â¶â° Twenties | She/Her | INTP â±â·
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KatâŠ. DID YOU SAY PRIEST!BRENDAN???? KAT?????? KAT DONâT DO THIS TO ME (please keep going I beg of you)
so glad to see we all have some sort of priest kink/religious trauma because why did I go wash my bird feeders and come back to like 10 messages asking me to go more into this sdjfhdsg
ok. but consider if you will:
brendan bennett franklin who goes into the seminary after you disappear. not because he found God. because he lost you. because the love had nowhere to go and the grief had nowhere to go and the wanting had been rotting behind his teeth for five years and he needed a container for it.
something with walls, with rules. something that would take the vast, consuming, horrible ache of loving a woman he could never have and give it a schedule. a collar.
the priesthood is perfect for a brain like his. every hour accounted for. every action prescribed. wake, pray, study, serve, pray, sleep. the translation exercise he's been running his whole life (hear the cue, calculate the response, deliver, check for errors) applied to liturgy instead of small talk. and liturgy doesn't change. the words are the same every time. the ritual is the same every time. the predictability of it is the first peace his nervous system has known since you linked your arm through his in a high school hallway and then vanished from the face of the earth.
he's good at it. that's the horrible part. he's a good priest. attentive. patient. the parishioners love him because he listens the way he's always listened: completely. with his whole being. absorbing their grief and their guilt and their small human struggles with the same rapt attention he used to absorb the way you pushed your hair behind your ear.
he sits in the confessional and absorbs their sins and his voice through the screen is low and gentle. genuinely kind and nobody on the other side of that lattice will ever know that the priest absolving them learned tenderness from a girl who used to fall asleep on his shoulder.
father franklin. the young one. the quiet one. the one with bobby's face but none of bobby's swagger. the one who holds your hands during last rites with a grip that's gentle and certain. the one who never flinches from the dying. the one who, if you catch him in the right light, in the right silence, has eyes that look like they've already seen the worst thing they'll ever see already because he has. the loss of you.
he takes his vows seriously. celibacy isn't a sacrifice for brendan. it's a relief. his body has only ever wanted one person and that person is gone and the vow of celibacy isn't a cage. it's a lock on a door he was never going to open anyway. why would he need to forsake physical love? he forsook it at sixteen when he realised that every mouth on earth that isn't yours tastes sickens him. the collar just made it official.
the guilt though. the guilt is a big old cathedral of its own. because he didn't choose God. he chose absence. he chose the priesthood because it was the most structured, most complete, most airtight way to bury himself alive, and every morning when he puts on the collar he knows, in the part of his brain that catalogues uncomfortable truths alongside comfortable ones, that the collar is you.
the collar is the ring he never gave you. the black cloth against his throat sitting in the exact spot where your hand rested once, at a bonfire, in 1987, when you touched his neck and said you're so tense, benny, relax, it's ok.
he hasn't relaxed since.
and bobby visits. sometimes. bobby who never went into the backrooms in this version. bobby who married someone else. bobby who has kids and a camera and a life that moved forward. bobby sits in the pew and watches his twin brother deliver a sermon and the wrongness of it presses against his ribs because brendan in a collar is brendan in a costume. brendan in a collar is a man who put himself in a box labelled GOD because the box labelled YOU was already closed.
"you're not happy," bobby says after. in the vestry, watching brendan hang up the vestments with careful, practiced hands.
"I'm at peace."
"that's not the same thing."
"for me it is."
and bobby wants to argue but he can't because he knows. he's always known. about the diary. he found it years ago. he knows about the wanting. about the five years of silence that were louder than anything bobby ever said.
and then.
and then you come back.
walk into his church on a sunny wednesday. mid-afternoon. the light through the stained glass painting the pews in red and gold. brendan is alone, arranging hymnals, his back to the door. and he hears the footsteps and turns to greet whoever's come in with that gentle, practised, pastoral smile.
and the hymnals hit the floor.
because it's you. standing in the aisle. older. different. the same. the light in your eyes different, wrong, sharp. your bag strap sliding off your shoulder the way it did in homeroom, 1985, twelve minutes late, and his entire carefully constructed life cracks down the middle like a cathedral hit by lightning.
you don't know what he feels. you've never known. you're standing in his church because you're lost, looking for something you can't name and the universe, in its cruelty, sent you to the one place where the one person who has loved you most completely is wearing a collar that says he can't.
"benny?" you say and the sound of his name in your mouth after all these years hits him so hard his knees almost give.
"hello." his voice steady, but his hands are shaking, the hymnals scattered at his feet. "it's been a while."
and now it's a horror story. now it's the worst possible version of his life. because you're here. in his church. in his space. and you're going to sit in his pews and come to his services and seek his counsel after what you've been through and touch his arm the way you always touched his arm and his body is going to respond the way it always responded (the only body, the only touch, the only frequency that makes the static stop) and he is wearing a collar that says he can't.
he made a vow. to God. to the church. to the structure that has held him together for years. and the structure is shaking because you said benny the way only you say it and every brick he laid is vibrating.
and of course the confessional. you come to confession because you're carrying guilt (for leaving, for surviving, for the years you can't account for and the horrors in them that changed you) and you sit on the other side of the screen and he can smell you. still the same. vanilla and warmth. and your voice is in his ear through the lattice and you're confessing and he's supposed to be a vessel of God's forgiveness and instead he's gripping the armrest so hard the wood splinters because your mouth is three inches from his ear separated by a thin wooden screen and his body is abandoning every vow he ever made.
"forgive me, father, for I have sinned."
his collar is choking him, his knuckles white on the armrest, his mouth forming the correct responses while his brain screams.
and the tension. the tension. your hand on his during a parish dinner. you asking him to pray with you and your heads bowed together, foreheads almost touching, and he can feel your warmth radiating across the gap and his prayers are disintegrating into please, please, please directed at a God he chose as a substitute for the woman kneeling beside him.
you find the notebook eventually. the old one. he kept it. it's in his desk in the rectory, underneath his bible, and you're looking for a pen and you find a notebook full of crossed-out I love yous and ink warped by tears and your name unwritten but all but clear.
"benny." standing in his office, the notebook open in your hands, your eyes wet. "benny, what is this."
and he looks at you holding the documentation of his destruction and his collar is tight against his throat and his hands are shaking. for the first time in his priesthood, father brendan bennett franklin has no idea what to say.
because the truth is blasphemy and the lie is worse and you're standing in his office with his heart in your hands and the answer to your question is: that's why I'm here. that's why I wear this. that's the reason for the collar and the vows and the prayers and the careful, structured, God-shaped box I built around the brendan-shaped hole you left. you are the reason I'm a priest. you are the reason I will die a priest. because the only alternative was loving you and the loving was going to kill me and I chose a slower death.
he doesn't say that. he says: "it was a long time ago."
you look at him. the notebook in your hands. the collar on his throat. and you understand. everything. all at once. five years of silence decoded in a single moment.
"benny," you whisper. "was it me? the whole time? was itâ"
"please don't." barely a sound, his eyes closed, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. "please. I made my vows."
"you made your vows because of me."
the silence that follows is the loudest that's ever existed between you.
priest brendan. the girl who came back wrong. the collar as a love letter. the vows as a funeral. the confessional as the closest he'll ever get to hearing your voice in his ear in the dark. a man who gave himself to God because God was the only thing large enough to fill the space you left behind.
and now you're back, and God isn't large enough anymore.
how do you think ls and clark would be together (super niche and meta but it just popped into my mind)
i think they would have a love/hate relationship while trying to survive the backrooms. itâs âso youâre a failed architect and youâre wife left you, boo hooâ and âat least i had a marriage, who would want to be with such a cold woman?â but also she admires him for still holding onto his dreams after failing everything and he looks up to her for holding up under so much pressure
this is so niche and so meta lmfao.
but you would chew through clark SO fast. the self-pity alone would have you seeing red within the first hour. this man is sitting in a corridor of the backrooms having a crisis about his failed marriage and his failed career and his failed everything, and you're standing over him with your arms crossed going "are you done?"
"my wife kicked me out, you don't understandâ"
"I understand perfectly. she left because you're wallowing. get up."
"you don't know what it's like to lose everythingâ"
"I know exactly what it's like to lose everything. the difference is I didn't sit on the floor about it."
and clark would SNAP back because that's his thing, he bites when he's cornered, and he'd hit you where it actually lands. "at least I had a marriage. at least someone wanted me once. who would want to be with you? you're cold, off-putting, impossible to like, much less love, and you know it."
and you'd go still. that dangerous one. the one where the temperature in the room drops.
"at least I don't go around indulging in self-pity as a hobby."
you would be brutal to each other. vicious, cutting, landing blows with surgical accuracy because you're both sharp enough to find the soft spots and mean enough to press. but you'd also survive together because competence recognises competence.
he's smart and resourceful and holds up under pressure when he stops feeling sorry for himself. you're relentless and strategic and hold up under everything always. together you'd be the most reluctantly effective survival team the backrooms has ever seen, swapping insults while navigating hostile corridors and saving each other's lives between arguments about whose fault it was they took the wrong turn.
the grudging respect would creep in slow. you'd catch him rigging a door mechanism and your eyebrow would lift a fraction. he'd watch you face down something in the dark without flinching and think: okay. okay maybe the cold has a purpose.
now, if clark has captain clark and companion has entity x, the question becomes whether LS would have something born for her in the backrooms. and I think yes, but an entity born from you would be born from something colder. from the refusal to bend. it would be lupine, obviously, something with teeth and yellow eyes and a low growl that vibrates in the walls. less lover, more guardian. it wouldn't want to hold you. it would want to hunt beside you. and you would accept its presence without fear because a wolf recognises a wolf, even one made of this strange, wrong place.
you wouldn't name it. it wouldn't need one. it would just be there, at your shoulder, in the dark, and other entities would learn very quickly that this particular wanderer is not to be cornered.
clark would be deeply unsettled by it and you would find his discomfort funny.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. fluff lowkey ?? but like ... AERION fluff ksadfhuisdhfds so not true fluff. hurt/comfort lowkey ?? except Aerion lowkey more hurt than reader DAUHFAUSDHFSDA. Aerion-typical violence/craziness. Aerion POV. Westerosi-typical misogyny. reader is from an unspecified foreign land. reader is being treated poorly in Westeros but she lowkey doesn't care. They are literally idgaf-er to a fault (reader) x igaf way too much (aerion) ADFHUSIUDFHSUDF -> that boy is five seconds from calamity at any given moment.
NOTES: tbh this is just an apology for how long the next part of HTTYD is taking because Jace has consumed my life and I hit a wild slump because I don't want to write the next two parts bc I want to skip to their time in King's Landing KDHFSUIHFSDF so I treated myself to a little drabble that will hold me over until I get there. Hopefully I'll have the next part of HTTYD done soon. This TECHNICALLY isn't Volantene!reader ........ but also it kind of is if you read through the lines JUDHAFUISHDF . But this is totally separate from HTTYD. Anyway, enjoy!! and sorry again LOL
Aerion is livid.
In truth, it is not a particularly uncommon state for him to be in. He is the first to admit that he is frequently angry. He is angry when the servants bring him lukewarm soup instead of hot soup. He is angry when the sons of lesser lords hover around him like witless birds trying to curry favor. He is angry when he has to spend too long in the throne room, because he has to look at the skulls of dragons that should have been his by birthright.Â
This is different.
Aerion can hardly think straight as he makes his way down the halls in the direction of his chambersâyour chambers. The chambers that he shares with you. His wife. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, blood drawn from where his nails are embedded in his palms. Heâs not sure if heâs ever been this furious before. Heâs dizzy on his feet, and the world around him drains away, the edges of his vision tinted redâAerionâs tongue darts out to wet his lip, and he tastes blood.
He is ordinarily good at masking his emotions.Â
When the servants get his food wrong, he gives them a dismissive look and tells them to fix itâthey do not know he contemplates breaking a bone for each minute he goes without the food he requested because of their incompetence. When the sons of lesser lords flutter around him with asinine remarks, hoping to make him laugh, he gives them faint smilesâthey do not know heâd prefer to see their eyes gouged and tongues removed whenever they waste his time with their insipid commentary. When he is forced to stand in the throne room for court, he does so with impeccable posture and an unreadable expressionâno one knows just how vicious of a place his mind is, that is how it always has been and how it always will be.Â
Or, so he hoped, because now it is an impossible task.Â
It is your fault that he is so furious, not his own.Â
He thought that you were spending the night with Valarrâs new Tyroshi wife and Daeron. You made it clear this morning that Aerion had done something to upset you, and if you did not want him around, he was not going to hover about pining like some hapless fool. You would come crawling back, whining over some foolish issue that you need him to solve for you, as you always do, so it was simply a matter of time.
So, he spent the night drinking with Valarr, and he was enjoying himself. Truly.
He does not mind his eldest cousinâs company, especially in comparison to most. It was certainly a reprieve from your company and your endless snide commentary and whinging. Valarr likes to put up the perfect princely front for his mother and father, all polished smiles and courtly grace, but beneath it, he is almost as prone to spite and mischief as Aerion himself. He delights in gossip in the same way other men delight in hunting, and every so often, usually after enough wine, something darker slips through the cracks in his carefully constructed façadeâa flash of cruelty or a remark too sharp and too callous, a look in his eye that reminds Aerion that they share the same blood after all. Then the princely smile returns as though nothing happened.
The two of them made sport out of the courtiers attending the feast for entertainment, and Aerion was having a decent night in spite of your attempts to get under his skin. That is, until his drunken idiot of a brother stumbled up to the dais, making a fool of himself, rambling about marcher lords and insults and wine and you.Â
It took both him and Valarr an embarrassing amount of time to get a coherent story out of him, and as soon as they did, Aerion was out of his seat, storming in the direction of his chambersâin the direction of you, his wifeâand Valarr was on his feet too, seeking out both his father and Aerionâs to figure out how they were to handle this insult before Aerion did something drastic.
As though there was anything drastic he could do that wouldnât be justified by the insult he was given.
He pushes open the heavy door to his chambers, boots slapping hard against the stone floor as his gaze sweeps across the room. First, to the small table near the window, where you like to sit and drink, but you are not there. Then, to the water basin you like to lounge in, needling him with taunts and insults until he joins you, but you are not there either.
Thenâ
Aerion falters when he sees you fast asleep in your shared bed, the sheets haphazardly thrown over you and Maegor curled on your shoulder. His jaw tightens, lips pressing together hard as he slides his cloak off his shoulders and tosses it onto the nearby dresser before making his way to your side of the bed.
He pauses when his feet snag on something on the ground, glancing down to see the red and black gown he had tailored for you to wear to the feast tonight. He grits his teeth as he leans down to pick it up, lashes fluttering when he feels the stickiness of the wine spilled on you.
He places it on the dresser next to his cloak and makes his way over to you.Â
âWife,â he says, voice rough, watching as you stir in your sleep. When your lashes flutter open, he continues, âTell me why I had to hear from my oaf of a brother that a marcher lord spilled wine on you and insulted you to your face.âÂ
You blink up at him, eyes hazy, and then give him a sleepy smile. Aerionâs teeth grind together when the fight starts to drain from him at the sight of it. Wretched woman.
âAerion,â you yawn. âYouâre back. I was waiting up for you.â
Liar. Aerion squints at you. âYou were asleep.â
âI was resting my eyes,â you counter, always with the smart remark. Aerion thinks his life would be much easier if he took your tongueâsilent and pretty as a wife should be. You shift slightly so that you can look over him, careful not to stir Maegor too much. âWhy are you still dressed? Come lie down.â
âYou do not order me, woman,â he tells you sharply, desperately trying not to let his fury slip through his fingers. âWhat was said to you?âÂ
âCome here anyway,â you complain, ignoring his question. Aerionâs eye twitches, pulling his hand away when you reach out, fingers brushing his. You frown at him and have the nerve to ask, âWhat?â
âI am in no mood,â he hisses, voice rising slightly. âAnswer my question.â
âDo not wake Maegor,â you say, gaze suddenly sharp and expression cool.Â
Aerionâs temper flares again, but then Maegor lifts his head from your shoulder, blinking blearily in Aerionâs direction once before he yawns and curls back against you.Â
Even his own son is a traitor, he thinks furiously, but before he can whirl on the boyâbecause why didnât he come find Aerion after what happened? Why did Aerion have to learn from Daeron?âyou reach out again to grab his hand, successfully this time.
Aerion exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight as you tug him closer until the front of his thighs hit the edge of the bed. He stares down at you, unrelenting, because he needs to know what was said, needs to know who had the gall to insult his wife.
You sigh and avert your gaze, visibly annoyed, as though he is the one out of line for demanding to know exactly what happened, and Aerionâs nostrils flare in irritation, but then you lift his hand to brush your lips against his knuckles, and his scowl becomes more for show than anything else. You are a miserable, miserable womanâAerion lets you get away with far too much.
âHe was drunk, Aerion,â you tell him, like thatâs any excuse. âWe do not need to lower ourselves to every drunken fool who speaks out of turn.â
âWhat did he say?âÂ
You stare at him for a moment before you let out a sigh. âIt is not what he said,â you finally answer quietly. âIt is what he implied.â
Aerion does not need to hear anymore, because he knows exactly where this is going.Â
It is not the first time these whispers have reached the two of you, but itâs the first time it was spoken so openly to your face. The court has had a great deal to say about your friendship with Daeron. He spent years drifting around like a ghostâdrinking himself into stupors, skipping feasts and hunts and court in equal measure, and spending more nights in whorehouses and taverns than in his own chambers. Then you arrived, and you sought him out at feasts when he was lingering at the edges of the halls, and you dragged him into conversations when he was watching awkwardly, and you listened to his stories, laughed at his dry remarks, and scolded him whenever you caught him drinking before noon, and Daeronâ
Daeron listened.Â
He smiled more, and he drank less, and he was always at your side when Aerion couldnât beâand little by little, Aerion began catching glimpses of the brother he had spent years hating for disappearing. The brother who used to sneak him out to the crystalline lake behind Summerhall to fish, who covered for him whenever he ran off to explore the forest when he ought not, who laughed easily and braided his hair when their mother couldnât and held him during fits where Aerion found him screaming on the floor, nails bloody and ripping through the skin of his neck.
Somehow, impossibly, you had brought pieces of him back.
Naturally, the court had drawn the most salacious conclusion possibleâa lonely prince and his brotherâs foreign wife made for a scandalous tale, and there was nothing the court enjoyed more than scandal.Â
Aerion has never bought into it. He knows his brother well. Daeron looks at you with affection, yes, but itâs the same soft fondness he reserves for Daella and Rhae. There is nothing possessive in itânothing hungry.Â
And he knows you, too.Â
You have never once shown the slightest interest in anyone here in Westeros beyond fleeting amusementsâsome days, Aerion doubts that he even interests you, but you are always quick to prove him wrong. You look at Daeron with the same wistful smile you wear whenever you speak of the brother you left behind back home, so he is confident that there is nothing going on between the two of you.
Still, he dislikes the whispers.Â
Truthfully, he dislikes people speaking your name at all.
âAh,â he says flatly.
You grimace.
âHe asked me whether I spent so much time with Prince Daeron because my husband was inattentive.â You look vaguely offended by the memory. Aerionâs eye twitches violently. âThen he said perhaps I prefer sad men because they are easier to manipulate.â
You sigh lightly, carding your fingers through Maegorâs silky hair, and then add, âHe was very drunk.â
Aerion does not respond, eyes sliding shut as he wills himself the strength not to leave your shared chambers and hunt down this man himself.
You continue, âHe also saidââ
âStop.â
âButââ
âI have heard enough,â Aerion says through his teeth. âYou should have sent for me.â
You pause, blinking up at him again, and then you look away, a conflicted expression on your face, and Aerionâs throat suddenly feels tight. He remembers this morning when you would not speak to him, remembers the cruel exchange of words, and how heâd stormed off with another word. Heâd spent the evening with Valarr instead of you, and he did not seek you out once.Â
âYou thought I would not come,â he says, voice strained.
You do not answer. Aerion feels something unpleasant twist in his chest. He had been furious because some drunken fool had dared insult his wife. Now he is furious because you apparently think so little of him that you believed he would leave you to deal with it alone.
âYou are an idiot,â he says.
You blink and then frown. âThat seems uncalled for.â
âIt is the truth,â he mutters, fingers slipping from yours to trace down the slope of your neck. Your lashes flutter lightly as he rests his hand on your throat, thumb sliding beneath the thin strap of your night slip. âDo not ever stand there and smile while some worthless marcher lord insults you to your face.â
âI do not care what a drunk Andal lord has to say, husband,â you say dismissively, leaning into his touch in a way that never fails to make Aerion swallow thickly. âIt is really not such a big deal.â
âIt is to me,â he replies sharply, pressing his finger under your chin to force your head tilted so that your eyes meet his. You sigh lightly. âYou will come to me if it happens again. I will not have the court thinking they can insult my wife to her face without consequence.â
âI will come to you,â you agree blithely, and then tug him again, trying to get him onto the bed with you.Â
He spares a look back at the door, half-determined to leave and find the man to show him exactly what it means to insult a prince of the blood, but before he can, you tug a third time, this time successfully knocking him off balance onto the bed with you. He hits it with an oof, scowling as he shifts more comfortably so that heâs sitting beside where youâre lying, back to the headboard.
He turns a frown down onto you, but falters when he sees how your eyes slide shut as you press your forehead into the side of his hip, face smoothing out the moment you feel his body against yours.
Irritation flares through him again immediately, hotter this time, because how dare any man insult you to your face? How dare any man look at you at all? Think of you? You are hisâhis alone. His to think of, his to look at, his to insult, should he please.Â
He should have him flayed, he thinks, aggravated. Any man who insults you. Any man who looks at you. Any man who thinks of you. Any of them. All of them. Every single one.
His hand settles on the top of your head, fingers absently carding through your hair.
He promises, âI will see him flayed.â
You snort instantly. âYou cannot do that.â
Aerionâs expression twists instantly. âI am a Prince of House Targaryen. I can do whatever I want.â
âYou cannot have a man flayed, Aerion.â
âFlogged, then.â
He doesnât need to look down at you to know youâre rolling your eyes, so he tugs your hair enough to make a point. You pinch his leg hard in retaliation.
