All Genshin men x gn!reader (alphabetically) / sfw / established relationship -> women version (coming soon)
Aether
He won't acknowledge the way he sinks back into your touch when your fingers thread through the golden strands of hair hanging down his back, nor the way a low rumbling sound of bliss seems to emerge from the back of his throat when you massage a particularly sensitive spot on his head. Simply the feeling of your gentle hands brushing and re-braiding his adventure-knotted hair is a reprieve from his demanding everyday life.
Albedo
Watching you sleep is something he can't seem to stop, eyes wandering to you slouched form, observing the rhythmatic way your chest rises and falls as you dream, draped across his work desk or tucked into his side. He'll smooth a gloved hand across your hair, or drape a blanket around your shoulders to prevent the sub zero temperatures of dragonspine from seeping in. There's just something so peaceful about the way you look that soothes his fabricated heart.
Alhaitham
He'll be lounging on the plush cushions of your sofa after a long day of being the academia's scribe, one arm resting lazily behind his head and the other cradling some academic text or another. You'll slide in beside him, attempting to squeeze yourself in next to his broad form on the narrow sofa and he'll grumble under his breath in feigned complaint - he never really means it - but the shift of a bicep from behind him to tucking you securely into his side tells another story.
Ayato
He often takes a brief respite from his duties to wander the estate grounds, pausing in doorways when he hears the soft tune of your humming as he passes by. You'll be doing something inconsequential he doesn't bother to note, but the sound - no matter how perfect or off key it might be, it matters little to him - just seems to lure him closer. He'll wind his arms around your waist, whispering in your ear with a tone full of both amusement and fondness alike - yet he won't yet mention how the mundanity of such a task feels like a refreshing break from the formality of his everyday life.
Baizhu
Never will he outright admit his condition has worn him down, yet when you see him and the weariness of bearing the weight of Liyue's health on his shoulders, it touches a soft, vulnerable part of his tired heart. He'll gently decline your invitation to help, his duty is something he deigned to shoulder alone - and that is to be his fate - though when you insist on sharing that burden, such a concerned expression on your face well, he just can't say no to you it seems.
Capitano
He's not accustomed to gentleness or softness, so the contrast of your slow, soothing touch against the cold hard steel of his helmet is such a foreign sensation he takes weeks to get used to it. Your soft hands trace the inky black abyss where his face would be with such tenderness it feels like he doesn't deserve this sort of adoration, yet he'll lean down into your touch, bringing one large hand up to dwarf your own, brushing his fingers against your knuckles in what he hopes is a gentle manner.
Childe
He may or may not say - depending on the outcome - that being scolded by you is something of a guilty pleasure, though guilty is probably less of the right word in his case, try obvious. He tries at least a little to school his expression into something neutral when you frown and press the antibacterial cloth a little harder into the cuts littering his skin, telling him off for being so reckless. Despite the reprimanding tone of your voice, he can see the worry flickering across your expression - ok maybe he's a little guilty now.
Cyno
He returns home late most days, well into the early hours of the morning, so the last thing he expects is to see you slumped over the arm of the sofa - clearly where you've slid down from an upright position. He'll slide strong arms under you and slide you back into bed, only joining you after shedding all his heavy gear and the weight of his duties for the night. You'll receive a mild lecture in the morning - why you shouldn't wait up for him when it poorly impacts your own sleep - but when you shyly mention you seem to struggle to sleep without the warmth of his presence next to you, he can't help but soften and let you off the hook, only to find you in the exact same position the next night.
Dahlia
He's easy to please, any time spent in your company is pleasure enough for Dahlia, yet when you drag him to the sofa with two cups of warm sugary tea waiting for you on the coffee table - insisting he regale you with every minute detail of his day (not to mention the gossip he mentioned offhandedly a few days ago) - it's both surprising and heart warming to realise you've noticed and listened to the random things he says. And for that, he'll gladly indulge your curiosity, no matter how mundane.
Diluc
Watching you tiptoe your way back into the bedroom, swathed in one of his silken shirts that practically drowns your form and balancing a cup of coffee in each hand will forever be one of Diluc's favourite sights. You don't even notice he's awake, half propped up on his elbows with that piercing crimson gaze following you as you edge closer. When you do eventually catch him staring and burst out into laughter, passing him his mug as you slip back into the sheets beside him, he'll allow himself to join in, even if a little pink in the cheeks.
Dottore
He'll openly admit that he gets a little thrill when you depend on him for anything. No matter if it's something trivial and you could most likely do it yourself or you genuinely require help from him or a segment (unless you're interrupting important research - that will earn you a look that could put you in your grave and an irritated huff indicating you should 'do something yourself for once'). Though his favourite instance is when you get sick, he can test all manner of new remedies on you to his hearts content, satisfying that mad scientist element in him, but also quietly tend to that tiny part of him that still has something loving inside.
Heizou
Oh if anything could prove more entertaining and endearing then having you perched on his lap, attempting to help solve a case he figured out twenty minutes ago. He would tell you, but the sight of your brow furrowed in concentration and the gleeful look on your face when you turn around to point out a clue you'd linked is so terribly charming to the poor detective he'll follow along for just a little while longer. He then tests how many times he can repeat this scenario before you notice that he's already solved these cases, he just enjoys seeing your face light up, even more so when his own cheeks tint pink at the sight.
Flins
He's developed the awful habit of hiding away in his lantern every time you so much as have a petty dispute - terrible sulker that he is. Every time you sigh, chastising his childish behaviour under your breath but still picking up said lantern, purple glow flooding the darkness of the corridors, and set it on the bedside table before turning to sleep - he never expects it. He eventually comes to the amusing realisation you most likely can't sleep without him near, or struggle to at the least. When you wake, you'll find a certain fae out of hiding, wound around you like a constrictor with his face buried in the crook of your neck.
Gorou
Seldom does he let anyone near his canine features, until you manage to become a small exception to that rule. Oh he'll never admit it, but the blissful sleepy expression on his face whilst you comb through the matted fur of his tail after an exhausting day sparring and patrolling betrays his true emotions. If you deign to tease him even a little, he blushes a furious red and huffs in grumbled protest, yet he still can't seem to pull away from your soothing touch.
Ifa
Oh he's weak for seeing you in his clothes. When he emerges from the bedroom to find you perched on the edge of the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in hand and another waiting beside you, black and bitter - exactly how he has it - his discarded shirt from last night haphazardly thrown on, he swears he has momentary heart palpitations. Even more so when you throw a knowing grin his way and gesture to the cooling caffeine waiting for him.
Itto
The bigger question is what don't you do that makes him fold instantly? If he had to pick one thing in particular however, it would have to be when you indulge his childish dramatics. He'll boast about an onikabuto fight against a child from the city he won, he's aware it's not anything significant, yet when you laugh and clap encouragingly, it touches him in profound ways he can't seem to articulate.
Kaeya
He may not remember it most of the time, his memories a hazy blur of wine and charm, yet on the occasion he does recall you leaning his weight against you and dragging him home from the angel's share to heard him into bed and make him drink some water - swiping a damp cloth over his forehead in an attempt to sober him up just a little, lest he suffer another god awful hangover - he feels the sickeningly sweet feeling of what he refuses to admit is love settle at the pit of his stomach.
Kaveh
Oh he's far too flustered to admit that when he finds himself slumped against his desk, head on an array of architectural papers and pencil still in hand - waking up to instead realise he's propped up on a pillow, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a freshly made cup of tea still emitting steam inches away - his heart does a little flip in his chest. He knows you know it's a bad habit he won't stop anytime soon, yet the little things you do show him just how much you care.
Kazuha
He's a wandering spirit, unable to stay in one place for too long, and though it pains him to leave you behind every now and then - he can't help but feel a little more in love every time he sees you at the dock, waving at him with that saccharine smile and unbridled enthusiasm. It's the knowledge that you'll always be here, waiting for him to inevitably follow his loyal heart back to you that keeps him going.
Kinich
In the rare moments Ajaw isn't trailing behind Kinich like a loud record that won't ever stop playing - much to both yours and Kinich's disdain - he can't help but allow himself the indulgence of your touch. He may not seem like a very touchy guy on the outside, which is partially true, but with Ajaw's frequent interference, physical contact is a luxury not often afforded. So he finds himself wrapping his arms around you like he'll be ripped away the next second, leaning into the warmth of your body like it's his saving grace.
Lyney
He's become so adept at maintaining the façade, the show persona, that when you see past it for the first time, he can't help but be thrown a little off guard. It's when you notice the fatigue under the performer, that he feels seen. It's an odd feeling for him but one he learns to embrace anyway, and one day he finds there's little more comforting than the warmth of your embrace when you ask after his wellbeing.
Neuvillette
Hardworking and hardly ever home should become the motto for Neuvillette's life sometimes, being chief justice of Fontaine means piles of paperwork makes their way onto his desk every time he so dares to glance away from it. It makes the bright afternoons where you slip into his office with lunch and a adoringly sweet kiss to his cheek all the more gratifying. Even spending those 30 minutes with you every few days makes the workload looming above him seem a little smaller.
Ororon
He's perfected the art of awkward fumbling and shy gaps in conversation at this point, no matter how close you get to each other he seems to never overcome this lull in interaction, though you find it endearing, he still flushes with embarrassment every time. Therefore he's come to favour the time he spends with you that takes place in comfortable silence. Whether you're helping him in the vegetable patch or simply sitting side pressed to side on the sofa together, minutes away from falling asleep - all of it soothes his anxious heart and lets him enjoy your company without the nerves of conversation.
Pantalone
For such a wealthy man, he's the farthest from profligate someone could be. Every expensive is documented and accounted for, yet somehow the jewel encrusted necklace that appears on your vanity one day seems to escape the logs. So does the subtly expensive perfume a few days later, then the flowers delivered to your workplace. When questioned, he'll deny any knowledge of such things, claiming they simply don't exist, but the way his lips curve upward when he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead is telling.
Sethos
He's a tease, a fact he won't even deny himself, especially when it comes to you. But then on occasion you'll find it amusing to return the favour, and suddenly he finds himself at a loss for what to do. He never expects you to turn the tables on him and whisper something in his ear or drag a finger down his chest in smug reciprocation, and it makes him blush and mumble something inaudible under his breath every time, much to your delight, he finds.
Thoma
Everyone on the Kamisato estate knows Thoma is arguably the best cook within a 50 mile radius, and he himself cannot deny that his skills in the kitchen are proficient. But on days housework and errands have made his muscles feel like lead and the thought of facing yet something else to tackle when he gets home makes him want to run in the opposite direction, walking through the front door to the smell of your already half finished cooking fills him with gratitude like no other. He'll smother you in kisses while you try and finish purely for taking the weight off his shoulders every now and again.
