court,” Egg continued, lowering his voice again. “And he frightens me. But he never frightens you.”

You considered that carefully before answering. “He would not wish to.”

Egg’s expression shifted at that, comprehension dawning in a way that was almost painful in its innocence. “He loves you,” he said plainly, as though remarking upon the weather.

You did not deny it.

“He is devoted,” you replied, choosing your language with care.

“That is the same thing,” Egg insisted, though his brows drew together in thought. “Is it not?”

“It can be,” you said, smoothing the crease from his brow with your thumb. “Provided devotion does not forget the world beyond itself.”

He absorbed that with visible effort before a fresh frustration seized him.

“I want to go,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “To Bitterbridge. I told Father I could serve as squire, or carry a banner, or do anything at all, but he says I am not to leave unless my brothers enter the lists.”

“And do they intend to?” you asked gently.

Egg scowled in a manner that suggested he had already received an answer. “Aerion says the lists are beneath him unless the prize is worthy. Aemon says he has no desire to break bones for applause. And Father says that if they will not ride, then neither shall I.”

You regarded him with sympathetic gravity. “Your father wishes to keep you from unnecessary danger.”

“I am not afraid,” he insisted.

“I know,” you said softly. “That is precisely why he is.”

The indignation faltered, replaced by reluctant understanding.

“If Aerion goes,” Egg pressed, returning to his earlier certainty, “and if you go, then Father will have no reason to keep me here. He said I may attend only if my brothers do. So you must convince him as well.”

The scope of the task did not seem to daunt him in the slightest.

“You ask much of me,” you murmured.

“You always make it so," he replied without hesitation. Your heart clenches.

As he darted away at the summons of some distant voice, leaving your skirts at last unclaimed, you remained in the corridor a moment longer, reflecting upon the curious position you occupied within this family.

Aerion is already in your bedchambers by the time you arrive, his face illuminated by the flickering gold of oil-fed flames.

Your husband stands at the edge of the hearth when you enter, one hand braced against the carved mantle as though steadying himself against some irritation that has followed him from council. He does not turn immediately, yet the subtle straightening of his shoulders betrays awareness long before your reflection reaches him in the glass.

“You have that look,” he says, watching you through the mirror rather than directly.

You close the door softly. The gown you wear is one he favors, a fluid red silk that clings without ostentation, thin enough that the heat of the chamber renders it almost indecent.

“What look?” you ask, fingers moving to unpin your hair, letting it fall in a heavy cascade over your shoulders and down your back.

His gaze darkens at the motion despite himself, lingering not politely but thoroughly.

“I know my family sent you. They should know better,” he replies, turning at last. “It implies I may be persuaded.”

“You may be,” you say, stepping farther into the room, candlelight tracing the line of your collarbone and catching in the hollow of your throat.

He studies you in silence, the pull in his expression no longer disguised. He looks as a man starved.

“Maekar grows impatient,” you continue, stopping just within his reach. “The Reach wishes reassurance.”

“The lowborn desire a spectacle,” he says dismissively, though his hand has already found your waist, thumb pressing into silk as if confirming you are real and not some conjured temptation. His grip is firm, almost bruising, yet you lean into it rather than away. “They call for dragons when it is convenient and curse them when not.”

“And you would deny them both?” you ask softly.

His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, bunching the fabric at your hip. “I would deny them the illusion that I perform at their whim.”

You lift your hand to his chest, feeling the steady, contained force beneath linen and skin—the heat of your husband constant. Your palm slides lower, slow and deliberate, until your fingers curl lightly at his belt.

“You command,” you murmur, gaze never leaving his. “You always have.”

His breath shifts.

“They want you seen,” you continue, your thumb tracing the faint rise of his collarbone before drifting to the edge of his jaw. “Not hidden in these halls.”

He draws you closer in a single decisive motion, your body colliding with his, the impact enough to steal the space between your words. One hand remains at your waist; the other comes up to your throat, not choking, merely resting there—a possessive reminder of strength. You do not flinch. Instead, you tilt your chin slightly, inviting.

“And you were not made to be paraded before men who forget themselves,” he says, voice low, controlled, though the hand at your throat tightens just enough to feel.

“They will look regardless,” you reply, your hands sliding upward into his hair, fingers threading through silver strands with slow familiarity. You tug, not enough to hurt, only enough to make him feel it. “At least this way, they will see where I stand.”

His mouth hardens.

“I would sooner gouge out the eyes of every hedge knight and fishmonger who dares stare,” he mutters, disgust curling through the words. “Let them glimpse a dragon’s hoard and think themselves worthy of it.”

His gaze drags slowly over you again, possessive and unapologetic. “They do not deserve to look at you.”

His eyes close briefly at the contact of your hands, composure thinning in a way few ever witness. A faint exhale escapes him when you press closer, the silk between you a poor barrier against heat.

“Beside me,” he says, almost to himself.

“Where else?”

He searches your face then, as though reconciling the prince he presents to the world with the woman who knows precisely how to undo him. “They believe you temper me,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips along the line of his jaw, lingering just long enough to feel the pulse beneath his skin. “Perhaps I only remind you of what you are capable of.”

A low sound escapes him, less laughter than surrender. His hand slides from your throat to your back, fingers spanning wide, pulling you flush against him so there is no doubt of his want.