Wretched beast, he thinks, scowling down at you. Of all women to have been married off toâthis is surely a punishment for something. You are the most aggravating creature heâs ever had the misfortune of meeting, and for some reason, you are his.Â
âI would have come,â he says after a moment, quieter now. He looks down, tongue darting out to wet his lips when he sees how you have one arm curled around his leg, face half buried into his side, Maegor curled around you the same way you are around Aerion. His jaw tightens again at the idea of anyone thinking they can insult you and get away with it. âYou are my wife. There is nothing in this world that would stop me from coming to you should you need me. It does not matter how vexing you might be.â
You let out a huff that almost sounds like a laugh. âYou were almost romantic for a second,â you say with a tired smile, looking up at him. Your hand lifts to absently stroke Maegorâs hair as he nuzzles into your neck. âI was almost worried.â
âYou are wretched,â he hisses, face flushing. âI am trying to be serious.â
âI know,â you murmur, and Aerionâs throat spasms when he feels you press your lips against his thigh through his pants. âRest assured, I will send for you next time, but truly, Aerion, I was hardly insulted. In fact, I thought it was rather funny.â
âYes, well, it is not funny,â Aerion snaps, grinding his teeth when he sees you let out a huff of laughter. âDo not laugh.â
âI am not,â you complainâthe audacity to lie to his face. You do not even hide your smile as you look up at him, and Aerionâs brows knit together. âI will never tire of how sensitive you Andals are. Every day in this strange land proves more amusing than I thought possible.â
âDo not call me Andal.â
âYes, yes, my apologies.â
You do not sound sorry at all.Â
Aerionâs eye twitches.Â
âPerhaps we shall visit my homeland soon,â you declare, reaching down to entwine your fingers with his, lifting his hand to your lips to ghost a kiss the way you always do when you want him to agree to something he ought not. âI should like for Maegor to see it, and a break from this court would do us both well, no?âÂ
Aerion exhales hard through his nose. In truth, there are few places in the world he would rather go than your homelandâyour so-called friends were despicable when they came to Kingâs Landing for your wedding, and he is fairly certain that both your father and your brother wish him dead. He thought once that he might rather enjoy visiting there from how you describe it, but he thinks now he would prefer to spend a fortnight in the frozen wasteland the North calls a kingdom than a night in your family palace.Â
But your lips are pressed to his skin, and you are looking up at him through your lashes with a playful smile, and he finds it difficult to deny you much of anything, so he mutters, âIf that is what you wish.â
Your smile widens instantly, teeth glittering like knives beneath the roomâs dim lighting, and Aerion almost snarls when he realizes he has fallen for your wretched schemes yet again. Miserable, miserable womanâhe ought to take your tongue and your eyes. His lips part to spit an insult at you, because he is allowed to insult you, not any other man, but before he can, there is a knock at the door.
Aerion stiffens immediately, fingers tensing between yours. He calls coolly, âCome in.â
The door cracks open, and Aerion relaxes when he sees Valarr peek his head in, gaze sliding briefly between where you and Maegor are lying, to where Aerion is sitting before he says simply, âTitus Peake. Your father is questioning him in the Great Hall. You ought to head over there before he finishes.â
A thrill of excitement rushes through Aerionâs chest, lips curling up into a sharp smile as he slides out of bed with you. He leans down to ghost his lips against your ear as he promises softly, âI will bring you his tongue.â
You muse dryly, âWhat if I wished for his eye?â
âThen I will bring you that, too.â
âI have turned you into a romantic, Aerion Brightflame. Who needs songs of knights and love when I am wed to Westeros's most chivalrous monster. The world may never believe it.â
âDo not make me sick,â he snaps.
If his lips are curled up into a faint smile as he makes his way to the door, then surely, it is because he is eager for the blood about to be spilt.
Still, he cannot help himself from glancing back at you one last time.Â
Her massive overprotective bloodthirsty baby !!!! Princess Daella & her Zuzu âŠ. I actually noticed that Arrax looks a lot like how I hc that ZĆ«gaxes looks what if arrax is a Syrax zuzu baby LOLLL âŠ. What if all the Velaryon boys dragons are zuzu-syrax babies đïž reader & rhaenyra are the boys #real parents anyway JDKJSJS JKKKK
pairing: trailer trash!aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader
wc: 8.3k
summary: you're sick, and aerion doesn't know what to do with any of it.
contents/warnings: aerion's pov. caretaking, class disparity, references to past drug use, brief intrusive thoughts about death/loss (not suicidalâpossessive fear of losing a partner), strong language, unhealthy coping mechanisms (emotional avoidance, aggression as fear response), brief reference to sobriety/withdrawal, genuinely quite fluffy ngl.
notes: took over 2 months to finish it but certain events finally gave me enough inspo to lock in!!! hope you enjoy <3
ⶠtrailer trash/modern au.
You don't call him.
That's the first thing that's wrong with the whole situation. You text DaellaâDaella, of all people, who's nineteen, at college three hours away, and can't do a fucking thing about itâand Daella texts Aerion. He finds out his girl is sick because a teenager in a dorm room sent him a screenshot of your message at 4:47 p.m. on a Thursday.
hey, little dragon. feeling a bit rough, might not make it to dinner tomorrow. sorry. tell your brothers I said hi. love you.
âA bit roughâ in your language means dying. He's known you long enough to read the conversation between the lines.Â
I'm fine means you're not. It's nothing means it's something. A bit rough means you're horizontal, probably have been for hours now, and you texted his baby sister instead of him becauseâbecause what? Because you don't want him to see? Because you don't want to be viewed as weak? Because asking for help would mean admitting you need it, and admitting you need it would crack the whole facade, and cracking would kill you faster than whatever virus is eating you alive?
Aerion drives to the Stark estate.
He doesn't text first, doesn't call. Gets in the truck and drives the forty minutes from the park with his jaw tight and the radio off, a feeling rattling around in his chest he refuses to name. Because naming it would mean looking at it, and he's not fucking looking at it, he's driving.
The estate is the kind of house that makes his teeth ache. Always has, even when he first came here two years ago.
Stone and dark timber, a lawn that seems to stretch on forever in every direction you look, hedged in by old oaks family apparently planted a century ago. Your father's car is gone. Barth's away for the week, some business trip. Aerion knows because you mentioned it on Sunday when he last saw you. The housekeeper's car is gone too, her day off, which means you've been alone in this ridiculous goddamn house since noon.
He lets himself in with the key you gave him eight months ago. You'd handed it over while making coffee in the enormous kitchen that could fit his entire trailer, casual, like it was no big deal to you. Here. So you stop climbing through the window like a delinquent. He'd put it on his keychain without comment. He touched it every day, and dropped his fingers away like heâs been scalded whenever he caught himself doing it.
The house is dark inside. The main hall is dead silent, cavernous with emptiness Aerion always found unsettling, like the walls here are judging him despite the eerie silence.
Your bag is on the kitchen counter with your laptop still inside, which means you came home from class and didn't even make it to the table. Your jacket is on the floorâon the floor, which is how he knows it's bad.Â
You don't leave things on the floor. You hang them, fold them, every surface perfectly pinned down.
The jacket is in a heap by the staircase. You must have dropped it on the way upstairs and didn't pick it up.
Aerion picks it up now, hangs it on the hook by the door, listening carefully for any signs of you. He stands there for a second with his hand on the wool, your perfume still in the collar, and the feeling in his chest goes hot and prickly.
Heâs unsettled in a way he rarely gets.
He takes the stairs two at a time.
You're in bed, still in what you wore to class. Jeans, a dark sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and the small gold studs your father gave you for your birthday. The sheets are tangled around your legs like you'd been fighting them. The bedside lamp is on, but your phone is face-down on the floor, dropped mid-text, which means your hands were shaking too badly for you to hold on.
You're asleep, or close to itâthat grey, restless half-place where the body can't commit to being unconscious because it's too busy being miserable. Your face is sweaty, hair damp at the temples, strands stuck to the sheen of sweat. Your breathing comes too fast, too shallow, a rattling rasp at the bottom of each exhale that Aerion doesn't like in the slightest.
He stands in the doorway of your bedroom. The bedroom he's fucked you in a hundred times, the one he's climbed through the window of.
Your childhood things still sit on the shelves alongside your college textbooks because you're still becoming whoever you're going to be. So is he. Even if neither of you seems to have any idea who that will be.
His first feeling, before anything else, before the thing he won't name, is suspicion.
Because you don't get sick. You don't do this. In two years, he's seen you sit through a migraine without telling anyone. He's seen you walk off a twisted ankle and refuse his arm. He's watched you pull all-nighters for exams and drive home on two hours of sleep. Sit through your father's dinner parties with a thin, forced smile, come upstairs and fuck him senseless, set an alarm for six, do it again. You are not a person who lies in bed with her phone on the floor. You are a person who drags herself to the bathroom, takes ibuprofen, changes into pyjamas, handles it.
That's what you do. You handle things.Â
So either something is really wrong, or this is some kind ofâ
Aerion crosses the room and puts the back of his hand against your forehead.
The heat is immediate and wrong. Hot, the kind that makes the skin feel thin, papery, burning from the inside. His hand flinches back, then presses down again, holds.
You stir at the sensation, or perhaps his proximity. Your eyes crack open, glassy and unfocused, and it takes a full three seconds for them to find him. When they do, relief moves through your face, naked and unguarded, so unlike you that Aerion feels his stomach drop.
A tiny, raspy breath. âAri.â
Your voice is scraped down to nothing. The nickname nobody else but Rhae uses. It came out of you by accident one night in the dark months ago and stuck because he didn't stop it. The sound of it in your mouth made heat curl at the base of his spine and he couldn't bring himself to say anything about it.
Now you're saying it fever-rough and desperate, holding onto it like a rope.
âYeah,â he drawls, and his voice comes out flat and hard. He doesn't mean it to, but his mouth is moving before he can stop. âHow long have you been like this?â
âMm.â Your face turns into his hand at your forehead, pressing into the cool of his palm, your eyes fluttering closed. âSince noon.â
âIt's nearly six.â
âMm.â
He hisses a breath through his teeth. âYou've been lying here for six hours.â
You smile faintly, pressing your burning cheek into his palm. âMm.â
âAnd you texted my sister.â
Your mouth twitches. Could be a smile if you had the energy to fully form one. âShe's nicer than you.â
âShe's three hours away,â he bites out, his words flat.
You hum low in your throat. âDidn't want to bother anyone.â
Aerion stares down at you. Your face is fully turned into his hand, eyes closed. The sweat on your face has spread down your neck, disappearing under the collar of the dark sweater that's now damp with it. Itâs the same one you got from a campus shop and wear constantly, the one Aerion secretly suspects makes you feel like a normal girl instead of the Stark heir.
âYou didn't want to bother anyone,â he repeats, quiet and mean. âYou're burning up in this big empty house with your phone on the floor and daddy dearest away on business, and you didn't want to bother anyone.â
âAerionââ
âGet up.â
He gets you up without waiting, hauling you to sitting with an arm hooked under your shoulders, and you make a low, miserable groan that hits him behind the ribs. You sway against him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder.
âI'm fine,â you slur, words low and mostly absorbed by his shirt.
âYeah, you look real fine,â he snaps. âYou look like a corpse with a pulse. Now shut up.â
He gets the sweater off, tugging it over your head, working your arms free when they tangle because you've gone limp and useless. Drops it on the floor. You're in your bra and jeans, and your skin is radiating heat like asphalt in July.
âArms up.â
You blink up at him drowsily. âWhaââ
âArms. Up.â
You lift your arms weakly, and Aerion pulls one of your sleep shirts over your head. The soft grey one that's too big for you, the one he's seen you wear on Sunday mornings. He guides it down your body, working your arms through the sleeves with a gruff care that has nothing tender in it.Â
He gets your jeans off next. You cooperate badly, your legs boneless and heavy, and you keep leaning into him heavily. By the time he's wrestled you into the shirt and out of the jeans and pulled the gold studs from your ears and set them on the nightstand, he's breathing hard. You're clinging to the front of his shirt with both hands, your face pressed into his chest, making those sounds again.
Small, raw, agonised sounds. A body in discomfort that has stopped performing resilience. Little moans, low in the throat, illegible, animal. The kind of sounds you would never make in front of him if you were in your right mind. They vibrate against his chest, travel through the cotton into his skin, settle in the cage of his ribs where they will live, apparently, for the rest of his miserable life.
âHurts,â you mumble against his chest.
He feels, suddenly, like he might throw up. âWhat hurts?â
âEverything,â you answer, hushed with muted pain.
Aerion exhales through his nose again, slow and deep, the breath he usually takes right before he does something stupid, hits someone, or simply falls apart.
âWater,â he says, and peels your hands off his shirt.
Your fingers resist, tightening for a second, and the small desperate clutch of it nearly ends him there and then. He manoeuvres you back into the pillows, trying to keep his grip light, and goes downstairs without a backwards glance, breathing hard.
He canât look back. His hands are shaking too hard.Â
He finds a thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, ibuprofen, a glass. Fills it from the filtered thing in the fridge, the fancy one with a temperature setting. He stands there in the Stark kitchen for a moment with a glass of water in his rough, scarred hand and takes it all in. The marble countertops, the row of cookbooks your mother collected before she died.
Everywhere he looks, there are reminders of one indisputable fact: I don't belong here.
And then, under it, quieter: she texted Daella. She didn't text me.
Aerion knows why. He'd have given you shit for being sick. He'd have called you dramatic, said you've got a cold, princess, you'll live. You know that, know his first language is cruelty, know tenderness doesn't come out of him clean but barbed and wearing mask of an insult. So you didn't call.
You didn't call because he's trained you not to need him for this.
The realisation wells in his stomach like acid.
He takes the stairs back up, two at a time.
You've curled onto your side while he was gone. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around yourself, face shoved into the pillow while your shallow breaths fan the pristine cotton. The sleep shirt has ridden up in his absence, and there's a strip of bare skin at your hip, gleaming with moisture and heat. You're shivering. Burning and shivering at the same time.
âSit up.â
You groan and don't move.
âSit up.â
You drag yourself upright. He places the thermometer in your mouth. You look at him with glassy, fever-bright eyes. Your face is open and young, stripped of every hard thing he's used to seeing there, and Aerion has to look away. Has to stare at the wall and breathe, and remind himself itâs just a goddamn cold and youâre going to be fine in no time.
The thermometer beeps. He takes it. 39.6.
âChrist,â he mutters.
He gives you the ibuprofen. You take it obediently for once, and that alone sets his teeth on edge. You take the water next, drink half the glass, and then your hand starts shaking; he catches the glass before you drop it and sets it on the nightstand with a small huff. You look at him with those glassy, unseeing eyes.
âThank you.â
Aerion stops breathing for a moment. Just one.
Because you say it softly, without armour, your middle-of-the-night voice, the one that comes out when the dark has stripped away whatever you wear during the day, and you're just you. The hidden creature underneath the wolf he rarely glimpses. The thing that needs him and won't say so.
âGo to sleep,â he orders gruffly, and it comes out rough and scraped from his throat. Aerion drops on the edge of the bed, and he doesn't touch you because if he touches you right now, something in his chest is going to crack open, and then what? Then what does he do with that?
You lie down, more clumsy than heâs ever seen you, and close your eyes.
And then you reach for him.
Your hand comes up, blind, and finds his forearm. The bare skin below his rolled sleeve, the tendons and veins and calluses that you trace sometimes when you're sitting together and you think he's not paying attention. Your fingers close around his forearm and hold on. A tether. You're lashing yourself to him against a current.
âStay,â you say quietly.
One word, bare and stripped of every qualifier you'd usually wrap around it, all the if you want to, the you don't have to. Now thereâs only stay.
Aerion glances at your hand on his arm.
He kicks off his boots without a word.
He sits against the headboard with his back to the wall, legs stretched out on top of the covers, and you curlâimmediately, without a second of hesitationâinto his side.
You press your face into his ribs.
The heat of you bleeds through his shirt immediately. Your arm comes across his stomach, your hand finding the fabric at his opposite hip and fisting there. Your leg hooks over his thigh, and you pull yourself into him, too sick to perform independence and too tired to pretend you don't want exactly this. The sound you make against his ribs is a low, aching moan of pure relief. Six hours of burning, and you've finally found something to press against.
Aerion sits still.
His hands rest at his sides, and he feels utterly useless. He sits against your headboard in your childhood bedroom, work jeans and boot socks, the boy from the trailer park in the heiress's bed. Your burning face against his ribcage, your arm locked across his stomach, your leg thrown over his thigh. He stares at the far wall and thinks: I am going to lose my fucking mind.
Because you don't do this.
You don't cling, don't burrow, don't make needy, aching sounds and press your face into someone.
You're the steadiest thing in any room. You're the one who holds him togetherâwho drove two hours in the middle of the night when Rhae was in the hospital, who sits on the bathroom floor while he comes down. You look at the wreckage of his life with those calm eyes and never flinch away when any other girl would run for the hills.Â
And right now you're curled against him like a small, hot, miserable animal that wants its person close and doesn't care about dignity.
âAri,â you mumble into his ribs.
His jaw flexes.
âAri.â
Your mouth shapes the name against his shirt. He can feel the movement of your lips through the cotton, the damp heat of your breath. The nickname no one else gets to use. The name you carved out of his real name, smaller and softer, private. A version of him that only exists when you say it. Awake, you ration it, save it for the dark, for the moments when the armour is off, and you're both just bodies in a bed. You say it after sex when you're too ruined to be careful.Â
You say it when you mean I need you, but the words I need you are too big for either of you to voice.
In the fever, you say it like it's the only word you know.
Aerion puts his hand on the back of your head.
It happens without his permission, without him consciously deciding to move; his hand simply comes up to settle against your hair, fingers curling into the damp strands at your nape. The weight of his palm against your skull is proprietary, possessive. A man holding something that belongs to him and suddenly, terrifyingly, becoming aware of how breakable it really is.
You make a small, subdued, grateful sound. A lock turning. You press harder into his ribs. Your arm tightens across his stomach, fingers twisting in the fabric at his hip, pulling, pulling, trying to close the last inch of air between you.
âEasy,â he says quietly. âEasy.â
His voice has changed. He can hear the difference in the rumble at the back of his throat. The hard, cruel edge is gone and what's underneath isâÂ
He doesn't want to think about what's underneath. Because the thing in his chest has been banging on its cage for two years and he keeps it locked because if it gets out, he'll never get it back. If you see the full scale of it, youâll know, and if you know, you can use it, and if you can use it, you can break him by leaving just like his mother did.
But youâre not using anything right now. Youâre not thinking strategically or managing the dynamic between you. Youâre sick and scared, clinging to him because he's what you got. The animal simplicity of that is more terrifying than anything youâve ever done to him with your full faculties.
This is the thing about you, he knows, the thing he circles and circles and never lands on: everything between you is friction.Â
Everything is contested ground. You fight about his drugs. He fights about your need to fix him. You say I'm trying to help and he hears I'm trying to manage you. He says I don't need your money and you hear I don't need you. Round and round, cutting each other on the same edges, bleeding from the same places, and neither of you stops, neither leaves. Two years deep in something everyone says is doomed, and you keep showing up. Keep fighting and fucking and finding each other in the dark.
And right now there's no friction. There's nothing to fight. Just you, burning and miserable, saying his name in a voice stripped down to the studs. Him, sitting in the wreckage of every wall he's ever built. And the horrible, luminous truth behind it: when you're both too sick to fight, what's left is a girl who needs a boy, and a boy who'd burn the world down to be needed by her.
âAri,â you breathe a third time, and there's a crack in it, a splinter of misery you'd never let through if you knew it was there, and Aerionâ
Aerion wraps both arms around you and pulls you in tighter.Â
The fever gets worse in the hours that follow.
At eight o'clock, you're shaking so hard the mattress vibrates. Aerion holds you through it, one arm banded across your back, his hand clamped over your shoulder, pressing you into his chest as though he can physically hold you together. His jaw is set, his breathing forcibly even. He's been in this posture beforeâholding someone through something bad, riding it out, waiting for the worst to passâbut it's always been himself. His own shakes, his own sweats, his own body betraying him in the dark while he waited for it to stop.
Holding you through it is far worse.
You make a thin, grinding whimper against his chest, joints aching, skin crawling, and Aerion's hand moves before he tells it to. His thumb drags along the nape of your neck, firm, pressing into the knot of tension at the top of your spine. He presses and your sound changes, the whimper dropping, rounding, becoming closer to relief. He does it again, working his thumb in slow circles against the base of your skull. Each time the pressure eases something in you; he feels it, the gentle surrender.
He doesn't think about what he's doing. If he thinks about it, he'll stop. So he keeps his thumb on your neck and listens to the sounds shift from harsh to faint, lets his other hand spread flat between your shoulder blades and hold.
He changes the flannel on your forehead an hour later. He doesn't know if he's doing it right. When the kids got sick, Maekar said drink water, stay in bed, and stop whining, and that was that because they couldnât afford anything else. But the cool cloth makes you sigh and press into it, so he does it again. Stalks to the bathroom and runs the cloth under the tap and wrings it out. Sets it on your forehead with steady hands.Â
If his hands shake, his chest will shake, and if his chest shakes, everything comes apart. He can't come apart right now. For once, youâre the one who needs him.
He thinks about the fight on Sunday. Stupid fight. The same fight, really, just dressed up in different snide bullshit.Â
He'd been high again. The soft chemical blur at the edges, enough to make everything tolerable, but not enough to send him spiralling. Yet. And you'd known. Because you always know. You'd looked at him with that expression again, one thatâs worse than anger. I see what you're doing to yourself, and I can't stop it, and the not-stopping-it is killing me. He'd said, vicious and bitter: Don't look at me like that, princess. You'd said, quiet and flat: Like what? He'd said: Like I'm your pet project. And you'd said nothing, because the nothing was louder than words, and he'd left, because thatâs what he does. He says something cruel, he fucks it up.Â
He drove home too fast, sat in the trailer smoking for hours, staring at the wall, knowing he'd done it again. Pushed you away because being close was too terrifying to sustain.