Tighnari
He's often up late, working on ranger schedules or logging another mushroom related incident as a result of yet another person that's not listened to his advice correctly - yet when he feels a pair of warm arms wind around his shoulders and your face settle into the crook of his neck - he can't help but feel an irresistible temptation to retreat back into the bed. He's been brushing off how tired he feels for at least an hour now and the way you murmur in his ear for him to give up and get some sleep has given him a fresh realisation of the weight in his bones. Maybe the work can be finished in the morning after all.
Venti
As the so called 'weakest archon', he's become used to falling into last place, and he doesn't even mind honestly - sometimes it's better to not have the pressure of being the most powerful. Yet the first time you call him 'my strong archon', he stops like a deer in headlights. He doesn't remember the last time someone referred to him like that, and so confidently too. For once the bard is genuinely flustered - having to turn away and bashfully hide his face before you can notice the impact those three words had on him. Maybe with you he can let himself feel like something other than the weakest.
Wanderer
He often finds himself awake during the night, restless and plagued by memories of the pasts he's lived. He won't admit it, but he doesn't want to burden you with the same, so he'll carefully extract himself from your embrace, pour himself a cup of the most black and bitter tea he could possibly make and head out to sit on the back step, staring up at the endless expanse of Teyvat's star smothered sky. He comes to realise merely minutes later, footsteps approach from behind. He won't turn to look - he knows it's you - but when you settle in next to him with your own cup and inevitably end up falling fast asleep against him moments later, he won't complain.
Wriothesely
Seldom does Wriothesley have the time to emerge to the surface, and that consequently results in very little shared time between the two of you. Therefore imagine his surprise when he returns to his office after seeing to a matter elsewhere in the fortress to find you perched on the edge of his cluttered desk, tea tray stocked and set beside you, with that knowing smirk dancing across your features. He's taken aback for all of a second before suddenly he's right in front of you, sweeping you up into his strong arms. A short break from his duties couldn't hurt.
Xiao
He's not used to being around people, that much is blatantly obvious after spending any amount of time in Xiao's company - he doesn't care for company much either. However after some persistence, he finds you've snuck your way into his space without him even realising, or caring at that - something about your companionship is less bothersome than most. You'll clamber your way up to the roof of wangshu inn most nights, perch yourself next to him and just... exist. He notes you don't scramble to fill the silence, you just lean against his shoulder and watch the stars with him.
Zhongli
He's lived for centuries, and every memory, every whisper of a ghost in the hallways of someone he used to know, is a burden he and he alone must bear. He's steeled himself to this reality - the price an archon must pay - yet when you, a mortal, string your hands through the golden tips of his hair, or gently trace the gold markings that line the charcoal skin of his forearms, listening intently to his stories like there's weight to each and every detail - the load on his heart feels just that little bit lighter.
A/N: This has been in my drafts for way too long why did i think this would take me like 10 mins </3
Prototype [Tau Segment] - Trilunar God [Omnicron Segment] - Zandik
It seems people forgot that he'd been given time altering abilities - as limited as they are, Lunar still intends to make the most of his time 500 years in the past and along the way, do some meddling.
Do you think the segments held their own "welcome to the harbingers" ceremonies, seeing as it was a form of adding new members to his family? Do you think some of Dottores segments never stopped doing these events even when the others ire of him grew? Do you think Dottore had grown affected by his empty nest?
Was listening to the anniversary version of "He's My Man" by luvcat and thought that this song really suited Zandik !! late 2am drabble, I fell asleep writing it so uhh yeah!! You can tell I really wanted to write an evil reader /silly
6.6 major spoilers, Established relationship (You and Zandik are married), I suppose this counts as Yandere!Reader(?), Reader is an adult, Reader Insert is not Traveler, mentions of poisoning, Unhealthy Possessive/Obsessive behavior (from Reader), Zandik is too inlove with you to care lmfao. lmk if I missed any warnings, and dont forget to leave a reblog !!
Imagine 85 year old Zandik with his beloved deranged house spouse. Within your comfortable home away in the countryside of Snezhnaya, you happily play the part of a loving spouse who takes care of their old husband.
Always so kind and devoted.. ignoring the definitely-not-threatening letters you wrote to one of his colleagues behind his back and your unwavering possessiveness over him. To the outside world? No one would comment. With how your eyes seem to look almost dead while you wait in the cozy living room, staring aimlessly at the cold clock ticking on the wall.
The adult segments hold some affection for you, but it's so painfully obvious that you are poisoning their human counterpart. But does Zandik heed their warnings? Unfortunately, no. He loves you too much to ever resist you. He already knows what you always put in his breakfast before He leaves for work, how stressed he mysteriously becomes while running tests in his cold lonely laboratory, and how all of his troubles wither away as He comes back home to you.
The Elixir of Immortality has frozen you in time, making you appear forever as a young adult while He aged like any other human, yet you still continue to cherish and shower him with affection. You could've gone chasing after his younger segments, probably the cool and clinical 25 year old segment (only from 18 did you hear that 25 was popular with the female staff… yikes) or the Zandik in his prime , the 35 year old segment "Omega." Even so, you still willingly chose the original over the segments.
Speaking of segments, 65 was the only segment who you interacted much with. He's closer in age to the original, He handles your possessiveness with ease and He's practically the stand-in for when Zandik is too busy to visit his darling spouse. Omega is second place mostly because He finds you interesting but He was too.. social and charismatic for your liking, and Zandik was afraid that your interactions would end up in a messy quarrel. "Why is he contacting the Regrator so much? And why is he so interested in his little experiments?" He could almost hear your sweet voice in his ears, nagging to him about Omega.
His frail health is declining thanks to the definitely-not-poisonous powder you laced his tea with, even to the point that He's bedridden for almost a week. Yet almost always, he comes back from the Palace as healthy and unaffected as ever. Zandik only laughs at your pushy questions and that panicked look in your eyes, only looking at you with adoration as you try to figure what's going on. The segments don't seem to care much, and his colleagues prefer not to look in your direction.
Reader is female but it's negligible since I don't think Dottore would actually care. Still has mentions of a womb, but Dottore is weird enough to make an artificial womb for a male, honestly.
Named myself mother bcs I have strong maternal instincts and 8 year old Zandik fucking shot me.
[Hello! I'm writing this after this post was finished, I lost the plot with the 8 year old, sorry. Short memory. Anyway,]
Imagine that you really love the OG Zandik, that in his old age he actually let someone who is poised and gentle with him care about him. His segments all have such high opinions of themselves and just don't wish to care for the old man. Work with him? Perhaps, but they were no caretakers.
That's your purpose now, and the 84 year old feels a budge in his heart. It's small, negligible, but as he gets older he wonders if maybe it wasn't the right call to reject a more human life.
You've been so kind and generous, understanding in a way that wasn't blind, but compassionate and iron-clad. As creepy as it was, considering his age, Dottore truly wondered if you were the one.
That said, he was actually looking forward to his birthday, finally. For the past few years, you brought him a small treat and a small gift to celebrate. You've been with him in a way that truly mattered for quite some time now, and he acknowledges it.
You were a smart person, a scholar like him, someone who was wildly accepted and most people saw bright things in your future, him included.
And yet, you stayed with him.
It was later than you would have liked, but Zandik had been having some trouble enjoying things. He wasn't entertainable like his segments. Plus, his palette was discerning. You had submitted some paperwork on his behalf, completed a small collection, picked up some uniforms for the new recruits, and polished up some mechanical pieces for complex machinary before you were even able to go out shopping.
On your hip were the items you settled on. When choosing gifts, you chose things that would give someone a peaceful moments. Something nice to eat, nice to see, nice to hear, and nice to do. It just made sense to you.
A couple slices of homemade baklava, the smoothest custom pen money could buy, a few of your personal essays for him to criticize, and finally a music sheet of some pieces you edited to flow more to Zandik’s taste. He enjoyed instruments, so you learned a couple to appease him. Performing while he does his work soothes him, your notice.
Yet, what you say was not that elderly friend of yours when walking in the door…
Zandik was gutted on a table, his entrails to his left, jars of his blood to the right.
Now, Zandik didn't come to love you because you were just sooo loving you'd throw yourself down and sob. You cried, yes, but you weren't hysterical.
Still…
With a soft, humane tone you asked, what had done him in? What was the final blow?
The segments… shrugged! He fell, they said, and it just seemed an opportune time to see inside their selves. Literally and metaphorically. No point in wasting effort to save a man that would be dead in the coming years anyway.
Experience led them to believe you'd just leave, what's dead is dead, but instead you sat done, let your bag fall the floor.
Mournful, your hands covered your face as your tears began to flow. You thought you could control your tears, but than your eyes flickered to your gifts, sticking out the top of your luggage…
Zandik must have been waiting for you, too… he once said he'd actually been marking his birthday on his calendar now because he knew you'd be there with him…
And you weren't there.
He died on his birthday, having no idea someone cared for him. Like his segments often pointed out, they all were under the impression you stayed out of obligation, a pretty paid caretaker. In actuality, your pay was pretty much just given right back. You had lodgings, the cafeteria provided food. All the money you got went to help Zandik.
In confidence, you could say you loved Zandik. He was someone you respected and felt honored to be his partner in academics when he allowed. You weren't nearly as intelligent, but his chastisement was kept at a low just for you. His own little way of being kind.
As for the segments… they were at a loss. Someone like you… crying for them…? But why? The old man never gave you anything to warrant this.
Tears were shed for some several minutes, and you were slowly getting annoyed, where they all just staring at you?? You hadn't hear them move or speak at all.
Lifting your tear stained face revealed you were indeed just being gawked at. They had yet to proceed with their dissection.
And Archons… they all wore Zandik’s face… you hated it. You expressed sometime ago that, while the segments had research potential, giving them autonomy in this manner was grotesque. They'd better serve as code in a computer.
This opinion still stands.
Yet, it's horribly different. These segments… they're all you have of Zandik now. His memories and likes and dislikes are packed into each and everyone of these segments. As it stands, they're more Zandik than Zandik is…
A nightmare, that's what you called it. You'd begun pouring more tears and saying, this is a nightmare, in your grief.
While you were regretting ever letting the segments stay a thing, the segments had much different ideas going on.
Some ideas started slow… one by one, like crows coming to attention, they had come to the same conclusion.
You are such a sweet a loyal thing, aren't you? Always doing right by Zandik, treating him fairly in spite of their nature.
Older segments thought, with Zandik dead, perhaps you'd like someone older and wiser, wouldn't you? Of course you can come under his wing, he'd never turn the likes of you down.
Young adults were looking at how Zandik dies with no family, perhaps you'd like to be apart of his? This age is one more inclined towards familiar thougt , after all. Legacy, family unit images, pumping fertile wombs full of his children.
As for the young one, their ideas were far less perverse. They watched an old version of them die, and a youthful woman go full widow about it. At this point, you were somewhere between a mother figure and a divine figure.
However, their thoughts were interrupted by Pantalone. Obviously, he had his own ideas about the situation, but he was more type to keep his opinions to himself. In any case, the assistant Zandik loved was distraught in the room and clearly no segment was prepared or willing to help.