“If I go,” he says, voice roughened now by proximity rather than anger, “you will remain within my sight. I will not have you wandering those pavilions while half the Reach imagines futures that do not belong to them.”

“I have no interest in futures that do not belong to us,” you reply, your lips grazing the corner of his mouth before you allow him the full kiss.

The word lingers between you.

His hand drifts lower, settling at the curve of your hip, thumb tracing slow, possessive patterns through silk. “You would endure the journey,” he says, though his mouth has found the line of your neck, heat trailing in its wake.

“I would endure far worse,” you murmur, your head tipping back to grant him better access, fingers tightening in his hair when his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You were made to handle him—to meet heat with heat.

“They sent you because they know,” he says at last, lifting his head though he does not release you. “Because they see that I listen.”

“You do not listen,” you correct gently, your hand sliding between you, flattening over his heart once more. “You choose.”

A faint smile ghosts across his mouth, though his eyes burn brighter for it.

“And what do I choose now?” he asks.

“You choose to ride south not because they demand it,” you say, your lips brushing his again, slower this time, deeper. “You choose because you wish to be seen—and because you know I will be there.”

He holds your gaze for a long breath, and in it is something rawer than pride: it is needy.

“Fine,” he says finally, the admission stripped bare.

Your hand curves against his cheek, drawing him down until your lips claim his properly this time. The kiss deepens without hurry, his grip tightening at your back as though the world beyond these walls has already begun to recede. When he lifts you slightly, just enough that your feet barely brush the floor, you do not protest.

When you finally pull back, his gaze has softened in a way the court will never witness.

“Bitterbridge, then,” he murmurs against your mouth, decision settling with quiet inevitability. “We ride within the week.”

You allow a small, satisfied smile, your thumb still tracing slow circles over his skin as though sealing the bargain.

“Let them look,” you say softly.

His arms tighten around you, rough and reverent all at once.

“They will,” he replies, voice low and certain. “And they will understand precisely why I came.”

notes. aerion will be in for a sweet surprise at the tourney when he realizes he can’t gatekeep his wife forever ... maybe i'll flesh out the whole tourney

[in-my-feels-probably]

aerion targaryen who keeps having nightmares of reader dying and he doesn't know how to deal with it

He demands reader be there with him 24/7 but also afraid to talk to her too because he's scared he's gonna end up crying when he does

And one night, he wakes up and reader isn't there with him but just as he's about to jump out of bed, reader comes back in the room (turns out she was just hungry for a midnight snack) and aerion who loses his temper "Where were you!?" And reader is just confused "I went to the kitchen-"

Annnndddd I want you to come up with the ending!! :33

I’m Scared I’ll Never Sleep Again

Request: aerion targaryen who keeps having nightmares of reader dying and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He demands reader be there with him 24/7 but also afraid to talk to her too because he's scared he's gonna end up crying when he does. And one night, he wakes up and reader isn't there with him but just as he's about to jump out of bed, reader comes back in the room (turns out she was just hungry for a midnight snack) and aerion who loses his temper "Where were you!?" And reader is just confused "I went to the kitchen-" Annnndddd I want you to come up with the ending!! :33

Hi! So sorry it took me so long to get this out. I haven’t written for Aerion before, so this is a bit out of character. But hopefully you still like it! Thank you for the request :)

(Warnings: mentions of death and blood, swearing, i think that’s it? let me know if i missed anything)

—

Although it was true that Daeron was the dragon dreamer of the family, prophetic and misconstrued dreams plagued three of Maekar’s six children. It wasn’t something your husband talked about often, but you knew he understood the weight of them. He’d familiarized himself with the history and legacy of his house from the time he could read. Of course he knew who throughout his ancestry possessed this rare skill. 

It wasn’t something Daeron could hide. Plagued the most, he chose to drink, gamble, and lust his way through the nights to avoid them. Aerion, however, was much more reserved about it.

When your marriage was first arranged, neither of you were thrilled. You didn’t want to leave your home in Highgarden, and Aerion had no interest in some simpering girl who couldn’t meet his gaze without trembling. Despite his fondness for women, he preferred having the choice. What fun was it if you didn’t know how to play the game with him? 

You were summoned to court shortly after the news of Baelor’s death. Maekar, clinging to what little good he could make of his family after everything that happened, was desperate for a girl that could whip his son into shape. He needed a girl that was strong as well as beautiful, smart as well as dignified. He needed a match for his son that would hopefully finally make a man out of him. After carefully examining the eligible daughters of the Great Houses, you were selected. Within a fortnight of Lord Tyrell receiving the raven, you were on your way to King’s Landing.

Much to his father’s dismay, Aerion was the first to greet you upon your arrival. He didn’t even let Maekar get a word in before he stepped up to the carriage once the door was opened, offering you his hand to help you down. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought the action chivalrous and princely. But you’d heard plenty of tales of the prince before your arrival. You knew this was a calculated move, a test. He was purely waiting to see whether you’d pass or fail. 

Without missing a beat, you hiked your skirts up with one hand and gripped his hand tightly with the other. “Did you know you can smell the shit for miles coming into the city?” 

You carefully stepped over a pile of mud as he helped you down, letting go of him to smooth out your skirts. Once you were satisfied with your appearance, you looked up to meet him in the eye. He didn’t say a word, but you could see the intrigue in his gaze. He cocked his head to the side, glancing back at Maekar.

