I want him to flip me over on my belly and hike my legs up so he could get a perfect view of my ass so he could bully his cock into my throbbing hole, and I’ll moan when I squirt and squelch around his length while he whispers how good of a slut I’m being while pounding into me, rattling the bedframe, making the wood creak and groan while he fucks a baby into me, grunting and biting into my neck while his length dissapears into my cunt again and again. But he’s gonna whine too when he’s close, panting in my ear and whimpering lust-dazed phrases “please my love-nngh– m’close just—” and then he’ll cum in my cunt, and he’ll cum so much that it’ll spill out and run down my thighs AND HE’S NOT DONE—
SECOND ROUND!!
He’s gonna flip himself on his back and mount me on him. “Ride the dragon,” he would say, and my cunny clenches around nothing, even when I’m still sensitive. He’ll grin, still rock hard and waiting, and sink me onto his thick cock. We’ll both moan from the stretch and squeeze of it, but he’s not gonna move. Not yet. Cause he wants to make me wait for making him cum so fast in the first round. And it is AGONIZING. I’ll grind up against him to get some relief, but it just makes it worse and makes me needier.
And he’ll relent until I plead and whine for him to fill me up all over again, humping his strong thigh while his cock brushes the spot that makes my vision spotty. Then he moves, slow at first, “C’mon, darling, help me out,” he says while holding my hips so I could move in time with his slow thrusts. And I do because I’m a needy horny freak; he’ll roll his eyes because I’m being lazy about it, and he would deliver a sharp thrust into my swollen pussy, and a small high-pitched whine would bubble out of my throat. And THEN he would start moving, I think I see the heavens with every thrust of his cock into my creamy cunt, our mixed fluids thick and heavy as he bounces me on his length. And then I’ll cum on him, and it’ll flood out in spurts around his cock, but he keeps going until he reaches his release. And that is even more than what he fucked into me before because I kept calling him my dragon whenever he would deliver a very deep thrust into my pussy.
And then we’re done.
And he’ll hold me close and bite my shoulder lovingly until we both fall asleep on each other while he’s still buried inside me, blessing a child to grow inside my stuffed cunt ;D
He’s lazy about it at first, kissing and nipping at my clit and muttering loving praises while he’s high off his ass. But he gets into it pretty quickly; those leisurely licks and sucks turn into the best oral I have ever received.
Even when he’s sober, that man will devour me until my thighs shake and I’m dripping down his chin and he’s still slurping up my juices like I’m his only water source for miles. Moaning and groaning loudly because my thighs are squished around his pretty face, and he’s getting hornier, so he’s humping the mattress to relieve the heavy bulge in his shorts. But that’s not working now, is it?
So when I finally cum after he was tounge-fucking my pussy, lapping me up until there’s nothing left, sitting back on his heels and wiping his chin. And after taking a quick break, he gets on top of me, and I could clearly see the growing erection, palming himself before dragging down his shorts and boxers and kicking them somewhere in the room. And God, he’s got a pretty dick. Already leaking and big.
“Plan B?” I nod, and he’s crawling on top of me, spreading my legs wider with his knee until he is snug between my thighs and his length is pressed against my aching cunt because this is making me wet all over again. He discards his shirt and dives down to kiss me, poking his tongue into my mouth so I could taste myself, salty and sweet. He positions himself at my entrance and eases in slowly; he’s high and horny, and this is the best day of his life as far as he knows. He just ate me out, and now he’s gonna fuck me into the mattress. The thought alone makes his hips jerk into mine, and I gasp.
He kisses all over my face and down my chest, sucking one of my tits while groping the other. Then he starts moving, speeding up as he goes, stretching me and whispering sweet things into my ear, “Good girl.” “That’s my girl.” “Yeah baby, juuuust like that.” “Oh, you’re bein’ s’good f’me baby.”
And my cunt clenches because I love praise, he brings his thumb down to rub my clit, and I cum again on his dick while moaning like a bitch in heat. He quiets me with simple kisses, but he’s still moving inside me; the slick noises of my pulsing pussy spurred him on, but he holds himself back. “Where?” because he’s afraid Plan B won’t do the trick, I tell him on my belly. And I felt him grow thicker inside me before pulling out and spurting on my stomach, warm and sticky ropes of seed paint my belly. He pants and collapses on top of me, kissing my chest and the hickies he left as he was fucking me, muttering shaky ‘I love you’ and ‘My pretty girl, doing so good.’ until we both fall asleep.