All fake smiles and sympathy, Pantalone coaxed you out of the room. The segments watched and said nothing, but they all wished you'd stay. Perhaps you'd cry more the incisions they made into the originals body. They wondered how ruined they could get that face, and simply by harming themselves! It was adorable!
Yet, you left, and when Pantalone returned he had relayed your wishes.
Employment stops now. You dont need the last check, no use in it anymore. Any pieces of Zandik left unused, cremate and kindly give them to you. Take the gifts, they're useless now.
Laughable, really. You wanted an intimate keepsake like that? Just what had that old man done to get you so hooked? As for the gifts, you really knew him well.
No scraps would be wasted, though, they knew. However, you would be non-the-wiser should they give you a random vial of ash. Plus, they'd get to see you get sentimental over it.
You were long gone, but what you didn't know was that the segments new fixation was you.
Even after his death, you’ll be seeing Zandik’s face an awful lot from now on.
contains: hurt/little comfort, character death | based off 6.6 spoilers | 1.7k wc
There was little to do in the hour left you had to mourn. To mourn the life that was destined to end, were it not for fate then it most certainty would’ve been nature itself. This had to be fate playing a cruel hand to you and your lover. The one who’s bedside you sat besides, much older and frailer than you remember. Zandik, the only love of your life, the one you would’ve been laying with were it not for his insistence on your life to extend past that of his own. You, ageless and forever in your prime. You once stood together like that, in the prime of both of your lives. Oh, just where had the time gone? It felt like only yesterday you two were mapping out the laboratory granted to Zandik- or rather, Dottore as a Fatui Harbinger. If only time had been kinder, then maybe your partner wouldn’t be breathing as if he was expected to rather than with ease.
The decline began when the back aches began. These weren’t the usual pains Dottore would feel when stretching after a long night spent filing paperwork away, researching, and working at his desk. No, this pain was lasting. A gentle reminder for him to take care of his health better; you lectured him until he’d eventually come to rest with you. You seemed more aware of his health than he ever was, almost ironic considering he was supposed to be the doctor here. He was fifty years old at that point. Plenty of time for Dottore to consider his health seriously.
“It’s rather late, don’t you think? I’m quite tired myself.” As if you were the harbinger himself, you simply waltzed inside at some point. If you had just arrived, he wouldn’t have known, as his work kept his attention occupied to the point of extreme focus. Most of the work given could only be oversaw by The Doctor himself. The paperwork that covered his desk spoke enough in its own sheer volume.
“Which begs the question as to why you are here yourself, my dear.” Your retort came quickly, as expected of someone of your diligence. “Don’t turn this around on me, Zandik. I expect you to be in bed at least twice a week.” The faintest sound of a hum emitted from the Harbinger. “You would rather have me tonight than tomorrow?” Never had he outright declined you regarding this arrangement you had set for the two of you. It had begun as more of a compromise, now it had turned into its own rule.
Your approach came from behind, arms wrapped around his neck as if to pull him into a rest just with your touch alone. If only you’d stay like this for a bit longer, he quite liked the feeling.
It wasn’t long before the Doctor would be in bed with you.
Now, was seeing Zandik with gray hairs common? Of course, he was often stressed due to his responsibilities as a Harbinger. It was no surprise to you or him, it was however a notable sight to see his light locks begin turning less blue and more muted. You acknowledged then exactly what it told, it was his age showing. After decades, it seems his age was becoming more obvious by the years that passed in handful. Neither of you lamented on this, it would be unnecessarily consuming for the time you two had left.
Initially you had been insistent on aging on with him. It felt disturbing to know your beloved Zandik was going to eventually leave you sooner rather than later. The endless march of death seemed more of a bother than an inevitability, you would’ve been just fine to die right with him. As sad as it may sound, you did not have anyone but him. Zandik, likewise, had nobody else other than you. Though Pantalone was a good friend, his closest, there was only one person like you who fit into the slot of his organic heart.
You two only had each other, which worked now and especially back in the akademiya. To lose him would be losing a part of yourself you had never learned to let go, regardless of his actions and deeds you never once planned to abandon him. Yet now you were faced with the difficult decision of needing to live on for him. Eventually you would find the will to live on for yourself, but that would take a while, maybe forever if you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge your own pains.
It was within your best interest to focus on other matters that would not cause you stress or headaches. Omega had said, almost insisted really, while attempting to console you. You chose to not bring the topic up to him thereafter.
The sight of Zandik, now so frail, so utterly aged. He looked too human to resemble the monster his village swore him to be, laid like this. Eighty years old, much older now. He didn’t quite resemble the Doctor you knew, it almost seemed as if that rigid scholar you knew back in the akademiya had returned in a way, though not with the energy and youth. It was more so his overall behavior.
He was far less reserved with his mannerism, though he needed assistance to get around now, which you happily aided him in. There was a light that wasn’t there before, a flickering one at that, still there, nonetheless. When he began using a wheelchair was when you’d take him on walks throughout the lab or around Zapolyarny Palace. Those walks were nice, you’d like to think he enjoyed them as much as you did. Though you weren’t quite sure he enjoyed the walks for himself, he seemed to always be looking your way. As if there was a view he just couldn’t miss, not even for the dimming world around him.
You, ever unchanging even after so many years. Even if you had chosen to leave this world alongside him, the odds of you changing then were almost close to none. You truly were a constant, the variable he never foresaw. A variable he’d never trade not even for the world.
“I think it’s time we head to your room. I’ll have Eta visit you later, he has a lot of drawings to show you.” Though he didn’t respond, he nodded his head at your words. A smile dawned your expression at that, you needn’t for a response anyway.
Then came the day you had to say goodbye to Zandik, for the last time.
His health began to rapidly decline around a year ago, the segments showed no outward care for the old man’s health, only the status of his being. While you did adore the segments, you couldn’t help but feel a certain type of way at their apathy. It was almost staggering how little they did for Zandik, their own creator, in his time of need. Your spouse was dying, yet not even the versions of himself could bring themselves to care unless there was a new change to observe.
Truly, you loved them. You really did, but right now it was hard to bring yourself around them, especially the younger segments. They were less reserved than their older counterparts, which made their crude comments all the more hurtful. While their efforts to keep quiet when you were around were appreciated, it was blatantly obvious when the room would fall silent when you entered that they were talking about him. Just what plans did they have for his body after he was gone? Did they even care enough to think about that? The thought of burying Zandik made you feel nauseous. Could you even bring yourself to remove his body?
Those thoughts rummaged through your head, burying themselves within the deepest cracks of your mind, all while you walked beside Omega. Your distress may have been too prevalent throughout your walk to Zandik’s room, you really couldn’t hide your pain anymore.
“The option to turn back now would bear no consequences, I will have you aware, █████.” Neither of you stopped, simply slowed the pace of which you walked. His tone was as easy as his words, which sounded far too hard for you to even consider. Much less think about, just how could he say such a thing? “His conscious is hardly there.” “Even so, Zandik still needs me, Omega.” Nothing changed in the segment's expression, his face as unreadable as his intention. Loyalty was a trait of which you wore like a badge and extended to those you cared for so eagerly. Your loyalty or care was not a question. “If that is your decision, my dear.”
Now you were here, by his side as you always had been. He wasn’t awake, he needed as much rest as possible these days. Though he was not awake or could hear your words, his hearing was also one of the many things his decline had tainted, you still spoke. “It’s just... not fair.” then it began, the downpour of your emotions rushing in all at once, like a crashing current forcing you to let it out. The heat to your face and blurring of your eyes were overwhelming, as was the breaking of your heart. Taking ahold of his hand felt nice, despite how brittle and unfamiliar they were now. His hands were the only ones you would ever want to feel in the palm of your own. “...I'm sorry, I’m so sorry-” Apologies came as if they were owed and, in a way, they were, just not from you.
There would be no goodbyes left unsaid. Stories came so naturally through broken cords. The squeezes to his hand were the most you could do to let him know even in his rest that you were here, that you would not leave his side until it was necessary. If only the world had been kinder, then maybe you two would have been happier. The future had never looked so bleak until now.
Unfortunately, by the time you’d return to his room by morning to see him, just one more time. Omega would have already told you he was gone.
You've visited his grave every week to lay down flowers. He wasn't a sentimental man, Omega had told you as much, but the youngest child segment had tugged you along the first few times and insisted you visit.
It had become second nature by now.
You could no longer remember when the first time was where your tears fell onto ground that had laid undisturbed for centuries. If not for the headstone it would've looked like any other plot of land.
Since the first time you'd returned to the laboratory frozen and with swollen eyes one of the older segments, Psi, had made a habit of accompanying you. Always holding your hand and tucking your head beneath his chin. None of them wanted to risk their beloved falling ill. Neither could they stomach the thought of you weeping as alone as he had been when he'd passed.
Maybe you'd never truly known Zandik, but you knew and loved every part of him. The parts that still walked Teyvat always said how much he would have loved you too.
It was odd to imagine. But it made your heart ache all the same.
Accidentally calling him dad while he's pounding another load deep inside you. . .
Your entire tight, sensitive body tenses once more as you feel the overwhelming heat expanding inside you, his cock leaking once more inside you while he maintains such painful grip on your bruised hips. Your legs instinctively close around his waist in a feeble attempt to push away the physical contact that has already become too much.
“Dad, Dad, I can’t—” you mewl beneath him, not even realizing what’s escaping your parted wet lips, and you hear him groan shakily against the skin of your neck, his hips twitch in interest, thrusting against your soaked heat, eliciting another pathetic gasp from your mouth.
“Yeah? Dad? That’s who I am now?” He purrs, his face leaving the curve of your neck and his eyes are dark with repulsive lust as he looks at your face, you look so broken under his touch and you arch your back at the sudden pinch he gives to your side, making you sob as he resumes his punishing rhythm.
You immediately close your mouth, so ashamed of what you said, and your hands tighten on his back, digging your nails in and he bites his lip, chuckling at how good it feels.
“My sweet puppy, don't be shy now, tell dad how much you want it, so tight, just wanna make you feel good, let it out, c'mon,” he coos, but you shake your head, your face burning with shame, and he doesn't like your silence. His thrusts are now slower, but deeper and painfully intense. You can feel his milky release escaping you, making a mess on the inside of your thighs. He releases your hip to slide his fingertips from the middle of your chest to your belly in an electric light caress, and you shudder beneath him.
You can't be quiet after such delicious shiver his fingers and length cause in your body, and your mouth opens, “dad!” you sob, tears welling in your eyes from all the excruciating sensations that are gnawing at you.
He laughs arrogantly, satisfied with how you now whine and cry and pant freely, calling him dad every time his cock bruises that sweet spot. “That's it, good puppy, look at you, keep talking baby, pretty little thing, keep that fucking mouth open,” he says hoarsely, fucking load after load inside your stomach.