And now you're in his arms, your burning face against his chest, and there's no wall. No princess spat like a barb. No chemical blur between him and the feeling drumming inside his skull and chest. Just you needing him, and the fact, raw and unmediated, that he wants to be needed by you more than he has ever wanted anything, including the high.
Aerion presses his mouth against the top of your head. Holds it there. Breathes.
At nine o'clock, you wake up enough to be audibly miserable.
âI feel like shit,â you croak, blinking owlishly.
âYeah,â he says with a snide snort to mask the fact his voice is gentler than usual. âYou look it.â
Your mouth twitches. âThanks, Romeo.â
He pushes the hair off your face, too rough, too fast. His fingertips drag against your damp temple, callused and graceless, but you tip your head into it anyway, leaning into the scrape of his palm against your cheek. The trust of it makes his throat burn.
âYou came,â you say, your lashes fluttering.
âDidn't have a choice, did I?â His voice has flattened back to have its usual bite, furious at the edges. âCan't trust you to keep yourself alive for six fucking hours.â
âI didn't want to botherââ
âYeah, you mentioned. And if you say that shit to me again I'm going to lose my temper.â His voice is sharp. Then, quieter, staring at your curtains across the room, at the same window he always climbs in through to find you on your bed and kiss you, âDon't ever do that again.â
You blink up at him, fever-slow. âDo what?â
âNot call me.â The words fly out of him, spat out and clipped. âWhen something's wrong, you call me. Not my sister. Not anybody else. I don't give a shit what time it is. I don't give a shit if we're fighting. You call me.â
The if we're fighting saturates the room, filling it with a thousand unspoken things.Â
Aerion can feel you looking at him, but he doesn't look back. He stares at the far wall. The bookshelf crammed with your mother's old novels and your college textbooks.
The photograph of Barthogan with his arm around you at fifteen, a smaller, fiercer version of yourself. And next to it another photo of you with his siblings taken during Rhaeâs 11th birthday. He remembers that day. It was one of the few, rare good ones. He was sober. There was cake. He still remembers the sound of Egg's and Rhae's laughter while they chased each other. Daeron, completely hungover but still standing vigilant over the grill, groused about all the ruckus but was still smiling despite it.
And right next to the beaming faces of his siblings, thereâs a photo of you with your arms wrapped around that ridiculous wolf-dog of yours, black as night and twice as mean.Â
âOkay,â you say quietly, bringing his attention back to you. âNext time, Ari.â
His name again, the soft one, the private one. He feels it land against the inside of his chest like a palm pressed flat.
He nods, once, jerky. This conversation is over. It has to be. He's given you more than he meant to, and the exposure burns like someone poured gasoline over his skin and lit a match.
You close your eyes, curl back into him with a faint sigh, a relieved little exhale following. Your face finds the hollow under his jaw, the one where his pulse lives, the one you always seek in the dark. You press your mouth against the beat of him and breathe deeply.
âAri,â you mumble against his throat.
His arms tighten around you. âGo to sleep.â
âYou're warm.â
âAnd you're a fucking furnace,â he says snidely. âGo to sleep.â
Your hand comes up and finds his chest, palm flat against his sternum, fingers spread. He can feel you tracking his heartbeat, orienting around it. You do this after sex too, find his heartbeat and hold it, checking it's still there, claiming it through contact.
Aerion has never mentioned it. Because doing so would raise the question of why the fuck he allows anyone to touch him like that instead of breaking their wrists for even trying to. That he is, to you, the fixed point, the one constant thing. Which is insane, because he's the least steady thing in any room, always the most volatile, the most likely to burn everything around him down, and you chose him to anchor to.
You nuzzleâactually nuzzle, something small and stupid and trustingâinto the tendon of his throat. Aerion stares at the ceiling, tightens his arms around you, and thinks: If you tell anyone about this, I'll deny it. I'll deny all of it. I'll deny it till I'm dead.
And then, underneath, so quiet even his own mind barely catches it: Don't stop. Don't stop saying my name. Don't stop holding me like this. Don't ever fucking stop.
By ten o'clock, you start talking in your sleep.Â
Fragments mostly. Words that surface and dissolve like bubbles in dark water. Your father's name. Your motherâs. Something about an exam. Blackwind. A string of words that might be a quote from a textbook or a bit of lecture.
Then, âAri.â
His hand stills on your back midstroke.
âAri.â Again, softer, dragged out, the vowels long and aching. You shift against him, pressing closer, your arm tightening across his ribs with a strength that shouldn't be possible from someone running 39.6. Awake, you guard this name, ration it. Until there's nothing between you but skin and breath.
In your sleep, you spend it freely. You say it like it's the only safe place you know.
He presses his mouth against the crown of your head and breathes and doesnât make a sound.
You mumble his name a third time, a fourth. Each time quieter, more dissolved, more resigned. Each time his arms tighten around you a fraction, and each time the thing in his chest strains harder against its cage, and each time he doesn't let it out. Aerion holds it behind his teeth, behind his eyes, behind the flat, hard, don't-touch-me surface that is the only thing between Aerion Targaryen and the terrifying truth of how much he fucking loves you.
Christ. Heâs so fucked he wants to laugh, then maybe smash his fist into your perfect, pristine wall.Â
You shift again, a small, restless movement, your body trying to find a position that doesn't hurt. A croaking, high sound escapes you, barely more than a breath, and Aerion's hand moves again. Down your back, the heel of his palm dragging along your spine with firm pressure, pressing into each knot of tension he finds.
He can feel you hurting under his hand, can feel the fever in the heat of your skin through the cotton. He works it silently, finding the problem, leaning into it, not stopping until it gives.
Your sounds change. The agonised sounds soften, round, and become a low grateful hum against his chest. Your body goes heavier against him again, the tension dissolving under his palm. You sighâa long, shuddering sigh that comes from somewhere deepâand press your face harder into his throat and go still.
Aerion keeps stroking. He keeps his hand moving on your back long after you've gone quiet, because his hand doesn't want to stop. The feeling of you going soft under his palm is something he doesn't have a word for. You hurt, and he made it stop. You were in pain, and his hands knew what to do. For once, the rough, scarred, working-class hands that can't hold a wine glass right and don't know which fork to use were the exact right instrument for the job.
It makes him want to put his fist through the wall. It makes him want to lie here forever.
Around eleven, you get worse.
Aerion feels it before the thermometer confirms it. Your breathing changes again, goes shallow and fast and ragged, a torn-paper sound at the edges. The shivering comes back, harder than before, and your skin, which had begun to cool under his hands, flares hot again. Hotter. Your face against his throat is a brand.
He gets the thermometer. 40.1.
âFuck,â he says aloud, to the empty room, to your father's ceiling, to no one. âFuck.â
He grabs his phone and googles it, one-handed, because you're still clinging to him and he can't pry you off and he's not going to pry you off. The screen tells him 40 is high, 41 is an emergency. He stares at the number. His thumb hovers over Barth's contact. Hovers over the emergency number.
You make a sound again.
A thin, reedy, lost sound, like an animal caught in a trap, and your body curls tighter against him, knees drawing up, and your hand at his chest claws into a fist, bunching the shirt, and your face presses into his throat so hard he can feel the ridge of your teeth through your lips. You're panting. Short, hot, shallow pants against his neck, and between them, syllables. Fragments of words that aren't words. His name, maybe. Or your father's. Or nothing. Just the noise a body makes when the fever has taken it somewhere language can't follow.
âHey.â His voice comes out snappish, almost snarling. He grips your shoulder and shakes, once. âHey. Look at me.â
Your eyes crack open, and they're wrong. Glassy and too wide, the pupils blown, and they find him but don't focus. You look through him, past him, at something that isn't in this room.
âAri,â you breathe, and it comes out cracked and slurred. â'S cold.â
âIt's not cold,â he snaps, his heart beating too loudly in his ears. âYou're burning up.â
âCold,â you insist weakly, your teeth chattering, your whole body seizing against him in a long, wrenching shudder, and Aerion's heart goes from beating to hammering so hard it physically hurts.
âYou're fine,â he says, and his voice is vicious, furious, the voice he uses when he's terrified and has nowhere to put it. âYou hear me? You're fine. This is a fever, it's a fucking virus, you're not allowed toâyou're notââ
He can't finish the sentence. The word he can't say is leave. The word is sitting at the back of his throat like a goddamn rock, and he can't push it past his teeth because if he says it, if he acknowledges even the possibility of this, the floor will open up under him and he'll fall and he'll never stop falling.
You mumble something against his throat. Fever-babble, consonants gone soft, nothing coherent for him to follow. Your hand loosens and tightens on his shirt, clenching and unclenching, a slow desperate pulse.
âYou're not allowed to leave,â he bites out, low and mean, the words shaking in his mouth. âDo you hear me? You don't get to do that. You don't get to text my sister and thenâyou don't get to leave.â
You whimper in response, your fingers clawing at his shirt as you shiver.
âIf you leftââ His voice cracks right down the middle, and he hates it, hates the sound of himself breaking, hates that you've made him into someone who can break. He hates you so much. âIf you left, I'd follow you. You hear me? Wherever the fuck you went. I'd follow you there, and I'd drag you back with me. You don't get to leave me.â
He's holding you too tight. He knows as much. His arms are banded around you like shackles, his grip fierce, bordering on painful. His fingers dig into the muscle of your back, into the sharp peaks of your shoulder blade, and you should be flinching, should be squirming away, but instead you press closer. You push into the hurt of his grip like the pain is an anchor, like the bruising pressure of his arms is the only thing keeping you afloat.Â
âAri,â you breathe against his skin. â'M here. 'M not going.â
âShut the hell up,â he hisses, and his voice is ragged, too thick. âShut up. You're delirious. You don't know what you're saying.â
â'M not going,â you repeat, stubborn even in the fever, stubborn even now, and your arm tightens across his ribs and your face burrows deeper into his throat, and you hold on.
Aerion presses his face into your hair.
He breathes through it. In and out. In and out. The tremor in his arms, the sick, spinning panic in his chest, the raw animal terror of losing youâhe breathes through all of it, his mouth against the crown of your head, and the sounds that come out of him are low and ugly and helpless. Half-words. Fragments. Things he'd cut his own tongue out before saying in the daylight.
âHate you,â he mutters into your hair. Thick, rough, barely audible. âFucking hate you. Hate what you do to me. Hate that I'm here, hate that I can'tâhate that you're the only thing, the onlyâfuck.â
His hand finds the back of your skull and holds. His grip in your hair is too tight, and you make a small sound against his throat that could be pain or could be comfort, and he loosens it, just barely, just enough, and hates himself for both the tightening and the loosening.
Because this is what you've done to him, this is the scope of the damage. Aerion Targaryen, Maekar's son, the boy from the single-wide, the boy who's never had anything worth being afraid to lose. You've given him something to lose, and the having of it is worse than every withdrawal he's ever clawed his way through.Â
He was fine before you. He was cruel and empty, a good and proper fuck up with nothing to his name, but fine. Nobody could touch him because there was nothing to touch. And then you came along, with your Stark money and your father's house and your mother's books and your wolf's composure that he couldn't crack, couldn't dent, couldn't provoke past the point of that quiet patienceâ
He hates you.
He hates you for being the Stark heir, for living in this stupid house, for the marble countertops and the filtered water and the key on his chain. He hates the gulf between your world and his, the forty-minute drive that's also a thousand miles, the fact that your father's wine collection is worth more than his whole life combined. He hates your poise and your patience and those eyes that look at him like he's salvageable, like he's worth something, like underneath the drugs and the rage and the trailer park misery, there's a man worth keeping.
He hates that you're right.
And underneath the hatred, coiled at the base of it, feeding it, the real thing: he would kill for you. He would kill without hesitation and without regret. If someone hurt you, if someone touched you, if someone were the reason you were lying in this bed instead of a virus, Aerion would take them apart with his bare hands and feel nothing but the satisfaction of it.Â
He knows this about himself. Has known it since the first year, since the first time someone at your father's table looked at him with that smile. The one that said trailer trash, poor boy, charity case, and you'd looked at the man and said, pleasant and arctic, âI'd be careful,â and the table had gone dead silent.
He'd known then. He'd kill for you. He'd die for you. You could ask him for anythingâhis hands, his body, his name, the last clean thing left in himâand he'd give it. Without a second of negotiation. Without performing the reluctance that a man with any self-preservation would perform.
And he hates it. He hates that you have that power. He hates that you've never once asked him to use it. He hates that you hold the leash so gently he can pretend it isn't there.
He can't help it, then; the thought surfaces, fever-hot and bitter. What if he'd been born into it? What if his last name still opened doors instead of closing them?Â
What if he'd met you at one of your father's dinners, wearing a suit that fit and a name that didn't make people's smiles go thin with pity. How easy it would be then. How clean. He'd have pulled you onto a terrace and said something charming, maybe a tad provocative, and you'd have looked at him, and there'd be no gulf between you, no forty-minute drive between his world and yours. Just two heirs. A boy and a girl and a future that didn't require one of them to bridge a canyon on hands and knees.
But that boy wouldn't be him. He knows that too. That boy wouldn't have the scarred hands or the mean mouth or the hunger.
That boy wouldn't know what it costs to hold someone this tight. That boy would hold you lightly, easily, carelessly. Rich boys hold things carelessly, because there's always more to go around.
Aerion holds you as if there will never be more. Because for him there won't be.
A sound builds in his throat. Low, involuntary, burning the back of his throat. A growl, a snarl, something that belongs in the chest of a creature guarding a kill. He presses his mouth against your hair and lets it vibrate there, felt and not heard, and his arms lock tighter around you, and the message is older than language: mine, mine, mine, you're mine and you're going to live because I said so, because I won't allow anything else, because the universe does not have my fucking permission to take you.
He checks the thermometer again. 39.9. Dropping.
The snarl dies in his throat. His grip loosens by a fraction, his breathing slowing.
He holds you, and waits, and doesnât let go.
At half past eleven, the fever finally breaks.
He knows because the sweat changes. The burning, miserable kind becomes the drenching, good kind. Your skin goes from dry-hot to damp-cool in twenty minutes, your breathing evens and deepens, the rasp goes, and the shaking dies down.
You go heavy against him. Your arm loosens across his ribs, your fist unclenches from his shirt. Your face is still pressed into his throat, your breathing slow and warm and even against his pulse. For the first time in hours, youâre still.
Aerion doesn't move.
He sits against the headboard and holds you. The house is quiet, old-Stark-estate quiet. A different silence than the trailer park, where sirens wail through the walls, and Daeron's music thumps through the partition and Rhae's laughter and Fatherâs heavy tread fill the gaps. In this house, there's only the tick of the old clock in the hallway downstairs and the sound of your breathing paired with his own heart.
Because you haven't let go.
The fever's broken, you're cooling, the crisis is past, and you haven't let go of him. Your face is still in his throat. Your leg is still hooked over his. Your hand is still on his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat, and even in sleep you haven't pulled away, haven't rebuilt the steel, haven't become the wolf again.
You're just a girl in a too-big sleep shirt, fever-damp and exhausted, holding onto him because he's the thing you reached for when the armour came off.
Aerion tips his head back against the headboard, stares at the ceiling. He's not going to make the sound sitting at the top of his chest, the raw, cracked, embarrassing sound that would tell the empty room exactly how fucked he is. He swallows it, buries it in the place where he buries everything. The deep, locked place where he keeps the truth about you. That you are the only good thing in his life. That you are the only thing he has ever been afraid to lose. That the thought of you, sick and alone in this house for six hours, makes him want to throttle every force that made you think you had to handle it alone. Including himself.
He tightens his arms around you.
He presses his face into your hair and breathes in. You smell like sweat and the fading ghost of perfume from this morning, when the day was still normal, and you didn't know you'd end up here. In his arms. Soft and broken open.
âStupid girl,â he whispers into your hair. âStupid, stubborn, impossible wolf.â
You don't hear him. You're asleep. His voice is barely a vibration, less than a breathâthe kind of thing that wouldn't hold up in court, the kind of thing he can deny tomorrow and will.
He shifts down slowly, easing himself from sitting to lying without dislodging you. You adjust in your sleep with him like an invisible force is moving you when he moves. A small, boneless reshuffling, your body finding his in the new position without waking, your face sliding from his throat to his chest, your ear over his heart.
Aerion yanks the sheets over you both, adjusting them so they cover you properly. His hand finds the curve of your back, fingers spreading there. His palm covers the space between your shoulders, and beneath it he can feel the calming pull of your breathing.Â
He stays all night.
He stays with his boots on the floor beside your bed and his jeans still on, his phone buzzing in his pocket with texts from Daeron asking where the fuck he is. He doesn't answer, doesn't move, holds you while you sleep with your ear over his heart and your hand on his chest and your mouth still shaped, faintly, around the ghost of his name.
In the morning, you wake up first.
You're cool, washed out, the kind of exhausted that comes after a fever. Hollow and fragile and strangely clear, like the world's had its contrast turned up. You become aware, in stages, of where you are and who's holding you.
Aerion's asleep.
He's beneath you, on his back, one arm slung across your waist, his other hand still spread between your shoulder blades. His face is turned toward you, and in sleep the hardness has gone out of it. The jaw unclenched, full mouth soft, the permanent tension between his brows dissolved. What's left is younger, tired, gentle in a way he'd gut you for saying so. His pale hair has come loose, and it fans across your pillow, catching the early light. There's a smudge of grease at his jaw from whatever he was working on before Daella's text pulled him out of his day and sent him here to you.
You gaze at him for a long time.
You remember pieces. The ibuprofen. The flannel. His rough hands getting you out of your clothes. The gruff, clipped voice doing something it didn't want to be caught doing. The arms that held you through the worst of it. The thumb working slow circles at the base of your skull until the pain softened to bearable. His mouth against your hair, whispering something you couldn't quite hear.
You press your lips to the hollow of his throat. Light, barely a touch, a thank-you in the only language he'd accept.
He stirs at the contact. His eyes flutter open, pale and colourless, grey now in the morning light, the early sun catching the faint ring of lavender at the edge of the iris. He looks at you. You look at him. The soft, post-fever openness is still on your face, still in how you're pressed against him. You can see him register the unguarded quality, the girl underneath. You can see the exact moment he decides to handle it the only way he knows how.
âYou look like shit,â he says, his voice rough from sleep and lower than usual, deeper at the edges.
You almost smile. âI know.â
âAnd you snore when you're sick.â
âI do not,â you sniff.Â
âYeah, you do. You talk in your sleep, too.â He shifts, sits up, rubs his face with one hand. The other stays on your back. He doesn't remove it, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from pointing it out. âKept saying some guy's name. Should I be worried?â
Your mouth twitches. âWhat name?â
âCouldn't make it out. Something short, started with an A. Sounded like a real asshole.â
You chuckle weakly, a grin tugging one side of your mouth upward. âSounds about right.â
The corner of his mouth lifts a fraction, too, then flattens. You watch him kill the smile, stuff it back behind the mask. You let him because the glimpses you rememberâŠ
He did things for you neither of you is ready to examine, not without a fight, and youâre too drained for one right now. Right now, you simply want his warmth here, with you.Â
Aerion swings his legs off the bed. Sits on the edge with his back to you, elbows on his knees, head hanging forward. You examine the line of his spine through his shirt, each knob, the silver hair falling forward past his jaw. He's quiet for a beat too long, and in the quiet you can feel him reassembling himself, little by little, putting the walls back up and killing whatever nursed you.Â
The boy who held you through the fever is gone. The boy who whispered into your hair is being sealed behind concrete again.
âI'm making coffee,â he announces, and stands, stretching lazily. His shirt rides up, and you can see the flat, toned plane of his stomach, the narrow slant of hip bones, and he catches you looking and smirks. Him again, the regular him, the hard-edged, smirking bastard who breaks your heart on a weekly basis.
âKeep staring, princess,â he drawls. âLeast the fever didn't kill your priorities."
You throw a pillow at him. It misses by a mile because your arms are still limp and useless, and it hits the bookshelf instead. He laughsâa real laugh, short and jagged, surprised out of himâand then he's out the door and strolling unhurriedly down the stairs, one at a time, never in any hurry anywhere. Typical. You can hear him in the kitchen a few minutes later, opening cabinets he already knows from two years of sneaking into this house.
The coffee machine hisses to life first, the sound floating upstairs. The fridge opens next, then closes, a cupboard shuts too hard, almost pointedly so. And then a pause, a stillness that lasts a beat too long and makes you listen intently.
Thereâs a sound of him exhaling, deep, shallow, and the quiet thunk of his forehead dropping against some surface you canât see.
Then the coffee machine hisses, and he's moving again. Aerion comes back upstairs with two mugs a few minutes later, hands you one without a word. His face gives nothing away. âDrink it. And text your father back. He's probably losing his damn mind.â
âAriââ
âCoffee,â he repeats, and drops down next to you, his knee touching yours, and he doesn't move it, and neither do you.
Idk i might be soo wrong kat but bobby seems to be the type to wake up companion in the middle of the night with "lift up your leg" just bc he has gotten horny because of a dream and he needs to feel the love of his life clenching around him for real
california heat. 2am. both of you already stuck together with sweat because bobby runs hot and the AC is broken yet again. he's wrapped around you from behind, dead asleep, and then he isn't. you feel him shift, feel him hard against your back, and his mouth is at your ear, still half in the dream.
"mm. baby. lift your leg up."
you mumble that he's literally glued to you. physically fused. there is no closer. you are sharing a skin.
