after some thoughts (and musical inspiration) I'm definitely writing the most disgustingly perverted age gap dad best friend slightly toxic jack abbot fanfic tonight
oh my goshhh! i loved the follow up to 7 steps !! 🥹 keep them coming please!🙏 maybe something about the birth, or them being new parents? 🫶
Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen x Reader
Summary: A heated argument with him sends you into labor.
Word count: 3k
Took quiet some time but this is for you pookie. You can read this as a continuation of this request or not.
King's Landing smelled exactly as you remembered, salt from Blackwater Bay, smoke from a thousand hearths, fish, sewage, damp stone, and too many people packed too closely together. But beneath it all lingered the sweetness of summer flowers climbing through the terraced gardens, stubbornly blooming above the city's filth as though none of it concerned them.
You had forgotten how overwhelming it was or perhaps distance had simply polished the memory.
The smell hit you the moment the wheelhouse passed through the gates of the Red Keep. Instinctively, you pressed the back of your hand briefly to your nose before deciding that was an undignified gesture for a princess and lowering it again.
Across from you, Aerion glanced up from the letter in his hands. He had been reading the same reports for most of the journey. You suspected this particular letter was on its fourth inspection.
“We can return,” he said, he had been reading and re-reading reports for the last three hours of the journey, as though the words might rearrange themselves into better news if he gave them enough attention.
“We cannot,” you said pleasantly. “You know that.” You shifted against the cushioned seat, or tried to, at nine months along you had, made peace with the fact that your body was no longer entirely your own. The child moved as it liked and your ankles complained regularly. Still, you managed.
The Red Keep rose around you as the wheelhouse came to a stop, and Aerion was already reaching for your arm when the door opened, his hand settled at your elbow, steady and firm.
The days that followed passed in a blur.
Aerion had barely set down his travel cloak before the summons came, Maekar, requesting his presence at the first of what would be many meetings, briefings, discussions that bled from afternoon into evening into the following morning. The rebellion was not yet a rebellion, it was still a rumour with increasingly credible sources, movements of men in the Riverlands, conversations that should not have been had, allegiances tested quietly at the edges, and Maekar intended to deal with the problem before it became a war.
Aerion understood this. He had said so himself, in the brief intervals when he was with you. He understood the urgency; he agreed with his father's decision to act before the situation kept growing.
What he did not seem to understand was how exhausted he looked. You saw it in the mornings first, the dark circles beneath his eyes that had been there when you arrived and deepened with each passing day, staining the skin beneath them to the colour of a bruise. He slept perhaps three hours, perhaps less, and you knew because you felt the absence of him in the bed before you fully woke. By the time you were awake he was already at his writing desk, surrounded by maps and reports, a candle burned to almost nothing beside him.
You saw it in his movements. He was precise by nature, controlled, deliberate, each gesture measured, but under enough exhaustion that precision began to fray. Small things, the way he set down a goblet slightly harder than necessary, the slight tightening around his eyes when someone spoke to him at a volume, he found unnecessary.
His temper had always been a live thing. He had worked, with considerable effort and at considerable cost, to shorten its leash. But a leash under pressure tends to loosen.
You said nothing yet. You watched, and you waited.
You were not present for the council meeting that day. You heard about it afterward, in pieces, from a maid who had it from a steward who had stood outside the doors.
The meeting had begun well, by all accounts.
King Maekar had laid out the intelligence gathered so far, the scale of the rumoured movement, the families implicated, the question of where the rebellion might grow if left unchecked. Several of the older knights had offered assessments, cautious and conservative in the way men became when they had survived enough wars to be suspicious of certainty.
Then Aerion had presented his strategy.
He had prepared thoroughly, you knew this because you had watched him prepare, had seen the maps spread across the table in your chambers at all hours, had woken in the night to find him still working by candlelight, his silver hair loose around his face, his finger tracing routes through the Riverlands with intensity. He had done the work; there was no question of that.
His proposal was bold, decisive, characteristically Aerion. Strike early and disrupt supply routes, force the conspirators into the open before they could unite. But then Ser Duncan the Tall had spoken.
Not loudly, not with any evident desire to undermine, simply in his direct, honest manner. He had identified the flaw. The strategy assumed the rebellion's consolidation point was where intelligence suggested. But intelligence on the ground, Duncan had noted, indicated two separate and apparently uncoordinated movements. Aerion's plan addressed one, but it left the other entirely free to act while attention was directed elsewhere. Worse, it might inadvertently drive the two movements together, forging unity where there had previously been only parallel discontent.