Author’s Note: Feedback is very much appreciated! This is my first time posting my work onto any type of site for other people to see so please be kind! Please excuse any spelling and/or grammatical errors. Sorry if the characters seem ooc, I’ve only seen the show and am just going off of my own interpretations ! Credit to @cursed-carmine for the dividers used & to the user @/meowoosi on pinterest for the header image.
Baelor Targaryen
Baelor loves to spoon.
It starts the same way every time, he’ll lay back in the covers, mismatched eyes tracking you around the room as you prepare for sleep. A soft smile always makes its way to his lips as he watches you dress, arms opening up to accommodate you as you climb onto the mattress. You both start pressed against the headboard, talking quietly while he peppers your temple with the occasional kiss before tiredness overcomes you both. Soon, he’s pressed against you, arms wrapped around your waist and dragging you back to meet his chest. It makes him feel like he can protect you from anything, and it’s only a plus that it makes it even easier to kiss along your shoulders as your words start to slur together from the drowsiness. He always waits until you fall asleep first, unless he’s beyond exhausted, that’s when he lets his shoulders relax and noses along your hair, letting the familiar scent of his beloved carry him into sleep. It’s almost impossible to escape his hold during the night’s darkest hours, the smallest shift of your body only makes his arms ensnare you tighter.
Maekar Targaryen
Maekar does not do vulnerability. At least not with just anyone.
The younger brother is practical. When the two of you lie down to sleep, it usually is not within one another’s arms. Maekar will insist on lying on his back, he’ll let you put your head on his chest, and he will wrap an arm around you, but you’re the one making the first move. It’s when he’s already asleep that he subconsciously lets these walls down, lets himself relax. He’ll awake to find himself rolled over onto his stomach, an arm thrown over your middle, his face pressed between your shoulder blades, breathing you in like an aphrodisiac. He seeks your touch without knowing it, breathes you in like you’re the reason he’s getting his daily supply of oxygen, keeps you close like you might not be there when he wakes up. Perhaps he is scared of the pure amount of feeling he harbors for you, or maybe he just does not wish to come off as weak, but it’s obvious when the two of you blink away the blur behind your eyes in the morning that he’s constantly seeking you out, even when consciousness leaves his mind.
Ser Duncan The Tall
Dunk is a lover and there is nothing in this world he loves more than holding you.
Knowing this it should not be a surprise that his favorite way to sleep with you is with you fully on top of him. You can try to spoon, you can try to rest your head on his shoulder, but sooner than later those big hands will be grasping your waist and tugging you to lay on top of him. Why would our darling hedge knight need a blanket when he has you? He doesn’t care if he gets hot in the middle of the night, or if you roll on top of him in such a way it makes it a little harder to breathe, he isn’t letting you go anywhere else. He loves the feeling of your body on top of his, loves the small sounds of your breathing evening out, loves to run his hands up and down your spine until your body gives way to sleep. He’ll usually lie there for a while, eyes trained up above him as he caresses you, thanking the Gods for blessing him with such a prize. When sleep begins to take him, his arms will wrap around your middle, pulling you ever closer, delighting in the puffs of your breath hitting his neck, matching his breathing to yours until you both are warm and resting.
Daeron Targaryen
Daeron finds the utmost comfort when your hands can touch him.
This being said, his favorite way to fall asleep next to or near you would be with his head in your lap and your fingers in his hair. He’ll find you when you’re reading, sitting in the Godswood of the Red Keep, pretty and content on a bench when he joins you. He’ll mumble his greetings before his body folds in half, legs kicking up on the bench as his head lands in your lap. Your free hand will instantly run through his hair, pushing the blonde strands from his forehead, fingernails scratching at his scalp. He swears this is the best remedy for the turmoil his mind and dreams put him through so who are you to tell him no? It takes a few minutes depending on how much wine he had indulged in earlier during the day but he never fails to close his eyes as you begin to work your way through his hair, fingers gentle as they pull apart the fairy knots that have begun to form in his waves. Soon enough, his lips are parted as his breathing slows and he’s fully using your thighs as a pillow. When he wakes, it comes as a surprise every time that his sleep was boring. No dreams were to be had, no hidden riddles to repeat, just the feeling of being unwearied and refreshed under the softness of your hands.
Aerion Targaryen
Aerion sleeps like a dragon protecting his horde.
There is no escaping the Brightflame while the two of you rest together. His arms are always on you, both in sleep and in lucidity. Aerion treats you as a treasure. A prize he has won and claimed for himself. This shows constantly, but even more when he’s pressed into your neck, a leg thrown over your waist, an arm wrapped over your shoulders. His body is almost crushing yours as he dozes off, fingers twitching to hold onto you tighter. Good luck trying to worm your way out from underneath him, it’s downright impossible. He’ll groan deep within his throat, mumble something along the lines of ‘stop moving, you’re disturbing your prince,’ and pull you in closer. He likes to be as close to you as possible, forgoing blankets and furs in the name of dragon blood running hot, and while that might be true, he just doesn’t want the fabric getting in between him and your body. He’d much rather act as your cover, fully draping himself over top of you. You are his to protect, his to cherish, his to own.
Valarr Targaryen
Our Young Prince does not indulge in many luxuries for himself, that is, unless that luxury is you.
Valarr is constantly under the stress of being second in line for the throne. He is supposed to act a certain way, hold himself a certain way, and always, always, be levelheaded. He lets that all go whenever he gets the chance to capture you in his arms. Valarr loves your hair, the softness of it in his hands, so it is no surprise that he takes any opportunity he can to play with it. This follows in the way he chooses to fall asleep with you. Call him traditional or whatever you must but he loves when you have a leg swung over his hip and your head against his chest. You can feel the vibrations of his voice while he talks to you in the candlelight, bearing his frustrations and stories to his most trusted advisor, rattling off all the things that happened during the day that you weren’t around to see. His hand is stroking your head, fingers weaving through the texture of your hair, fingers pausing to twirl a strand around his finger as he talks. His breathing evens out only after he knows you’re already asleep, lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he lets himself enter sleep alongside you.
Lyonel Baratheon
Our resident wildcard could not possibly pick a favorite position to sleep next to you.
Lyonel is lucky enough as is if he’s able to make it into the bed after a night, usually drinking his fill of wine and dancing until his feet hurt. The man loves to party, sue him. Most nights, he’ll crawl in after you, lips moving a mile a second as he rattles off all the thoughts inside his head. More often than not, you wake up with his face smushed against your chest, some mornings you wake up to find him laid the opposite way of you, with his feet near your head and his arms wrapped around your shins. Others, when he’s attentive enough to choose, he’ll pull you atop of him and wake up with your body partially entwined with his and the other half spread across the sheets. This isn’t to say he isn’t attentive, especially when it comes to you, but if he had to actually choose, his preferred way would be a half-spoon, with your legs intertwined with his and your head pressed against his chest. It lets him hold you to him, arms wrapped around you in a loose hug. It also helps when he awakes in the morning he can look down and see your peaceful sleeping face drooling onto his chest. The sight never fails to make a smile spread across his face as he hugs you tighter.
SUMMARY: as the days draw near to the fifth anniversary of your exile, you are left with an uncomfortable truth: aerion will not be here forever. one day, he will leave, and you will still be rotting in lys, and you wonder if you are only making things worse for yourself by indulging in him so carelessly. still, you cannot help yourself—you think it’s better to have known fire, even if only for a fleeting moment, than to spend the rest of your life wondering what it might have felt like to burn
WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader comes from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described, tw aerion, predator/prey dynamics, skinny dipping, jealous/possessive!aerion & jealous/possessive!reader, the high valyrian is not properly translated in this one because we don’t know the words for the words I needed so bear with me LOL, switch!reader, switch!aerion WC: 9.3k-ish
AUTHOR'S NOTES: OKAY ... so for this part we take a new look at our favorite exiles. This part is a bit more serious than the last two, but it was bound to happen, trust they will be back to their regularly scheduled antagonization and toxicity soon KISDUHFASUIHFSUADHF I actually had a whole different part written for this, but then I deleted it all and restarted because I thought it was important that we get to see reader a bit more serious, because naturally she has been there a long time, and she's never going to go home, and she knows one day that Aerion will but she's letting herself get used to him anyway. So her realizing this + the timing of her approaching her 5th anniversary of her exile was just a double whammy that led to her being a bit more mellow. She is still playful with Aerion and making his life difficult, but her narration is just more solemn. The next part is going to be Aerion's POV and it's a direct continuation of this part, so she will be a bit mellow in that one too because it's still addressing her exile, BUT THEN WE WILL GET BACK TO REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM .... speaking of, if you guys have any tropes or ideas that you'd liked to see for the two of them, feel free to shoot the my way and I'll see what I can do with them. Comments and reblogs always appreciated!! Mwah mwah
READ: BEWITCHED
Dragons are territorial little things—creatures of possession and pride, quick to bare their teeth over what they believe is theirs, and everything is theirs, if they have anything to say about it. They do not share willingly, and they do not yield ground once they have decided something falls within their reach.
Dragons are also hunters—patient when it suits them, relentless when it does not, and clever enough to sit back and observe the patterns of what they pursue, learning their habits and the shape of their movements until the chase is no longer a chase at all, but a game they are set to win.
Exile has stripped Aerion Brightflame of many things, but it has clearly not stripped him of these instincts. It is a very, very dangerous combination, because he is never so motivated as he is when something that is beginning to feel like his dares to slip just beyond his grasp.
So naturally, that is how you find your fun with him.
The days in Lys finally settle into something predictable again after the weeks of chaos following his arrival. You wake half past dawn, as you always have, but with linen tangled around your legs and bite marks decorating your throat, a pleasant ache between your thighs that Aerion has been busy making sure has not faded since that night in Vyrano’s gardens. The sea breeze drifts in through open shutters, cool against skin still warm from sleep, and you stretch languidly, fingers tracing along the scratches left on his back the night before as the city slowly hums to life, kissing across his shoulder blades and up his neck before you make yourself scarce.
You leave before he wakes to do your rounds through the city: gossiping at the Perfumed Garden, fluttering between the manses of whichever magisters you decide worthy of your presence for the morning, trading gold for secrets with the harbor orphans to keep your network of child spies running.
It is important that you leave first—not because you’re trying to escape him, but because you enjoy being sought by him. Dragons are hunters, and they are territorial little things, so you make entertainment by denying him what he’s claimed, just for the thrill of it.
The first time he wakes to find the bed cool and you nowhere to be found, he doesn’t realize that this is a game of your own design. He searches clumsily—strides into places expecting you to be waiting there, irritation flaring hot when you are not. He questions servants too sharply, and he expects the world to yield answers simply because he demands them, but Lys does not work that way, and he finds himself sorely disappointed when he can’t bend it—or you—to his will.