"not close enough."
said with that sleepy grin you can hear but can't see. he nudges against you, hand sliding your thigh up and back over his hip, and presses in slow. so slow. just easing into you inch by inch until he's buried and then he stops. just stays. sighs against your neck like he's finally solved a problem that was keeping him awake.
half the time it isn't even about fucking. he doesn't thrust, doesn't chase anything. he just needs to be inside you. needs the warmth, the squeeze, the way you flutter around him when you're half asleep, the involuntary little clench every time you shift. he tucks his face into your hair and wraps his arm tighter around your waist and pulls you back against his chest and sighs again, happy, settled, complete.
aerion crying đ€€ i feel like itâs literally impossible for him to cryâŠright? but with his mother and everythingâŠidk! i feel like because heâs a human (barely) itâs not entirely avoidable. is there an aerion-equivalent or something? what would cause it? andddd how does that differ in the regular modern verse and the tt!au? :)
that man has buried so much of his emotional range under cruelty and spite that the mechanism is basically rusted shut. he can feel fury, contempt, hunger, obsession, even love deeeep down and aerion shaped. but the vulnerable stuff, the soft underbelly emotions, those got locked in a room when he was young and the key was swallowed and the door was bricked over.
but there is one thing that could break the brickwork, one thing in any universe, and it's you dying.
and I don't mean the idea of you dying in some abstract, some philosophical sadness about mortality. I mean the actual, visceral, your-body-is-cold-and-your-eyes-are-closed reality of a world where you are no longer in it. aerion in every verse has a genuine, perverse, bone-deep terror of this. it sits under everything he does. under the possessiveness, the obsessive need to keep you close. he doesn't fear his own death. never has. his own death is a shrug, an inevitability, a thing that happens to bodies and his body has never mattered much to him. but yours? the extinction of yours? unbearable. actually the word isn't even strong enough. there is no word strong enough.
in canon, he does blood magic to extend your life. the rituals, the bindings, the valyrian words spoken into your mouth while he's inside you. he's trying to knot your life to his so tightly that death can't unpick it. and he's trying to cheat the gods out of you. he will bleed himself dry on a weirwood floor if he thinks it buys you another decade.
if it actually happened? the first reaction would be rage. not grief, not sadness. volcanic rage. he would destroy things. rooms, people, himself. manic and purposeless and ugly, breaking whatever his hands can reach because the alternative is standing still and standing still means feeling it and feeling it means the tears come.
and eventually they would come. alone. behind a locked door. silent, furious tears that he'd wipe away with shaking hands and deny with his whole body. his face wouldn't crumple, wouldn't soften with grief. his jaw would stay clenched and his teeth would stay bared and the tears would just fall, involuntary, a bodily function he can't override, and he would genuinely kill anyone who witnessed it. bare hands, no hesitation, because being seen crying is being seen broken and aerion broken is aerion at his most dangerous.
in modern verse: the terror expresses differently because the threats are different. he's just a man with too much money and a woman he's obsessively in love with and a body that will eventually fail. so the fear comes out as control. calling at odd hours for no reason he'll name. if you got hurt (a car accident, a hospital call) the mask would come off in the waiting room and whoever was sitting beside him would see his hands shaking, and his eyes red and would be too afraid to say a word. he'd hold your hand in the hospital bed so hard the nurses would have to ask him to ease up and he wouldn't ease up and nobody would ask twice.
in tt!verse: the terror is rawer because he has less. modern aerion at least has money, resources, the ability to buy the best doctors. tt!aerion has nothing between you and the world except his own body. you are the only good thing and the world is the thing that takes good things and he knows this because the world has taken everything else. so the fear is constant and looks like aggression because that's the only language his body learned. if you got hurt in tt!verse, the rage wouldn't even have a delay. it would be immediate, physical, pointed at whoever or whatever caused it with zero regard for consequences. and the tears afterward, alone, in that car or that trailer or whatever dark corner he crawled into.
the idea of having to live in a world without his wolf is the one thought aerion in every verse cannot sit with. his brain physically refuses. and that refusal is the engine under everything he does. every binding, every fight, every hand around your throat and every mouth on your pulse and every whispered mine in the dark.
what do you think companion and bobbyâs first kiss and the first time they slept together was like? i yearn for the golden era.
the first kiss happens three weeks into dating and youâve been quietly losing your mind the whole time.
because bobby is affectionate. insanely so. bobby franklin, who performs detachment for the rest of the world, touches you constantly.
his arm around your shoulders at terrenceâs. his fingers finding your belt loop in every hallway, hooking there and just holding on for the sake of it. he kisses your cheek. your forehead. the bridge of your nose when he thinks itâs funny to watch your eyes cross. he presses his mouth to your temple during movies and your knuckles in the car and the crown of your head when youâre leaning against him on terrenceâs couch.
but he hasnât kissed you. on the mouth. three weeks of dating and bobby franklinâs lips have landed on every surface of your face except the one that counts, and youâre starting to wonder if heâs ever going to or if you should just grab him and do it yourself except something stops you. something in the careful, pointed way he avoids your mouth tells you this matters to him. tells you the boy who touches everyone with easy confidence is nervous about this one specific thing for some reason, and the nervousness is so unlike him that you want to let him arrive at it on his own terms.
so friday night. his car. parked outside your house after driving you home from terrenceâs garage where the three of you spent four hours listening to terrenceâs band practice and eating cold pizza. the tape deck is playing something terrence recorded over with his own bad guitar. bobbyâs hand on the gear shift. yours on the door handle.
the conversation has reached that silence where both people know whatâs supposed to happen next.
bobby glances at you, the streetlight catching the chain at his throat. his eyes pale and serious in a way they almost never are because bobby treats seriousness like an afterthought.
âcan I try something?â he asks quietly.
âokay.â
he leans across the center console and kisses you, and the kiss is not what you expected.
you answer by pulling him back in by the collar of his jacket.
and the sound he makes against your mouth, the sound when your hands fist in his collar and drag him across the console, is starved.
three weeks of cheek kisses and forehead presses and belt-loop touches and the restraint burning off in a single exhale that pours into your mouth, warm and desperate. his hand finally lands on your jaw, his thumb on your cheekbone, and his mouth opens yours and the kiss deepens. his other hand finds your waist across the console and the angle is terrible but neither of you adjusts it because adjusting would require pulling apart.
when you finally separate his forehead drops against yours and bobbyâs eyes are closed. his thumb is still on your cheekbone and he says, âiâve been wanting to do that since the first weekâ and his voice is rough.
âwhy didnât you?â
âbecause.â his eyes close. the vulnerability still there, still visible. âbecause if I kissed you and it was real then this is real and if this is real then it canââ
he doesnât finish, but he doesnât need to. you know what lives at the end of that sentence because youâve seen the way bobby flinches from permanence, from the commitment of caring too much, from the terror of holding something you canât afford to lose.
you kiss his forehead the way heâs been kissing yours for three weeks. a tender press, a promise.
âitâs real,â you whisper against his warm skin.
his arms come around you across the center console and he holds on.
the first time is a few weeks later.
your parents are gone for the weekend. the house is empty and youâve both known all week that the house would be empty and neither of you has said what the empty house means but youâve been vibrating with it since monday. bobby shows up saturday afternoon with his hair damp from the shower and a nervousness heâs trying to smother beneath the usual easy confidence and failing terribly.
youâre both virgins. nobody would believe it because bobby carries himself with the energy of someone who has done everything twice but the truth is that bobby franklin is eighteen and has kissed three girls before you but has never seen a girl naked outside of the magazines him and terrence keep under his bed. the confidence is a costume. underneath it is a boy whose hands are shaking when he unbuttons your shirt.
your bedroom. the door closed even though nobodyâs home because closing it feels important. the afternoon light coming through your curtains, turning everything warm and gold. bobbyâs fingers on your buttons, fumbling the third one, swearing under his breath, and you laugh. you laugh and he looks up, grinning, and the grin cracks the tension. after that youâre both laughing and unbuttoning each other with clumsy fingers, bumping foreheads and stepping on each otherâs feet trying to get jeans off.
youâre both naked and the laughter fades into something quieter. bobby looking at you. you looking at bobby. the afternoon light on his chest and the chain and his stomach and the vulnerability of two bodies seeing each other for the first time with nothing between them.
âyouâre so beautiful,â he blurts out, and his voice cracks on it, a flush creeping up his throat.
the first time hurts.
you knew it would. youâve read about it, talked about it with friends, prepared for it. but the reality of the stretch, the burning pinch, the sharp bright ache as your body adjusts to something itâs never held before, makes your breath catch and your fingers dig into bobbyâs shoulders.
bobby stops. immediately. his hips frozen. his forehead pressed to yours. his eyes open and searching your face and the concern in them is so raw it almost hurts more than the stretch.
âare you okay? do you want me toââ
âjust⊠stay still for a second.â
he stays still. forehead to forehead, breathing together. his thumbs stroking your cheekbones in the same gesture from the car, the gentle repetitive motion that says âIâm here, Iâm not going anywhereâ without using words. you feel him trembling with the effort of holding still, of keeping his hips locked while every instinct in his body is telling him to move, and the restraint and the tenderness of it makes your eyes sting.
âokay,â you breathe after a minute, the burn settling from sharp to warm. âokay, you can move.â
he moves slowly, pulling back and pressing forward with a gentleness that contradicts everything about the bobby the rest of the world sees. watching your face for the flinch, pausing again when your breath catches. pressing his mouth to your forehead during each pause the way heâs been doing for weeks except now heâs inside you and the gesture carries a weight that makes your chest crack open.
and then the pain burns off.
it burns off and whatâs underneath it is warmth and fullness. bobbyâs hips rolling against yours and his breath hot in the crook of your neck, and a pleasure that starts deep and spreads outward through your thighs, your stomach, and suddenly your hips are lifting to meet his, and the sound you make surprises both of you.
bobbyâs head comes up from your neck, his eyes wide. âwas thatââ
âgood. that was good. do it again.â
he does it again. harder this time because you asked with your hips and your nails and the arch of your spine and the sound you made. and from there the clumsiness stops being careful and starts being hungry. messy kisses that land on your mouth and your chin and your cheek because neither of you has the coordination to aim properly while your hips are rolling into each other. bobby groaning against your jaw and you gasping against his throat and the bed frame bumping the wall in a cadence that would mortify you if your parents were home.
he comes first, burying his face in your neck with a groan that vibrates through your chest, his hips jerking forward in stuttering pulses, and his hand slides between your bodies because bobby is generous even in his inexperience. his fingers find you and work you through an orgasm that comes faster than either of you expected because everything is sensitive and new and his fingers are clumsy and earnest. perfect.
afterward youâre tangled in your sheets, legs intertwined, bobbyâs face in your hair and your face in his chest and both of you grinning so hard your cheeks ache. the giddy breathless giddiness of two people who just did the thing, the big thing, and it hurt it was clumsy and his elbow hit the headboard and your knee caught his hip because neither of you knew what you were doing and it was perfect. it was so, so perfect.
âagain?â bobby breathes into your hair, his hand already sliding down your side.
âbobby, itâs been four minutes.â
âis that a no?â
ââŠitâs not a no.â
your parents are gone until sunday night and by sunday morning youâve figured out three positions and perfected exactly none of them. broken a lamp and bobby has rug burn on both knees and youâve used every condom in the box terrence gave bobby as a joke. neither of you has slept more than three hours total and the sheets needed to be washed twice.
you canât get enough of each other. every time one of you says âwe should eat somethingâ the other oneâs mouth finds skin and the suggestion dies. bobby brings you water and you pull him back into bed by his chain. you get up to use the bathroom and come back to bobby lying on his stomach with that grin and the afternoon light on his bare back and the water is forgotten.
by sunday morning youâre sore all over and spent and wrapped around each other on sheets just breathing. bobbyâs arm across your waist with that weight, the weight youâll spend years craving. his mouth on the back of your neck, sleepy and warm.
âhey,â he murmurs.
âhey.â
âthis is real, right?â
you press back into him. fit your body against his, every curve matching every angle, the way youâll fit together a thousand times after this in a hundred different beds.
plot! after a flustered dick grayson spends the day distracted on patrol, he meets you on the streets as robin and tries to romance you behind his confident hero persona. when he gently leans in for a kiss, you politely reject robin, confessing that your heart belongs to a shy, awkward boy from school who blushes easily and laughs too loud
All day your words looped in his head in the worst, best way possible. He was kind. He made me feel safe. He was cute. Dick sat through classes pretending to take notes while internally combusting because you hadnât known it was him. That was the part that wouldnât leave him alone. You liked Robin, you liked the version of him that didnât trip over words, that didnât blush so hard his ears turned red, that didnât forget how to breathe when you stood too close. You liked the confident one, the capable one, the hero, and that did something dangerous to his heart.
Because what if⊠what if you could like him too? Not just Dick who laughed too loud and rambled and got shy, but him, all of him. You had seen Robin without knowing it was Dick, you had judged him without bias and you liked what you saw. That realization sat warm and terrifying in his chest the entire afternoon. By the time patrol came, he was distracted enough that Bruce noticed.
âFocusâ Batman said sharply as they moved across the rooftops. Dick snapped back into place immediately, flipping cleanly onto the next ledge, but his mind kept drifting back to your smile when you talked about Robin. Cute dimples. He nearly missed a grapple line because of that. Bruceâs eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. âSomething youâd like to share?â âNopeâ Robin chirped too quickly, landing in a crouch. Bruce grunted in that way that meant I know youâre lying but Iâll allow it for now.
They split at the next intersection, Batman heading toward a warehouse lead, Robin instructed to circle the Narrows perimeter and report back. Dick swung between buildings, wind rushing past his ears, cape snapping behind him, and he let himself breathe. Up here, masked, moving, he didnât feel awkward, he felt sharp, certain, sure of where his hands would land and how far he could jump. Robin wasnât unsure, robin didnât stutter, robin didnât second-guess whether a girl could ever see him that way, and maybe that was why you liked him.
He landed lightly on a fire escape and scanned the street below out of habit, and then froze, because there you were again. Same street as last night, walking alone, hugging your jacket closer against the wind. His heart kicked into overdrive, but this time it wasnât panic, it was something steadier, something almost hopeful.
He dropped down into the alley ahead of you and stepped out into the lamplight just as you approached, boots quiet on the pavement. You startled slightly but relaxed the second you recognized the red and green. âOh,â you breathed, and there it was again, that soft smile. âHi.â God. That smile. Even through the mask, he felt it like sunlight. He straightened a little, confidence settling over him like a second cape. âEvening,â he said smoothly, pitching his voice into that slightly deeper, playful tone he used as Robin. âYouâre making this a habitâ You laughed softly. âI could say the same to you.â He stepped closer, not too close, just enough that he could see the way your hair caught the light. âWhat can I say? Gothamâs full of coincidences.â You shook your head, amused. âAre you patrolling or following me?â He placed a hand over his chest dramatically. âI would never. Iâm wounded.â You smiled wider at that and there it was, that ease. You weren't nervous around him, you looked at Robin like you trusted him, like you liked him. He cleared his throat gently. âHeading home again?â You nodded. âYeah. I promise Iâm not trying to create extra work for you.â âItâs not extra work,â he replied quickly, softer now. âItâs⊠important.â
You studied him for a moment, and something in your gaze felt deeper tonight. Curious. Warm. âYouâre very dedicatedâ you said. âSomeone has to be,â he answered lightly, then added before he could stop himself, âEspecially when it comes to people who deserve it.â You blinked at that, cheeks pinking slightly.
The wind shifted between you, and without thinking, he reached out, not grabbing, not bold, just offering his hand the way he might help someone over a ledge. âMay I?â he asked gently. You hesitated only a second before placing your hand in his. Your fingers were warm despite the cold, the contact shot up his arm like lightning, but Robin didnât flinch, robin held steady. He adjusted his grip slightly, not possessive, just protective, and started walking beside you. This time your hands didnât almost brush, they were connected and you didnât pull away.
âYou donât have to do this every timeâ you said softly. âI know.â He glanced sideways at you. âI want to.â Your thumb shifted slightly against his glove, barely a movement, but enough that he felt it everywhere. âYouâre very kindâ you murmured. He smiled under the mask. âIâve been told.â You laughed quietly. âYou have?â âYeah,â he said, thinking of her words from earlier. âRecently.â
You looked up at him again, studying his face. And he wondered, just for a second, if you saw it, if you recognized something familiar in the curve of his smile beneath the domino mask. But you didnât say anything. Instead you asked, âDo you ever get tired?â He considered that honestly. âSometimes.â âWhy keep doing it?â He looked ahead at the dark stretch of street, then back at you. âBecause when I walk someone home and they feel safe⊠it makes it worth it.â Your expression softened so much it nearly undid him. âThatâs exactly what you did last night.â His heart pounded. âYeah?â âYeah.â You squeezed his hand gently. Not tight, just enough. âThank you.â And Robin, confident, capable, brave Robin, felt his chest swell with something brighter than any spotlight Haleyâs Circus had ever pointed at him. Because you liked him, you liked him without knowing, you liked the parts he was afraid werenât enough. And standing there in the Gotham night, hand in yours, mask hiding the blush creeping across his cheeks, Dick Grayson allowed himself, for the first time, to believe that maybe you could like all of him, not just the hero, not just the boy, but both. And this time, when he looked at you, he didnât feel like he was pretending.
Robin kept stealing glances at you when he thought you wouldnât notice. You were smiling at something heâd just said, some light joke about almost tripping over a gargoyle earlier, and he felt that dangerous warmth spreading through his chest again. He slowed slightly as you reached a quieter stretch of sidewalk, the city noise dull and distant. He turned toward you, still holding your hand, and for once the confidence the mask gave him didnât feel like pretending, it felt like courage, and not the kind used in fights, the other kind, the kind Bruce never taught him how to handle.
You noticed the shift immediately. âWhat?â you asked softly, head tilting just a little.
He swallowed. His heart was beating so loudly he was convinced you could hear it. âCan I ask you something?â His voice had lost some of its playful edge. It was quieter now. Real.
âOf course.â
He hesitated, not because he didnât want to, but because he wanted to do it right. He didnât want to scare you, didnât want to assume. He stepped half a pace closer, still leaving space for you to pull away if you wanted. His free hand lifted slowly, carefully, giving you every opportunity to stop him. His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from you face, feather-light, asking permission in the gentlest way he knew how.
Her breath caught slightly, not in fear, but in surprise.
âIâŠâ He faltered for just a fraction of a second, then found his footing again. âIâve really liked walking you home.â
You smiled softly. âIâve liked it too.â
Encouraged, he let his thumb trace gently over your knuckles through the glove. âAnd I was just wondering if maybe⊠I couldââ
He leaned in slowly. Respectfully. Not rushing, not claiming, just offering.
And you understood.
Your free hand came up between you, resting lightly against his chest, not pushing hard, just stopping him with the gentlest pressure. Your expression wasnât upset, it wasnât uncomfortable, it was soft. Apologetic.
âOh,â you breathed quietly. âRobinâŠâ
He froze instantly, pulled back half an inch, searching your face through the mask.
âIâm sorry,â you said, voice warm and sincere. âYouâre⊠really wonderful. Truly. And youâve been so kind to me.â
His stomach dropped, but he forced himself to stay still. To listen.
âBut,â you continued gently, âI⊠I like someone.â
The words hit him like stepping off a roof without a grapple.
He tried to keep his tone light. âOh.â
âItâs justâŠâ You looked down at your hands, still connected, and then back up at him. âHeâs a friend from school.â
His heart stuttered.
You kept talking, unaware you were unraveling him and stitching him back together at the same time. âHeâs not⊠flashy. Or mysterious. Heâs not a hero like you.â You smiled faintly. âHeâs kind of awkward sometimes.â
Robinâs breath caught.
âHe laughs too loud at dumb jokes,â you went on, your voice soft and fond. âAnd he blushes really easily. And he pretends heâs confident but heâs actually really shy.â
His pulse roared in his ears.
âHeâs thoughtful,â you added. âAnd he cares so much about people. Even when he doesnât say it out loud.â
Dick felt something fragile bloom in his chest.
âAnd I thinkâŠâ You hesitated, almost embarrassed now. âI think he doesnât realize how wonderful he is.â
Robin couldnât breathe.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. âHeâs probably still too shy to tell me anything. But I donât mind waiting.â
Waiting.
âFor him?â Robin managed, voice quieter now.
You nodded. âYeah.â Your thumb brushed lightly against the back of his glove in an absent, apologetic gesture. âI want to wait for him.â
The streetlight hummed faintly overhead. Gotham carried on around them. But inside Robinâs chest, everything had gone very still.
You were describing him.
Every word.
The awkward laugh. The blushing. The pretending. The caring too much.
You were refusing Robin, the cool hero, the confident vigilante, the boy you said was cute, because you liked⊠Dick.
Because you wanted him.
He swallowed hard, fighting the stupid grin threatening to break across his face.
You mistook his silence for disappointment and squeezed his hand gently. âIâm really sorry,â you said again. âYou deserve someone amazing.â
He found his voice, softer now. Less performative. âHe sounds⊠lucky.â
Your cheeks warmed. âI donât know about that.â
Robin tilted his head slightly. âHe is,â he insisted quietly. âIf someone like you is willing to wait for him.â
You looked at him with that same gentle sweetness you always did. âYouâre going to make someone very happy too,â you told him.
Oh, he thought, I already am.
He stepped back properly this time, giving you space, letting your hands slip apart slowly. He didnât let it feel rejected. He let it feel⊠understood.
âI hope he doesnât keep you waiting too longâ Robin said lightly, though his heart felt like it might burst out of his ribs.
You smiled softly. âMe too.â
And then you did something that nearly undid him again, you reached up and squeezed his arm affectionately. âThank you for being honest.â
He almost laughed at that.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âHonest.â
You resumed walking, but the air between you had shifted, not awkward, not tense. Just clearer. Softer.
Robin felt lighter than he had in weeks.
You had chosen him.
Not the mask.
Not the symbol.
Not the cool, confident version.
The awkward boy who blushed and laughed too loud and didnât know how to make the first move.
And for the first time in his life, Dick Grayson didnât feel like he had to compete with Robin.
And as you walked under the quiet Gotham sky, Robin smiled behind the mask, not because heâd been refused.