He had offered an alternative, less elegant, but more methodical, requiring patience and a longer timeline. The room had fallen silent, Maekar had considered it and the others followed.
The storm had been building since midday.
You'd watched it from the windows of your chambers as dark clouds crept across the horizon, swallowing the sunlight piece by piece. By the time evening fell there was nothing left of the sky at all, only a low, churning dark pressed against the towers of the Red Keep, and the rain had begun in earnest, wind rattled the shutters hard enough to make them shudder in their frames, and cold drafts slipped beneath the doors.
You had tried to read, after the third time rereading the same page, you gave up.
Nine months pregnant to the day, you had spent the last week adjusting to a new kind of discomfort. The weight of the child seemed lower now, settled deep in your body. Pressure came and went in strange waves, leaving an ache behind that never fully disappeared. The maester assured you it was normal; your body was preparing itself.
That knowledge should have been reassuring, instead, it made everything feel worse. You shifted carefully in your chair and rested a hand on the curve of your stomach. The child moved beneath your palm, slow and heavy.
Aerion had returned from the council chambers in the early evening; he barely moved in over an hour. The flames cast shifting light across his face, catching in his silver hair and painting sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones. He looked carved from stone, one elbow rested against the arm of the chair, fingers curled loosely against his jaw. His eyes remained fixed on the fire.
These days you could read him almost as easily as weather, he had been worse than he had been in a long time. Plans for the rebellion had reached a critical stage. Meetings stretched late into the night. Reports arrived faster than anyone could answer them. Prince Maekar was making decisions Aerion disagreed with, and disagreement sat poorly with him even under ideal circumstances.
You saw it in the tightness around his eyes. In the clipped replies he gave servants who happened to arrive at the wrong moment. In the way his shoulders never seemed to fully relax anymore, as if he expected another problem to appear the instant he looked away.
The problem was that the discipline was running out, you had watched it running out, and had been patient, had given him space, and you had tried in small ways to be steady around him, tried to become one thing in his life that required nothing from him.
“My love,” you said quietly. “What's wrong?”
His gaze stayed on the fire, hard, distant, the flames reflecting in his violet eyes until they seemed almost unreal. You waited and he still said nothing.
“Aerion.”
A thunder cracked, a long, rolling sound that shook the window in its frame, and for the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression, you thought he might answer, a muscle jumped near his temple and he exhaled through his nose.
“Nothing,” he said.
You adjusted yourself in the chair, slow and careful. The movement sent another dull ache through your lower back. One hand settled automatically over your stomach where the pressure had been building all evening. “Don't push me away,” you said. “Talk to me.”
“I said-.”
“I heard what you said.”
Something flashed in his face, the last of the control giving.
“Nothing!”
The word came out sharp and loud and far harsher than anything he had directed at you in a very long time; the rain battered the windows.
You were quiet for a moment.
“I know you're stressed-.”
“You know nothing about stress.” His voice had dropped again, low and venomous. “What would you know about it? You sit here all day, you read and you wait for me to come back and fuck you like a slut every night.”
For a moment neither of you spoke, you looked at him and he was staring at the fire again, jaw tight, breathing fast, and you could see, that he knew. The moment the words had left his mouth, some part of him already knew, the ugly implication behind them.
“You can be an asshole all you want,” you said at last, your voice steady despite the hurt pressing against your ribs. “But I know you don't actually think that about me.”
“Don't act like you know me.” His voice was low, cracking at the edges, just slightly, a fault line beneath the venom. “You don't know what I'm dealing with.”
“Aerion, I'm your wife-.”
“You're carrying my child.” He turned from the fire at last, and his eyes met yours, the fury was still there, so was exhaustion, and underneath both, buried deep enough that most people would have missed it entirely, was fear, raw and desperate. “That doesn't mean I owe you sweetness every second.”
You pushed yourself to your feet.
It was slow, he shifts forward pulled at your lower back, and the familiar ache settled across your hips as you straightened. Still, you rose, because you refused to sit there and let him speak to you like that, you were his wife. You had given him more of yourself than he could possibly understand, and you would not simply absorb his anger because he happened to be carrying too much of his own.
“Aerion.”
You reached for his arm, slowly.
He jerked away, a reflex, already drowning in his own thoughts and he couldn't bear being touched in that moment. He moved his arm and by mistake, a miscalculation, his hand pushed you away.