Guys I'm really sorry. My life is in a rut so the updates on the fanfic will be scarce but trust me, it will be done sooner or later. I really am sorry. Love you all, thanks for the support! Xoxo- angel
Aerion Targaryen x photographer! reader (Modern F1 AU!)
The paddock was louder than you expected and smaller than it looked on TV.
You moved through it with your press badge hanging around your neck, your camera already up, already working. You didn't let yourself gawk. That was rule one you’d made for yourself the second you stepped through the gate: you're here to shoot, not to stare.
The garages were open-mouthed and roaring, mechanics swarming over machines with the focused efficiency of surgeons. You kept to the edges, reading the light, watching the way it fell in hard angles through the awnings. Industrial and strange and beautiful, if you knew where to look.
You shifted your camera bag higher onto your shoulder before stepping into the Baratheon paddock.
A couple of days before this, you decided to research Lyonel Baratheon to make sure what he said was legit.
Turns out Lyonel was a huge sponsor for a very wealthy racing team. Antlers printed on the sides of cars, he was very profitable and very forthcoming with his earnings. What he did, he did out of his needs and not the world's, which made him richer and richer. Stag Corporations was his main business— a million-dollar company run by an obnoxious but decent human being who grinned too much.
Lyonel told you he would be a little late arriving at the paddock, saying he needs to mentally prepare himself before stepping into the pit of dragons. You wished you did the same.
Mechanics barked commands at each other in Italian, and a language you thought was a secret code between coworkers.
Some grease-faced men looked up from their station on the car, halting their work before noting the F1 pass hung around your neck, labeled PRESS in bold golden lettering. You silently thanked Lyonel for the stupid thing.
After fifteen minutes or so, you got your bearings and clicked on your camera. You had the lens cleaned and your other photos set in a separate SIM card so you could get as much content as possible. You didn’t know if you would come back to the paddock, or even the track, so you wanted to make the most of it.
You snapped a few pictures of the black and red Ferrari in the center of the garage, and mechanics traded out old wheels with new ones before their boss came through. Polishing the hood and wings with a mechanic's care.
You turned back to the track, which was empty today— Saved a few for some dedicated racers who needed to get that left turn just right before Sunday’s race. You snapped a few angles of the red and white stripes along the asphalt, some of the leaderboard in the early noon sunlight, and you even tried to time the perfect shot of a car speeding by, the burst of air made your hair messy and your brain fuzzy with thrill.
And you got lucky. Catching the blur of green and yellow before it sped away in the blink of an eye.
You smiled to yourself before turning back around. Flipping through the photos, and, due to your lack of focus, you collided with something solid. You let out a startled gasp, frantically trying to gather yourself so you wouldn’t drop your camera. “Sorry, didn’t mean to—” “What are you doing in my paddock?”
You looked up to put a face to the voice. Silver hair, deep blue eyes, and lips set in a small scowl. It had to be him.
“Well? Are you going to answer, or are you too busy gawking?” he crossed his arms, his eyes flicking over your attire. He scoffed like your outfit was embarrassing him.
You glanced at yourself for a split second, and you thought you looked pretty good. You looked back at the man, “I'm a photographer for your paddock. I was hired by Mr. Baratheon.” You stated, you thought that would make him reconsider his scowl. But to your dismay, it made it worse. “Baratheon? That fool?” He grinned, shaking his head. “I'm surprised that old fop still works for us. He hates us, you know.” He said it like hate should be rewarded, not criticized.
You took note of that, you were going to work with them, might as well get an idea of who exactly is paying you for these photos. ‘I wonder why…’ you thought, but all you gave was a polite smile.
“Well, I think someone like Lyonel should have high praise; he did give me a chance to work with such a widely known racer like yourself.”
Flattery wouldn't get you anywhere in the world, but in his, it probably got you connections. And more money.
He hummed low in his throat, pleased. You then noted how much his ego needed to be stroked for you not to be thrown out with a snap of his fingers.