“Did you hear that, Father?” he hummed, clearly amused by his father’s usual grimace that was temporarily stunned into a look of confusion. “You can smell the shit for miles.”

You remembered your lessons, curtsying carefully. “My lord. It is an honor to meet you. I thank you for the invitation.”

You spoke like the lady he’d hoped you would be, but Maekar could hear the disgenuine tone in your voice. Either you were even smarter than you looked, or he’d made a grave mistake. Only time would tell. 

“The journey was comfortable, I hope?”

More pretty words his own mother had taught him to say. Princes were supposed to care about hospitality and manners, as though they were golden knights among mere men. He’d always found it to be a load of bullshit, but he’d grown accustomed to it over the years. He’d never heard a lady of a noble house speak to him with anything but the carefully crafted words their mothers or septas taught them to say when addressed by a lord. But here you were, swearing upon your first meeting with them. He couldn’t help but begin to like you. 

“Highgarden must smell pleasant with all those gardens,” Aerion mused, gaining your attention. “Does the smell of our city offend you, my lady?”

“Aerion—”

“Nonsense, my prince,” you answered sweetly, taking a deep breath of city air. “It suits me just fine. Shit and all.”

Maekar couldn’t help but laugh, trying and failing to stifle it. “Shit and all, my lady?”

“Shit and all.”

—

The following days were spent getting to know your new home and your betrothed. Aerion, ever the little shit, did all he could to bother you. But not once did you let him phase you. Every harsh word, every too tight grip, every whim he wanted you to indulge him on, you endured it. His father was never far, always watching with a scrutinizing stare to see if you’d slip up. He watched for days and days, but you never once faltered. Whatever tests he and his son had for you, you’d passed them with flying colors. He grew surer and surer about his decision to betroth you by the day. 

When the day of your wedding finally came, Aerion was enamored with you. 

He didn’t want to be, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked you. Your beauty, your wit, your tenacity. He thought he would enjoy making you squirm and wince, but he found himself enjoying the chase more. Your bark was every bit as big as his, and he could only hope your bite was the same. 

He used to shudder at the idea of becoming soft for someone. The only woman he ever got that way for was his mother, and she was long gone. He had no intention of ever letting that part of himself surfacing again, yet you brought it out of him as you slowly settled into your marriage. 

He was still every bit as harsh and possessive as he was the day he’d met you. But where he used to dig his claws in, he now favored a tight grip. His bite had turned into nothing more than a nip. He was learning to love you how you deserved to be loved, unwilling to settle for anything less.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes — the prince was head over heels for his wife.

Despite his closeness to you, Aerion was a tough nut to crack. He was always fond of jokes and deflection when the moment turned serious. Any time you prodded into his past, he’d gently guide you away with a sharp quip or wandering hand. More often than not, you’d let him. But over time, you slowly wore him down. 

It took him weeks into your marriage to even admit that he had strange dreams. You’d pried the information from him the third night in a row you’d found him staring up at the canopies once you started sharing a bed.

“It’s just dreams,” he scoffed once you sat up and looked at him with concern in your gaze. “They don’t mean anything.”

You frowned, reaching up to smooth a hair out of place back down. “You need your rest, Aerion. You annoy me as it is. I will not indulge a husband comparable to a whining child all day tomorrow because he was too stubborn to sleep.”

Aerion stifled a grumble, turning his head to nip at your wrist. He caught it when you tried to pull away, pressing a kiss into your skin instead. You let your wrist go slack in his grip, watching as he guided your hand back into his hair.

“So spoiled,” you whispered, but you were smiling as he relaxed into the pillows once more.

Aerion huffed, closing his eyes. “I am what you made me.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

“It is.”

“It has nothing to do with being a brat all your life before I came along?”

“Shut up, woman.”

“Excuse me?” you asked with a raised brow, pulling your hand away.

“No, no, no, no,” he rushed out, hastily pulling your hand back to his head. “I take it back, I take it back.”

You rolled your eyes, relenting. “Of course you do.”

—

As your marriage progressed, Aerion’s dreams got worse. 

They were violent affairs. Before you, he dreamed of dragon fire and burning cities, the stench of death filling his nose. And before you, these dreams didn’t bother him much. Death was an inevitable thing. He would greet death as he greeted life, with a glint in his eye and a sword in his hand. It was no matter to him. The lives he took, or the one that claimed his, it was all inconsequential. It was a fate his ancestors met for centuries before him, and it was a fate his descendants would meet for centuries after him. 

As his affection for you grew, his dreams began to shift. What was once vague and out of body became too up close and personal. The faceless men he’d watch be slaughtered suddenly began to morph into you, his beloved wife he’d burn down cities for.

The first time it happened, he was dreaming of your wedding day. 

He dreamt of you standing at the altar with him, your beautiful gown flowing behind you. Your hair was done flawlessly, every pin placed with purpose. You smelled of roses and sunlight. Your father had arranged to have oils sent to you to remind you of home. Aerion felt weak in the knees the first time he smelled them on you. You had to pry him off you every time he’d get a whiff in passing and promptly bury his nose in your neck. 

He dreamt of your smile, the way your gaze met his as you said the vows countless others had made before you. Up until that point, it was perfect. It was a happy memory. 

But then your smile faltered.