It didn’t require much force and balance failed you. Your foot slipped on the damp stone. You felt the world tilt, the floor disappearing beneath you. You fell, hard enough on your side to drive the breath from your lungs, enough to send a sharp, frightened sound from your throat before you could stop it, enough to leave you sprawled on the stone floor, one hand pressing flat against stone while the other flew immediately to your stomach.
Then you felt it, the warmth between your thighs, a sudden rush between your thighs, your heart stopped and you lowly looked down, realization hitting you all at once.
You raised your head and Aerion was already staring at you.
He had seen your face, the wide-eyed terror that you could not control, the way your other hand pressed against your belly with a groan that wasn't only pain. You watched the comprehension move through his face. Watched the anger disappear so completely it was as though it had never existed, replaced by something you had never seen on him in all the time you had known him.
Pure horror.
He dropped to his knees beside you so quickly the movement was almost clumsy. His hands hovered helplessly over you, unable to decide where to touch, terrified of making anything worse. His voice when he found it had nothing of the earlier cruelty left in it, was cracked and desperate.
He said your name, coming out in pieces. He said it again, louder, and again.
You felt the world go grey at the edges.
“No.” His voice broke. “No. No, stay with me-.”
He slipped one arm under your shoulders, the other against your back, taking you to the bed with tenderness. He was shaking, you could feel it in his hands, a fine tremor running through the same hands that had wielded swords, reduced to shaking by this one thing, this one moment, this thing he had done without meaning to.
“Guards!”
The shout cracked through the room and through the door and into the corridor beyond, not a command but a plea. The door burst open, weapons were half-drawn before the guards understood what they were seeing. He didn’t even look at them.
“Get the maester.” His voice had gone frighteningly quiet. “Now.”
The room exploded into motion. Voices, footsteps, the fire being stoked higher so that the room blazed with sudden light, linens appearing from somewhere, the sound of running in the corridor beyond. Aerion's hand found yours, cold fingers intertwined with colder ones, he held on tightly and his other hand settled over the curve of your belly. Then he leaned forward until his forehead rested against your temple, words coming out in a whisper, just for you.
“I'm sorry.” His voice fractured on the word. “I'm so sorry.” He said it again, and again. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” The same desperate prayer, each syllable trembling and broken.
You came back to yourself in fragments. A contraction rolled through you with terrifying force, dragging you upward from darkness and slamming you back into your body. Your breath came back first, sharp and gasping, and then your eyes, unfocused on the ceiling and the blazing light above you, then the awareness of where you were, what was happening, the sound of the maester's voice somewhere at the edge of your hearing giving orders.
And through all of it Aerion's hand, still holding yours, your fingers tightened around his.
Another contraction hit, harder than the first, and your back arched and your fingers dug into his hand with a force you had not known you possessed, and a moan escaped that you couldn't contain. You heard the maester's voice cutting through the chaos, clear and firm.
Aerion caught your hand to his lips, a kiss against your knuckles, soft, and then another on the back of your palm, his breath warm and unsteady there, lingering like a prayer he hadn't finished saying, his forehead dipped toward your hand.
“It's okay,” you whispered.
His head lifted immediately, and his eyes found yours, the disbelief in his face almost hurt to see. You were pale and soaked in sweat, in more pain than you had known existed before tonight, and somehow you were the one comforting him.
“It's not your fault,” The words wavered but held.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It is,” he said, barely above a breath.
“We can argue about that later.” A weak smile touched your lips. “After.”
Something moved through his expression, something he could not contain and did not try to, for once. He turned his face away for a moment and pressed your hand against his cheek, and you felt him breathe, just breathe, the shaking in his hands had not entirely stopped.
“Push, my lady.” The maester's voice cut through everything. “Now.”
You obeyed.
The sound that came out of you was nothing you recognized as your own voice. It came from somewhere animal and desperate, and your body tensed into it like a bow being drawn past its limits, Aerion stayed beside you, steady as stone, allowing you to crush his hand if you needed to.
“Again! Push!”
You screamed and you pushed harder than the first time.
And then, a cry, small, thin, breaking through the storm and the pain and the chaos of the room like a needle through cloth.
The maester lifted the child, small and red-faced and furious, wailing his outrage at existence. Through your exhaustion you caught sight of silver hair gleaming in the candlelight, that was entirely, unmistakably Aerion’s.
Then the maester's expression changed, only slightly.
“Another.” The room froze. “A second babe my lord, and tangled.”