Thinking about Benny having another guilt spiral while jerking off thinking about Companion đđđ like he feels AWFUL about it but itâs so good he canât stop!!! (his guilt is so delicious to me)
the thing about brendan is that heâs disciplined about everything. his grades, his schedule, his social avoidance. brendan runs his life like he doesnât trust himself with excess. because excess is messy and dangerous. brendan is contained and brendan is controlled and brendan does not indulge.
except in this.
he puts it off for weeks. sometimes longer. lets the pressure build and build behind his sternum, in his skull, in the persistent low ache between his thighs that he ignores through sheer force of will. he channels it into studying, into running, into organising his textbooks and cleaning the apartment, doing push-ups until his arms shake. anything.
anything that isnât lying on his bed in the dark with his hand on himself and your name between his clenched teeth.
it never starts lewd, thatâs the thing. it starts with your smile. the one you gave him yesterday in the kitchen when he said something dry and your whole face scrunched with delight. your laugh was so warm it hit him in the chest and stayed there, burrowing deep. it starts with your sigh. the way you say âbennyâ when you hug him, this little exhale against his shoulder that turns his name into something soft and lived-in. it starts with the way you tucked his hair behind his ear last Sunday without thinking, your fingers grazing the shell of it, and his entire body went hot and you didnât even notice.
innocent things. safe things. the kind of memories a boy should be able to hold about his best friend without his blood redirecting south.
and then the other ones surface. the ones he canât keep buried no matter how many push-ups he does. because heâs heard you. through the wall. through the thin drywall of the apartment he shares with bobby, he has heard you moan and gasp and say bobbyâs name in a register that stripped the paint off his composure. he has a library of your sounds filed away in a part of his brain heâs never shown anyone, catalogued involuntarily across months of proximity and thin walls. the wobbly whimper. the sharp gasp that means bobby found the right angle. the low sustained whine that builds and breaks and builds again. the way you breathe âright thereâ in a voice that makes brendanâs fist clench in his pillow.
and the worst part, the part that turns guilt into gasoline: bobby has his face.
bobbyâs jaw and bobbyâs mouth and bobbyâs hands on your body are brendanâs jaw and brendanâs mouth and brendanâs hands on your body and the substitution is so easy, so frictionless, that his mind makes it before his conscience can intervene. the man making you moan through the wall is wearing brendanâs face. the man between your thighs has brendanâs exact proportions. and the knowledge that you are, on a structural level, moaning for a body identical to his makes his brain dissolve.
heâs hard before the memory of your last moan has finished replaying. flushed from his collarbone to his ears. his cock straining against the cotton of his boxers, already leaking, a wet spot forming before heâs even touched himself. the pressure that heâs been suppressing for weeks has accumulated with interest, and his body is collecting the debt whether his conscience agrees to it or not.
he touches himself and the relief is so acute itâs almost painful. his hand wrapping around his own length and finding it slick with whatâs already leaked, the precum coating his fingers, easing the first stroke. his hips twitch against the mattress. involuntary. his body chasing the friction before his brain has authorised the motion.
he imagines your smile first. your laugh. the scrunch of your nose. and then the images shift, darken, deepen. your arms around his neck. your wet mouth against his ear. your voice, the private one, the one bobby gets through the wall, saying, âbrendanâ in that breathy register. saying âi love youâ against the sweat-damp skin of his throat while his cock slides into you for the first time, and the warmth of you engulfs him, and he finally, finally understands what every sound he heard through the drywall was made of.
his hand moves faster. the slick sounds filling his dark bedroom, his hips rocking upward into his own fist, and heâs leaking so much. dripping down his knuckles, pooling in the crease of his palm. heâs never been inside another body. doesnât know what itâs like. other people unsettle him, overwhelm him, the proximity and the vulnerability of it too vast to process. but your body is the safe place. the only one. you are where brendanâs fear ends and want begins, and in the fantasy he presses into you and you wrap yourself around him, and the world shrinks to the space between your skin and his.
he imagines himself brave. not filthy, not the positions he would put you in, not all the mechanical, lewd details. the courage. imagining himself bold enough to hold your hips and thrust deep and make you mewl into his neck. deep strokes that pin you to the mattress, that make you cling to his shoulders and tuck your face into the damp curve of his throat and whisper a needy, âmore, brendan, pleaseâ and in the fantasy he gives you more. every time. in the fantasy he is confident and certain and generous with his body, and he fucks you with a depth and a patience that he has never applied to anything except studying and you come apart beneath him.
he bites his own hand. teeth sinking into the fleshy base of his thumb to keep the sound in because bobby is in the next room. and the moan building in brendanâs chest would carry through the drywall and the irony of that, of bobby hearing brendanâs pleasure through the same walls that carried yours, is enough to make him laugh if he werenât so close to crying.
he comes in thick pulsing surges that spill over his fist and stripe his stomach and drip down his wrist. his hips still twitching, still grinding upward into his slick grip, chasing the phantom of a body that isnât there. his eyes burning, wet, the tears tracking from the corners into his hair. pleasure and shame and the ache of want so vast it canât be addressed by a hand alone. his body spent and still rocking, still seeking, the ghost of your warmth around his softening cock a cruelty his imagination wonât release him from.
he lies in the dark. his hand still on himself. his stomach cooling where the evidence is pooling. his breathing ragged.
he hates himself so much he could choke on it.
he cleans up with a shirt from the floor, rolls onto his side. presses his face into the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, willing the images to dissolve but they donât dissolve. they never dissolve. they linger in the dark behind his eyelids, your face and your warmth and the fantasy of being brave enough to touch you. shame coats the inside of his chest with something bitter that will still be there in the morning when he sees you in the kitchen and smiles and says, âcoffee?â as though he didnât spend last night coming to the sound of your name.
the BB of it all...the Brendan of it allllllll...slightly different flavours of forehead kiss but the thread is there the vision is visioning
bb presses his forehead to yours while he bottoms out and then goes still. that entity stillness, the kind that has no fidget and no heartbeat, just his cock buried to the root and his mouth on your brow, his body listening to yours through every point of contact. heâs reading you. feeling your walls flutter and adjust, the stretch, the accommodation. and if itâs too much he just⊠shifts. you feel it happen inside you, the length narrowing by a fraction, the girth easing, the shape softening until your breathing steadies and the furrow between your brows smooths out. he kisses that furrow. âbetter?â and you nod and the purr hums through his cock into your walls and everything is so so warm.
but if he feels you clench around him, if he reads your pulse spiking for the right reason, if your hips lift instead of flinch, bb makes himself thicker. just slightly. a subtle swelling that you feel as a stretch you werenât expecting and your nails dig into his shoulders and your breath hitches and his mouth is still on your forehead, still gentle, still a benediction while his cock adjusts inside you until your eyes cross and your fingers are tearing at his back. the forehead kiss stays soft while the rest of him becomes impossible and the contradiction between the tenderness of his mouth and the fullness of his cock is what makes you fall apart in record time, every time.
brendan is a different animal entirely.
brendan pushes inside you and his mouth finds your forehead before heâs even finished sinking in, and his lips are so soft there, so careful, pressing a kiss to the skin between your brows with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. his hands find your hips and pin them to the mattress. thumbs pressing into the hollows above your hip bones. holding you still, holding you open, his grip firm and certain while his mouth remains feather-light on your brow.
and then he moves. before youâve adjusted. before the stretch has settled, before your body has fully accommodated the length of him, his hips pull back and press forward in a slow deep grind that shifts everything inside you, and your gasp is sharp and surprised, your hands fly to his wrists where theyâre pinning you and he whispers against your forehead:
âfeel that.â
itâs not a question. an instruction. his lips still brushing your skin, the warmth of his breath on your brow while his cock drags slow and deep through walls that are still adjusting, still clenching, still trying to figure out how to hold all of him. your hips try to lift and his hands press them back down and the softness of his mouth and the firmness of his grip and the relentless gentle rolling of his hips are three different sentences being spoken in three different tones and none of them match.
âbrendan, i canât, i need a second toââ
âyou can.â kissed into your hairline, his hips grinding deeper. âyou can take it. youâre already taking it. feel how well youâre taking it.â another grind that makes your spine arch and your toes curl and his mouth, his impossibly soft mouth, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead while he uses you with a patience that is so gentle it borders on cruel.
because this is the edge. the one underneath the shyness and the pink ears and the averted gaze. the one that emerges in bed and only in bed. where quiet brendan becomes âiâm going to hold you down and fuck you slow and kiss your forehead while i do it and youâre going to lie there and feel every inch and iâm not going to stop until youâre coming apart beneath me.â that brendan. the one nobody else has ever met. the one that lives beneath the quiet skin and only comes out for you.
bb adjusts himself to fit you. brendan adjusts you to fit him.
i know youâve said poly au bobby and bb make out sometimes On Occasion but like who normally initiates between the two ? and who pulls away first đ«Ș poly au brain go brrrrrrr
bobby initiates. every single time. and heâd rather chew glass than admit it.
it always starts the same way. BB does something to infuriate him (yâknow exists, breathes, looks at you with that borrowed face that bobby has to see in the mirror every morning), and bobbyâs response to the cocktail of jealousy and arousal and territorial rage that BB provokes in him is to grab the entity by the collar and kiss him like heâs trying to win a fight with his mouth.
no tenderness or romantics to be found. itâs teeth and pressure, bobbyâs hand fisted in BBâs shirt and the kiss saying I hate you I hate you I hate you in a language that tastes suspiciously like want instead.
and bobby always pulls away first. always. three seconds, five seconds, ten if itâs been a bad day. he pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and snaps something like âthat didnât happenâ or âdonât read into itâ or âif you tell her Iâll kill youâ and then he turns to walk away because bobby will cling to his dignity with both hands.
except BB doesnât let him walk away.
BBâs hand closes around his wrist, or his belt, or the back of his neck. bobbyâs forward momentum stops dead because the thing holding him has thousands of years of apex predator strength behind its borrowed fingers, and bobby franklinâs dramatic exit has just been cancelled.
BB pulls him back, turns him, presses him against the nearest wall, bobbyâs back hitting the surface. BBâs body pinning him flat and bobby is cursing. a steady stream of mumbled profanity because BB is kissing him again, slower this time, deeper. BBâs hand finding bobbyâs jaw. gripping. holding his face in place, tilting it to the angle he wants. thumb pressing into the hinge of bobbyâs jaw, forcing it wider, and bobbyâs hands are doing the traitor thing where they grab BBâs shirt to push him away and end up pulling him closer.
âget off meâI donât evenâthis doesnât meanâfuckââ
the curses begin dissolving. BBâs tongue sliding against bobbyâs, slow and slick, the wet sound of it loud in the hallway. bobbyâs head tipping back and BB following, his mouth never leaving, a thin coil of saliva connecting their lips when he pulls back a fraction before pressing in again. holding bobby by the jaw the entire time, keeping him right where he wants him.
BB breaks the kiss just enough to drag his mouth along bobbyâs jaw. finds his ear, and the drawl, when it comes, is low and amused.
âour girl taught me well.â murmured against the shell of bobbyâs ear, his grip tightening on bobbyâs jaw. âwhen it comes to kissing. sheâs very thorough. very patient.â his tongue tracing the lobe. âI had an excellent teacher, but you know that already. you should thank her, really.â
a snarl bubbles up bobbyâs throat, his hips jerking forward, his hands crushing BBâs collar. because the image of you teaching BB to kiss, of your mouth on this mouth, of your patience and your thoroughness applied to the same lips currently bruising his, hits him somewhere primal.
âdonât talk about her while youâreââ
âwhile iâm what, robert?â BB pulls back, looks at him, holds his jaw firm. thumb tracing bobbyâs swollen lower lip, pulling it down, letting it spring back. the slick shine of shared saliva on both their mouths catching the light. âwhile Iâm kissing you the way she kisses me? kissed you? she does this thingââ he leans in, catches bobbyâs lower lip between his teeth. pulls. slow. lets go. ââright there. thatâs all hers. Iâm just borrowing it.â
BBâs thigh between his legs is the only reason bobby is still vertical. his eyes glazed, his mouth wrecked, spit-slick and bitten red.
âI hate you.â barely above whisper.
âI know.â BB releases his jaw, presses a kiss to his forehead. gentle. almost sweet. the contrast so sharp after the bruising mouth and the grip on his jaw that bobbyâs frequency (human frequency, the faint biological signal BB reads like a book) stutters. âsame time tomorrow?â
bobby shoves past him. storms down the hallway. his ears scarlet. his jeans uncomfortable, mouth tasting like BBâs tongue.
âyou two done?â you call down the hallway.
bobby, from the bedroom, muffled: ânothing happened.â
BB, still leaning against the wall, his collar stretched from bobbyâs fists, his mouth curved in that satisfied grin, a string of saliva he hasnât bothered wiping from his chin: âsame time tomorrow.â
FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: After eight years away, Jace finally returns to King's Landing and comes face-to-face with you for the first time since the two of you were children. You have always been cruel and capricious, but Jace does not know what to make of your sudden interest in himâis it genuine, or another scheme you've concocted to humiliate him? He cannot tell, and he cannot seem to stop himself from being drawn into a game whose rules only you seem to understand.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. targtower!reader. reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Alicent)âno physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through the way she bullies Jace. On the topic, she is a bit of a bully LOL, she gets a kick out of antagonizing Jace, and though she does have some depth, we don't really get into it until the second part. Jace is unfortunately very, very into it too LOL. Jace is highkey going through the ringer, he's constantly spiraling because of her and doesn't know what to think LOL. He wants her bad but is going through it. Targcest (aunt-nephew). Explicit smut. Oral (m!receiving). Bit of face-fucking. Implied dacryphilia. Semi-public-ish.
NOTES: EUHUUHUHUUH I rlly was going to post this all in one part but it just got too long, so this first part is 15k and the next part (posting next sunday) will prob also be around the same length. I'm having sooo much fun with targtower!reader, she is such a bitch, but she's a bitch with DEPTH I swear. That being said, the depth is not really shown in this part LMOAOOOOOO the two parts are essentially structured 1) shit I want her (sexual) and 2) SHIT I want her (emotional) LOLLLLLLL. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Comments and reblogs always appreciated!
"I do not know why you drag me here. I have no interest in watching our brother spar with Cole, sister," Aegon sighs as he leans against the pillar next to you, a goblet of wine dangling between his fingers. "I would literally rather be anywhere else."
He raises his eyebrows at you when you do not respond, and you loll your head back against his shoulder to give him a teasing smile.
You drawl, "Perhaps I hope you might learn something." Aegon snorts beside you, taking a long sip of his wine before letting out a heavy breath, head tipping back against the stone. You add, "Perhaps one day I shall have the pleasure of watching you spar with Aemond."
"Hah!" Aegon laughs, the arm draped around your chest flexing slightly as he lowers his face to your ear. "If you are so eager to see me sweating and out of breath, sweet sister, you only need ask. There are far easier ways to arrange it than putting a sword in my hand."
You wrinkle your nose, though you cannot quite suppress your smile. "You are disgusting."
"So you tell me," he says. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks, his voice dropping low enough that it's nearly lost beneath the clashing of sword and morning star. "And yet, you never seem to complain when I am in your bed, do you?"
You drive your elbow into his ribs hard, and he grunts, nearly spilling his wine.
"Careful," he complains.
"Then behave."
"You would know very well if I stopped behaving, sweet sister," Aegon murmurs, and you can feel his lips curved up into a sharp smile as he ghosts a chaste kiss below your ear when no one is looking. "I could be doing far worse right now."
You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the yard. Aemond has managed to drive Cole halfway across it now, the two of them circling each other beneath the afternoon sun. Even from here, you can see the determination carved into your brother's face, the set of his jaw each time Cole manages to turn aside one of his blows.
"How much longer do you think mother will allow you to get away with postponing your wedding?" Aegon questions, rolling his head back against the pillar. The apparent mockery in his voice is betrayed by the way his thumb stills from where it had been tracing absently at your shoulder. "Not too much longer, surely."
You hum, considering the question. "I imagine for as long as I continue asking her."
Aegon lets out an incredulous laugh. "Mother spoils you far too much. Do you know what she did when I asked her to postpone my wedding, sister?" You raise your eyebrows, not really listening. "She slapped me, and then had me dragged to the sept."
"Well, it is not my fault mother loves me best," you say, taking a sip of your own wine and ignoring how Aegon rolls his eyes at you. "What? Do not be crossâyou know you would take advantage of it too, sweet brother."
It has been this way for as long as you can remember.
When you were sick as a child, it was your mother who dismissed lessons for the day and stayed beside your bed until you slept. When you cried over a scraped knee, she had carried you herself despite your protests that you were far too old. When you want jewels from Yi Ti or silk from Naath, it is your mother who makes the necessary arrangements for trade during the next Small Council meeting.
Your mother loves all her children, of courseâyou have never doubted thatâbut loving them have never come as easily to her as loving you.
Aegon had frustrated her from the moment he was old enough to defy her, and Aemond had been easier in some ways, dutiful and serious, but difficult in intensity. And Helaenaâyour mother loves her dearly, you know that she does, but she has never understood her. She never knows what to do when Helaena begins speaking of things no one else understands, or how to respond when she recoils from a comforting touch.
With you, everything had been simple.
You were close enough to your mother to allow yourself to be loved, unlike Helaena, who seemed forever just beyond reach, but you had never clung to her with the same desperation Aemond sometimes did. You were not openly defiant like Aegon, forever testing the limits of her patience and forcing her to choose between anger and forgiveness, but neither were you so desperate for her approval that you shaped yourself entirely around pleasing her.
Loving you required no effort at allâand your mother was ever-stressed by the men of the Small Council and your rotting father, so it was you she came to when she needed to be with someone who would not bring her more problems.
Of course, that would bring its own issues for you, because your mother has much higher expectations of you than your elder siblings, but you can relish in the boons and deal with the banes as they come, as you always have.
"If she loves you so much," Aegon drawls, "then why does she force you to marry him at all, hm? Surely, she sees how much you loathe him?"
"I do not loathe our brother, Aegon," you say immediately. "He did me a favor by winning the tourney five years ago, you know that." Aegon's gaze averts to the side at that. "He is just dull. Boring. I loathe the idea of wedding him, not him himself. He does not wish to marry me either. I rather like him, actuallyâhe brings me pretty jewels."
Aegon raises his eyebrows at you and then gives you a mocking smile. "The question remains, I fear."
You exhale through your nose and look back out to the yard, watching as Aemond narrowly avoids a swing of Cole's morning star.
Because she does not want to send you away. If you wed some lord, you would be expected to leave King's Landing and go wherever his miserable castle happens to be. Casterly Rock, perhaps, or Highgarden, only the gods may know where you might be cast out to. After what happened at the tourney for your hand five years agoâthat marcher lord that nearly won and thought to take his prize earlyâshe has been ever paranoid about your father wedding you off. It spooked her how close you were to being sent away, and she thought, since Aemond won the tourney following the incident, that at least if you marry him, the threat of distance and mistreatment disappears, because Aemond is a prince of the blood, and his place is in King's Landing.
"You know why," you finally say, tiring of this conversation as you settle against him. "Have our half-sister and her plain-featured sons arrived yet? I'm quite eager to see them. It has been years."
Your eyes drift searching around the training yard, giddy at the prospect of your nephews arriving in King's Landing for Vaemond Velaryon's petition. You have missed Jacaerysâyou always found yourself seeking him out before your half-sister dragged him away to that dreary stone across the Blackwater. He was fun to toy withâsweeter than your brothers, and always eager to please.
"She should have just wed us," Aegon says at last, ignoring our question. When you start to roll your eyes, his arm tightens around you, head dropping slightly so that he can look at you. "Think of it, sweet sister. Mother gets to keep you here, you get a husband who is not painfully dull, and I might have actually enjoyed my marriage. Everyone wins."
"Except Helaena," you say dryly.
"Helaena most of all, I should think," Aegon counters. "She could have married Aemond. They could sit together in silence for hours, or she could speak of her insects, and he could brood ominously beside her. A perfect match."
You snort despite yourself. "You are horrible."
"Perhaps," he agrees, mouth curving as he drops his chin on your shoulder. "You and I would have had fun together."
"We have fun as we are," you say simply. "You would have hated being married to me."
Aegon laughs at that, though there is a distinct lack of humor behind it. "Would I?"
"Oh, yes," you say simply, gaze drifting along the outskirts of the crowd to all of the knights and squires pretending to focus on the spar taking place, and not the two of you. "Within a moon."
"A fortnight, perhaps."
"A week," you counter
"Three days, most like," Aegon says with a sharp grin. Then he looks down at you, a bit more serious. "But I would have had you."
Aegon inhales, eyes drifting over your face, something unreadable crossing through his eyes before his attention returns to the yard again.
"I am not some horse to be had," you finally say, rolling your eyes.
"No." Aegon takes another long drink of his wine. "I would be considerably less vexed if our brother were marrying my horse."
You do not know how to respond to that, so you turn your attention back to the training yard, gaze idly wandering the crowd gathered around the sparring ring. You think you should return back to your chambers and change into a new dressâyour mother had new silks imported from Lys that you've been meaning to wear, and you mislike being around sweaty men, you just found yourself bored with tea and cake.
Then, you see them.
You tilt your head curiously when your eyes land on the newcomers. At the opposite edge of the circle stand two boys you do not recognize at first, dressed finely enough in black and red that they could only be royal, though neither has the pale silver hair that marks the majority of your family. The younger one is watching the spar with wide eyes, but the elder is the one who catches your attention.
You straighten against Aegon, absently fixing your hair.
Surely not.
"Are those our nephews?"
Aegon follows your stare.
Jacaerys Velaryon is no longer the little boy you remember teasing until his eyes welled up with tears, ever-following Aegon around everywhere through the halls of the Red Keep. He has grown taller in the years since you last saw him, the childish softness gone entirely from his face. His dark curls fall loosely around features that have sharpened considerably with age, and when he turns his head to say something to Lucerys beside him, you find yourself staring.
He has grown handsome.
Very handsome, actually.
"Oh," you murmur.
Aegon's head turns sharply toward you, but you barely notice. Jacaerys laughs at something his brother says, and your eyebrows lift with sudden interest.
"They look rather comfortable," you say absently. "Shall I, ah, draw some attention them?"
"Hm?"
You are distracted as you pass your goblet of wine to Aegon. "Hold this."