You watch from balconies and tiled rooftops as he learns this, forcibly reining in his temper every time he is redirected or subtly denied. When he returns to Vyrano’s manse in the evening after having searched relentlessly for you all day, only to find you lounging in his bed, silk sliding off your shoulders and amusement bright in your eyes, there is a long, charged pause in the doorway as he realizes that you’ve just drawn him into another one of your games.
The first few mornings after that, you make it easy for him, just to lull him into a false sense of security. You leave a visible trail or drop a rumor at the harbor that you tell the children to whisper to him, a courtesan instructed to sign dramatically when asked where you’ve gone and point in the right direction. He finds you quickly, then, expression smoothing into something smug and possessive, as though your absence had never unsettled him at all and it was a given that he would find you, because you are his, and there is nothing in the world that can stop him from finding and taking what he considers his.
The next week, you become bored with how quickly he finds you, and you change the game. You stop leaving trails and abandon routine entirely. One morning, you’re at the harbor, bargaining for a rumor, and the next, you’re perched above the central square, watching caravans unload dyed silks from Tyrosh. You move through servants’ passages instead of courtyards, and slip through private gardens rather than public promenades. You send the harbor boys in three different directions with three different stories and vanish somewhere else entirely.
The first time he fails to find you before midday, the entire city feels it—he is tense, and aggravated, and everyone is anxious, waiting for the final feather on the scale to tip his temper over the edge.
And you watch, intrigued, because Aerion doesn’t lash out the way everyone expects him to. The irritation that would have once erupted violently settles into something far more dangerous—stillness. From the rooftop above the square, you see the shift happen in real time. His gaze stops skimming crowds and starts studying them instead. He notes which servants glance toward the harbor too nervously and which children scatter a little too quickly. He doesn’t follow the loudest rumor—he waits until he’s heard three or four, and then follows the silence instead.
He begins to understand that you prefer high vantage points on clear days when the sun is brightest, that you avoid the busiest docks when foreign banners arrive to watch from tiled rooftops instead, and that you drift toward shade when the air grows hot and still. He notes which magisters you tolerate longest and which you abandon within minutes. He learns that when you disappear entirely, you are rarely far—merely above.
The first time he looks up instead of ahead and finds you watching him from a rooftop, there is something undeniably victorious in his expression. And you find that there’s something quite thrilling in watching the precise moment that realization hits him, the way his attention sharpens and locks onto you, as if the entire city has fallen away and only the line between hunter and hunted remains.
The game shifts that day—no longer about whether he can find you, but about how long it takes, and you discover that the most intoxicating part of this new form of entertainment isn’t the disappearing itself, it’s seeing how relentlessly he rises to meet whatever challenge you lay out for him.
You feel alive. He makes you feel alive. You do not waste your mornings away staring wistfully to the east, desperate for a glimpse of the walls you once called home across the Summer Sea, and you do not spend your nights wide awake, anxious to evade the familiar faces that haunt your dreams. You spend your mornings plotting out the day’s game you wish to play with your dragon prince, and you spend your nights draped against him, face nuzzled in his neck and leg hooked around his waist, too tired and sated from a day of chase to worry about what might wait for you when your eyes slide shut.
You think if this is exile, if this is what your future is meant to be, then maybe—just maybe—you might actually find peace on this wretched island.
—————————
“So,” Vaella begins, drawing her knees up beneath her as she settles against the cushions at your side, her voice lowered though her eyes gleam with mischief, “is it some manner of… courtship ritual?”
Rhalla lets out a stifled giggle from your other side, promptly hiding her face in her hands as her cheeks bloom pink.
“I ask in earnest,” Vaella insists, lifting her chin. “The whole of Lys has taken to whispering of it—your little chases across rooftops, the way he prowls after you as though the city were his hunting ground. If it is not part of your bedding, then what would you call it?”
Rhalla peeks through her fingers. “They say he looks half-mad when he cannot find you.”
Vaella nods quickly. “And half-devout when he does.” She hesitates, then adds more softly, “I am only curious.”
You snort as you tip back a goblet of wine, draining what’s left in one long gulp. Rhalla immediately leans forward to grab the decanter and refills your cup. Aerion should be somewhere on the west side of the island right now, looking for you among the harbor children until he realizes that you’ve not set foot near the docks all morning. He will be in a particularly foul mood tonight after being strung along by the nose all day—he never quite likes it when it’s thrown in his face that you’re still leagues above him when it comes to your games of cat-and-mouse, especially when you’ve allowed him to become so confident.
“Well—” you start to say, but then pause. No is on the tip of your tongue—it’s just a way for the two of you to entertain yourselves while stuck on this island, because there’s only so much fucking and alcohol and silk and incense that you can take before you start feeling tormented by monotony. But you suppose there is something a bit thrilling in the moments after he’s found you, heart racing in your chest and heat spreading through you when his lips tilt up into a smug, victorious smile as he makes his way over to you. You finally say, “Perhaps.”
Both girls laugh, and across the room, Caelyx snorts as he leaves the room where he was entertaining a YiTish spice merchant, sliding his silks around his shoulders to cover himself as he makes his way over to the three of you. He drops down onto the velvet cushions across from you, sighing heavily as he brushes his pale hair out of his face.
“If we are to speak of our resident dragon once more,” he drawls, reaching for the wine set between you, “you might at least grant me the courtesy of inclusion. I have laid a fair amount of coin upon the matter. If secrets are to be spilled, I should like to hear them first.”
You raise your eyebrows.
“Caelyx,” Rhalla scolds, flinging a velvet cushion in his direction, though there is little force behind it. He catches it easily and only grins.
“What?” he asks, unrepentant. “Do not look so scandalized. It is not only I. Half of Lys has taken to wagering on how long it takes the dragon to track her down each morning.” His smile turns sly as his gaze flicks toward you. “The other half wagers on how swiftly he spirits her away once he does.”
Rhalla’s eyes widen. “They do not.”
“They do,” he assures her smoothly. “And someone must be entrusted with the coin. I have been very civic-minded.”
You tilt your head, amused. “Have you now? And what are the odds?”
Caelyx studies you with exaggerated seriousness. “He has grown sharper of late,” he admits, lifting the cup to his lips. “But you have grown crueler.” A wink follows. “I always put my coin on you.”
“You’d be a fool if you didn’t,” you tell him with a smug smile as you lean back against the cushions with a sigh, tilting your head back to look up at the painted glass ceiling. You feel fingers brush your hair from your face, and your head falls to the side so that you can look at Vaella. “Hm?”
“You should share him with us one day,” Vaella says with a pretty smile, lashes fluttering in exaggerated innocence. “He never so much as glances our way when we seek his attention at feasts and celebrations. I’m curious to know what a dragon prince is like in bed.”
“Vaella!” Rhalla gasps, scandalized, though her eyes flick between you and the floor in a way that betrays her curiosity. “You ought not speak so boldly.”
“What?” Vaella pouts. “She’s always shared with us. There’s no harm in asking. I know you’re curious too, Rhalla, don’t play at innocence.”
Rhalla makes a strangled sound. “I am not—”
“You are,” Vaella insists, leaning over you to flick her arm. “You stare at him every time he walks into a room.”
Rhalla flushes red, pressing her face into her hands. “He’s handsome,” she cries. “You cannot blame me. How often do we have princes on the island?”
“Quite often,” Caelyx says with a snort, “just never ones so pretty. I would take that mad little dragon over those wrinkled Qartheen merchant princes any day.”
Rhalla lets out another mortified sound. “Caelyx!”
“What?” he replies, unbothered, lifting his cup. “Every soul in Lys thinks it. I merely have the courage to say so.”
Vaella beams. “Just so.”
Inexplicably, you do not like this conversation.
You do not like the way Rhalla’s voice became wistful when she called him handsome, and you do not like the way Vaella’s lashes flutter when she imagines him in her bed, and you especially do not like the casual certainty of Caelyx’s declaration that everyone is thinking it. The image flickers, uninvited—Aerion’s attention slipping, his focus shifting, that consuming intensity directed at someone other than you.
Sourness coils low in your gut, fingers a smidge too tight around the goblet in your hands, and you don’t know why you’re so bothered. Vaella is right—you’ve never minded sharing before. You’ve brought many sons and daughters of magisters with you to the Perfumed Garden, laughing as silk tangled and mouths wandered, incense loosening inhibitions until names and titles meant very little at all. It’s always been easy—detached and amusing, a way to pass time when you’re bored and lonely. You like watching Vaella and Caelyx unravel whatever poor boy or girl you’ve brought along with you, smiling lazy kisses into Rhalla’s mouth as eyes roll back and gasps ring through your ears.
But the image of Caelyx’s hands in Aerion’s hair, or Vaella’s laugh caught beneath his mouth, the idea of distracting yourself with Rhalla while hands slide against skin that you have bruised and scratched, does not amuse you, and does not feel easy. If anything, it irritates. The thought settles wrong, tastes all bitter and unwelcome, and something ugly and hot spreads through your chest when you think of anyone being able to have Aerion as you’ve had him—panting against your skin, face flushed and lips swollen, nails digging into thighs and hips as he clings to you. You are the only one allowed to unravel him.
Caelyx watches you closely, far more perceptive than he lets on. “Oh,” he breathes softly.
You snap your gaze to him. “Oh, what?”
He smirks into his wine. “Nothing.”
“So?” Vaella presses. “Can you convince him? I doubt he’ll entertain it unless it comes from you.”
You like that, at least. The idea that you’re the only one who would be able to convince him to do something, that the effect you have on him is known throughout Lys. He is yours, you decide—you have decided since the moment you met him—and now, you decide you will share everything, but not him. Aerion is not the only one with dragon blood, you reason, yours is as ancient and purer than his, so it’s understandable that you, too, are a territorial little thing when it comes to the things you decide are yours, even if they are far and few between.
“I don’t share dragons,” you say lightly, as though it’s a joke, but it is not a joke. You will not share Aerion, and if they know what’s good for them, they’ll drop the subject in earnest. You take a slow sip of wine, buying yourself a second to shove away that ugly feeling that surfaced a few moments ago. “They are temperamental creatures. You saw how he almost broke Valerion’s wrist a couple of weeks ago,” you continue smoothly, trying to play it off. “Best not to provoke him unnecessarily.”
Rhalla lowers her hands, peeking at you. “You mean he would get jealous?”
“I mean,” you correct, “he would set something alight for an imagined offense, and I should hate for it to be one of my favorite girls.”
Vaella and Rhalla laugh, delighted by the idea of you being protective over them, but Caelyx does not—he is not tricked by the lie that slips from your mouth too easily.
He watches you over the rim of his cup, assessing, as though he’s just recalculated the odds on something far more interesting than morning wagers. You squint your eyes at him, and he winks at you, far too knowing for his own good. Before you can change the subject, a familiar face barges into the Perfumed Garden, smeared with dirt and grime, small fingers quick as he swipes two coins off a nearby table.
“He’s coming!” your most dutiful little soldier, Malen, cries, gaze snapping to the berries on the table in front of you. “From the searoad!”