“What’s your name?”
You gave it to him because there was no point in hiding it; he would’ve found it in some creepy high-tech way if he had asked one of his assistants. He smiled again. He noticed the pass around your neck and pulled on it. You kept yourself from stumbling from the unexpected contact, “Hm, Press huh?” He let it fall back. “Some amateur photographer, I'm guessing?” He tilted his head and smiled, wicked and cutting. You didn't answer.
He pursed his lips, “Well, if you're here to take pictures, get over with it then.” He backed up and leaned against the solid concrete wall. You cinched your brow together, “I'm sorry?”
He pulled his arms across his chest, making the racing suit taut over his muscles. “It's your job, is it not?” he said, crossing his legs at his ankles. He was showing off for a photo.
You almost laughed.
He noticed your face twisting up into a small grin, and his face fell. “What's so funny?” He asked, his expression no longer amused.
You fixed your face and cleared your throat, “Respectfully, Mr. Targaryen-”
“Aerion,” he corrected, “Mr. Targaryen is my father.”
You sighed, “Alright, Aerion. I can't just take a picture; it's a process. An art. You have to feel it.” You said it with such sincerity that Aerion didn't know if he should laugh or stare.
“Then feel it.” He stated, his voice lower, like that was going to make her jump up and do as she was told.
“That's not how it works.” You said, again. “You can't just force me to rush something that's going to be online.”
Aerion groaned, “Gods, you're incorrigible. Take the photo, call it good, and move on.”
“Why do you think Lyonel hired me in the first place? To make you feel pretty and call it a day? I take pride in what I do.” You let the camera fall around your neck.
“Lyonel hired you because he has too much passion for people like you. Hope, if you will,” he grumbled. You wanted to throw the wrench that was sitting on a table right between the legs.
Before your hand reached out to grab it, Lyonel's voice echoed through the paddock, greeting the mechanics and track supervisors as he walked through in a cream-colored suit and a nice bright yellow tie with intricate little flowers sewn into the fabric.
Saints above, he took way too long to get here.
He spotted you near the track in a heated stand-off with his boss's son. He rushed over.
“Ms. Waterstone! Aerion, my boy! Seems like you've gotten acquainted already.” He clapped a hand on the racer's shoulder. Aerion rolled his eyes. “Your little pet project won't do her job.” He said. Was this brat really pouting?
“And I told him I wasn't hired to make cheap shots of you just so your fangirls could have another poster of you on their wall.” You shot back, waiting for him to challenge you. Before he could spit out a retort, Lyonel stopped him, putting a hand firmly on Aerion's chest to keep him from getting closer. “Whoa, now, we need to be friends here. Ms. Waterstone's job is mainly to take pictures of the circuit. Now, if she finds something particularly eye-opening from you, then she would snap a few.” Lyonel gave the best smile he could; you could obviously tell the man was tired of Aerion's bull, probably was from the very beginning.
The tension didn't leave with Lyonel's intervention so much as it went sideways, rerouted into something more like a standoff.
Aerion looked at Lyonel like the older man had just arrived at the entirely wrong time. Which, in his opinion, he had.
"She said she wasn't hired to take photos," Aerion said, his tone carrying the particular brand of patience that meant he had none of it left. "I said I wasn't hired to take cheap photos," you corrected, and your voice stayed even, pleasant even, which seemed to bother him more than an outright argument would have. "There's a difference."
Lyonel looked between the two of you with the practiced calm of a man who had survived decades of high-finance negotiations and, apparently, Aerion Targaryen. He settled for clapping his hands together once. "Right. Well. I'll leave you both to it." He began backing away with a warm smile and absolutely zero intention of staying.
"Lyonel—" you started.
"I have to speak with your pit crew chief," he said, already turning, already walking. "Something about tire compounds. Fascinating stuff." He waved without looking back. You stared at the space he left behind.
Aerion snorted.
You turned back to find him watching you, arms still crossed, the scowl softened into something harder to read. Not amusement exactly. Appraisal, maybe. Like he was recalculating. "You should photograph the car," he said. You blinked. "I was going to."