"What?" Aegon demands, fumbling with your cup, but you're already walking away, crossing right through the sparring ring.
Cole's eyes widen as he sees you step directly into the sparring ring, and whatever blow he had been preparing to deliver dies instantly. The head of his morning star crashes harmlessly into the dirt instead, kicking up a spray of dust a few feet from your skirts.
"Princess," he murmurs, inclining his head
Aemond lowers his sword with an irritated huff, following Cole's stare until his gaze lands on you.
"Must you interrupt everything?"
"Hm?" Your eyes skim over him without lingering, already searching beyond his shoulder. "Oh. Yes. Apologies. Do continue."
His brows furrow, following your gaze.
You step past him, hands locked behind your back, ignoring all of the eyes suddenly pinned on you, dress swishing at your feet as you approach the two boys at the edge of the crowd.
"Nephews," you call brightly, watching as their heads lift from where they are bowed together, both startled at being addressed. "It's been so long."
Lucerys looks rather like a deer caught before a hunter, eyes widening as you approach, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from mocking.
Jacaerys, however, merely straightens, surprise flashing across his face before his gaze settles properly upon you. You watch the recognition dawn slowly in his dark eyes, followed by something else entirely as they slide over youâthe loose fall of your hair, down to the cut of your gown, lingering for half a heartbeat before returning to your face, flustered, as though catching himself doing something he ought not.
You smile.
It would seem, you think with a thrill of satisfaction, that you are not the only one pleasantly surprised by what the years have done.
It is rather inconvenient, you think mildly as you finish making your way across the yard. You have always been drawn to your nephews, but it was easy to ignore when you spent years hearing your mother speak poorly of them. Rhaenyra's plain-featured boys with their dirt-brown hair and equally brown eyesâall unmistakable evidence of their bastardy written on their faces. They were cute enough as children, but as cute as you imagine any stablemaster's son would look, not how a prince should look. You had expected them to remain unfortunate-looking things, if you are being entirely truthfulâcommon beside the silver-haired beauty of true Targaryens.
Yet there is nothing unfortunate about either of them now.
Lucerys still has the softness of youth about him, rounder in the face than his elder brother, with wide brown eyes that make him appear younger than he likely wishes. He is sweet-looking, you decide, though the thought does little to hold your attention when Jacaerys stands beside him.
Jacaerys is something else entirely
Perhaps it is because he looks so unlike the men you have grown accustomed to that you are so⊠compelled. There is no silver in his hair, no violet in his eyes, none of the Valyrian beauty you have been taught since childhood to admire above all else. He is dark where Aegon is pale, warm where Aemond is sharp, and somehow the very features that ought to make him look painfully ordinary have arranged themselves into something you find inexplicably captivating.
"Aunt," Jacaerys murmurs, voice smooth in a way you do not expect. He adds politely, "It is good to see you again." Though you do not think he means it from the way the corners of his lips tighten.
Your lips curve into a faint smile. "And you."
You extend both hands toward them, palms turned down expectantly.
Lucerys looks briefly startled by the gesture, but recovers quickly enough. He takes one of your hands politely, bowing his head to brush his lips against your knuckles.
Jacaerys takes the other hand in his, and you cannot help but notice the difference. His hands have outgrown the boy you remember, fingers long and lithe, callused across the palm and pads from years spent with sword and reins alike. They are warm around yours, and his grip is gentle.
He bends dutifully to kiss your knuckles, dark curls slipping forward over his bow.
You watch him for a heartbeat, admiring him openly. Then, before his lips can leave your hand, you turn your wrist within his grasp. His brows knit in confusion as your fingers slide beneath his chin.
Jacaerys stills as you tilt his face upward, brown eyes meeting yours from beneath the fall of his curls, surprise plain in his expression, and you take shameless advantage of his momentary confusion to study him more closely.
Yes, you think. Definitely handsome.
"My," you murmur, tilting his chin slightly to one side, examining him with such open interest that the tips of his ears begin turning red. He tenses, and you wonder if he expects the familiar barbâa cutting remark about his brown eyes, his brown hair, or the father everyone whispers he bears no resemblance to. Instead, you smile, thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. "You have grown to be quite handsome, haven't you, Jacaerys?"
Jacaerys's lips part slightly, and it is an effort for you not to slide your thumb up to rest against the fullness of his lower lip.
"Have I?" he manages, his cheeks flushed a light pink, confusion shifting into suspicion. His gaze flickers across your face, as though searching for mockery, but when he finds none, he looks even more flustered.
"Very."
For a long moment, Jacaerys only stares at you, still half bent over your hand, chin still resting between your fingers.
You can almost see the confusion turning over in his mindâyou know your half-sister and her brood have returned to King's Landing for the Driftmark petition that you and Aegon have been laughing endlessly about. He must have braced himself for ridicule, and you suppose you cannot blame him, you had planned for ridicule until you saw just how handsome he had become over the years.
Unfortunately, your biggest weakness has always been a pretty faceâit is why Aegon has charmed his way into your bed so many times over, despite his despicable personalityâand it seems your nephew appears to have grown into one pretty enough to make you forget entirely that you are meant to dislike him.
"You are kind," he finally says.
"Observant, perhaps," you murmur, fingers finally slipping from beneath his chin, though you linger just long enough to smooth an errant curl away from his forehead before letting your hand fall to your side again.
Lucerys watches the exchange, bewildered, gaze darting from your face to his brother's and back again.
"⊠Jace?" he ventures.
Jacaerys seems to remember himself all at once, clearing his throat and taking a step backward, though the color stubbornly remains high in his cheeks
"It has been many years, aunt," he properly greets at last. "You haveâ"
He falters, and you raise your eyebrows expectantly. You prod, "I have what?"
Jacaerys's throat bobs.
"You have changed as well," he finishes diplomatically.
You stare at him, displeased. "Changed?" you echo scornfully. "That is all you have to say?"
"Iâ"
"You disappear to Dragonstone for eight years and return to find your beloved aunt transformed into a great beauty, and all you have to say is that I have changed? I believe I was far more generous to you."
"You were," Jacaerys concedes, lips curved up into a small smile.
"Then?"
His gaze returns to you. This time, when his eyes move over your face, there is nothing accidental or subtle about it. They linger upon you with a newfound boldness that sends a pleasant little thrill through, and you wonder whether he has decided that if you are permitted to admire him so openly, he ought to be afforded the same privilege.
Ah, you think, thoroughly intrigued. You had always liked playing with Jacaerys when the two of you were youngâyou think you are ready for some new games with your nephew.
"You have grown very beautiful, aunt," he finally murmurs, gaze lingering on your lips for just long enough that you notice before it lifts back to your eyes. "I hardly recognized you."
"Much better," you say, before your gaze drifts over to Lucerys.
He gives you a tentative smile. "It is good to see you again, aunt."
Your lips curve up into a smile, lips parting to reply, but before you can, an agitating, grating voice comes from behind you.
"You seem very comfortable," Aemond's cool voice observes.
Your eyes roll up in irritation as you toss your hair over your shoulder to look at Aemond from the corner of your eye.
He stands several paces away, sword still held loosely in one hand, silver hair disheveled from exertion, and face decidedly unimpressed. His gaze moves from you to Jacaerys, lingering upon the latter for a long, unpleasant moment. Both of the boys stiffen at the arrival of your brother.
"Quite, until you arrived," you drawl, huffing a breath through your nose. "Your talent in souring a perfectly pleasant moment remains unmatched, brother."
Aemond's jaw tightens. Jacaerys glances between the two of you, clearly uncertain whether he ought to speak up, while Lucerys's eyes slide shut as though he would prefer to be anywhere else.
"I had not realized you were so eager to welcome our nephews home," Aemond notes disdainfully.
"Neither had I." You glance back at Jacaerys, gaze traveling over him once before meeting his eyes. "But I find myself suddenly quite eager to become reacquainted."
Jace's cheeks flush instantly, lips parting in confusion as he looks at you, and Aemond notices, mouth pressing into a thin line. You can practically feel whatever unpleasant remark is forming on his tongue before the sudden sound of the doors to the yard opening draws the attention of you all.
Your gaze lifts as a small party of Velaryon men passes beneath the archway, dressed in sea-green and silver, the sigil of House Velaryon flying above them. At their head walks Vaemond Velaryon himself, a scornful expression crossing his face when his gaze lands on Jacaerys and Lucerys.
All of the warmth disappears from Jacaerys's face.
Ah, you think woefully, you almost forgot
You glance at Lucerys. Whatever tentative ease had begun to settle over him has vanished entirely, jaw set and anxiety plain in his eyes when Vaemond's lip curls up in disdain as he passes by.
"Well," Aegon says from behind you, shattering the silence. "How delightfully ominous."
You turn as he approaches, still carrying both goblets. He hands yours back so that he can drape his newly freed arm across your shoulders and draw you into his side, grinning wildly.
"I believe we have endured enough familial affection for one afternoon," he declares. "Come, sweet sister. Let's go find more wine."
You hum, glancing down at your goblet, frowning when you see there's significantly less than there had been when you had passed it off to your brother. He gives you a boyish grin and a wink, and you roll your eyes.
"Yes, let us," you agree with a sigh. "It appears my cup has garnered a hole in it since I passed it to you, Aegon." Your gaze flicks over to Aemond. "Come with us. You have sparred enough today."
Aegon rolls his eyes, barely withholding a groan, and Aemond looks at you, frowning, because it is not often you invite him anywhere with you, much less with him and Aegon. Truthfully, you are just hoping to avoid a scene between him and your nephews, lest he ruin any game you might choose to play before its even begun. He blinks once before he nods.
Pleased, you turn your back to leave, but then Aemond speaks again.
"I suppose we shall all discover soon enough whether Ser Vaemond's journey was worthwhile, nephews."
Your eyes slide shut. You look at Aegon from the corner of your eye, and he immediately forces the amusement off his face, clearly recognizing the warning in your expression.
"Though I confess," Aemond continues. "I find it curious that a matter of succession should require such extensive debate. One would think blood would make the rightful heir obvious."
It is a familiar jab. One you have heard countless times over the last decade. On any other day, you might have smirked, offered some clever remark of your own, delighted in watching your half-sister's sons squirm. Today, you feel no such compulsionânot now, Aemond, you think bitterly
Instead, your gaze drifts to Jacaerys, how he shields his younger brother by shifting to angle himself partly in front of him.
"It does," he says, voice clipped
Aemond's mouth curves. He asks softly, "Does it?"
Aegon lets out an overly dramatic sigh as he reaches for Aemond, grabbing the taller prince's doublet and yanking him hard so that he comes stumbling along with the two of you.
"Come, come," Aegon says, ignoring the flinty look Aemond shoots him to drop his arm back around your shoulders, steering you toward the castle. "Before our dear brother remembers another insult he has been rehearsing for the past eight years. We have more pressing concerns."
Aemond scoffs, irritated both by the insult and how Aegon had handled him. "Such as?"
"My empty cup," Aegon says with a sharp grin.
"And mine," you sing, lifting to dangle it in front of his face. Before you can stop yourself, you look back over your shoulder at Jacaerys. He is already looking at you. You call, "Do try not to become any less handsome before I next see you, nephew."
His mouth twitches. "I'll endeavor not to disappoint you, aunt."
This will be fun, you think. Let the games begin.
âââââââââ
Jace hated you when you were both young.
Hates you.
Hated you?
He isn't sure.
His relationship with all of his mother's half-siblings wasâwell, complicated. He's not sure he really cared for any of you, in truth, but some of you were decidedly easier to tolerate than others.
Aegon had probably been his favorite of the four of you back thenâfive of you, he supposes, because that other brother of yours is back in Oldtown, but he hardly counts. Aegon had seemed endlessly exciting to Jace, who was five years younger and endlessly bored, wanting friends in a court that seemed to dislike him before he was even old enough to speak.
Jace had followed him around for years, and Aegon had been irritated by it for perhaps three days before he realized how easily his younger nephew could be led into trouble. He had never been malicious enough to place Jace in genuine danger, but he had found his fun in convincing him to sneak into the Dragonpit, prank Aemond, and hide from maesters until half the Keep was searching for him. Every time they were caught, Aegon somehow escaped the blame, and Jace never did.
His relationship with Aemond was the simplestâhe did not like him. Even before Vhagar and the lost eye, there had always been a severity to the older prince that made Jace uneasy. He disliked losing, disliked foolishness, disliked noise, and, Jace had eventually concluded, disliked him, so Jace disliked Aemond in turn.
You and Helaena were differentâbecause you were girls, maybe, and harder for him to connect with when he was just a boy. But also because he never quite knew what to make of either of you.
Helaena, at least, was easy enough to categorize. She was simply⊠strange. Sweet, certainly, and far more gentle than the rest of you, but she spoke in riddles that frightened him when he was younger, and he'd never enjoyed being near the insects she kept around her. He tended to give her a wide berth when he could, though looking back on it, Jace supposes she was really the only good one of the four of you.
You, on the other hand, defied categorization altogether. He has never quite met someone as unpredictable as you are, and it has infuriated him his entire life.
You were the crown jewel of King's Landing when you were all young, even now, he supposesâbeautiful and charming, the perfect princess, the court would sing, eyes following you as you laugh brightly at whatever poor joke a suitor made in hopes of wooing you. Everyone adored you, and Jace did too, to an extent. He has never felt so high as he did when your full attention was on him, his little heart fluttering in his chest whenever you were near.
But what the court did not know was that you were vicious and cruel as soon as the attention drifted from you.
Jace cannot count the number of times you had pranced around him with veiled insults toward his parentage. Mocking him with Aegon, or Aemond, or even just by yourself. You would go on and on until Jace's face burned hot with humiliation and his hand twitched at his side, fisted and trembling with restraint.
It was an ugly, violent feeling, one that only you seemed capable of drawing from him, and by the time you inevitably grew bored of him and skipped off to find one of your brothers, all that remained was shame. His mother had taught him that a prince did not raise his hand against a woman, no matter how furious she made him, yet there were moments when he wanted nothing more than to make you regret provoking him.
Those days, he hated you so terribly that it made him sick. Made him want to cry. Made him want to make you sorry. He would grind his teeth as the ladies of the court tittered at your stupid jokes, roll his eyes when men twice your age would bring you gifts to curry favorâif they knew how terrible you were, he would think, they would not like you at all.
Except maybe they would, because Jace knew just how cruel you really were when the mask dropped, and yet every time your attention turned toward him pleasantly, he would forget it in hopes of things being different this time.
You would appear beside him in the library after spending a day tormenting him, ask what he was reading, and spend hours listening with such genuine interest that he would forget entirely what you had done hours before. You asked thoughtful questions. You remembered the names of the heroes he liked best and recommended him books that included them. When he mentioned starting a new story, you would read it too, and you would argue with him over endings as though his opinions genuinely mattered to you.
Eventually, of course, you would flash him that infuriating grin and remark that perhaps brown-haired almost-princes were not entirely hopeless after all. The jest itself was harmlessâtame compared to what you usually sayâbut it always landed harder than the crueler remarks, because by then, he had already begun to convince himself that you genuinely liked him, saw him beyond the hair and whispers.
You had an uncanny talent for making him lower his guard before reminding him exactly who you were. The only consistent thing about you was that you somehow managed to make him feel foolish every time you crossed paths.
That, at least, has not changed in the years of separation, even if everything else has.
His jaw tightens as he makes his way up the final flight of stairs to the top of the eastern tower. His skin still burns at his jaw where your fingers had held him still, tilting his face toward the light as though you had every right to touch himâperhaps you thought you did.
The idea of it infuriates him, vexes him like none other, because you have always believed the world belonged to youâthe perfect princess, he thinks again scornfully, beautiful and charming, ladies flocked around you for your favor, men fought for your hand before you were even of age. He loathes the idea that, for one bewildering moment, he had acted as though he belonged to you, too.
He should have stepped away or laughed in your face. He should have reminded you that he is no longer the gullible little boy who fell for your pretty smiles and soft words when he knew all you wanted was the satisfaction of knowing how easily you could ensnare him.
Instead, he had stood there while you turned his face this way and that, studying him with shameless curiosity, and when you called him handsome, all he had managed to do was stare at you like a fool.
He had even blushed.
He grimaces at the memory as he reaches the top of the stairs.
It should not have affected him so much, truly.
You had called him handsome, that was all. Baela has called him handsome in passing. A servant girl whispered it while he was passing through the halls at Dragonstone when she thought he wasn't listening. His mother tells him all the time. Jace knows he is handsomeâit is hardly a declaration of love, nor even an especially intimate compliment. He is not sure why, when the words left your lips, he felt so thrown off-kilter.
Perhaps it was because the way you said it made it seem more intimate, he thinks, mind drawing back to that moment for the hundredth time just in the last hourâyour voice was soft and your gaze drifted over him with an intimacy that left him feeling strangely exposed, as though if given the chance and privacy, you would unlace his clothes to assess him properly, fingers running along his skin like they belonged there.
Or perhaps it was because it almost sounded sincere. Mockery from you, he understandsâyou have mocked him since the two of you were children, and he had learned long ago to expect it from you. Sincerity is something he's not sure what to do with, floundering just at the prospect of it. Because what does that mean?
Even now, hours later, he cannot decide which possibility he dislikes moreâthat you had been toying with him all along, or that you had actually meant it.
He despises the idea of the former, because then you have once again succeeded in making him dance to whatever tune amused you most, and somehow, after eight years apart, you still know exactly how to make him feel like the most gullible little boy in the Red Keep.
Yet, for some reason, it is the latter that makes his stomach twist.
There is a lump in his throat and heat runs through him as he pushes open the door to the small room at the top of the tower, intent on taking in the old, familiar view of the city since sleep continues to evade him.
Because if you had meant itâ
"Jacaerys, isn't it past your bedtime?"
Jace stills instantly, breath hitching and gaze lifting from the floor to where your mocking voice had come from.
You are sitting on the narrow windowsill, one leg hanging over empty air, head lolled back against cool stone. Moonlight spills through the narrow opening behind you, turning the dark green silk of your gown almost black wherever the light does not touch. Your eyes settle on him beneath half-lowered lashes, drifting over him carefully before returning to his faceânot hurried enough to be mistaken for surprise, nor bold enough to be entirely indecent like earlier today.
His throat bobs as he stares at you, and your gaze sharpens, eyes tracking the movement the way a cat watches the flutter of a bird's wings.
The corner of your mouth curves.
Jace feels distinctly like prey.
He should turn back.
"Were you looking for me?" you ask with a teasing smile, head tilting slightly to the side. There is a brightness to your eyes and a sweetness to your smile that makes you unbearably pretty, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe under the weight of your full attention. "Hm?"
"No."
The word comes out too harsh and too fast, but you do not look bothered by it, humming lightly as your gaze slips over him again.
You say simply, "Pity."
Then you look away as though he isn't even there, and Jace can breathe again, inhaling deeply through his nose to fill his burning lungs.
What the hell was that? How had you managed to steal the breath from him with just a look?
You rest your head against the stone and peer out over the darkened city below. King's Landing stretches in every direction, Blackwater Bay shimmering beyond the walls.
For several long moments, you say nothing at all, and Jace frowns, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, waiting for you to turn your attention back to him, but you do not. He expects another teasing remark or a question that would make him want to bite his own tongue off, or even for you to start mocking him as you used to, but instead, you seem entirely absorbed by the horizon.
Irritation blooms in his chest. He hates that he can never anticipate you. Hates that he is always rendered dazed and confused every time you cross paths. How has he let you have so much power over him? Even now, after all this time?
"What are you looking at?" he asks at last, hating how obvious it is that he's seeking your attention, and pressing his lips together when you neither turn your head to look at him nor immediately speak.
He hates you, he thinks so viciously that he's almost embarrassed by the violence that thrums in his chest. He hates even more that the longer you do not respond, the more antsy he is for you to address him again, mortified as his lips part to ask you again.
"MÄzigon kesÄ«r, mandianna," you finally murmur.
Come here, nephew.
The breath leaves his lungs again.
Jace has heard High Valyrian his entire life. He has spent the better part of eight years studying it until it rolled easily off his own tongue, until he could read ancient histories and speak to his mother without ever slipping into the Common Tongue, and yet, somehow, he has never heard it sound quite like this. His mouth is dry as he stares at you for a momentâmandianna, mandianna, mandiannaâthe pretty, syrupy word ringing through his head on repeat.
By the time he realizes he has moved, he has already crossed the room.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, satisfaction flickering across your face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. His jaw tightens because, of course, he obeys without putting up a fight, just like he did earlier, just like he's done his entire life, only for you to laugh in his face without fail every time.
Jace swallows again, frustrated now, but falters when you track the movement once more. This time, your gaze does not immediately flit away, fixated upon his throat as though you have forgotten yourself.
It almost appears to be an effort for you to lift your gaze back to his face.
Oh?
A thrill runs hot in his chest. What does that mean? Were you being genuine earlier when you called him handsome? Could you actually be attâ
"Closer," you tell him quietly.
Jace frowns, then takes another tentative step toward the narrow window you're seated on, close enough that the tops of his thighs brush the fabric of your dress.
"Closer."
He looks at you, bewildered, before he finally understands what you meanâyou are seated, and he is standing, even this close, he stands over you. He presses his lips together, bracing himself, before bending at the waist until his head is level with yours. His lashes flutter when he takes a breath, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to your hair, dizzying.
He is close enough that were he to turn his head, his lips would brush your temple. That he can feel the warmth of your body against his, can see the tip of your tongue dart out to wet your lower lip. His gaze drops lower, to the slope of your neckâlower still, and Jace suddenly feels flushed, gaze snapping back up to your face.
You are already looking at him, lips curved up, eyes glittering.
Jace has to stop himself from shutting his eyes in mortification, certain his face must be beet-red.
You lift your hand to his chin, and his breath hitches when he feels your fingers trace along the front of his throat, right over where you'd watched it bob as he swallowed, until your middle and ring fingers settle beneath his chin, tilting his face up just enough so that his gaze is forced to the sky.
You turn your face toward his, lips brushing his ear, breath hot and pleasant against his skin as you murmur, "Watch."