“Do not even think about it, you little rat,” Vaella says furiously, throwing herself off the couch to chase the child when he grabs the whole bowl of fruit. “Bring those back this instant!”
“Vaella, wait!” Rhalla cries as she chases after her older sister, leaving you and Caelyx alone in the sitting room. Silence settles in their wake, punctured only by Vaella’s indignant shriek echoing down the corridor and Malen’s triumphant laughter.
Caelyx studies you for a long moment, expression contemplative. “In the five years you have been here, you have never cared enough to keep anything from us before,” he notes absently, fingers tapping against the goblet of wine he poured for himself. “I did not think things between you and the dragon prince were so… serious.”
You scoff instinctively, looking away. “Do not make poetry of it. It is not serious,” you say immediately, gaze slipping over to the window as the sun begins its descent through the sky. “We amuse one another, that is all.”
“Is it?” Caelyx drawls, clearly doubting you, and you give him a flinty look in response. He only raises his brows innocently. “If it is no more than amusement, you would not object to another providing him with the same.”
Your gaze snaps back to him, lips pressed together, and he smiles faintly into his wine.
You rise in a rustle of silk, brushing imaginary dust from your skirts as though the matter bores you. You drop a handful of coins onto the table to replace the ones that Malen stole for himself. “You grow tedious.”
“So I have been told,” he replies mildly. When you turn to leave, he asks quietly, “Will you follow him?”
You pause, the question hanging heavy in the air, shoulders stiff and body tense. Follow him?
“When he is called back across the Narrow Sea,” Caelyx continues, voice softer now, and you are glad that your back is to him, because he can’t see the way your face immediately twists, “as he will be—sooner or later. When his father tires of punishing him. When Westeros demands its prince. Will you sail west with him?”
You blink once, lips parting as you glance over your shoulder to stare at him for a moment, suddenly feeling as though there’s a pit in your stomach.
When he goes back—
You scoff, too quickly. “That is none of your concern, Caelyx,” you say, though your voice sounds thinner than you intend. “You presume too much.”
He inclines his head, unoffended. “As you say, my lady. I speak only out of care.”
“I have no need of it,” you snap. “Keep your care for your ledgers and your wagers.”
Caelyx sighs and says something in response that you don’t quite catch as you leave the Perfumed Garden, heart suddenly lodged terribly in your throat.
—————————
Aerion doesn’t find you that day, and you are not waiting for him in his chambers when he returns to Vyrano’s manse. Instead, you spend the rest of the day at the cliff’s edge on the eastern tip of the island, staring out into the distant horizon, where you know Volantis lies.
What will you do when he goes back?
Realistically, you know that Aerion will eventually be going back to Westeros. You did not need Caelyx to remind you. You pried around after Aerion’s arrival in Lys to figure out what he did to get himself exiled. You learned about the Trial of the Seven and his uncle Baelor. Aerion was reckless and foolish, but he did not intentionally kill his uncle, nor did he mean for the gods to answer as they did—not really, at least.
From what you gathered in whispers traded for coin and kisses, the Trial had been meant as spectacle—anger erupting too violently, pride too wounded to let some hedge knight’s insult pass unchallenged. Aerion accused, the Crown Prince Baelor stood, steel clashed, blood spilt. The gods chose their victor, and in doing so, they left Aerion Brightflame with a corpse on his hands and a father who could not even bear to look at him.
It was reckless, and it was foolish, but recklessness and foolishness do not cause a prince of the blood to be permanently exiled. It causes distance, a father who will send his son away until tempers settle and whispers dull. Aerion is tenth in line, but he is still in line, still dragon-blood. His exile is humiliation, not disinheritance. One summons from King’s Landing and he will board a ship without hesitation, dressed in leathers instead of silk, sword at his hip, chin high as though he had never been cast aside at all.
Unlike you.
You are Old Blood of Volantis. Your exile is not humiliation; it is mercy, and it is permanent. You were not sent away to cool your temper, nor to be forgotten just long enough that the scandal attached to your name would dull. You were sent away because the only other option was execution.
In two weeks, you’ll have been here for five years. Five years of playing at indifference, at decadence, at being unbothered. Five years of telling yourself that exile is simply a different kind of freedom, that the island is gilded enough to distract from what you lost. You had almost become used to the dull monotony of your life when he showed up.
Aerion was never meant to be more than another distraction, and yet, he will become the worst punishment of all, you think bitterly.
You have never allowed yourself to want for permanence. You learned that lesson years ago, when your life was stolen in one fell swoop, when your world shifted from black walls and marble palaces, blood and blade and fire, a promised future of power and glory, to summer breeze and sands, incense and pillows and silk, boredom and tedium and a life of nothingness. If you get accustomed to something, it can be taken away from you, and this world will take it away from you, so it is best not to rely on anything.
So, you learned to want for moments instead—sharp, bright, fleeting things that could not be used against you. A kiss stolen in a garden. A secret traded for coin. A night that leaves scratches and bruises and no promises. Never promises, never a future.
Aerion was meant to be one of those things, and yet, you have allowed him to become a future you cannot stop imagining.
You hate that.
Because he will go back. Whether it is in a moon or a year or five, a prince of the blood will not rot in Lys forever. Westeros may spit on him and whisper mad behind his back, but it is still his home. His father will tire of proving a point, or a war will need him, or a marriage will be arranged.
Something will pull him west again.
And you—you will stay east.
You will wake half past dawn and wander rooftops and collect secrets and drink wine and let the island call you its precious Volantene jewel. You will build a life out of silk and rumors and carefully practiced indifference. And you will not have a dragon prince to chase you around the island, will not spend your nights in his bed, will not wake to a familiar ache between your thighs or his body pressed to yours.
His life will continue on—he will find a wife and forget all about the time he spent in Lys, look back on it as humiliation, as shame—and you will still be here. You will wake up every morning, and you will look east to Volantis, and you will look west to him; and you will evade sleep in fear of his face joining the ones that already haunt your dreams.
Your shoulders slump as you look down at the waves crashing against rocks below, feet dangling in open air.
You have always known that this would be how it ends, and yet, you cannot push away the heaviness that weighs on your chest now. A part of you wonders if you were better off not indulging at all, that maybe you’ve done this to yourself, and you were a fool for allowing yourself to become accustomed to someone who was never going to stay. You told yourself that you were not afraid of being burned, but now you fear whether you’ll survive him at all.
You stop yourself before your thoughts can spiral further, tilting your face up as the sea breeze whips through your hair. It is too late to change the past, and you don’t think you would even if you could.
After all, who wouldn’t prefer a taste of fire—even knowing it will one day soon burn out—to a lifetime of ash?
—————————
Hours later, your feet touch down on the wide balcony outside Aerion’s chambers without a sound. You lean over the stone railing just enough to confirm that none of Vyrano’s guards have noticed your climb, but they’ve retreated beneath canopies and broad leaves to escape the drizzle misting over the manse. A summer storm is nigh, but you have a mission to complete.
You slip through the curtain and into the room, carefully drawing it closed behind you. The stone floor is cool beneath your bare feet as you cross the room, moving instinctively through the darkness toward his bed.
He lies sprawled across the mattress, still in the silks he wore all day, as though exhaustion claimed him before pride could insist he undress. One arm is thrown above his head, and the other rests across his abdomen; the Valyrian steel at his throat gleams faintly in the light of the moon.
You sit on the edge of his bed, gaze tracing over his face.
He looks younger like this. Softer.
Silver hair spills across the pillow in disarray, long lashes brushing his cheeks. His mouth is slightly parted, breath slow and even—without the tension that perpetually coils beneath his skin, he appears almost at peace.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and before you can stop yourself, you lift your hand to trace your fingers lightly across his face—his eyebrows, beneath his eye, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. They twitch slightly beneath your touch as he stirs, lashes fluttering slightly.
“Aerion,” you say quietly, watching as he blinks blearily, amethyst clouded with sleep and confusion as he tries to place where he is, and then where you are. Just as recognition starts to slip onto his face, you lean in to brush your lips against his ear. “Catch me.”
He blinks up at you again once as your words register, and before they fully do, you push off the bed and race back toward the balcony. For half a second, he is still caught between sleep and waking, staring at you as though you’re something conjured from a dream.
Then, the words land.
Awareness sharpens his expression, confusion dissolving into focus in the span of a breath. His fingers flex against the sheets as he pushes himself into a sitting position, and by the time you reach the railing and swing one leg over, he is already on his feet.
“Do not dare—” he starts, voice still rough with sleep.
You grin at him. “Too slow,” you sing, and then drop to the lower ledge, landing lightly on the tiled roof.
The drizzle has turned the tiles slick, but you know this roof well—this isn’t the first time you’ve snuck across Magister Vyrano’s manse, much to the man’s displeasure, so you quickly make your way across the building.
Behind you, the curtain is flung aside, and Aerion appears on the balcony, barefoot and clothes askew, hair disheveled, silks rumpled, eyes blazing now with something far more awake than before. Excitement bubbles in your chest, heat in your stomach—you’ve never played at an open chase with him like this before.
You let out a wild laugh and run, ignoring the guards who stir below, unsure of what they just heard over the howling wind.
You dart across the curved tiles, over the archway that connects the wings of the manse, down the sloping roofline toward the garden wall. The rain kisses your skin, cool and pleasant, and your cheeks ache from smiling when you hear him land behind you, heavier, but no less sure-footed.
“You are insufferable,” he shouts after you, vaulting over the archway you danced over, trying to catch up to you. “It is the middle of the night, and the gods themselves rage above us. I will not be made a fool for your games.”
“You are already playing, prince! Admit defeat or catch me!” you shout back over the wind, leaping down the garden wall to the low outcropping on the opposite side, scrambling down the rocky incline that leads toward the western cliffs. Behind you, he swears viciously when he realizes you’re not doubling back toward the manse.
“You are going to break your neck,” he says, voice tighter now as he looks at the path ahead. You glance at him and grin when you see the pinched expression on his face as he looks down at the rapidly narrowing path, as though wondering how he managed to get himself in this situation.
“Worry about yourself,” you toss back, taking off down the half-hidden path.
The rain has made the stone treacherous, but you push yourself faster when you hear him gaining on you. You take the last turn too quickly, slipping slightly on wet stone, but you recover quickly. The path becomes more dangerous as it hugs the cliffside, carved by time into something only the reckless would attempt in the dark.
He stops short at the edge of the path you turned onto and says, “Absolutely not.”
“Do not be a coward,” you taunt, continuing down. “Or are you going to admit defeat, prince?”
Aerion bares his teeth at you furiously. “I yield to no one,” he says coldly—and then follows.
He shuffles along the narrow carve out in the cliff. You stay in place for a moment, letting him draw close enough so that you can hear the difference in his breathing, before you continue onward. He’s too focused on trying not to fall to the rocks below to make snide comments now.