You lowered your head slowly, grasping at the fabric banded across your stomach. Aerion watched in confusion until he felt dread spread throughout his chest, watching in horror as blood began to seep through your dress. You clutched helplessly at your stomach, looking to Aerion for help with desperate eyes, but there was nothing he could do. His own hand moved to cover yours, pressing down as hard as he could to stem the bleeding. But it was to no avail. You were bleeding out.

You crashed to your knees, clutching at his shoulders like a scared little child. He could hear himself screaming. It was a carnal and pained sound, a wail like the one his mother used to make when it was time to bring a new little brother or sister into the world. He felt like he was drowning in it. 

He clawed and pawed at you, desperately looking around for help from someone, anyone. But help didn’t come. He had no choice but to watch you bleed.

He finally ripped himself from the dream when the light left your eyes, shooting up in the bed with a gasp from breath. His chest heaved as he panicked, blindly reaching over to your side of the bend until he could feel warm skin under his palm. 

“Mmm,” you groaned, shifting onto your side as you cracked open an eye. “Aerion? What is it?” 

I watched you die, he immediately wanted to say. I couldn’t save you. 

But Aerion was full of pride. It pained him to admit vulnerability. He already choked on his love for you as it was. He couldn’t stomach the inevitable look of pity in your eye when he told you the truth. So he took a shaky breath, slowly laying back down.

“I dreamt I was falling,” he murmured, patting your thigh. “Go back to sleep.”

You frowned, throwing a leg over his hip to hold him down. “That’s silly.”

You twisted and turned in his grip until you were pressed flush against him, your limbs intertwined. One hand reached up to thread through his hair, the other resting on his arm. He let out a content purr, like a cat who’d just found a warm lap to sit in. 

“There,” you whispered, resting your head on his chest. “I’ve got you. You can’t fall.”

He turned his head until his nose was buried in your hair. “Clever girl.”

—

The dream repeated itself often in various forms, always ending the same way — he couldn’t save you. 

Whether it be by his hand or another’s, he’d watched you die now more times than he could stomach. Aerion wasn’t as foolish as some of his ancestors. He knew what the dreams were, and he knew they weren’t to be ignored. 

Not when it came to you. 

Still, though, he couldn’t talk to you about it. What if you didn’t understand? What if you laughed at him? What if you looked at him like he was crazy? What if—gods forbid—he burst into tears like some sniveling child clutching at his mothers skirts? 

Before his mother passed, all of his siblings had nightmares at some point bad enough to send them climbing into her bed. Maekar was absolutely no help when it came to comforting his children. 

“It’s not real,” he’d grumble, shifting over in the bed to get whichever child it was off of him. “Don’t be silly.”

Dyanna was kinder. “It was real to them.” 

She’d sit with them until they calmed, rubbing their backs and stroking their hair. Then she’d take them back to their room and tuck them into bed, promising them a restful sleep now that they’d chased the bad dreams away. Aerion’s mother had been gone for years now. He hadn’t had anyone to chase the dreams away in quite a long time, and he didn’t want the burden to fall on you. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t comfort himself, though. 

You’d feel him reach for you in the night, clinging to you even worse than he normally did. He’d hold you close, whispering something you couldn’t quite make out into your skin. If you rolled away from him, he’d drag you back into his chest and lock his arm around your waist. If some part of him wasn’t touching some part of you, you’d get an earful in the morning about it. 

As the dreams progressed, the worse about it he got.

One day, he decreed that you couldn’t leave his side unless absolutely necessary. “Where else do you have to be that’s more important than by my side?”

It was ridiculous, but he looked adorable when he pouted. You couldn’t help but goad him on. 

“So, I'll never have anything for myself again? I have to follow you around to training, to meetings, to wherever you’re summoned? I can’t spend time in the gardens, or meet with any of the ladies of the court?”

“They’re quite dull, I assure you,” he shrugged, a goblet of wine poised at his lips. “We can go to the gardens if you wish. But not by the little yellows ones. They make my eyes water.”

He’d discovered that after following you in one day. He was sneezing for a week before he figured out that the few you’d plucked and gathered into a vase for your room was causing it. He promptly threw the entire thing out the window. 

“You’ll go to the gardens with me?” you asked with a raised brow. 

He smirked, and you knew his intent was less than innocent. “We can hide behind the ivy walls and play a little game. See just how quiet my girl can be.”

You laughed, but there was a shred of annoyance in your tone. “I am not a dog to be leashed, Aerion. You can’t command me to be by your side every second of every day.”

“Can’t I?”

You narrowed your eyes at home. “You can if you tell me why.”

“Because I said so?” he mused, narrowly moving out of the way fast enough to avoid your attack on his arm. “Can’t a husband want his wife by his side?”

“Can’t a husband be honest with his wife?” you countered, grinning when he glared. 

You reached for him, taking his hand in yours. “When you’re ready to tell the truth, we can open this discussion again. Until then, I’m going to the gardens. You’re free to do as you wish, husband. Do behave yourself.”

You turned and walked away before he could protest. He watched you go with a longing ache in his chest, willing himself to call out to you. But his pride wouldn’t let him. Instead, he let you go. 

—

This behavior continued until it all came to a head one night when a dream ripped him from sleep like claws digging into his side, piercing his skin. 