"The light's better from the south end of the garage. The noon shadow cuts across the hood wrong from where you were standing." He said it the way he said most things — flatly, like information rather than opinion, like he hadn't spent the last ten minutes making your job harder than it needed to be.
You didn't thank him. You also didn't argue. You picked up your camera, walked to the south end of the garage, and looked through the viewfinder.
He was right. The light was better. You didn't say so out loud.
You spent the next two hours working.
It was easier once Aerion stopped hovering. He disappeared somewhere into the back of the paddock, voices carrying in muffled Italian, something about a gear ratio and someone's terrible judgment. You found yourself moving more freely with him gone — crouching at angles, climbing onto a storage crate to get a higher frame, pressing your back flat against the garage wall to catch the mechanics mid-motion without interrupting them. The car was beautiful. You'd give him that. Up close, the chrome dragon detailing wasn't a logo so much as a threat, its three heads pressed forward into the wind like they were winning the race before the engine even turned over. You shot it from the front, from the side, from below, where the light caught the undercarriage silver and sharp.
You were framing the rear wing against the open sky when you heard footsteps behind you.
"You've been on that crate for twenty minutes."
You didn't lower the camera. "The light keeps changing."
"It's clouds, Waterstone."
You did lower the camera then, slowly, to look at him. He was holding two cups — paper, steaming, from the hospitality area at the far end of the paddock. He held one out.
You looked at it, then at him.
"It's coffee," he said. "Not a marriage proposal."
You took the cup. "You don't strike me as someone who fetches coffee."
"I don't." He took a drink from his own cup, looking at the car rather than at you. "I told one of the interns to get it."
"That's more believable."
A silence stretched between you, not quite comfortable, not quite hostile. The kind of silence that comes when two people are still figuring out what the other one is.
You looked down at the camera's display screen, flipping through the last twenty frames. Most were good. A few were exceptional — the dragon detail in hard afternoon light, a mechanic's hands torquing a wheel nut in perfect focus with the cockpit blurred behind him. One was the car shot from below, the sky pure white, the red and black chassis almost violent against it.
Aerion leaned slightly to see what you were looking at. You didn't pull the camera away.
He said nothing for a moment.
"That one." He tapped the screen once, the below-angle shot.
"I know," you said.
He looked at you sideways. "You already knew."
"I said photography was an art. That means I have opinions about it."
He made a low sound that wasn't quite a laugh. He straightened up and looked back at the car, jaw working slowly, like he was chewing on something he hadn't decided to say yet.
"My father wants me to change my image," he said finally. It came out too casual, which meant it wasn't casual at all.
You glanced at him. "I heard about the press conference."
He looked at you sharply.
"It was on the TV at the café," you said. "The one with the terracotta tiles on Via Principessa. Half the room went quiet when the clip played." You paused. "The other half laughed."
His jaw tightened. "And which half were you in?"
You considered lying. It would've been polite. It would've also been useless.
"I thought it was funny," you said. "And then I thought it was sad. And then I thought — that's someone who's been asked the wrong questions for so long they've stopped caring about the answers."
Aerion said nothing.
The garage hummed around you. Somewhere further down the paddock, Lyonel's voice rose and fell in good-natured argument. A mechanic walked past with an armful of carbon fiber panels and didn't look at either of you.
"That's a lot to read off a ten-second press clip," Aerion said at last.
"It's what I do." You capped your lens and tucked the camera strap back over your shoulder. "I look at things."
He looked at you then — really looked, not the quick appraising once-over from before. Something is considered in it. Like he was doing the same thing back, and finding it unexpectedly difficult.
"Lyonel said your work was good," he said.
"Lyonel hasn't seen my work."
"No." A corner of his mouth lifted. "But he said it as he believed it. Lyonel doesn't say things he doesn't believe. It's his most irritating quality." He finished his coffee and crumpled the cup loosely in one hand. "Come back tomorrow. Early. Before the other press are here."
You raised an eyebrow. "I thought I was Lyonel's pet project."
The muscle in his jaw twitched. "Consider it a reassignment."
You should have said you'd think about it. You should have made him work for it, or at least made it seem like you had other options in Monaco in July that were better than a Formula One paddock at dawn.
"What time?" you said instead.
He almost smiled. Not quite. But almost.