Aerion's hand went cold around yours; you looked at him, is attention snapped toward the master then toward you. The contractions returning, faster now, harder, your body pressing on before you had been given a moment to simply breathe.
“I can't,” you cried, you had given everything you had, there was nothing left in you to give. “I can't do it-.”
“You can.” The maester's voice, firm but not unkind. He wouldn’t dare to do so in the presence of the brightflame prince.
Aerion bent close, his mouth brushed your ear.
“You can do this.” His voice was rough at the edges, still cracking. “My princess. You are the strongest person in this room. You are the strongest person I have ever met-.” His hand tightened around yours. “You can do this. Do you hear me? You can.”
Somewhere inside yourself, you found one final reserve you didn't know where it had been hiding, didn't know how it still existed.
You pushed, your back lifted from the bed, and Aerion's arm went behind you, an anchor, solid and unwavering, bracing you against the force of yourself.
And then silence, the maester working with swift, silent efficiency, and the room holding its breath around him, and no sound from where the second child should have been. No cry came, no sound. The maester's hands moved, one firm touch, once, twice. He leaned down and breathed into its tiny lungs.
Then, a faint hiccup, so small you almost imagined it. One more breath from the master, one more firm touch against it, and then a cry.
Thin and wavering and furious and entirely, completely, overwhelmingly alive. Your eyes filled instantly, tears spilled before you could stop them. Aerion exhaled hard, pressing a hand over his eyes, a single, private instant, and then it dropped. He looked at the two small faces being cleaned and wrapped in the firelight.
The midwife placed one child carefully in his arms and he looked down. Small, red-faced, silver-haired, tiny fists already protesting the world with remarkable determination. And suddenly every wall he had ever built disappeared, there was nothing left of the prince, there was only a father holding his son.
He leaned toward you, slowly, the child cradled against his chest, and pressed his lips to your forehead, careful and gentle, filled with something too large for words.
You looked at the child in your own arms, your bundle of small, perfect outrage, and felt the child in his being shifted gently closer, until two very small faces were inches apart. Both silver-haired, both absolutely, terrifyingly, entirely real.
“Twins,” you whispered, your voice came out hoarse and ruined but you did not care at all.
Aerion looked at you, his eyes still glassy. “Twins," he said.
“They're perfect,” you said.
He looked down at the small face in his arms.
Then, quietly. “Yes,” he said. “They are.” His thumb brushed the baby's cheek.
Neither of you spoke for a while, your head rested against his shoulder, his arm lay around you. The child in your arms had finally settled, his tiny face relaxed into a peaceful expression, you brushed your thumb over his cheek, his skin was impossibly soft, untouched by wind or sun or the roughness of the world.
You could have stayed like that forever.
“How are we going to call them?” you asked, your voice came out softer than intended, almost swallowed by the crackling fire. The question felt delicate somehow, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile thing had settled over the room.
Aerion was quiet for a moment.
“I have been thinking about it for some time,” he said at last. “I was hoping for your approval.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him and his eyes were on the child in his arms, the first-born.
“Tell me.” you said.
He was quiet for another moment.
“Baelor,” he said. “And Maekar.” He was still watching the child in his arms, and the line of his mouth lifted, too sad to be a full smile. “It is my own immaturity that killed my uncle,” he said with and even voice. “Not my father. It was only my fault.”
He turned slightly, and something in his face stopped the protest before it reached your lips.
“I do not need reassurance,” he said. “Nothing is going to change my mind about that.”
You closed your mouth and he looked back at the child.
“But I thought…” His fingers adjusted the blanket around the baby with surprising care. “Perhaps I could give them another chance. In this new life.” He paused. “To be brothers again.”
The tears came before you could stop them and he turned to look at you then. Whatever reaction he had expected, it clearly was not this, his hand rose, he brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb, slow and careful.
“Why are you crying, my love?” he asked with genuine confusion.
“Because what you're doing is utterly sweet, Aerion.” Your voice trembled despite yourself. “I'm proud of you.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
“And of course you have my approval,” you added.
A quiet breath escaped him, a soft laugh, it lingered somewhere close to happiness in his chest. He looked down at the child in his arms, Baelor II. Aerion lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the child's forehead, the touch so light it barely disturbed him.
The child in your own arms stirred, a small, restless shifting, one tiny fist uncurling and recurling against your nightgown, Maekar II. The one who had frightened everyone, the one who had arrived second and nearly not at all, and who seemed, in the brief time you had known him, to have inherited his father's particular talent for making an entrance.
A second chance to be brothers again, in a new life.
It was weird, really. Something she couldn't understand. How he, the man she fought so hard for; against all will and expectations, now was nearly a stranger to her eyes.
She had met him about three years ago, at a friend's birthday party.
He was smooth, neat, confident in a way that was partly dangerous, partly suffocating.
His words were quick, raspy. He knew what he wanted and she found herself quickly at his door, pressed against the dark wood by his warm, toned body.
They hit it off very well. He was sweet to her, caring for others, adorable in front of her friends. Almost perfect.
He would make coffee and smile faced pancakes every morning for her. He would love to pick her up after work and they would drink cheap beer at a park in the middle of the night. She would sneak in between his arms when she returned home from a hard shift, finding herself asleep in less than five minutes.
And the sex, God, the sex.
He was a crazy scientist, a perfectly composed man who knew what he was doing. A great teacher when it came to letting her know how he liked to be touched, sucked, ridden. And she was eager to accomplish.
When things got way too serious, he talked, and she listened. He wanted her, every part of her. Even the ones she didn't liked.
She reciprocated; even when she was scared to the core, insecure of things that hadn't crossed her mind in years, doubting if maybe he was too good for her.
But when she had to fight her own family, her blood, to maintain what meant true love for her, that's when she knew nothing else mattered.
Nor her parents, who were very disappointed to hear that their only daughter was dating an old war doctor who was taking advantage of her. Nor her own dark and hurtful thoughts of herself. Nor the bad payment at her crazy job every night.
So when he started being cold, and distant, and quiet, she didn't understand.
He was a sweetheart, the perfect man, but now a stranger.
The perfect charming chef every morning replaced by a blank face and no-sugar coffee.
The out of tone singer in the middle of the road now a quiet shadow across the seat.
The midnight lover who couldn't get enough from between her legs, sat on his side of the bed with his glasses on and staring at his phone. No kiss goodnight, no mischievous look, no wicked grin.
So she fought, again. Like she did when her father said "you're too good for him."
She decided to be loud, to let him know that it was scaring her. This new behavior, the cold tone when she called his name. It was so out of him.
At first it was pathetic. It was like she could stare at herself from above, watching her figure become a needy lack of person, asking, begging for attention. And he wouldn't reply. He would claim that he didn't understand, there was nothing going on.
She pushed. Every word, every touch, every silent stare.
Then the hypotheses came. She thought that maybe he got tired of her. Maybe he didn't wanted this simple life. Maybe he didn't pretend for this to go further. Maybe he didn't wanted her anymore. Maybe there was someone else.
And he payed attention.
The way her hands would go restless under the table when he didn't spoke. The way she tensed up every time a friend asked "how you two doing?" The way she sighed when he rolled over in bed and turned off the lights without a kiss goodnight.
When she got tired of trying, that's when it seemed like he was back from some imaginary cage, glowing with care.
He would stop by at her favorite flower shop and buy her Lilies, slamming the door with a smile on his face and a kiss on the cheek.
He would make dinner reservations and wait for her in his best outfit, complimenting her hair, her dress, her perfume.
He wouldn't keep his hands off of her in their way back to the car, leaning over the console to kiss her neck and slide his hand under her dress to make her come for the first time in weeks.
He would say sorry. For being an ass, for being distant, for not being the man she deserved.
And she believed it. Every second of it.
She would called it a 'false alarm' at brunch with her best friend. Of course they weren't going to broke up, he just needed to see.
But it was there, the slight fear of the coldness and quiet to come back, crawling from the darkness to conquer his frame once more.
She payed attention. Every time he made a weird face when she said something, when he looked so out of the conversation it made her want to slap his face, when he didn't smile at her compliments.
They would fight, over everything and nothing at the same time.
Food getting cold, wine getting spilled.
She would scream and cry that he wasn't the same anymore.
He would get angry because he knew she was right.
They would end up in bed, as always. His legs spread out and her mouth full of him. She'd give the best heads of his life, if anyone were to ask him.
She would let him come in her mouth and swallow it whole, like a secret seal she chose to believe.
He would cup her face and kiss her lips, tasting himself in her mouth and wiping her tears off her cheeks with his thumbs.
And again, it was weird. How the next morning she would say to her friends it was nothing. A stupid fight over a dumb situation.
Even when they were hanging by a thread too thin to be stable.
first jack "imagine" kinda nervous 🙏🏻
let me know what you think! english is not my mother language, sorry if there's any grammatical errors
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