Jace does not know what he's looking at. His skin is on fire, tingling beneath your touch, breath unsteady, the longer your lips remain at the lobe of his ear. He cannot think, he cannot even breathe straight with you so close, so warm, soâ
A trill rings through the air, drawing his gaze upwards, and Jace's lips part as a black blur sweeps through the sky above before swooping down low, circling around the tower the two of you are in, coming so close that the rush of air messes his hair.
"That isâ"
"Starchaser," you say with a fond smile, face no longer tilted toward him as you look out at your dragon. Jace glances at you, momentarily struck by the adoration plain on your faceâit makes you look softer, younger. He has only ever seen mockery and scrutiny; this is⊠"She enjoys taking night flights. I come up here to watch her. Sometimes she drags Sunfyre along with her, butâ"
You falter when another, sharper trill cuts through the air, brows furrowing slightly, leaning forward to try to figure out which dragon had joined yours for a flight, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe again because Jace would recognize that noise from anywhere. His chest is tight, lips parted; that isâ
That is Vermax.
His lips part as he watches Vermax swoop down after Starchaser, playful and impossibly swift.
Starchaser lets out another happy trill before veering sharply away, silver-edged wings catching the moonlight as she twists through the air. Vermax follows without hesitation.
They sweep over the rooftops of King's Landing in great looping arcs, one forever just out of the other's reach. Starchaser dives. Vermax dives after her. She climbs, rolling gracefully onto one wing, and he answers by matching her ascent, their paths weaving together so closely Jace is certain they'll collide, but they never do. Instead, they separate at the last instant, only to circle back toward one another again.
Beside him, you have fallen silent.
He risks a glance.
Your lips are parted slightly, eyes wide and openly wondrous as you watch the two dragons chase one another through the night sky.
You are beautiful.
The thought comes so suddenly that it catches him off guard, heart in his throat. He knows you are beautifulâall of King's Landing, Westeros, even, knows you are beautiful. Bards have sung of your beauty, and poets lyric tales of it; as much as he has loathed you for your cruelty, he has never been able to deny your beauty without feeling foolish.
But this is⊠different.
This is not the knife-like smiles he is used toâit is not the poisonous words or the careful calculation, it is not even the facade you put up before the court, the pretty flutter of your lashes to whoever you deign to give your attention and the honeyed compliments that he knows damn well are fake. You lookâyou look unguarded, as though, for a few precious moments, you have forgotten there is anyone beside you to perform for.
He wonders, distantly, whether this is the truest version of you he has ever seen.
Then, if anyone else has ever seen it.
"I have never seen her fly like this," you finally admit, voice soft. He cannot tell if you're talking to him or not, and he almost doesn't want to risk ruining the moment. Luckily, you do that yourself, because you seem to catch yourself, tone sharpening into something ar more familiar: "And to think it is with your dragon of all of them, how quaint."
Jace's gaze cuts to the side, jaw tightening. "And what does that mean, exactly?" he asks, voice low.
The wonder has disappeared from your face, replaced with a calculating look in your eyes and a curve of your lips that sets him on edge.
"Oh, nothing," you say easily. "I just thought Starchaser would have developed more, ah, discerning taste."
Jace's heart sinks, even though he knows he should have expected this. He lets out a low scoff and steps away from the window, away from you, trying to mask the wounded expression that he knows crosses his face before you can see it. He does not know how he always lets you get away with thisâdoes not know how he always manages to fall for the honeyed words and syrupy smiles he mocks others for being fooled by when he knows better than anyone that you only plan to lure him in to twist the dagger.
"Of course," he says bitterly, shaking his head. He hates that despite everything, he had thought of your words earlier in the day and wondered maybe if things might be different now that you were both older, that maybe you weren't playing another game with him, that maybe you might want him, the same way he has alwaysâhe does not dare finish the thought. "I do not know what I expected. I should return to my chambers. Have a good night, aunt."
His voice is strained to hide the hurt and rage that threaten to creep into it in kindâhe is not sure if he is angrier at you or himself. He has always been prone to being hard on himself, eager to blame himself before anyone around him, but you have always been the one person who could successfully get under his skin enough for him to want to direct that anger at you. He hears you shift on the windowsill, feet dropping lightly on the stone floor.
"I upset you," you note.
Jace's eye twitchesâis it not enough to get the dig in? You must bring attention to the fact that he's wounded by it, too? You have always been cruel, he has known better than most, but stillâŠ
"Of course, you upset me," he hisses before he can think. "I thoughtâ"
He thought what? He thought that you meant it when you called him handsome? That the way your fingers lingered beneath his chin had been something more than another elaborate jest? That the softness in your voice, the look in your eyes, had been meant, at least partially, for him? That this was more than just another twisted way for you to lure him in to sink the knife in his back as soon as he allows himself to hope?
Gods. He had actually believed you might like himâagain. Heat floods his face, equal parts humiliation and anger. He has not felt so spectacularly foolish in almost a decade.
He should not be surprised, he thinks, not for the first time this night. You have always been fond of toying with him in these ways. Perhaps Aegon is somewhere nearby even now, slumped against a doorway with a wineskin in hand, waiting for Jace to leave so the two of you could laugh at the gullible nephew who had mistaken your amusement for affection. It would hardly be the first time the pair of you had made sport of him.
He lets out a humorless laugh.
"I ought to know better," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You always do this." His eyes lift to yours. "I am only disappointed I let myself believe, for even a moment, that you might have grown tired of it."
You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering with amusement in a way that makes his fist curl at his side, shaking, like it did when he was young, and you would push and push and push until everything threatened to break.
"You misunderstand. I only mean to say, nephew, that it should not be so surprising," you say, hands locked behind your back as you approach him with a teasing smile and an unreadable look in your eyes. Jace thinks he should step back, but cannot bring himself to do so. He hates that you are as beautiful as everyone praises, and he hates that he cannot drag his eyes away. "Dragons do tend to take after their riders, after all."
All of the air whooshes from Jace's lungs as he stares at you, words registering much too slowly.
His mouth opens, then closes again. He stares at you dumbly, tongue-tied for the second, third, fourth timeâhe doesn't even know anymore. He hates the effect you have on him, and he hates that even now his chest blooms traitorously with the hope you'd just crushed moments before.
You lean in so close that your lips ghost his ear, and his nearly brushes along your jaw. He does not dare to breathe in fear that you'll hear how unsteady it is.
"She has clearly inherited my taste," you murmur. "I should think that if our dragons are inclined to pursue one another all evening, it would be rather rude for their riders not to become better acquainted, don't you?"
What?
"I do not understand you," he says through his teeth, breath ragged as he inhales, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He feels your hand ghost along his torso, as though testing to see if he'll withdraw from your touch. "You are soâ"
"Cruel?" you offer, though you sound distracted.
When he does not pull away, your hand settles atop him, fingers pressing lightly into his body. He is grateful that your face is tilted up toward his so that you cannot see how tight his pants are.
"Impossible," he corrects, though cruel fits too, his voice strained and body wound tight. "I do notâ"
Jace falters, lips parting when he feels you brush your mouth against his jaw, and every single coherent thought leaves his head. He forgets where he is, what he's doing, skin prickling, hot and burning where your mouth had just touched.
His gaze cuts to the side, and instead of the smug expression he's used to, he sees a tentative one, gaze sharp still as you search his face, but uncertain in a way he isn't sure he's ever seen you before. It vanishes so quickly that he almost convinces himself he imagined it.
"Ah," you murmur, recovering your usual composure with infuriating ease, smile teasing again. "You make this entirely too easy."
Jace's jaw tightens. "Do not."
"Do not what?"
"If this is a game, then find someone else to play it with. I will not let you make a fool of me again."
You study him for a long moment before the familiar smile returns.
âHow disappointing,â you sigh. âAnd here I had thought you were finally beginning to let loose.â You incline your head, all false courtesy. âForgive me, then, Lord Strong. I will leave you beâ
The words strike like a slap. He inhales so sharply, drawing back, that he does not notice the wince that crosses your face as soon as the words leave your mouth. He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he turns away from you, planting both hands on the cold stone ledge of the window.
"I do not know why I keep expecting you to stop reaching for the cruelest thing you can say."
He stares out across King's Landing, refusing to look back, refusing to let you see the way his chest aches at how effortlessly you can dismantle him. His cheeks burn with humiliation at the number of times you have managed to make a fool of him in the span of a single evening.
Worse still, he has no one to blame but himself. He had seen the softness in your smile, the wonder on your face as you watched the dragons, the uncertainty after your lips had brushed his jaw, and, like the hopeless fool he has always been where you are concerned, he had mistaken each of them for sincerity. He is furious with you for wielding his hope against himâand even more furious with himself for handing it to you so willingly.
He hears you move in his directionâsoft footsteps cross the stone floor, each one quieter than the last, until he feels your presence at his back.
He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "Have you not had enough?"
The only answer is a soft hum. Jace's breath catches when he feels your arms snake around his waist from behind. Your palm flattens against his abdomen, and your lips press to his ear.
"Jacaerys," you say softly, and Jace shivers at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue so naturallyâhe is sure you can feel it. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I cannot help myself, it seems."
His throat spasms, lashes fluttering as your hand creeps down his abdomen, lower, lower, until the tips of your fingers dip beneath the waist of his pants. You hold them there steady, ghosting your lips to the shell of his ear before you kiss beneath it once.
Did you justâdid you apologize? You're touching himâyour arms are around his waist, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his pants, your lips are pressed to his ear, and Jace cannot think, his heart is beating frantically in his chest and his ears are rinning. He blinks wildly, lips parting, what is happening? Whyâ
"I should not have said that," you continue quietly, and you kiss him again, lower on his neck, lingering. Jace is hardly breathing, dizzy from your mouth, your breath, your fingers pressing lightly into his pelvis. Fuck, he thinks, breathless. "It was unkind."
"Everything you do is unkind," he forces himself to reply, voice far raspier than he would have liked. "You make me feel like a fool."
"I know," you agree, and you sound regretfulâbut is this a trick too? Another performance to get him to lower his guard? Jace doesn't know; he can't fucking think straight when you're touching him like this. He thinks it must be intentional. "It is easier for me to be cruel than to be honest. I do not like being hurt."
Honest? he thinks distracted by your hand on his body and your lips at his neck. He should pressâhonest about what? What are you worried will hurt you?
Instead, he breathes helplessly:
"I have never wanted to hurt you. Neverâ" The admission is mortifying to speak out loud, but the words spill out before he can think better of it. "âand yet, you have alwaysâI have only ever wantedâ"
You.
He has only ever wanted you; defying all sense and logic, everything that screams at him to keep away from you or make you sorry for being cruel. It all boils down to the frustrating reminder that no matter how much time passes, he will always be the stupid little boy who wants your attention. Years can pass of him convincing himself that he hated you, hates you, but a single moment in your presence will remind him that it was never hate at allâonly the bitterness of wanting someone who never seemed to want him back. Hatred would have been easierâsaferâbecause hatred would not unravel the moment you brushed your fingers against him.
"Oh, mandianna, iksÄ tolmiot tolÄ« dĆna," you breathe, and Jace's pulse jumps when your fingers work at the laces of his pants, breath hitching when you mouth gently at his pulse. "Skorkydoso kessa nyke mirre jiĆragon ao naejot shijetra nyke?"
Oh, nephew, you are too sweet. How will I ever convince you to forgive me?
Jace's eyes slide shut, lips parting over a silent moan when your free hand drops to his waist, gently turning him around so that his back is to the narrow window you'd been sitting on and the two of you are face to face. Your hand slides up his chest as you look up at him through your lashes, and Jace can hardly breathe when his gaze meets yoursâthe soft smile on your lips, how your pupils are blown wide, you can't be faking that, can you? This must be real, butâ
âbut what does that mean? What does this mean?
"You've always been my favorite, you know?" you tell him, leaning so that your lips ghost his teasingly.
Jace almost finds himself chasing when you pull back before your mouth touches his, the near-taste of you drawing him in like a moth to flameâhe smells the sweet arbor red you've been sipping at, and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting it off your tongue.
Desperately, he tries to regain some control over himself before he makes a bigger fool of himself than he already has.
His heart pounds as he leans in before he can think better of it, nose bumping yours lightly, close enough that he can feel your breath on his lips.His mouth curls up into a smile he hopes is mocking as he breathes, "And you've always been a pretty liar, aunt."
A thrill runs through his chest when you lean in to close the distance, lips not quite touching because Jace pulls back to deny you. You're thrown off by the sudden distance, blinking once, then twice, before you look up at him with a bemused expression. He wonders if this is the first time anyone has denied you anythingâwonders how many other men you've lured in with those pretty words and prettier smiles.
The thought settles poorly in his stomach for some reason.
You compose yourself quickly, tilting your head to the side carefully as you look over him. He barely catches his breath from hitching when he realizes that you've finished unlacing his trousers, one hand lingering at his pelvis as you lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw, trailing your mouth up the sharp line to his ear.
"It's the truth," you insist, free hand slipping beneath his tunic so that you can slide your hand up his slim torso. "You don't believe me?
No, he wants to say, but his lips part over a silent moan, abdomen tightening when he feels your nails scratching lightly against his skin, palm warm and electrifying as you map out his body with your fingers, tracing each and every line with reverence. His lashes flutter when you rest your forehead at his temple, and he can feel how unsteady your breath is against his jaw.
"Do you know why I was always so cruel to you?" you ask him softly.
He lets out a short laugh, fingers tight around the edge of the windowsill as he stops himself from reaching for you. It is a terrible enough effort to focus when he can feel your chest flush to his, one hand exploring his body while the other settles far, far too close to his aching cockâhe does not need to deal with his own wandering touch on top of it.
This is a mess, he thinks, but does not push you away. He came here to be alone, to think on what had happened today, to get his mind on straight before the petition tomorrow, and now you have reduced every coherent thought of his to the dizzying warmth of your hands and breathâis that why you are here? To distract him?
No, you had already been here when he arrived. You couldn't have sought him out.
Fuck, Jace can't even think straight anymore.
His voice is hoarse as he forces out, "I imagine you're about to tell me."
Your fingers trace lazily over the lines of his abdomen. You tilt your face up slightly so that your lips are almost pressed to his jaw again, nose bumping his cheek. You say simply, "I liked looking at you."
He stills, words drawing him from his haze. "We both know that's not true," he scoffs. "You were the biggest offender when it came to insulting myâ"
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as he takes a breath to calm himself.
"It is," you say simply. "I needed a reason that wouldn't draw suspicion from my mother or brothers, so I made certain everyone believed I couldn't stand the sight of you. It was easier to mock you than explain why I kept watching you."
You're lying. You must be.
Jace's breath is unsteady as your words register, mind racing, hardly able to keep up. You have him distracted with every sweep of your fingers against his tense muscles, every time your lips press lightly to his skin as you speakâhe can hardly focus on what you're actually saying, but he knows that is a lie.
"And then I realized, I liked looking at you more when I could finally make you forget yourself. When you were angry." Your thumb brushes against his ribs. Jace's heart hammers. "When you tried so desperately not to cry." Your lips curve faintly. He can feel the smile against his jaw. He hates that it makes him shiver. "Especially when you failed."
What?
"Your cheeks would flush. Your eyes would shine. You would bite the inside of your cheek because you were too proud to let anyone see. You were the prettiest boy I had ever seen," you breathe out, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingertips ghost over his chest before your palm settles there firmly. Jace wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is pounding in his chest. "I wonder, you've grown to be so handsome. If you cried for me now, would I still think you were the prettiest thing I'd ever seen?"
The words should strike him like a slapâjust like Lord Strong did not too long ago. It sounds less like a confession than a warning, as though you are placing every card on the table before inviting him to lose anyway. It should be enough to wrench him free of you, to remind him that thisâwhatever this isâbegan with an admission that you had delighted in making him miserable. That perhaps you still would. He should hear the trap snapping shut around him. He should step back while he still can.
Instead, he finds himself searching your face for the answer to a question he has no business asking.
Would you?
It is humiliating, he thinks. He sees the snare, understands exactly how it is baited, and still cannot bring himself to turn away.
"So that's what this is?" he asks after a moment, voice low. "Another way to make me weep? What insult should I expect that you haven't already spoken a dozen times before?"
"We are older now, nephew," you say with an easy smile. "There are more pleasant ways of making you cry than cruelty."
Your hand slips out from beneath his tunic, both sliding up his body until you're holding the back of his hair, fingers threading through the dark curls at his nape as you lean in so close that your nose bumps his gently. Jace cannot bring himself to move away this time, gaze dropping down to your lips just as your tongue darts out to wet them. His breath is unsteady, and his heart is pounding so hard that he can hardly hear himself breathing over the sound of it.
"Any more clever retorts?" you breathe, and Jace relishes in the fact that you sound just as wrecked as he does just from touching him.
"You've made them all quite difficult to remember," he replies, voice wrecked.
"Good."
In truth, Jace does not know what he is doing.
He is not inexperienced by any means. He has courted women, kissed them, lain with them, but the moment your lips are on his, Jace's brain shuts off. His hands fly to your waist on instinct, head tilting to the side and lips parting before he can remember every sensible reason he ought to stop.
Your lips are soft and sweet, and just as he thought he would, he can taste the remnants of your wine on your tongue as it curls against hisâit is intoxicating, you are intoxicating. He is like a fly that has dared too close to the spider's web, a moth drawn too close to flame. This is not something he will be able to stop, will want to stop, now that it has begun.
One hand stays at your hip to pull your body close to his, breath hitching when your thigh presses into aching cock, while the other slides up your body. He savors in the way you arch into his touch, in the soft moan that spills into his mouth, and how, for a moment, you forget you're kissing him entirelyâlips parting, lashes fluttering as his hand palms over your breast, lingering for a moment longer there than he should, thumb rolling over your nipple through the fabric of your dress before he continues upward, until his fingers can entwine with your hair, holding the back of your head and your hip to pull you close and kiss you deeper.
It is mad, he thinks, drowning in the sounds of your shared, ragged breath and the wetness of your lips sliding against one another. If someone had told him that his first night back in King's Landing would be spent in the tallest tower of Maegor's Holdfast with you, of all people, he would have laughed in their face.
And yet, here he isâyears of mockery and cruelty slipping through his fingers as his grip tightens on your hip and hair.
You pull back enough to catch your breath, forehead pressed to his, eyes sliding shut as you share the same sliver of air. His own breath is shuddering, head a bit light as he tries to get some air into his burning lungs, but he still slides his hand from where it's resting at the back of your head to cradle your face, fingers slipping beneath your chin, thumb resting over your bottom lip as he tilts your face up just enough to force you to look at him.
Your pupils are blown wide, lips slick and swollen from hisâhe is sure he likely looks no less disheveled, but cannot help the satisfaction that curls low in his gut, because there is no hiding the faint bits of astonishment in your eyes, much as you seem to be trying to mask it away.
"WhereâŠ" you start to breathe, blinking once, then a second time as you desperately try to compose yourself, sucking in a quick breath.
Jace's lips curl up into a mocking smile as he leans down so that his nose bumps yours again, tilting the lower half of his face close enough so that he can brush his lips briefly against yours before he murmurs, "You did not think you were the only one who has noticed I've grown handsome over the years, did you?"
Something hot flashes across your face, eyes sharpening and lips pressing together, but it is gone before he can place exactly what it isâjealousy? Possessiveness? The mere prospect makes his pulse jump.
"Careful, nephew," you whisper, lips curving. "For someone so pleased with himself, you are making it rather obvious that you are not as composed as you'd like me to believe."
Jace's eyes slide shut, head hanging forward slightly, lips parting in a silent moan as you put more pressure on his cock with your thigh. His abdomen tenses as he clings to a sliver of dignity in his attempts not to spill his seed in his trousers just from that bit of friction, breath ragged.
You huff out what sounds like a laugh as you brush your lips against his again.
"If you ask me nicely, Jacaerys, I'll help you with it," you purr into his mouth, kissing him again, deeper this time. Jace moans into your mouth as you grind your thigh against his cock, tongue dragging along the roof of his mouth.
You are going to be the death of him.
"Please," he breathes, eyes barely half-lidded as he looks down at you through his lashes, not able to stop himself from chasing your lips this time when you pull just out of reach. "Haven't I already made fool enough of myself? Have some mercy on your favorite nephew, aunt."
You hum into his mouth, considering, and Jace shivers. Your lips finally leave his, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, starting down his neck. Jace expects your hand to slip into his pants, expects to feel the warmth of your fingers around his cock, the softness of your palm as it glides over the length of him. He tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail down his throat, lashes lowered and breath hitching when your teeth graze over the apple of his throat, and thenâ
âthen your lips disappear, and he hears a rustle of fabric.
His gaze cuts down, bemused, and then his whole chest seizes when he sees you on your knees in front of him, green dress pooled on the floor around you as you busy yourself with finishing unlacing his pants.
Oh, he thinks dumbly, lips parted as he stares down at you. His cock twitches, dizzy just from the sight of youâyouâon your knees before him like this.
He has fantasized about this, he recalls absently, shamefully, one hand reaching out to caress the side of your face before he can stop himself, the backs of his fingers running along your cheek, over your lips.
Many times over the last few years, when word reached Dragonstone about whatever feast or tourney was hosted in your honor, and he would be tortured by the endless chorus of praise bestowed upon a woman he knew intimately to be merciless beneath the pretty smile, he would find himself in a restless obsession over you for days at a time. His family learned to keep a respectful distance, mistaking his foul temper for stress or exhaustion; they did not know every passing mention of your name set flames beneath his skin that threatened to consume him whole.
He would replay every slight you had ever dealt him on repeat in his head; in his mind, he won arguments that had long since ended. He thought of clever retorts he should have made, humiliations he wished he had returned in equal measure; he imagined finally leaving you speechless instead of standing there dumbly, red-faced and teary-eyed, wounded as you've left him countless times before.
And some nights, when Dragonstone had long fallen silent and sleep would not come, his thoughts would take an even more mortifying turn. His head would fall back against the frame of his bed, eyes sliding shut, and he would wonderâwould you run your mouth so much when he had you beneath him? Would you be so quick to insult when it was his hand that would decide whether or not you would find pleasure that night? Would you still find it in you to get a taunt in while you were stretched open, or would you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, wide and teary, not a single thought running through that cruel little brain of yours while he had you at his mercy?
It was shamefulâhe was always filled with a certain type of guilt in the aftermath, jaw tight as he cleaned himself. He did not enjoy thinking of any woman in such a degrading way, even one as vicious as you, but you have always managed to bring out the very worst of him.
Heart racing and barely able to stop his fingers from trembling, he grabs your hand to stop you before you can slide his trousers down his thighs. You look up questioningly, and Jace swallows thickly, taking a moment to steady his breath and voice.
His lips dart out to wet his dry lips. "Areâare you certain?"
You give him a droll look that makes him feel stupid. "I would not be on my knees if I were not, Lord Strong."
Jace's nostrils flare, grip tightening on your wrist slightly as you look up at him with eager, glittering eyesâare you trying to make him lose his temper? Are youâ
I liked looking at you more when I could make you forget yourself.
Gods, you are insufferable.
Jace hates that some shameful part of him enjoys it. It is odd, he should think, that he craves someone so determined to draw the worst from him.
Anyone else would be appalled by the viciousness of his tongue and the flashes of resentment he spends every waking hour concealing so that he may be the perfect prince for a court that has already decided it will not accept. He has spent his life learning restraintâswallowing his temper, smiling when slighted, bowing his head when insultedâbut you pluck at his temper as though it were the strings of that harp you so enjoy playing, smiling brightest only once he's finally abandoned every pretense of civility.
You make him sharper, crueler, quicker to anger. You draw retorts from him so petty they would embarrass him if they came from anyone else's mouth, and you reduce years of discipline to ash with a single taunting smile. And yet, there is something liberating about it, he thinks, that there is someone who does not flinch when he gives into the uglier sides of himself.
Or, perhaps, he is just trying to justify the way his cock is weeping as you finally slide his trousers down over his thighs, the way his lashes flutter when you press your lips to his hipbone.
"My, you have grown pretty everywhere, haven't you, nephew?" you murmur, both hands coming to rest on his thighs as you lean in, gaze sharp and appreciative as you study the length of him.
Jace notes, absently, that you do not seem discomforted, or even surprised, by the sight of him so near to your face, which leads Jace to the unfortunate conclusion that this is probably not the first time you've been so close to a man's cock, and that only serves to aggravate him for reasons beyond his understanding.
You are betrothed to Aemond, are you not? Have you lain with him already? Aegon? Both?
His fingers slide from where they're resting atop your cheek to beneath your chin, lifting your face just a smidge so that your gaze shifts up to meet his. He nearly loses his train of thought when he sees how your attention lingers on his cock, pupils blown wide when you finally look up at him.
"You are bold, aunt," he notes, still stuck on the fact that you had the nerve to call him Lord Strong again when you are on your knees before him. Your audacity truly knows no bounds. "To insult me, considering the position you are about to be in. Do you not fear being at my mercy?"
Your lips curl up into a pretty, pretty smile that knocks the breath from his lungs. You breathe out, "I long for the day you finally give me a reason to, nephew."
You do not give Jace a chance to make a retort this time, leaning in to press your lips against him. He inhales sharply through his teeth, eyes sliding shut as you press open-mouthed kisses along the length of his cock, tongue teasing at the vein that runs on the underside.
His hand instinctively slides from your chin to the back of your head, while his other tightens around the edge of the windowsill he's leaning on. Desperately, he tries to use the cool night air to ground him, but it proves futile when you reach his tip, tongue flicking along his slit as you lap up the seed already leaking from it.
Breath ragged, he dares to spare a glance down at you, teeth nearly sinking through his bottom lip when he sees how you've devoted your whole attention to his cock, nails stinging at his hip and thigh as you hold him for leverage as you take him fully down your throat.
You have done this before, the thought hits him more severely, fingers tightening in your hair as the warmth of your throat fully envelops him, as his abdomen spasms, thighs tensing beneath your touch. The idea of itâof you on your knees for anyone else, of you allowing one of your cunt brothers to sink his cock into your mouth the way he is nowâinfuriates him more than he can articulate.
He hisses when he feels you moan around him as soon as he inadvertently tugs at your hair, heat spreading fast and all-consuming through him, cock twitching in your mouth, hips jerking slightly as he forces himself further down your throat. Your throat spasms around him, choking, fingers digging so deep into his skin that he thinks you draw blood, and instantly, his grip loosens on your hair, an apology on his lips.
"Sorry," he gasps, chest heaving, a bit dizzy as he forces himself away from the peak he nearly found himself on. Thighs still trembling as he tries to regain some control of himself. "I did not meanâ"
He feels you pat his leg, and his eyes slide back open, focusing on you again. He almost cannot keep his gaze on you, because the sight of you on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, eyes stinging with tears, nearly undoes him entirely. He sucks in another sharp breath, jaw tightening as he wills away the tightness in his stomach, but it proves impossible. His breath hitches over something closer to a whine than anything else, because he does not want to finish, not yet, butâ
You pull off his cock before he can make a fool of himself, and somehow that's even worse, because he can hear the way you laugh when you see how he hisses at the loss of your warmth around him, knees nearly buckling.
"Lose your restraint," you tell him. "I can handle it."
Lose hisâ
For a moment, he isn't sure what you're implying, blinking down dumbly at you, still reeling from how close he'd been to finishing and how easily you'd denied him. When your words finally begin to process, his face flushes a deep red, throat bobbing.
Are you telling him what he thinks you're telling him?
"Come, tell me you haven't imagined it, nephew," you murmur, voice hoarse from having his cock in your throat, but you are still unbearably smugâmore than you ought to be, he thinks spitefully. You kiss his hip, his thigh, and then the tip of his cock, flicking your tongue against it lightly, savoring in the way it twitches beneath your lips. "Prove to me that there's some bite to your bark, Lord Strong."
He knows you are trying to provoke a reaction from him.
He knows it.
His jaw clenches, his fingers tighten in your hair, and he knows he is giving you what he wants because your lips part in anticipation, eyes half-lidded and waiting as you look at him through your lashes. And he doesn't want to give you what he wants, he doesn't. He loves the idea of denying you when he knows no one has ever denied you before, wants to see your lip pushed out in a pretty pout, wants to see the confused expression on your face as you tilt your head and look at him, butâ
âbut his hand slides behind your head again anyway, easing you forward until your lips brush his tip again.
"You will tap twice if you need me to stop," he tells you, waiting for you to acknowledge his words. He sees the thrill that runs through you when you realize he is actually going to go through with it, and he feels it himself, low in his stomach, hot and tight and so, so dizzying. "Hm?"
"Yes, yes," you agree absently, and he is not sure if you are listening to him at all, and he can hardly focus with the way your warm breath is fanning over his aching cock. "Not that you will be able to make me, my lord Strong."
Jace presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, rage and desire flooding him in earnest as his grip tightens just enough on your hair to coax another soft, breathy moan from you. Your gaze flicks up to his, somehow still mocking, somehow still behaving as though you are the one in control, and Jace does not hesitate this time as he guides your mouth to his cock, down his length until your lips are flush to his pelvis and your eyes are watering with tears.
Instinctively, you try to pull back, but his hand is firm at the back of your head, holding you in place. He tilts his head to the side, lips curled up into a lazy smile that he hopes belies the way his entire body feels as though it's on fire at the feeling of your throat wrapped tight around his cock.
"Already, aunt?" he mocks, relishing in the irritation that crosses your eyes. "I would thinkâhahâ"
Jace stumbles over his words, choking on a breathy moan when he feels you purposely work your throat around his cock. His eyes fly open, lips partingâyour throat tightens around him, and Jace cannot think, all coherent thought slips from his mind, reduced to the warmth of you, the tightness, you, you, you.
This is you on your knees for him. Your lips stretched around his cock, your nails in his thighs, your eyes tearing up at him. You, you, you. The girl who has always held herself above him, mocked him, teased him, tormented him until he was angry to the point of violence and hurt to tears. Every fantasy of petty revenge slips away because thisâthisâis all he ever needs, is all he's ever wanted.
He rolls his hips slowly against your face once he regains some slivers of control, watching as your lashes flutter, a soft moan spilling from his lips when he hits the back of your throat and feels your tongue drag along the underside of his cock.
Jace is not one for violence or painâwhere other men chased screams and took their pleasure roughly, he has always preferred sighs and caressesâeven you, with your insufferable taunts, he's careful not to rock his hips too hard as he begins to set a steady pace, because he has no desire to hurt you.
His hand slides from the back of your head to your neck, cradling your throat in his palm, fingers stroking along your skin as he feels the small bulge when your nose presses to his abdomen again.
Fuck, he thinks, breath hitching as he feels himself moving inside you. He lets out a long, shaky breath as his abdomen tightens, cock twitching so hard in your throat that it makes you choke again.
His lashes flutter shut, head tipping back out the window behind him; the cool night breeze does nothing to quell the heat rushing through him as your nails dig deeper into his thighs as you brace yourself for leverage to retake control, lips sliding up and down the length of his cock in earnest now, each time his tip hits the back of your throat drawing another pitched gasp from him.
His eyes half-roll back when you press your tongue flat against his slit, a louder moan spilling from his lips. His vision is blurred and lidded as he tries to focus on the sky above, the stars, your dragon and his still dancing around each other, but every small thing he tries to grasp onto so that he doesn't spill his seed down your throat slips between his fingers.
"Hah, Iâ" he stumbles over his words, another groan that pitches into a whine when you swirl your tongue around him. "I'm close, fuck, Iâ"
He thinks you will pull off him as most have done in the past, but your grip tightens on him, and you take him into your mouth in full one last time, holding yourself there as he lets out a string of incoherent babblesâyour name, aunt, please, fuckâeach one caught between a breathier moan than the last, hips grinding against your face as though he can press himself impossibly deeper inside you before his vision knocks white and the coil inside him finally snaps.
He chokes on a moan, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he spills his seed down your throat, entire body trembling as you keep him in your mouth, lips sliding up and down his length as you ease him through his high.
He does not know how long he stays there, panting, head tipped back out of the window as he desperately tries to regain some control, but it is only when you finally pull off him that he dares to roll his head to the side to look back at you.
You are sitting back on your heels now, your own breath ragged, lips swollen and wet. You lean forward to rest your head against his hip, breath hot and unsteady against his thigh as you try to catch your breath.
Jace's eyes slide shut again, an indescribable feeling settling over himâregret? shame? or, perhaps, shame but only because he does not regret this at all when he knows he should. His fingers absently card through your hair, trying to catch his own breath, thighs still trembling in the aftermath of his high.
At last, you shift as though to move, pressing your lips to his thigh, his hip, his sternum, his pulse, jaw, and then you ghost your lips against his face, tongue darting out to lap at the tear he hadn't even noticed had slipped from his eye.
"I was right," you breathe, brushing your lips against his. "You are still the prettiest thing I've ever seen."
Shit, Jace thinks, chest heaving as he stares down at you, heart pounding. What did he just let happen?
who gave bobby his first camera? and what do you think made bobby enjoy photography and videography? is there someone he admired?
bobby's dad gave him his first camera.
a canon AE-1, secondhand, bought from a pawn shop when bobby was eleven. bobby's dad was an engineer by degree and a photographer by heart, the kind of man who got pushed into something respectable by his parents and spent every weekend proving the passion survived the compromise. darkroom in the garage. prints drying on clotheslines strung between the rafters. bobby sitting on a stool watching his father's hands in the red light, watching images surface in the chemical bath, watching the closest thing to magic he'd ever seen performed by the person he loved most in the world.
his dad taught him composition before he taught him how to hold the camera. âsee the light first, bobby. the camera's just how you prove the light was there.â bobby was twelve when he shot his first roll of film and his dad pinned every print to the garage wall and stood back and looked at them with genuine pride.
bobby's chest nearly caved in from the warmth of it.
his dad told him to be brave. to follow the thing that made his hands itch. âdon't do what i did, kid. don't let someone else pick your life for you and spend thirty years trying to steal it back on weekends.â
and then he learned his dad has been fucking someone who wasn't his mom for years, and he moved out on a wednesday with a sigh and a pat on bobbyâs head. the garage darkroom went dark and bobby was fourteen. the man who taught him to see the light was gone and the camera sat in bobby's closet for four months untouched because picking it up meant picking up his father's hands. his father's eye. his father's voice saying âsee the light firstâ while simultaneously proving that the man who said it couldn't be trusted with anything, least of all the people who loved him.
four months of it gathering dust in his closet and one morning bobby opened the door and looked at the canon AE-1. he hated it and needed it in the same breath. the camera was his father's legacy and his father's betrayal and the only object in the world that was both a wound and a tourniquet.
bobby picked it up, loaded a roll of film, and walked outside and shot the street and the sky and terrence's stupid face and the light on the neighbor's fence. and it hurt. every frame hurt like hell. every click of the shutter sounded like his father's voice and bobby shot through the hurt because the alternative was silence and the silence was worse.
the camera became the one thing he kept from before. the one surviving artifact of the version of bobby who trusted people and believed in things and sat on a stool in a red-lit garage watching a man he worshipped pull images from the dark. everything else from that era got buried. the openness, the softness, the easy vulnerability of a boy who hadn't learned yet that the people you love the most are the ones who leave the biggest holes.
the camera survived because the camera was the only part of his father that never lied to him. the lens sees what's there. thatâs it. the film records what happened. no infidelity, no broken promises, no wednesday morning departures. just light and truth.
bobby photographs people he loves because his father photographed people he loved and then left them.
bobby will not leave. bobby will stay behind the lens and keep shooting until the film runs out, and then he'll reload and keep going because the camera is a promise. the camera says, âi was here and i saw you and the light was good and i'm not going anywhere.â
some things you keep because theyâre worth keeping. and some you lose because you forget to look at them beyond the lens.
what are some little ways in which brendan shows his love for companion?? is he more touchy, more soft spoken etc?
brendan's love language is attention.
he remembers everything you say. not the big things, those are easy. the small things. you mention once that your pen ran out during a lecture and the next time he sees you he gives you a fresh pack of pens without a word.
he reads books you recommend and shows up with notes. actual notes. marginalia. sticky tabs on pages he wants to discuss with you. brendan arrives with a thesis and a counterargument, and his ears go pink when you laugh at how seriously he took your offhand suggestion.
he makes you mixtapes. this is a big one. the one that gives him away if you look at it closely enough, except nobody looks because bobby makes mixtapes too and bobby's mixtapes are bright, obvious declarations of taste and feeling. brendan's mixtapes are something else entirely. brendan's mixtapes are conversations. each song chosen because a lyric reminded him of something you said, or a melody matched the cadence of your laugh, or the bridge hits at the three-minute mark with a shift that sounds like how your face changes when you go from thinking to laughing. he puts them in unlabeled cases. leaves them on your passenger seat or in your jacket pocket. never brings them up. and if you mention a specific song and say, âi loved track seven,â his ears go pink and he looks at his shoes and says, âoh yeah that one's decentâ as though he didn't spend four hours choosing between two versions of that song because the acoustic version sounded more like the way you hum in the kitchen.
and the dancing. the dancing is the thing that belongs only to you two.
brendan doesn't dance. brendan has never danced. brendan stands at the edges of parties and holds his cup and watches and the idea of moving his body to music in front of other people makes his stomach clench. he's too aware of his own limbs. too conscious of being perceived. very certain that whatever his body does will be wrong and visible and wrong.
but you teach him. in the apartment. just the two of you. bobby's at work or terrence's or wherever bobby goes and it's a tuesday afternoon and one of his own mixtapes is in the stereo (the irony of this, of being taught to dance to a soundtrack he chose for you) and you say âdance with meâ and he says âi don'tâ and you say âi'll show youâ and take his hands.
his hands are sweating. his jaw is trembling. you put his hand on your waist and his fingers land rigid as wood and you step closer and he stops breathing.
âjust move with me. don't think about it. feel where i'm going and follow.â
he follows. horrendously bad at first. stepping on your feet, overcorrecting, his body fighting the music instead of finding it. but brendan is a learner and you are patient. by the second song his grip on your waist has softened and his steps have found the beat. he's looking down at your feet and then looking up at your face and the expression he's wearing is the most unguarded thing you've ever seen on him. wonder. plain and simple. the wonder of a boy who spent his whole life standing at the edge of rooms discovering that the middle of the room is warm when you're in it.
it becomes a thing. your thing. tuesdays when the apartment is empty. the stereo and the living room rug and his hand on your waist and yours on his shoulder. he still can't dance in public, can't dance at parties, can't move his body when other eyes are on him. but for you, in the apartment, in the afternoon light with one of his mixtapes playing the songs he chose because they sounded like you, brendan dances. he gets better. he learns to lead, tentatively, his hand guiding your waist with a growing confidence that makes your breath catch because this is the edge. the same edge you see when he kisses you and the shyness falls away and something steadier and surer steps forward. brendan leading you across the living room rug is brendan without the walls and the walls come down only here. only tuesdays. only with you.
he's not touchy. brendan is the opposite of touchy. brendan maintains a careful distance calculated to the millimeter so he's always close enough to hand you something but never close enough to brush your arm by accident. but when he does touch you, because you initiate it, because you lean into him or take his arm or put your head on his shoulder, he goes completely still. absorbs it. lets your warmth sink into whatever part of him you're touching and holds his breath. doesn't move because moving might end the contact and the contact is the best thing that's happened to him today.
he walks you home and always positions himself on the street side of the sidewalk. he didn't learn this from anyone. it's instinct. putting his body between you and traffic.
he notices when you're cold before you do. his jacket appears on your shoulders mid-sentence. not offered. placed. every time. and when you look at him he's looking at something else entirely, as though the jacket migrated on its own.
he finishes your sentences but only in his head. you can see it sometimes: his lips moving fractionally a half-second before you complete a thought, mouthing the words you haven't said yet, predicting you from sheer accumulated data. he never finishes them out loud because that would mean admitting he knows you well enough to predict you.
he keeps a photo of you in his textbook. not framed, or displayed, tucked between pages 340 and 341 of his organic chemistry textbook where a pressed flower used to be. you're laughing in the photo. terrence took it. brendan asked for a copy and terrence gave it to him without asking why and brendan put it in the textbook and studies it with the same focus he gives the molecular structures on the surrounding pages.
the biggest tell is his voice. brendan is clipped and quiet with everyone else. efficient. words rationed. but with you his sentences get longer. softer. more eager. he uses more words than necessary. he explains things he could summarise. he circles back to topics you mentioned hours ago because he's been thinking about them and has developed additional thoughts and wants to share them and the wanting to share is so foreign to his usual self-containment that it surprises him every time.
In the poly au! when bb is out of the backrooms, what do you think are his favorite discoveries about the human world?
sunlight. the first time he steps outside and feels it on his skin he stops walking and stands on the sidewalk for eleven minutes. bobby has to physically guide him out of pedestrian traffic. the warmth is different from your warmth. less personal, more generous. it touches everyone equally and bb finds this profoundly moving. he stands in sunbeams in the apartment the way cats do, rotating slowly to feel it on different surfaces of his body, and the expression on his face while he does it makes you want to cry every time. the gentle wonder of it.
rain. water falling from UP THERE. he holds his palms out and feels it hit his skin and each drop is a tiny cold greeting and he wants to stay in it for hours! bobby gives him an umbrella and bb looks at it with genuine offense. you want him to BLOCK the rain? the rain is a gift. the sky is touching him! he stands in the parking lot behind clarkâs store in a downpour with his face tilted up and his eyes closed and his whole body vibrating with a frequency heâs never produced before. bobby watches from under the awning and says, âheâs gonna short-circuitâ and you say, âlet him have this.â
birds. the sounds. the SOUNDS!!! a goldfinch in a tree outside the kitchen window and bbâs head tilts, his lips parting and he listens to the song intently, transfixed. he starts learning the calls. can identify eleven species by ear within first week. he sits by the window with his coffee he doesnât drink and memorises each visitor. one morning a chickadee lands on the sill and tilts its head at him and bb tilts his head back, and they regard each other through the glass and bb whispers âit did the tiltâ with such genuine delight that even bobby smiles
cats. recognition. kinship. a stray tabby in the alley behind the apartment that lets bb approach when it wonât let anyone else within ten feet. bb crouches and extends his hand and the cat sniffs and then bumps its head against his fingers. bb looks at you over his shoulder with an expression of pure triumph. âit chose me.â the cat starts showing up every morning. bb names it. bb feeds it. bb and the stray sit on the back steps together in comfortable silence occasionally purring.
cooking. not eating. cooking. the transformation fascinates him. raw ingredients becoming something new through the application of heat and time. he watches bread rise through the oven door for the full forty minutes. he holds spices to his nose one at a time, eyes closed, learning each one. he is meticulous and patient which translates to him producing food thatâs unreasonably good for someone who doesnât eat and bobby is both grateful and annoyed asf about this.
music in rooms. not through walls or through floors. music in the room heâs standing in, coming from a speaker, filling the air around his body. he heard music through the backroomsâ walls for decades but always muffled, always filtered. the first time bobby plays a record on the turntable and the bass hits bbâs chest unobstructed his knees nearly buckle. he sits on the living room floor between the speakers for the entire album with his eyes closed and his hands flat on the hardwood feeling the vibrations and doesnât speak for an hour afterward.
the ocean. the first time you take him, seeing the sheer scale of it. the only thing heâs ever encountered that matches the scope of what he is. he stands at the waterline with the foam washing over his bare feet and looks at the horizon and goes quiet and his eyes are heavy, and he says âit goes past where seeing endsâ and you take his hand and he holds on. the two of you stand there watching something endless greet something ancient.
thunder. a frequency he recognises. low, rolling, deep. the first thunderstorm hits at 2 AM and bb sits up in bed and his face morphs into expressions youâve only seen a few times. absolute peace. the thunder is speaking a language he knows. he opens the window and lets the sound fill the bedroom and his purr syncs to the rolling bass and the two frequencies braid together and you and bobby lie in bed listening to the storm and the entity harmonising with it.
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