He shot up into the dark with a cry, sucking in air like it was the last breath he’d get. His hand fumbled in the dark for any inch of warm skin he could get his hands on, but dread settled in his stomach when all he felt was cold sheets below his palm. His mind was still muddled with sleep, his heart racing in his chest. He’d yet to get his bearings, but he willed his brain to catch up with his body as he frantically reached around for you. 

It was the middle of the night — where could you have gone? Has something happened to you? Did someone come in and take you? Did you leave him? 

He nearly made himself sick, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought of any one of those possibilities. He quickly ripped the sheets off his body, clambering to his feet. He stumbled around as he looked around for the clothes he’d kicked off the evening before, finding his shirt at the foot of the bed and his pants across the room on the floor. He could feel tears stinging behind his eyes that he willed not to fall as he moved around in the dark with nothing but a single candle to light the way. 

Just as he reached for his shirt, he heard the chamber door creak open with a groan. He immediately lunged for the sword he kept by his bedside, only to stop in his tracks when his wild gaze met your bewildered one. He stared at you in shock for a moment before he finally snapped out of it, his face growing cold. 

“Where were you?” he demanded to know, dropping the sword and the shirt he had balled up in his fist. 

You gently shut the door behind you, setting down the plate you’d taken from the kitchen on the side table. “I was hungry?”

You cautiously approached your husband as if he was a cornered animal, gently reaching out to brush the tips of your fingers along his arm. “What’s going on?”

“You weren’t here!” he spat, pulling away from you like your touch burned. “Why didn’t you wake me? Why did you leave?”

“Aerion—”

“I told you not to leave my side!”

“Aerion!”

There was clearly a lot more going on here than meets the eye. You gently shushed him, reaching for him again, this time with a firmer grip. You could feel him flinch under your grasp, but you didn’t relent. He fussed and whined like a child until you managed to catch both of his wrists, squeezing them until he finally let his arms go lax. 

“There,” you murmured, releasing your grip to slide your hands into his. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

He was breathing heavily as he clung to your hands, a look of distrust in his eye. You frowned, reaching one hand up to run your thumb along his cheekbone. 

“What is it, Aerion?”

He didn’t answer with words, instead pulling you into a bone crushing hug. He would’ve knocked you off your feet if you hadn’t dug your heels into the floor to brace yourself. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, trying your best to sooth him. 

“What is it, love?” you asked once he’d calmed down some. “What happened?”

He whispered something into your skin, unwilling to pull away even an inch to speak more clearly. 

But you didn’t need to hear him. You’d been seeing the change in him for weeks now. The restless nights, the fidgeting in his sleep. The way he’d refuse to talk about it, always throwing you off the scent. He wasn’t going to talk about it until you forced him to. 

“A dream?” you asked.

His silence was enough of an answer. 

“Someone hurt you?” you gently prodded, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. “Someone hurt me?”

He winced, a blazing look in his eyes. “Never. I will never let anyone hurt you.”

His voice wobbled as he spoke, and you felt something crack in your chest. You slowly guided him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed, silently asking him to sit. When he did, you promptly tucked yourself into his lap, your eyes level with his. He held you so tight that all you could manage was shallow breaths. 

“I’m safe,” you tried to reassure him, speaking softly but surely. “You’re safe. We’re alright.” 

Aerion nuzzled his nose into the crook of your shoulder, inhaling deeply. “I told you not to leave.”

You would’ve scolded him if he didn’t sound so pathetic. You cupped his cheeks, squishing them together until his lips puckered into a pout. You could tell he was scowling, but he made no move to pull away. Any touch from you would be welcomed with open arms.

“Stubborn thing,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He scoffed. “And say what? ‘My love, I keep having dreams of you dying horrible deaths where there’s nothing I can do to stop it?’ That’s what you want to hear?”

“That’s a start,” you mused, brushing his hair back with gentle hands. 

Aerion rolled his eyes, turning his head to nip at your palm. “You’re a pain.”

You laughed, pinching his cheek. “Takes one to know one.”

Aerion grumbled to himself, pulling you closer. He was always like this. He always had to be touching you, feeling your skin on his. Now you understood why. You let him squeeze the life out of you, running a hand up and down his back. 

“You smell like wine,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Have you been drinking?”

“Sometimes it stops the dreams,” he shrugged. 

You sighed, pulling back to look at him. “It also makes you restless. You never sleep well, and you always complain about your chest burning. If you want to sleep dreamlessly that bad, we should ask the Grand Maester if he can make you something.”

Aerion didn’t answer you, too busy analyzing every nook and cranny of your face as if it was the last time he’d get to see it. He scowled at the dreaded love and affection he felt for you growing tenfold when he saw the concern in your eyes. 

“He’ll just tell me to drink tea. I hate tea. It tastes like grass.”

You hummed, leaning forward until your nose brushed his. “I have a question.”

“I don’t have an answer.”

“Oh, shut up,” you grinned, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Do you have good dreams? Happy ones? Or is it only the nightmares?”

Aerion thought a moment before shaking his head. “I have good ones too.”

“Well? Don’t leave me guessing.”

He let his hands settle on your hips, gently squeezing. “Days at Summerhall. Mother telling me a story. You…the day you arrived.”

“Such a sap,” you mused, patting his cheek.

Aerion groaned, dramatically flopping back onto the bed. He dragged you down with him, refusing to let go until you were pressed flat against him like a weighted blanket. Only then did he let you reach for the covers, letting you shift until you were comfortable. You relaxed into the warmth of him. 

“I didn’t even get to eat the bread I took.”

Aerion bit back a grin. “Well, excuse me for wanting to hold my wife. Think you can hold out till morning, you bottomless pit?”

You smacked his arm, earning a laugh. “Bottomless pit? Do you want me to stab you? That can be arranged, husband.”

“I’m sure it could,” he replied, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep.”

You frowned. “What about you? The dreams.”

You could feel him shake his head. “I think you’ve chased them away, love.” 

You felt your cheeks warm at his words, hoping he couldn’t feel the heat of the one pressed against his chest. He softened underneath you, the tension in his muscles starting to ease. His breaths got shallower as sleep started to take hold. You spared a glance up at him once you felt his hands loosen their grip on you. You smiled at the look of peace on his face. 

You laid back down, closing your eyes to drift off with him. 

[aquaticmercy]

Your supersoldier! Reader accidentally pushing Dex off the bed in her sleep mayhaps?

You Accidentally Push Dex Off The Bed 

WC 1.6k

TW just fluff!!!! Dex in slight emotional distress, super soldier!reader

Totally works as a one shot but in my head this reader is the same reader from No Absolution and Snap Out of It!

Dex knew you loved him.

Most of the time.

He knew it when you curled into him at night, when you cozied up to his side of the bed, when you mumbled his name into his chest half-asleep like it was the safest word your brain knew. He knew it when you complained about his cold feet and still hooked your ankle over his. He knew it when you kissed his shoulder, first thing in the morning, without opening your eyes.

But he also knew that you were cranky about sleep sometimes. Especially when you had just come home from back-to-back missions with that flat look that meant the world had taken a cheese grater to your patience. There was blood on your sleeve that wasn’t yours and a bruise blooming under your collarbone that you refused to let him look at.

He had simply followed you around in silence as you barely made it through the shower. Barely made it through brushing your teeth. Barely made it into bed before collapsing face-first into the pillow. “If anyone wakes me up, I’m gonna bite.”

Dex, who had killed people for less threatening statements, took it very seriously.

Then your hand came out from under the blanket and patted the mattress impatiently, as if to say why aren’t you here yet? 

Dex got in so fast it was almost embarrassing.

You had made a sleepy sound as soon as the mattress dipped, but then you reached back, found his wrist, and dragged his arm over your waist. Not tenderly or romantically. You just put him where you wanted him, tucked his hand under yours, and immediately went limp again.

And everything was fine.

It was fine until 4 a.m., when you clearly started dreaming.

It wasn’t a nightmare. Dex knew what those looked like, and this was not that.

This was just you, half-dead and dreaming nonsense, making the most annoyed, crankiest little sound as you began to migrate away from him like a crab.

At first, Dex let you.

He was reasonable, at least as reasonable as he could be. You shifted an inch, maybe two, and he simply adjusted his hand on your waist. It was no big deal as his palm smoothed over your stomach, his chest following your back, his body staying pressed close behind yours because that was where he belonged.

Then you moved again, a little more this time.

Your shoulder slipped away from his chest. You dragged your hip out from under his hand. Your body started retreating across the mattress like you had somewhere better to be at four in the morning.

Dex frowned, now half awake and irritated by your subconscious, apparently trying to escape his loving grip. 

His arm tightened, restraining you a little in his big arms. It was a pathetic, clingy, half-conscious little no as he tried to pull you back against him.

You made a tiny displeased noise and inched away in deep sleep.

Then, because he was stupid and in love and apparently incapable of learning from warning signs, he tried again. He slid closer, tucked his face near the back of your neck, and gathered you into him with all the commitment of a man trying to keep his favourite person from drifting off the edge of the world.

Unfortunately, you were a supersoldier.

And you had apparently decided that whoever was touching you in your dreams didn't deserve to. 

You let out the cutest little groan.

Dex had half a second to think, Oh, that’s sweet.

Then your elbow drove back into his ribs.

He grunted, more surprised than hurt, his arm loosening just enough for you to wriggle farther away. 

“No,” he mumbled, and reached for you again.

Bad choice.

Your knee came up next, shoving into his thigh with enough force to move him several inches across the mattress. Dex blinked into the dark, confused and heartbroken, but still clinging to the very stupid belief that he could fix this by cuddling harder.

So he tightened his arm around your waist one last time.

You huffed, then you kicked. It was an exhausted, dream-fight little shove of your leg and shoulder and elbow all at once, pushing Dex off the bed completely. 

He landed on the floor with a thud.

You rolled halfway into the warm space he had left behind, made one satisfied little sleepy noise, and went right back to dreaming.

Dex stared at the ceiling.

The floor was cold against his spine, but that barely registered. He had been thrown through worse things than a bedroom. He had landed harder on concrete. He had been kicked, stabbed, shot at, operated on, broken open, put back together.

This was not the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

Unfortunately, his heart didn’t know that.

His heart, because it was stupid and badly trained and had become humiliatingly dependent on you, reacted like you had opened one eye, looked directly at him, and said, You specifically. Leave.

Dex swallowed.

You were asleep. He knew you were asleep. Logically, he knew your unconscious body had simply decided it needed more room. You had been exhausted. You hadn’t meant anything by it. You probably had no idea he was on the floor.

But when had his love ever followed logic? 

Maybe this was better. You had the bed. You had space. He was close enough to hear if your breathing changed. He was close enough to know if someone came through the door. Far enough not to crowd you. Far enough not to be too much.

Maybe being close enough to you on the floor was all he ever deserved. 

Twenty minutes passed.

Dex reviewed the last twelve hours with clinical precision. Had he done something wrong? Had he been too quiet at when you got home? Too intense when he watched you shower? Had you noticed him checking the locks twice when you were changing into your pyjamas? Three times? Had he kissed you too much? Not enough? Had you finally gotten tired of being loved by him?

Then you shifted again.

Dex turned his head before he could stop himself.

Your hand slid across the mattress, searching blindly.

Pat.

Pat, pat.

You paused as your fingers curled around empty sheet. You frowned in your sleep.

“Dex,” you mumbled.

He tried to answer, but nothing came out.

You slapped the mattress harder this time. “Dex.”

“I’m here,” he managed, but it was too quiet. 

You looked down at him on the floor with absolutely no comprehension. You did a sleepy, annoyed squint. “Huh?”

Dex stared up at you. You blinked.

Your voice was thick with exhaustion. “Why the fuck’re you down there?”

He tried to answer, but couldn’t. Because what was he supposed to say?

Because you pushed me away and I thought maybe that was what you wanted. Because I didn’t think I deserved to climb back in unless you asked.

You stared at him for another second, barely conscious.

Then you made an offended sound and flopped your arm over the side of the bed toward him. “Come back.”

Dex didn’t move, still trying to wrap his mind around the last hour. 

You wiggled your fingers, impatient and clumsy. “Dex.”

“I thought you didn’t love me any—”

“Dex….” You hadn’t even heard the full absurd thought. You had simply rejected it on instinct.

“I thought you wanted space,” he said quietly.

You blinked at him again, slowly, like he had just tried to explain taxes to a houseplant.

“What?”

“You pushed me.”

You processed that with the solemn difficulty of someone receiving bad news underwater.

Then you frowned. “I’was rude.”

You reached farther down until your fingers brushed his shoulder. The touch was weak, uncoordinated, barely a touch at all, but when Dex still didn’t move, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged, enough to make your point.

“Bed,” you mumbled.

Dex got back up slowly, as if he was afraid the mattress might reject him, too.

You watched him climb back into bed with the exhausted disgust of someone witnessing a grown man almost emotionally perish over a sleeping accident.

The second he was close enough, you grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down.

His arm slid around you again, like he had been granted temporary access to holy ground. You immediately grabbed his wrist and dragged it tighter around your waist, tucking his hand against the bottom of your shin like you were putting him back where he belonged.

“Too early,” you muttered.

Dex pressed his face into the back of your neck. “You mad at me?” he asked quietly.

You groaned, still mostly asleep. “I’m mad at being awake.”

“That’s all?”

You rolled over in his arms with dramatic effort and squinted at him through one barely open eye. You looked murderous. Beautiful. Half-dead. Still the love of his life, though.

You half-stared at him for another second, then relaxed when you realised he had spiralled over something stupid and couldn’t help himself.

“Baby,” you mumbled. You shoved your face into his chest, cranky and affectionate, and hooked your leg over his hip. “C’mere.”

His arms tightened around you, relieved to the point of humiliation. You made a content little sound against him, already drifting off, one hand curled loosely at the back of his neck.

“There,” you whispered. “See? Still love you. Freak.”

Dex closed his eyes, breathing a content sigh with a slight smile.

His heart was still doing pathetic and painful flips under his ribs, but your body was tucked back into his, your breath against his skin, your hand holding him there even in sleep.

Dex pressed his mouth to your hair, held you a little tighter, and eventually drifted off, too.

—

[aquaticmercy]

Do you think Dex could bend a truly good love interest’s morals?

Dex Finds Himself a “Good Girl”

TW injury, stalking, moral corruption, suggestive/sexual content, harassment by a Task Force agent, murder, she/her pronouns.

WC 1.4K

You swear you’re a good person.

You help at the food bank when you can. You donate to a wildlife charity every month. You always round up for children’s hospitals at the cashier. You carry reusable bags. You move worms and snails off the pavement after rain because it breaks your heart when pedestrians step on them unknowingly. You say “thank you” to bus drivers, and by now they know you by name. You cry at videos of old dogs getting adopted. You once said “sorry sorry sorry” to a spider before trapping it under a glass and putting it outside.

You swear you’re a good person.

That was all you were trying to be when you found a man bleeding out on your rooftop.

He was slumped against the brick, one hand pressed to his side, blood slipping between his fingers. His suit was a dark blue and black, torn open at the ribs. His face was pale, though his eyes were not.

“No hospitals,” he said.

And because you were a good person, you swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”

You knew first aid, you volunteered in enough community centers not to. 

“Do you have a name?” you asked.

His teeth chattered a little. “Dex.”

You swear you’re a good person when you let him inside your apartment.

You swear you’re a good person when you clean the blood from his body and nurture him back to health.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him sleep on your couch, even after you realize the suit is familiar.

Even after you realize he’s familiar.

Even after you realise he’s Bullseye. Even if he’s the kind of man good girls are supposed to run from.

But you look at him, Dex sits on your couch under  your blanket, bruised and battered, and says, “I’m one of the good guys now” with absolute conviction and a lopsided grin, as if he was imitating you. 

You swear you’re a good person when you believe him.

Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe you decide wanting to believe in him counts as mercy.

You swear you’re a good person when he’s eventually well enough to leave.

You swear you’re a good person when you spend two weeks pretending you’re glad he’s gone.

In truth, your apartment feels empty. You keep looking at the place where he bled on your tiles longingly.

Then, like a lost cat, he comes back through the window.

His hair was streaked with blood, he has blood on his knuckles. His eyes are tired and fixed on you.

“Task Force is crawling my streets,” he says. “Can I stay here?”

You swear you’re a good person when you say yes.

You swear you’re a good person when he kisses you that night.

It happens in the kitchen, under the flickering yellow light, with rain tapping against the glass. 

His mouth hits yours hard. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb pressing under the soft flesh of your jaw, holding you still while he kisses you deeper. His body pins yours to the counter, and you know you should be scared.

You swear you’re a good person when you kiss him back.

You swear you’re a good person when you pull him closer by his belt loops.

You swear you’re a good person when he tells you he’s been watching you since he left.

He said he was sure you got home safe. He was making sure nobody followed you. He was sure the man from 4B stopped looking at you like a creep. He was sure you were safe, because he was a good man, right?

You should tell him to leave. Instead, you cup his cheeks and press his forehead to yours.

“Don’t lie to me about it again,” you whisper gently, which is not the same thing as telling him to stop.

You know that. Dex knows that, too.

You swear you’re a good person when you basically forgive him for stalking you. 

You swear you’re a good person when he starts staying over.

Suddenly, he has a toothbrush next to yours. His shirts end up in your closet. 

You swear you’re a good person when his hands go under your shirt, groping and gripping and touching  like he can’t believe you’re letting him. He kisses your neck until you’re whining. He bites your shoulder hard enough to make you arch. He grinds against you, still clothed, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin and into yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants.

You don’t. Instead, you drag him down.

You swear you’re a good person when he fucks you. When he gets you naked with desperate, clumsy hands and pushes your thighs apart like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he goes any slower. Your thighs are shaking so hard you have to grab his hair and mewl into his shoulders.

He fucks you deep and messy and stupid, hips pounding into yours, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. The bed hits the wall and nails tear down his scarred back. His mouth drags over your nose, your cheek, your lips, all open-mouthed and frantic.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice wrecked.

You just let out a helpless “hmpph!”

He laughs once against your mouth.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him fuck you silly in your own bed, even though you know what he is.

You swear you’re a good person when Task Force comes knocking three days later, when Dex is out.

The agent at your door is handsome, but not your type. 

“Ma’am,” he says. “We’re asking about a Bullseye sighting nearby.”

You blink up at him. “No, sir. I haven’t seen anything.”

You swear you’re a good person when you lie.

He doesn’t leave and steps closer instead, one boot over your threshold.

His gaze drops to your bare legs, and then to the oversized shirt you’re wearing. It was actually Dex’s shirt.

“You live alone?” he asks.

Your stomach turns upside down. “I think you should go.”

He shrugs, “I’m just asking questions.”

His hand catches the door before you can shut it. Then he is inside, too close, fingers brushing your.

You freeze.

He looks at your mouth.

“You sure you don’t know anything?” he murmurs.

You swear you’re a good person when you lie again, this time through gritted teeth. “I said no.”

His hand slides to your waist and you shove him.

He laughs, but he tries to put his hands on you again. 

Eventually, you shut the door and get him out.

You wait for Dex.

You swear you’re a good person when you tell him everything, knowing exactly what Dex would do. 

“Name,” he says.

You tell him what you saw in the badges.

You swear you’re a good person when you don’t ask where he is going.

You swear you’re a good person when he comes back before dawn dragging the agent by the back of his collar. The man is crying.

His badge is gone, face is bruised, pushed to his knees  on your wooden floor.

Dex stands behind him with a gun in his hand.

“Apologise,” Dex says.

The agent sobs through it. He says sorry, says he didn’t mean it. Says he was just messing around.

Dex presses the gun to the side of his head and looks at you. “Can I?”

You swear you’re a good person.

You swear.

You swear.

You swear you think about mercy. You swear you think about laws. You swear you think about the literal human life Dex has put in your hands.

Still, you say, “Yes.”

Dex shoots him in the head. The agent drops, and blood spreads across your wooden floor.

He looks at you as if asking, are you proud of me yet?

You swear you’re a good person when you help him clean up the mess. You swear you’re a good person when you hold the bin bag open. You swear you’re a good person when you help him scrub blood from the floorboards. You swear you’re a good person when you help him bury the body.

What else were you supposed to do? Let him do it alone? After he defended you? After he did what you asked him to do?

You swear you’re a good person when you crawl into bed beside him that night.

You tuck yourself under his chin and whisper, “I love you.”

His arms close around you as he says, “I love you, too.”

You swear you’re still a good person.

Or maybe you’re just in love. Maybe you don’t know the difference anymore.

—

To answer your question anon, yes. If you were so blinded by love, you wouldn’t even notice the goalposts had moved! again, it truly really matters on how in love you are/you perceive to be, but I’m writing it on the extreme end for the sake of the story!

[exile0nmainline]

Finally done!!! Idk wtf I ate to color like this