“You are not invincible,” he snaps. “Slow your pace.”
“I will not,” you sing, unable to keep the laughter from your voice.
The wind gusts hard, spraying rain and seawater across your skin, and you let out another laugh as Aerion spits out another vile curse. Lightning flickers faintly somewhere far out at sea, illuminating the jagged outline of the cliffs before plunging you both back into shadow.
You reach the final drop, and the treacherous path widens into a smooth stretch of pale sand tucked between towering stone walls. You jump the last few feet, landing lightly and straightening as the world opens up around you. The cove is cradled by rock, and beyond the narrow mouth of it, the storm churns the open sea into a violent frenzy, waves crashing white against jagged stone, thunder rolling in the distance, but here within the shelter of the cliffs, the water lies calm and dark, rippling gently as though unaware of the chaos beyond it.
You turn as Aerion clears the drop behind you, hitting the sand harder than you did. He straightens slowly, taking in the sudden quiet, the way the sea seems to bow its head within the protection of the stone, rain blocked by the formation overhead, and his irritation falters.
“What in the seven hells was that about?” he demands, though his voice lowers. “Where have you brought me?”
“My favorite place,” you say simply, giving him a teasing smile, slipping off the silks you wear as you walk backwards toward the water. Aerion’s eyes widen, gaze slipping down to your body as you carelessly toss your clothes to the side, stepping back into the cool water. “I thought you were going to catch me.”
Aerion doesn’t move at first, standing at the edge of the sand, chest rising and falling, rain slicking his hair back from his face. His gaze drags slowly from your shoulders to your chest, your hips, as you wade deeper, the calm tide curling around your thighs, then your hips.
“You are shameless,” he says quietly. “Impudent.”
“And you are hesitating,” you reply lightly, taking another step backward. The water reaches your waist now. You tilt your head to the side with a teasing smile. “I thought you did not yield to anyone. Will you admit defeat?”
His jaw tightens slightly at that. “I will not.”
“Then why are you just standing there?”
He exhales once through his nose, then reaches for the laces at his throat. His movements are unhurried, gaze locked on yours as he loosens them before he pulls the damp silk over his head, revealing pale skin and toned muscle, and tosses it aside with yours. He does away with the rest of his clothes until he stands at the edge of the water, rain still sliding down his skin.
You raise your eyebrows at him, lips curving up, and he rolls his eyes before making his way to you, wading through the water, closing the distance swiftly. Your breath catches as he reaches out to grab your waist, pulling your body flush to his. Your blood still runs hot from the chase, and you slink your arms around his neck and press your lips to his, lips sliding together slowly, legs instinctively wrapping around his narrow hips.
“You delight in goading me,” he murmurs against your lips as his hands slide down to your thighs, holding you up with ease in the water.
“You have known that since the day we met,” you reply, sighing into his mouth as he rolls your bottom lip between his teeth. You think you could kiss him forever and never tire of it—his lips are soft and taste faintly of fresh berries and walnuts. His tongue drags against the roof of your mouth, and your eyes slide shut as your body shivers pleasantly.
“You avoided me all day today,” he notes—an accusation, even if not spoken as one. He nudges his nose against your jaw, beckoning you to bare your neck for him, and you do, humming as he begins to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck.
“I did,” you confirm, and he’s not pleased with your answer from the way his teeth press against your skin in warning, threatening to bite down if you do not explain. “I was thinking.”
“I did not think you capable,” he says with a sharp smile, and you snort, kicking your heel into the small of his back, but the water softens the blow. “What occupied that treacherous mind of yours?”
You hesitate, gaze flicking up to the stone formation above that shields the cove from the rain outside. You don’t know if you want to tell him what was bothering you—no, that’s a lie, you know that you do not want to tell him what was bothering you. He doesn’t need to know that you have grown accustomed to him, doesn’t need to know you dread the day he leaves. It is easier if things stay as they have been.
He doesn't need to know anything, you decide.
“Nothing of consequence,” you reply after a moment, and Aerion pauses where he’s kissing down your throat, clearly catching the lie. Before he can accuse you of it, you run your fingers through his damp hair and pull his face from your neck, pressing your lips to his again briefly before brushing them to his ear. “Jaelan ao iemnȳ nyke, dārilaros.”
I want you inside me, prince.
Aerion shudders, and you catch the whites of his eyes as you drag your nails up his spine, rolling your hips slowly against his, water rippling around the two of you as his cock slides between your folds, tip pressing against your hole, but he doesn’t push in. You hum as you swipe your tongue along his lips teasingly before kissing down the line of his jaw.
“Gaomagon daor mazverdagon nyke umbagon,” you continue, teeth grazing his jaw before you nip gently.
Do not make me wait.
“Hae ao vēttan nyke umbagon mirre tubis?” he counters, raising his eyebrows slightly, turning his face toward you again, nose nudging yours, lips brushing as he speaks.
As you made me wait all day?
Your lips part, lashes fluttering when you feel his tip breach your entrance, but he pushes no deeper than that, and his grip on your waist is too tight for you to pull him in further.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you let out a soft moan into his mouth when he sinks in half an inch deeper, stretching your walls. The burn is pleasant and familiar, and your body aches for more. Your legs tighten around his waist, thighs tensing as you try to pull his hips flush to yours, but he’s stronger than you, holding you in place.
“Skori gōntan ao jiōragon sīr bēmagon?” you complain, breath shuddering against his lips as you nip at them once, twice, three times before sucking his bottom lip into your mouth.
When did you get so patient?
Too smugly, he replies, “Eman va moriot issare bēmagon.”
I have always been patient.
You huff against his lips, and when he lets his guard down, your hands drop down into the water to swipe his hands off your thighs. Unsuspecting of the sudden attack, he takes half a second too long to regain purchase on your thighs, and you take the opportunity to pull him deeper, until his tip presses so deep in your cunt that you see stars. The abrupt stretch and burn make you cry out, nails digging into his back, and he hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Impudent,” he spits, but the word comes out too breathy, hitching against your skin as you roll your hips. “Mēre tubis, kesan bodmagho ao rigle.”
One day, I will teach you proper respect.
“Naenie emagon sylutan,” you purr, pulling his face from your shoulder just to see his eyes flash at your words.
Many have tried.
You lean in to kiss him again, slower, deeper, lashes fluttering shut. Your eyes knock back slightly as you begin to rock your hips at a steady pace, relishing in the drag of his length against your walls.
Something twists in your chest as he kisses you back, his fingers digging into your thighs, but only to help you move against him, fucking you slow on his cock. This is different from all the other many times the two of you have lain together—there is no blood or bruises, no fight for dominance, this is… intimate, you realize, letting out a shuddered breath into his mouth.
So intimate that it makes you dizzy, beneath the moonlight, in the peace of your cove, waist deep in the water, the sound of storm raging around you, unable to touch the two of you. You are only making this harder for yourself—you know that—but your legs tighten around him, and you let out a noise close to a whimper into his mouth before you pull back slightly to look at him.
He’s already looking at you, and your breath catches at the sight of him—the amethyst of his eyes are slivers around his wide pupils, half-glazed over, a flush high on his cheeks as his gaze traces your face, lips wet and swollen from your kisses. Inexplicably, your mind draws back to Vaella, and Rhalla, and Caelyx, and irrationally, you think you might kill anyone else who gets to see him like this.
“Ñuhon,” you murmur, hands sliding from where they’re tangled in his damp hair to cradle his face. He stares up at you, lips parted slightly, so uncharacteristically docile that it makes your chest twist painfully. You will lose him one day—any day—it could be tomorrow, a fortnight from now, a moon. This is borrowed time, and you feel it now more than ever. “Iksā ñuhon.”
Mine. You are mine.
Usually, it’s enough to snap him out of whatever pleasure-induced haze he’s put himself in, but this time, you only feel him shudder, cock twitching inside of you. You kiss him again. Again. Again. You move your hips faster, and you kiss him harder, desperate to fuck away all thoughts of losing him.
He is yours—whether he admits it or not, he wears proof of it around his neck, on his skin, in the way he looks at you and the way he touches you. You will lose him one day, but you’ve cemented your place in his memory with what he wears around his throat, and you will somehow have to find solace in that.
“Iksan aōhon. Iksā ñuhon,” you say against his lips, panting now, abdomen tensing, grip on his face tightening as familiar pinpricks spread through your body. You steal another kiss, breath hitching into something close to a whine as you fuck yourself faster on his cock. “Ivestragon ziry. Ivestragon ziry!”
I am yours. You are mine. Say it. Say it!
Aerion lets out a low moan into your mouth, jaw falling half slack, lashes fluttering, barely able to hold his eyes open. You squeeze his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“Say it,” you insist again, one hand sliding down to the Valyrian steel he wears around his throat.
You feel yourself on the edge, fighting tipping over each time his tip presses deep into that spongy spot inside of you. Dots dance in your vision, and your nails dig into his skin as you desperately try to ground yourself, not wanting to finish until you hear him say it.
“I—Iksan aōhon. Iksā ñuhon,” he rasps, lips seeking yours as his grip on your thighs tightens, pulling youdown faster, hips snapping up into you, fucking you impossibly deeper. He will deny it later, you know it, but now, he kisses you messily, half-panting into your mouth, nails biting your skin. The next noise that leaves him is closer to a whine as his teeth bite into your lower lip. He repeats, “Iksan aōhon. Iksā ñuhon.”
I am yours. You are mine.
“Hah—” you gasp, back arching into him, head tossed back as the words drive you right over the edge.
He holds you tight as you fall apart in his arms, on his cock, one hand pressed flat to the small of your back, keeping you arched against him, the other wrapped around your shoulders. He rests his forehead against your cheek as he lets out a choked moan, hips stuttering and stilling against yours, finishing deep inside you.
The two of you stay like that for a long while, wrapped around one another, panting, trembling, water rippling around you, and storm raging outside the cove. Your fingers drag through his hair absently, nails scratching his scalp, the nape of his neck, relishing in the way he shudders. He hums, kissing lazily up your neck.
“Bring me to the sand,” you sigh, pressing your face into his silver hair, eyes sliding shut as he wades out of the water with you latched to him. His grip on you tightens without the water to share your weight, biceps tensing as he sets you down into the sand, dropping to sit next to you.
Your gaze shifts over to him, watching as he looks out to the storm raging outside the cove. He asks dryly, “Was this your play this whole time then? Lure the exiled prince somewhere isolated. Distract him. Drown him in a hidden cove where no one would think to look.”
You laugh, lying back against the soft sand, turning your head to the side to look at him. He follows after you, an unreadable expression on his face as violet eyes study you carefully.
“Do you still think I’m plotting to kill you?” you ask, amused.
He considers it for a moment. “No,” he finally says. “If you wanted me dead, I would already be dead.”