"Six," he said. "Don't be late. I don't wait."
He walked back into the garage without another word, the paper cup tossed cleanly into a waste bin three meters away without him looking.
You watched him go.
You pulled out Lyonel's cream-colored card and tapped it against your palm, once, twice.
Six o'clock.
You put the card back in your pocket and started shooting again.
Here you go, my lovelies!! The next part might take a little bit longer bcuz I'm working on multiple projects :'D
Thinking about Omegaverse AKOTSK, where the Targaryen cousins (both Alpha) come across a Lysani dancer (omega) in the Ashford tourney, and they want her BAD
So they take her back to the castle, and they make a deal. Whoever can put a baby in her first gets to marry her. So they screw her in every way imaginable until they all collectively can't take it anymore, and she is so dumbed out by the entire thing. Sore and filled to the brim, I'll tell you.
It doesn't take long for her to be with child, so the princes are eagerly waiting because they're the ones responsible for making her look that way. And she is MASSIVE with their seed, it makes their breeches tight.
When it's finally time for the baby to be born, they are ecstatic. But they're shooting daggers at each other because, girl, they don't want to lose to their idiotic cousin. It's seriously a competition between them about which cousin has the strongest seed.
And since this Omegaverse.
When the last cries have settled, they burst into the room to see two healthy babes. One that looks like Aerion, and one that looks like Valarr.
So it looks like you're getting both Targaryen princes. And honestly, who's complaining?
Don't come after me PLEASE, I just think the concept is cool, so expect random ass racers because they ain't real, and I don't want to mischaracterize real people. And this is fiction, so I can do whatever the hell I want, but I am doing my research on the races and the cars because screwing that up would be so embarrassing. But anyways second part will be coming out shortly! :D
Aerion Targaryen x photographer! reader (Modern F1 AU!)
Aerion Targaryen, aka Brightflame.
One of, if not the fastest, F1 racers to date, no one could beat him. And no one dared to. Aerion’s prize car was a silver Ferrari, sleek and dangerous. Their family’s company logo was plastered on the side of the metallic beast, a three-headed dragon, printed in chrome detailing, glinting in the sun as it sped by its predecessors.
His father, Maekar, owns one of the biggest companies in the world, known as Anvil Industries. Selling car parts, computer hardware, and the occasional arms dealing between militaries.
And with that money came their Formula One team, and since the company is reaching in the billions, it was a well-invested side project. They even have their own tire brand, Targaryen Tires.
Aerion has been a racer for almost a decade now, known as one of the most dedicated and cocky drivers of this era. And he loved it that way.
His cousin, Valarr, was his partner on the track. Though Aerion insisted he didn't need to be traded out during pit stops. He was always like that. Too self-absorbed to know that even men could wear out just as much as machines can.
Though Aerion was one of the top racers in Formula One history, he was still a menace on the track; his anger was shown through his speed, his car just as furious and aggressive as he was.
The growl of his car was one of his favorite sounds, but not as much as the cheers of fans as he sprayed champagne on the tall pedestal. Girls holding up flimsy signs, ‘MARRY ME AERION.’ ‘I LOVE DRAGONS.’ All that nonsense spurred him on more than it should.
Over the course of his career, he began gaining more and more sponsors. Even made a name for himself with an energy drink brand called Wyldfire, one of the top-selling energy drinks that actually seemed to work. ‘Fuel for Dragons’ was the motto for the million-dollar business.
His face was on billboards and magazines, his brand was in supermarkets, and digital ads in New York City. He had fangirls and a booming social media presence, with news outlets watching his every move; a fist too tight or a grin too wide next to a woman would make headlines almost immediately.
A whisper of a girl would spread through the world like spilled oil.
Aerion stood with his arms crossed in the garage, the whirr of bolts being driven into aerodynamic metal could be heard while Aerion scrolled through his phone. He was in Monaco for an upcoming race, and he had to have his car in shape beforehand, according to his wishes.
The car was already perfect, sleek black and red decal with a dragon detailed on the side of the car. It was one of many of his prized vehicles. They all had to be in top condition. Polished and ready for a race he’s going to win no matter the odds, that was in his mind at least.
He scrolled through the most recent headlines in Italian and French articles.
“Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen battles for the throne once again!”
“The Dragon of the track returns for blood.”
“Will the track's favorite Playboy break more records than hearts?”
He smirked to himself, looking through the pictures that paparazzi tried to get like hungry dogs. He walks down the street with his sunglasses, at a diner, flirting with a girl on the other side of the counter, and him standing on the balcony with the same girl dressed in his button-up.
Gods, he loved his life. He clicked off his phone when he heard his father's voice boom nearby, his stern tone echoing through the garage like a warning.
He put his hands in his pockets and watched his father storm over. This couldn’t be good.
Aerion leaned back against the wall and waited for him to stand right in front of him. Maekar stopped at arm's distance.
“What the hell are you thinking?” It was the first thing that came out of his mouth.
Aerion wasn’t phased, but he knew what he was talking about—the press conference.
It was casual at first, the reporters eagerly shouting for him to answer the question for their mediocre paper, and he couldn’t help but read because of how much they fawned over him.
But someone asked a question he was tired of hearing, “Does the racing superstar ever have time to find someone long-term?”
It didn’t sting, but it didn’t make sense either. Aerion was used to having a girl on his arm for a weekend or two and dropping their number before they could ask him, ‘What are we?’ over text.
Aerion clenched his jaw, rubbing the stubble that wasn’t there, and sat up straight in his chair. The rest of the table looked at the silver-haired racer with tension; they knew his temper, they experienced it firsthand on the track.
Aerion leaned up close to the mic, a slight smirk on his face, a very unkind one. He poked the inside of his cheek before answering.
“If I had any girl with me, it was only because my bed was getting cold.”
A flurry of questions and some enraged comments burst out almost immediately. Aerion just grinned and got up from the table, tabloids snapping photos of him as he left, pulling his team's hat over his head, shading the heat in his eyes.
Aerion looked back to his father and grinned, “They asked a question, I gave them an answer. I didn’t lie.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything at all! The press is wondering if you’re actually the fuckboy with his daddy’s credit card in his wallet.”
Aerion rolled his eyes, “I’m not the world's boy toy if that’s what you’re saying.”
“Then prove it,” he gritted out, “Prove you’re not some bratty nepo baby who can’t help his impulses, and start acting like a racer.”
Aerion didn’t have to prove anything; he was a fantastic racer on the track. Why should he worry about the public and the girls he liked to hook up with? Aerion didn’t say anything; he just sat back on his heels, eye-level with his father.
Maekar stared at his son with a disapproving scowl, “Alright, if you won’t change your act, I’m cutting you from the team until I say otherwise.”
The mechanics who were snooping on their very heated conversation stopped in their work before quickly going back to whatever they were doing to avoid a lecture.
Aerion’s eyes went wide, and his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “You can’t do that,” he said, his tone low. Makear scoffed, “Yes, I can, and I will. Just because you're my son doesn’t mean the consequences are any different.”
Aerion sputtered, “Then who’s going to drive?” thinking it would win him the argument.
“Valarr, of course, he has the talent.”
Aerion let out a laugh, “Valarr hasn’t won a single race in over seven months.” “Because you,” Maekar poked his chest, “are playing your way behind the wheel, you never give your cousin a chance.” “We’re not children fighting over toys, father,” he laughed dryly, wishing this could be over.
Maekar growled under his breath, ignoring his obvious retorts, “Quit messing around, and I’ll let you back in the race. You have a month,” and his father left without another word.
Aerion watched his father leave, his advisors tagging behind him like lost ducklings.
He gritted his teeth and kicked the nearest thing he could, a toolbox, the contents rattling inside at the contact of his shoe.
You were on the other side of the media world.
You were a student photographer in Monaco for the summer before school started again at Harvard. Your parents were on the better financial side, but you got the scholarship to your surprise; it would be your second semester at Harvard, studying cultures, photography, and poetry. It was more of a creative pursuit than a business one, like your parents wanted. You were to be a lawyer, a doctor, or a scientist, but the freedom you had would be stripped away from you if you continued the path your parents tried to lead you on.
But that was years ago; now you were going around the world and documenting your journeys the best you could.
You stood on the sidewalk of Monaco, and the warm city was such a spectacular sight. The terracotta villas, the stone fountains in the plazas, the seaside with sailboats on the glimmering coast. This had to be your favorite trip so far.
It was racing season, so the TVs in the cafes and bars constantly played the races and interviews.
The announcers are describing the events of the race in rapid Italian, and sometimes cutting away to the racers. You loved F1 ever since you could remember. The thrill of it was your favorite part, watching the speedsters battle for the cup, the tires screeching on the asphalt, no matter the condition; the camera tracking their every movement like it was nothing. You watched from the cafe's front counter, the TV suspended over the bar, as the names of the races went up and down on the placement chart. She recognized some names, but none of interest. But one stuck out.
TAR 1st
His spot on the track never changed; even if it was for a split second, he still went back to the top. ‘Who is this guy?’ you thought. You followed his car, curating his turns perfectly; nothing miscalculated, if he had an advantage, he took it without question.
If your uncle were sitting next to you right now, he would note everything he did and could do; he was the one who introduced you to this adrenaline-filled spectacle in the first place.
“Aerion Targaryen,” you stiffened when you heard a voice next to you. You turned your attention to the man sitting next to him. His posture was straight, curly salt and pepper hair, his suit was a light brown with a honey yellow tie, and he had a cappuccino cup held with golden ringed fingers. “Excuse me?” you asked politely. You could tell he had some wealth, based on the expensive golden watch and gold-rimmed sunglasses on his head. “Aerion Targaryen is the man leading the race, has been for years, actually.” He took a sip from the cup, his eyes on the TV before looking at you.
“Forgive my forwardness, my name is Lyonel Baratheon.” he stuck out his hand for you to shake; you did so. “(name) Waterstone,” he grinned, “Hm, sounds rich, vacation?” he asked, setting the cup to the side and letting his elbows rest on the polished counter.
You smiled, “Not exactly, I’m a photography student at Harvard, I’m just going around Europe and taking photos before school starts again.”
He hummed in understanding, “Scholarship?” he questioned. You knit your eyebrows together, “How did you know?” He simply just smiled, “If you were a bratty rich girl, you would’ve scoffed and told me to go elsewhere. Trust me, this place is filled with snobs.”
You knew this; you had a run-in with what looked to be a drunk frat guy, a polo shirt tied around his neck, thinking you were a waitress, and asked for a drink.
You politely told him you didn’t work there. The guy cursed at you for two straight minutes before his friends had to drag him away.
Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to talk, and you found that you didn't mind it.
He told you about the race circuit, the politics behind it, the money, and the feuds that never made it to print. He had the easy, unhurried manner of someone who had been wealthy long enough to stop performing it. You liked that.
"Targaryen Tires, Wyldfire Energy, Anvil Industries—the boy is his own economy," Lyonel said, gesturing loosely at the screen where Aerion's silver Ferrari carved another perfect corner. "But don't let the brand fool you. He's genuinely fast. Frighteningly so."
You lifted your camera from where it hung around your neck and looked through the viewfinder at the TV. A habit. The world made more sense framed.
"He drives like he's angry at the track," you said.
Lyonel looked at you sideways. A slow smile broke across his face. "Yes," he said, somewhat delighted. "That is exactly what he does."
The race cut to a commercial, and you lowered her camera. The café hummed around them—espresso machines, the clatter of ceramic, rapid French bouncing off the low ceiling.
"You should photograph the paddock," Lyonel said, swirling the last of his cappuccino. "If you can get access."
You raised an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a student press badge situation."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't." He set down his cup and pulled a card from the breast pocket of his jacket, sliding it across the polished counter toward you. It was heavy stock, cream colored, with gold lettering. Lyonel Baratheon. Baratheon Motorsport.
You looked up at him.
"I'm a sponsor," he said simply. "I can get you a paddock pass. Consider it a commission—I've been meaning to update our press materials with something that doesn't look like it came from a stock photo library." He tilted his head. "That is, if you want it."
You turned the card over in your fingers. You thought about your camera roll—cobblestone streets, flower markets, a fisherman on the harbor at five in the morning whose face had made your breath catch. Good work. Real work. But a Formula One paddock in Monaco?
You pocketed the card.
"When do I start?"