“True,” you agree pleasantly, shifting closer to rest your head on his shoulder. He stiffens for a second, as he always does when you draw near after fucking, but then he slides his arm around you awkwardly. His grip is too tight, even when he’s trying to be gentle, but you prefer it this way. You find comfort in the sting of his nails and the dull press of his fingers into your skin, proof that he is solid and real and here, even if only for now. “Well, I did not bring you here to kill you.”
“Why then?” he asks after a moment, and you pause, smile slipping off your lips.
Why then?
Why bring him to the one place that’s ever felt like it belonged to you? Why taint one of the few places you have left that haven’t been permanently stained with the memory of him? Why, why, why? Why are you doing this to yourself?
“Why not?” you ask casually instead. You can feel his gaze on you, not convinced by your simple answer. So you hum, tracing your fingers along his abdomen, relishing in the way his stomach instinctively flexes beneath your touch. “I do not have a reason for most things I do. I just do them because I feel like it.”
“That is a lie,” he scoffs, nails digging crescents into your skin as he shifts to lay more comfortably. “You have a reason for everything you do. You are much more conniving than you let on.”
You laugh against his skin, but you don’t disagree. You say after a moment, voice deceptively even, “Some of the girls at the Perfumed Garden want you to come with me.”
Aerion pauses and then echoes, “Come with you?”
“They want me to share you,” you explain, tilting your face up to look at his, catching the pinched expression he wears. “They want to know what our resident dragon prince is like in bed.”
Aerion clicks his tongue. “I am not interested,” he says flatly.
Something warm settles in your chest. “Why not?” you press. “They’re good girls. They’d please you well.”
His gaze cuts down to you, irritated. “Must you make me repeat myself? I have no interest in being passed around like some Lyseni whore,” he says, voice sharp. And then his lips quirk up into a smirk. “Especially when I have my own personal one to service me whenever I please.”
“Ah, so I’ve gone from an island whore to the dragon prince’s very own personal one,” you snort. “How generous of you to elevate me so highly.”
“I am a generous prince,” he agrees. “You should be more appreciative.”
Your lips curl up into a smile that you hide against his chest. “Well, I tried my most ardently to convince you,” you sigh. “The girls will have to settle for disappointment.”
“I do not care about your girls,” he says dismissively. Then, he pauses, fingers stilling from where they were scratching lightly along your back. Aerion is always temperamental—prone to fickle mood swings and capricious behavior—but usually, he’s more docile after the two of you have fucked, so you don’t expect the sudden switch. His voice is tight as he asks, voice clipped, “You still go to them?”
“Hm?” you question, gaze flicking up, but he’s not looking at you now, staring above at the rock formation shielding the two of you from the rain. “What do you mean?”
“Do not play the fool,” he says, voice suddenly sharp. “You know what I am asking.”
You hesitate, searching his face, catching the tightness in his jaw and the way he stares pointedly above. He is jealous, you realize—bothered by the fact that you might still want whores while having him.
Territorial little thing, you think fondly.
You say honestly, “I have not gone to them since having you.”
“You expect me to believe that?” he scoffs. “You just admitted to—”
“I do not go to them for that,” you explain, sliding your palm up the flat planes of his stomach, soothingly. “For whispers and rumors, yes, but not for that.”
“Do not interrupt me, and do not pet me like some distressed beast,” he mutters petulantly, but you feel the tension ease from his body. You see him give you a careful look from the corner of his eye, as though evaluating your honesty. He finally lets out a “Hm,” and looks away.
“And you?” you press. “Do you still go to them?”
He sneers and asks, “Are you slow?”
“I’m only curious,” you hum, ghosting your lips against his chest before shooting an innocent expression up to him. His expression hardens, and you smile faintly. “Humor me.”
“No,” he says, voice cold and flat. You had expected as much, but hearing him say it out loud makes your chest warm. He doesn’t like admitting it, though, because you can feel him bristling. “As I said, I do not need to waste my time finding a whore who will please me when I already have one.” His hand slides up to your face, grabbing your cheeks to crane your neck up to him. You raise your eyebrows at him. “I told you. You are mine. Mine to claim, mine to keep, mine to fuck, mine to ruin, should I please. I do not need another woman—I have claimed you as mine. I need not look elsewhere.”
“The pinnacle of romance,” you say with an easy smile as his thumb rolls your bottom lip. You nip it, and then add, “And you are mine, or will you throw another tantrum at the prospect of it?”
Aerion scoffs. “I did not throw a tantrum,” he snaps, but there’s no heat in his eyes when he feels your fingers trace over the Valyrian steel you gifted him, back up his throat to his face. “I am a dragon. I belong to no one.”
“Naturally,” you say, but you’re smiling lightly because it sounds more obligatory than true. You agree blasely, “You are a dragon. You belong to no one.” He squints at you, waiting for the catch, and you wait long enough for him to let the suspicion leave his eyes before you add, “Besides your rider, of course.”
Aerion bares his teeth at you, snapping at your finger irritably when it lingers on his lip, and you laugh, delighted, trailing it over his throat, feeling it bob beneath your touch, before sliding back down to his chest.
“I only jest,” you complain.
“You and I both know you do not,” he hisses, but your lips curve up slightly when you see how his eyes droop as he lets out a deep breath—he is tired, though fighting it with sheer force of will and pride.
You lean up to brush your lips against his jaw before settling your head back on his shoulder, and his hand slides down to your waist, nails dragging lightly against your skin. You let your fingers drift lazily down to his chest again, tracing the faint lines of muscle there, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm. He watches the movement closely, eyes half-lidded now, exhaustion finally creeping past pride.
“You are tired,” you observe quietly.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
His lips press thin. “You dragged me across rooftops and down a cliff in a storm.”
“I did not drag you,” you protest, but you’re smiling. “You chased.”
“You provoked,” he counters, and then his body betrays him with a yawn. He repeats immediately, “I am not tired.”
“Naturally,” you say, amused, fingers tracing down to his abdomen, lower, lower, until his hand darts out to grab your wrist, giving you a withering look. You smile innocently, and he scowls.
“You presume too much,” he mutters half-heartedly. “I let you get away with far more than you deserve.”
“Oh? And what do I deserve?” you ask teasingly.
You hear him fighting another yawn as he murmurs, “Your tongue is too sharp. I might see it removed.”
“You have threatened that before,” you concede, “but now that you’ve witnessed its many talents firsthand, would you truly deprive yourself?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Do not be so vulgar.”
“You started it.”
“I threatened punishment,” he corrects dryly. “That is different.”
You hum. “And what other punishments does the dragon prince dispense when provoked?”
His fingers slide up and down the length of your body absently, nails scratching faint lines into your skin that disappear swiftly. You can hear the exhaustion in his voice as he speaks. “Confinement. Perhaps I would lock you somewhere high and out of reach until you learned to behave.”
“Thank goodness I’m a skilled climber.”
“Then I would chain you.”
“I might enjoy that.”
“You are intolerable.”
You laugh, eyes sliding shut as you sink into him, letting yourself rest too. After a moment, you ask quietly, “How long do you intend to keep me then?”
He sighs, unable to fight the yawn this time as he replies sluggishly. “However long I please.”
Until you leave? you want to ask, uncertainty spreading through you again as sleep draws near, but you can feel his breath evening out as he finally dozes off, and you decide against it. You lift your head from his shoulder to press your lips to his jaw again.
It is only once you’re certain he’s fallen asleep that you allow yourself to say softly, “Nyke zūgagon se tubis iksā laodigon hen nyke.”
Summary: Fueled by the betrayal of your betrothed, you tumble into bed with the worst person you can think of- Aerion of House Targaryen. Whilst you may see it as a one time mistake, Aerion Brightflame does not.
Warnings: 18+, cheating (not by Aerion), vaginal fingering, Aerion calls reader a whore, biting with blood, slightly oc Aerion?, blood play, canon divergence, obsessive behaviour, slight dub-con, loss of virginity, hunting, canon typical violence, vaginal sex, no protection, unedited
Word Count: 10k+
targaryen masterlist
The air in the corridor was cooler than usual. With a shiver, you tucked your hands under your armpits after checking that you were quite alone, and began to make your way to the hall for dinner.
Ashford Meadows was different to your home. Grayer, colder, busier. It seemed an unusual time to hold a tourney until you had found out it was Lady Gwin Ashford’s birthday. Lord Ashford himself had invited your family down to join in on the celebrations and your elder brother, Leon, had been eager to join the lists.
It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.
And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.
You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.
The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.
Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.
You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.
Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.
With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.
At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.
You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.
“Oh, Owen, please!”
You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.
You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.
You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.
“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”
Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.
You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.
After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.
A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.
You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.
It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.
Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.
It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?
Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.
He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.
“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”
Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?
“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”
Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.
“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.
You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.
“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”
Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.
You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.
Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.
The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.
What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.
Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?
There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.
You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.
As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.
Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.
The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.
When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.
Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.
Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.
You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.
The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.
The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.
Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.
Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.
He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.
“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.
You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.
Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.
“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”
Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?
You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.
Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.
Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.
“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”
“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”
You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.
Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.
Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.
It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?
Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.
The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.
“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”
You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”
Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.
And then you bit down. Hard.
Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.
You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.
He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.
“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”
You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?
“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.
It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.
Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.
This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.
Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.
“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”
You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.
Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.
His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.
He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.
Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.
You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.
If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.
With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.
His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”
You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.
Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.
The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.
Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.
The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.
When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.
Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.
Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!
As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.
You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.
Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.
“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”
“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”
Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.
A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.
You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.
Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.
You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.
“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”
“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”
You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?
“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.
Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”
“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”
The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.
He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.
Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.
You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?
It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .
You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.
Aerion arrived first.
You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.
Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.
Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.
The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.
“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”
He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.
Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.
You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.
“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.
Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.
Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.
Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.
Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.
Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.
Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.
One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.
After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.
Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.
Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.
You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.
At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.
Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.
Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.
“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.
The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.
Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.
For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.
Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.
You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.
The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.
Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.
Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.
You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.
After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.
No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.
Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.
One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.
Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.
Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.
On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.
He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.
After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.
Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.
Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.
You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.
Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.
“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”
You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.
Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.
The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.
You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.
The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“
“But I have need of you.”
You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.
“I’ll scream,” you warned him.
“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.
He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.
You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.
Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.
Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”
“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.
Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”
“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”
Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”
“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”
You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.
Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.
“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”
“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”
“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.
“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.
Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.
He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”
It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”
“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”
You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.
You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”
Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.
When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.
One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.
Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”
He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.
Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.
Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.
You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.
You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“
“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”
All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.
You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.
Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.
“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”
With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.
Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.
Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.
No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.
At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.
On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.
You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed.
You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.
Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.
The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.
Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.
You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”
“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.
“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.
He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.
“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.
Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.
It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.
Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.
Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”
Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”
Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.
“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.
Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?
When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.
“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”
You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.
He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”
He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.
“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”
Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.
There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.
Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.
Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.
Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.
You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.
Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.
You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.
Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.
Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.
“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”
His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.
It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.
You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.
“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.
“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“
“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”
You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.”
“Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.”
“My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.
“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”
“My father would not make me –“
“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”
“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”
“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.
“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”
a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it
I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated
