rhea

finn bennett’s controversially young 20 yr old gf but it’s not actually that controversial

[eroticanas]

who’s more of a perv: daeron or aerion?

ooh, tough one!! especially because i have so many different versions of them in my head… here is the kind of standard version i’ve formulated:

── .✦ ( AERION )

aerion is a sadist, and usually focuses on what pleases him rather than you. he likes the look you give him when he scratches your back, how your ass turns pink after a good spanking, or how your blood looks trickling down the peaks of your breasts after he slices up your collarbone with a dagger of valerian steel.

he wants—no, he needs—control. he needs you to only be his. he’ll keep you in chastity, make sure no one, including you, gets to touch that sweet cunt of yours. he’ll pinch your nipples, rolling them around between his fingers until they’re reddened and puffy and painful, watching the result of his prodding drip through the metal of your chastity belt in sticky slick.

he wants to slap your face until your cheeks are red, until you’re begging him to stop, that it’s too much, it hurts so bad. he likes your tears. he’ll lick the salt of them off your hot skin.

he’s the type to wake you up with a cock in your mouth. he wants pleasure always. he wants to train you into believing that pleasing him pleases you. he wants you under tables and desks, sweet lips on his dick, doing whatever he says. he wants you ready for him whenever he pleases. a wet, warm cunt for him to fuck when he is angered, or bored, or perhaps in one of his rare moods of romance.

Aerion wants to be your lover, your master, the owner of your pain, your pleasure, and your heart all in one.

── .✦ ( DAERON )

Daeron is a whole different kind of pervert. he’s a bedroom sneaker, a panty sniffer.

he’s a lurker, he’ll wait in the shadows of your chambers, watching you undress, your breasts lit up softly by the flickering candlelight, staring at your naked body silently until you notice him. he wants you to be frightened, he wants you to yell at him, ask him what the hell is wrong with him, throw a nearby goblet in his direction.

he likes the punishment that comes with acting like a degenerate. he’ll get drunk and use it as an excuse for his behaviour of flirting with you, someone he should not. you are his sister after all!

Daeron will sneak into your room and go through the basket of dirty laundry. he’ll rifle through it and find your already-worn undergarments, bringing them to his nose while he jerks off, then spilling himself on your sheets. he half heartedly tries to hide the evidence of what he did, but the other part—the bigger part—wants you to find it. he wants you to know.

he fantasizes about getting too drunk, about having you take advantage of him. he wants you to tell him everything’s okay, that you’ll take care of him, all while you’re pulling his half-hard cock out of his breeches while he apathetically tells you to stop. he doesn’t want you to listen, he wants you to stroke him until he cums pathetically all over his stomach.

he wants to be debased, wants to be hit, degraded.

in short, Daeron is more of a pervert. Aerion is more sophisticated and secretive about his sexual proclivities; he does these things behind closed doors because they’re just for him and his lover to experience. for Daeron, the risk of almost-exposure is extremely arousing to him, which makes him more of a gross guy— a typical perv.

[eroticanas]

☆ ──꒰🗡️꒱ ❞ ‧₊˚ KILLING FOR COMPANY

( VALARR TARGARYEN X READER )

☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ Valarr is not a man of many words, but he will make sure that you understand who you belong to

contains! violence, death, targcest, suggestive content requested material

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ the dust almost choked out the smell of horse sweat and grass. almost. you scrunched your nose and tried to strategically only breathe in the scent of your crushed lavender perfume, but it was mostly useless.

you watched as the knights, lords sons and common men alike all flitted restlessly around, either atop their steeds or on the ground, inspecting their armour to make sure it was in the most perfect of conditions for the tourney; if they couldn’t win, perhaps they could look good enough to find themselves a wife.

ser Berenger steered his stallion toward the royal box, his armour gleaming under the midday sun, the serpent on his breastplate so intricate it seemed to snake and writhe around in the shadows and light that bounced upon its metal scales. he looked up at you, eyes gleaming with hope, “my lady,” he called, pointing his lance up towards the box, “grant me your favour, and i shall carve the prince from his saddle in your honour.”

you smiled, a shy curve of your lips. ser Berenger was a handsome man: blonde and broad framed. he was the son of a lord, and a very good hunter. the man was one of the better options for a targaryen princess to wed, even if he was a bit dull. you untied a pale purple scarf from your hair and leaned over the railing.

“ride well, ser.” you dropped the fabric and he caught it as it fluttered down, tying it tightly around the hilt of his lance.

in the distance, Valarr sat atop his great black charger. his face remained a mask of stone—as it always did—eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, watching your silk scarf cling to somewhere it didn’t belong.

the herald blew the horn. the clash of lance and armour sounded like a thunderclap as Valarr hit ser Berenger with the force of a landslide. his lance was shattered into splinters, and the blonde man was flung backwards, armour clattering violently against the hard earth.

the crowd roared, two thousand hands coming together to celebrate the unhorsing. but Valarr did not celebrate. no, not yet. he spurred his horse forward, the animals hooves drumming a frantic rhythm. he leapt from the saddle before the horse had even stopped.

“you dared take my favour,” Valarr said, voice low.

the other man groaned, struggling to sit up, still winded. “it was but a game, my prince—”

Valarr didn’t let him finish. he seized a mace from the dirt, discarded from a previous joust, and lifted it above his head.

you gasped but didn’t look away, your hand darting out to grip your fathers arm out of fear.

Valarr’s first blow broke ser Berenger’s visor, the steel crumpling as if it were made of copper. the second crushed his jaw and pulled a ragged scream from the man’s mouth. the third and fourth sounded wet; the mace was bloodied, chunks of facial viscera clinging to it and being dirtied on the ground. Valarr continued to bring it down until the knight stopped moving beneath the heavy metal, until he was naught but a mangled piece of flesh. he stood over the corpse, chest heaving, blood splattered across his pale cheeks.

the body was dragged away by two green-faced squires who desperately tried to look away from his mangled face. the day continued on, and Valarr remained victorious throughout the entirety of it.

when nightfall came, you retreated to your tent despite begging your father to let you sleep in his with him, the gore of the morning still fresh on your mind. Maekar was stern as ever and banished you to your own makeshift chamber with a pat on the cheek.

you lay beneath your sheets, the flickering light of a single candle flickering across the walls of the tent, making strange shadows dance around the linens, as if mocking you in your wakefulness with each shape that almost resembled a moving mace and a cracked face. a shadow eclipsed the light as the tent flap opened.

Valarr stepped inside. he had washed the blood from his skin, but the tang of iron still clung to him, like death itself had shackled itself to his bones. he had exchanged his knights armour for something softer and quieter, and moved with almost no sound, leather boots pressing softly into the rugs. he sat on the edge of your bed—a cot draped in red and black fabrics, a lambs skin over your pillow so you could sleep in luxury—and the mattress dipped under his weight.

you stirred, moving your eyes from their place on the tent’s wall and blinking up at him in the dimness. “cousin?” you whispered, “what is it?”

he reached out, thumb grazing your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw and watching you as he did so, like he was waiting for you to startle like a spooked rabbit ready to bound away. his hand lingered then slid down to the column of your throat. your pulse fluttered for a reason you didn’t know. maybe it was the remnants of earlier in the day.

“were you frightened?” he asked, “when i killed him?”

you shuddered, remembering the sound that had come from the dead man as Valarr stole away his life. “yes.” your fingers dug into the linen sheet, pulling it up to your chin, “i’ve never seen you… like that.”

Valarr leaned closer, the heat of his body radiating through his tunic. he shifted and his thigh brushed up against your hip through the sheets. “do you know why i did it?” he asked.

you shook your head slowly, looking up at him through your lashes, eyes locked onto his mismatched ones.

“because i cannot have another man after you like that,” he murmured, “do you understand?”

“he was only asking for a favour.”

Valarr leaned down, lips hovering just an inch from your face, his breath warm. “he had more in mind for you than getting a favour. i will not tolerate another man dreaming of you.” he shifted again, pressing his weight more firmly against you, the suggestion of his desire hard and insistent against you. “you are to be mine, cousin. now, do you understand? answer me, briefly.”

you nodded quickly, a strange heat blooming down below. “yes. yes, Valarr.”

he lifted his hand from your neck and moved it back to your cheek, stroking your cheek with his thumb tenderly until finally backing away entirely. “good girl.”

[carmysdoll]

FILTHY PATHETIC LIPS…

𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀aerion targaryen x spoiled princess reader !

contains ᦸ smut? finger sucking he cums in his pants sub! aerion he’s all bloody & pathetic he’s actively bleeding out but doesn’t care targcest he cries mean reader? ٫٫ 1.9k part two

ᦸ dedicated to @maekarpilled from our comments that gave me the inspo for this!

❛❛ if I shall die tonight…I want to die with the taste of you on my lips

You scrunch your nose up in disgust at the thick stench of Aerion’s metallic blood and the rotten smell of mud and whatever else he was covered in, filling the room as he weakly hobbled closer to you. His first demand wasn’t for a healer, no, it was to see you. 

The sight of you looking away from him with such disgust and disappointment pulled a weak and desperate whimper from the back of his throat. He tried to move closer, but the look you gave him had him falling to his knees, the sound of his armor clanking, and his sounds of pain filled the silence. 

“Please,” he begged, voice cracking and hoarse as he tried to hold his head up. Please, look at me. Please, tell me I did well. Please, let me touch you. 

“And have you ruin my dress?” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes. It was beneath you to even be in the presence of such a weak-minded and bodied man. He couldn’t defeat a fucking hedge knight, and yet he dared to be on his knees before you, begging. 

“If I shall die tonight…” he trailed off into a pained mixture of a gasp and wheeze as he fully lifted his head to look up at you. His breathing was labored, but the pain he felt was nothing compared to the desire and yearning he felt for you. “I want to die with the taste of you on my lips.” 

“The same lips you used to yield?” you dramatically pouted with a tilt of your head, looking down at him with faux sympathy. And for a very brief moment aerion believed the gods answered his prayers and you’d give him what he’s always desired, even if that meant his death. 

But the gods were cruel, as were you. 

You slammed your goblet down on the table, the sound echoing loudly through the chamber. He couldn’t help but flinch, pain surging all through his body. Tears well in his eyes at the look of pure disgust you give him, your tone cruel and mocking, “you’re filth aerion, you don’t deserve to taste me.” 

“Maybe I should go to see Ser Duncan, tend to his wounds,” you taunted, a sickly sweet smile on your lips as you took a slow step closer to him. Your fingers played with your rings, a feeling of pride washing over you at the sight of tears in his eyes. 

Another sound of pain left the Prince's mouth as he shook his head weakly at your words. Hearing such things coming from you made him feel even more sick. That Hedge Knight didn’t deserve to have his eyes blessed at the sight of you, let alone be in the same presence as you, breathe the same air as you. 

He’d rather take another touch of a blade than have that cunt ever feel yours. 

“I deserve a man that doesn’t yield, don’t I?” You whispered with a click of your tongue. Your eyes were sparkling with amusement at the pained cries leaving Aerion’s bloody and busted lips. His body shook with helpless sobs. 

All of his pride thrown away as he bowed his head, his shoulders sagged, and his gloved hands brushed against the stone before he placed them flat, willing to crawl towards you. He cared very little for the blood loss or his reputation as he knelt there in front of you. 

“please princess,” he got out between his sobs, more blood pooling from his mouth and down his neck. He looked so pretty when he cried, so pathetic and small. He looked like how he liked to make people feel. 

You took a step closer, scrunching your nose in annoyance at the cries and pleading leaving his lips. You’d enjoy it much more if he weren’t making such a mess and smelled so badly. You licked your wine-stained lips as you looked down at him, stopping in front of him. Far enough that his blood wouldn’t touch your dress. 

You wouldn’t give him what he truly desired, not after that embarrassing performance he gave for all of Ashford to see. By nightfall, the truth of the weakness of the prince would spread across the realm, no doubt. And like you said, you weren’t going to let his filth ruin your pretty dress. 

He looked like he was dying, and he smelt of it too, you weren’t that cruel (you truly were) to not answer the ‘dying' prince's plea. 

“Two, and that is all.” Your tone gave him no room for discussion or disagreement. You outstretched your hand in front of his bloodied face; your fingers would have to do. 

Dark spots clouded his vision, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he quickly lifted his head. A desperate whimper left his lips as he eagerly opened his mouth, his bloody tongue slipping past his lips. 

Your fingers softly grazed his bottom lip, pressing hard into the cut on his lip, causing him to let out a strangled moan. The pad of your index and middle finger pressed against his tongue. 

The corner of your mouth twitched into a pleased smirk as the prince looked up at you with dazed eyes, waiting for your permission. When he does get the small nod of permission, he’s quick to close his mouth around them. 

A loud moan filled the room as he immediately started lapping at your soft fingers. His eyes never left yours as he sucked them deeper into his mouth, coating them in his spit and blood. 

He could taste the lavish oils you would get from Dorne and have your body covered in them with the help of your handmaidens. To many nights he spent imagining himself rubbing the oil into your body himself. 

You sigh boredly, clicking your tongue in disappointment, “can’t you do better than that?” 

Aerion whined around your fingers, more tears rolling down his face and mixing beautifully with his blood. The pain his body felt was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he disappointed you. 

You lean down a little, his eyes nearly rolling back as he gets a better whiff of your addictive scent. You pouted dramatically as you watched him drool around your fingers, such a bloody mess. “and to think you thought I’d let you taste my cunt” 

He shook his head weakly, nearly gagging on your fingers as he tried to do better. He wasn’t going to fail you too, not again, but you never gave second chances. 

You pulled your wet fingers from his mouth, a string of his mixed saliva and blood following. A desperate whine left him at the loss of your fingers. He’d chase after your fingers, but he wouldn’t be able to handle the sting of your slap, no matter how much he craved it in his current state. 

You looked down at your fingers that were covered in his blood and spit, and then back to him. He looked up at you with those pathetic eyes. If you really focused, you could hear his blood drip into the stone. You grip his face, spreading the blood and spit all over his mouth, scoffing at the pathetic noises he lets out. 

“You deserve nothing but to lick the bottom of my boots,” you hissed as you pressed into the cut on his cheek. Aerion moans and leans into your touch, pitiful cries filling the room. And that’s when you noticed the way his hips subtly jerked forward. 

A big and twisted grin spreads across your face at the realization that he was turned on. Your laugh was amused and airy. “You’re such a nasty whore.” 

You slipped your fingers back into his mouth, knuckles deep as he sucks and swirls his tongue around them. Your words were sharp and cruel as you belittled him, tearing him down word by word, but all he did was moan around your fingers, his hips jerking desperately. 

The fatigue from the blood loss, mixed with the pain and the pleasure he felt from you, was sickening. He felt like he was drunk. His body didn’t feel like his, your voice sounded distant, his heartbeat getting too loud to hear your beautifully twisted words. 

His jaw was going slack, too exhausted to do any more. But you didn’t care, thrusting your fingers into his mouth as he gagged and whined. Blood and drool making lewd wet noises.  

“Such filthy, pathetic lips, only good for one thing, aren’t they?” You cooed tauntingly, your eyes never leaving his. He nodded weakly around your fingers, the movement causing him to gag. You watched him closely, how his tears pooled out of his eyes. You wanted to watch him fall apart.

And fall apart he did… 

“Nngh!” He let out a choked and pained moan around your fingers, his eyes rolling back and his hips stuttering as he filled his breeches with his seed, mixing with the blood. 

You kept your fingers in his throat until he tried to pull away, desperate for air as he felt his body slowly and uncontrollably jerk. For a split second, you thought of what your life would be if he were dead…but there was a sick part of you that wanted to keep him around. To see him look at you with those pitiful eyes full of tears. You did enjoy how he sounded when he begged…

You pull away your fingers, a thick string of blood and saliva connecting the two of you. Aerion’s chest burned as he tried to catch his breath, barely able to keep his eyes fully open. A cough leaves his throat, blood splattering all over the front of your dress. 

You shrieked and took a step back, nearly tripping over the skirt of your dress. The sound of your shriek snaps him back from fully surrendering to the pain, his half-lidded eyes looking up at you. Your face was twisted in a look of pure anger. 

Panic surged through his beaten body; the tears were quick to come back as he realized what he had done; he failed you. “Princess, I’m sorry—“ 

“You truly are pathetic,” you were quick to cut off his pathetic attempt at an apology. Your tone was scarily calm as you turned your lip up in disgust. Your jaw clenched as you looked down at the kneeling prince, a disgrace, “And a waste of Valyrian blood.” 

A broken and agonized sob left his body from your words. Watching as you lifted the skirt of your dress with your clean hand as you turned away from him and moved towards the wooden doors. He tried to move his body, but all he could do was helplessly watch as you opened the chamber doors. 

He fell from his knees and forward onto his hands, begging between his cries, “Please don’t leave me.” 

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. There was no emotion in your eyes, no anger, nothing for him. Your words were sharp and effective at breaking everything in him, “I bet that Hedge Knight would have listened.” 

You stepped out of the room and out of his sight. The last of his strength going with you. He felt his body sway before crumpling down onto the stone floor with a pained gasp. He lay there on the cold and blood-stained stone floor.

The last thing he tasted was your body oil mixed with the metallic taste of his blood, and the last thing he heard was you shouting at your handmaiden to bring you a new dress, before his eyes fluttered closed as he succumbed to the darkness. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Ი𐑼 I’m sorry if none of that made sense I wrote most of it in a delirious state at 4 am in the morning. I rlly don’t know what this is , but I hoped you enjoyed it !! pls tell me all of your thoughts ,, naughty and good !! 😁

part two

taglist : @pixiebratz @doeeyedcrucifix @cuntibrina @tartybleedinghearts @jimhalpertldn @chunkpiboli @briefwinnerpersonaturtle @godblesslarsvontrier @joyfulyouthlover @ameliadonovan

۶ৎ taglist is open

© carmysdoll | all rights reserved.

[louloucake]

modern!au aerion x camgirl!reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖ pt. 2

+18, DARK THEMES, DUBCON/CNC, obsessive behavior and stalking (initially digital, then in-person), home invasion, degradation kink, praise and oral sex (f receiving), rough fingering, p in v, spit kink, livestream sex, dead dove: do not eat, (breeding vibes in part 3 guysss) ᥫ᭡

you stared at the message, your heart hammering against your ribs. your apartment, your sanctuary, suddenly felt like a glass box, and he was standing right outside, able to see everything.

you scrambled off your bed and crept to the window, peeking through the blinds. down below, under the flickering streetlamp, stood his figure.

even from this distance, even with the distortion of the glass, you knew it was him. he was just standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking up at the building with an unnerving stillness.

panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. how? how did he find you? you were always so careful. you never used your real name, never showed the outside of your building, never gave away any identifying details. but he'd used your name in the message. a name you couldn't even remember sharing. a cold dread settled in your stomach.

your phone buzzed again, the sound making you jump.

aeri0n_t: i know you're in there. please just talk to me.

you didn't answer. you couldn't. you just stood there, frozen, watching him as he pulled out his phone and typed. a moment later, a new message appeared.

aeri0n_t: i'm coming up.

no. no, no, no. you backed away from the window, your mind racing. you could lock the door and hide in the bathroom. you could-

the knock echoed through your apartment, loud and insistent.

you held your breath, praying he'd think you weren't home, that he'd just leave.

"i know you're in there," his voice called through the door, muffled but clear. it was deeper than it was through your speakers, rougher around the edges with an emotion you couldn't quite place. maybe frustration? desperation?

"i can see your light is on. please, just open the door sweetheart."

you stayed silent, your back pressed against the wall, your entire body trembling.

"please," he said again, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "i'm not going to hurt you. i just...i need to know you're okay. you ignored me for four days. i was worried."

his words should have been reassuring, but they weren't. he was worried…he was so worried he'd tracked you down and was now standing at your door, demanding entry. this wasn't the sweet, reverent "silver dragon" from your chat room.

another knock, harder this time. "open the door, or i swear to god, i'll wake up every single person on this floor until someone lets me in."

the thought of causing a scene, of your neighbors seeing him, of them finding out what you did for a living, was more horrifying than facing him yourself. with a shaking hand, you reached for the deadbolt and turned it. the chain was still on, a flimsy last line of defense. you peered through the crack.

he was even more striking in person. with the lean, athletic build you'd only seen in glimpses on screen. his hair was a shock of silver-white, messy and sticking up slightly, he was dressed in dark, expensive-looking clothes, but they were rumpled, as if he'd been wearing them for days. and his face…his face was a storm of emotion. anger, yes, but also a deep, unsettling distress that made him look younger, more vulnerable, and infinitely more dangerous.

"oh fuck," he breathed, his eyes finding yours in the narrow opening. relief washed over his features, quickly replaced by a simmering fury. "why didn't you answer me?"

you swallowed hard, your throat dry. "aerion... you can't be here. how did you find me?"

he didn't answer. instead, he simply put his shoulder to the door. the chain snapped with a loud crack, and he was inside your apartment, pushing past you before you could even react. he kicked the door shut behind him, the sound of it clicking into place echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

he stood in the middle of your living room, his gaze sweeping over your space—over the soft glow of your ring light, the scattered lingerie, the laptop still open on your bed. his jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. he looked like a caged predator.

"four days," he said, his voice low and dangerously quiet. he turned his full attention to you, and you took an involuntary step back. "you ignored me for four fucking days. with no fucking explanation. i thought something happened to you…"

"you shouldn't have come here," you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself, a pathetic attempt at a barrier. "you're scaring me."

his expression softened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. he took a step toward you, and you flinched. he stopped, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender.

"i'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice gentler now, but the intensity was still there, burning beneath the surface. "i just...i needed to see you."

he closed the remaining distance between you, his movements slow and deliberate. he didn't touch you, not at first. he just stood there, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with something else, something metallic and sharp, like ozone before a storm.

"why were you ignoring me?" he asked again, his voice barely a whisper. he reached out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch was surprisingly soft, but it made your heart pound with fear. "was it something i said? something i did?"

"this... this isn't a good time," you stammered, your mind racing for an excuse, any excuse. "i was... i'm in the middle of something."

he glanced over at your laptop, then back at you, a knowing, almost bitter smile playing on his lips. "a show? were you about to go live for them? for the faceless masses who tip you in tokens and don't give a shit about you?"

he stepped even closer, his body now even closer against yours. his face was inches from yours, his eyes searching yours, desperate and demanding. "i gave you a shit ton of tokens. i gave you my name. i thought...i thought we had something."

"we don't have anything," you said, your voice trembling but firm. "this is my job. you're a client. that's all."

"don't say that," he growled, “i'm not just some client. i'm the one who tells you you're beautiful when everyone else is just telling you to spread your legs. i'm the one who respects you!"

"respect?" you laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "you tracked me down, aerion. you broke into my apartment. that's not respect. that's borderline obsession."

"it's not obsession," he insisted, his voice rising with frustration. "it's... it's devotion. i care about you. i've never cared this much about anyone…it hurts."

you were trapped. trapped between his body and the wall, trapped by his desperation and your own fear. you could feel the hard lines of his body against yours, could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest.

"you're not scared now, are you?" he murmured, his hand tracing the line of your jaw.

you nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of your head. it was the truth. you were terrified. but the nod, in his eyes, was a betrayal.

his face changed. the desperate, pleading boy vanished, replaced by something cold and hard. "oh," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "you're scared. you want something to be afraid of?"

a bitter laugh escaped his lips. "fine. you want to treat me like a client? then i'll fucking behave like one."

before you could even process his words, one arm wrapped around your waist, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, trying to push him away, but it was like shoving against a statue. with a grunt, he hoisted you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

the world tilted, your hair hanging down in a curtain as you stared at your apartment floor. "no! put me down!" you screamed, your voice raw with panic.

you thrashed wildly, kicking your legs, pounding your fists against his back, but he was immovable. it was like hitting brick. his grip on you was like iron, pinning you in place. he stopped beside your bed, and with a careless shove, he dumped you onto the mattress. you bounced, the air knocked from your lungs, scrambling to get away, but he was on you in an instant, one hand pressing down on the center of your chest, holding you flat.

"stay fucking still," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

you didn't stop. you couldn't. you bucked and twisted, trying to squirm out from under his weight, your screams muffled by the room. he just watched you, a look of detached annoyance on his face, as if you were nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head. with his free hand, he reached over and adjusted your laptop.

"no, no, no," you sobbed, realizing what he was doing. he angled the screen, tilting the camera until it pointed directly at the bed, at you, trapped and struggling beneath him. the little green light was on. it was still live. your audience, your faceless masses, were watching everything.

"there," he said, a sickeningly satisfied smile on his face. "now everyone can see."

he shifted his weight, grabbing your chin in a punishing grip, forcing your head to turn toward the camera. you whimpered, tears streaming down your cheeks, blurring the view of the little green light. you squeezed your eyes shut, you wouldn't look. you wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"open your eyes," he commanded. "look at the camera.”

you blinked them open slightly as his grip on your chin tightened, and with his other hand, he brought two fingers up to your tightly sealed lips. "open up," he ordered.

you shook your head, a muffled whimper escaping your throat.

smack.

the sharp, stinging crack of his hand against your cheek was so unexpected it made you gasp. it wasn't hard enough to truly hurt, but the shock, the humiliation, was something that shot red hot through you.

"i said, open up," he repeated, his voice utterly devoid of warmth. "or the next one will be a lot harder."

defeated, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and a strange, unwelcome thrill, you slowly parted your lips. he didn't hesitate, pushing his two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. the taste of his skin was salty, clean.

"get them nice and wet," he instructed, his eyes locked on yours through the camera video. "show them how good you are at following orders, sweetheart."

you hesitated, your mind screaming at you to bite down, to do anything. but the look in his eyes, the promise of pain, held you captive. you closed your lips around his fingers, your tongue moving tentatively, coating them with your saliva.

"that's it," he murmured, a flicker of that old approval in his voice, twisted now into something darker. "such a good girl when you want to be. you know how to use that mouth, don't you? it's all you're good for, really. talking to them, taking their money...and now, taking my fingers."

he began to slowly pump his fingers in and out of your mouth, fucking your mouth with his hand. "suck," he commanded, his voice a husky whisper. "show everyone how much you like it."

the degradation burned through you, but a sick part of you, the part that craved his attention, obeyed. you hollowed your cheeks, sucking on his fingers as he'd instructed, your eyes locked on his.

just then, a sound pierced the tense silence, a cheerful, electronic chime from your laptop.

ding!

unknown443: [tip: 100 tokens]

another chime followed, then another, a cascade of notifications lighting up the screen from other usernames.

aerion smiled, a cruel, triumphant curve of his lips. he pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. a string of saliva connected your bottom lip to his fingertips before breaking. the sound, the sight, was utterly humiliating, and a fresh wave of heat washed over your face.

"good girl," he purred, the praise a poison dart. he shifted his weight, the hand that had been pinning you down moving to your waist. with a rough tug, he yanked you further down the bed, positioning you exactly how he wanted, your body pliant under his strength. his free hand trailed down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the delicate lace of your panties.

"let's see what we have here," he murmured, more to the camera than to you. "let's see if the rest of you is as obedient as your mouth."

you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, but you couldn't stop the helpless whimper that escaped your lips as he pushed the fabric aside. his fingers found your folds, and you froze. you expected pain, expected roughness. but his touch was exploratory, almost clinical, for a split second. then he stilled.

you felt him tense above you. you dared to open your eyes, and the look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated triumph. a slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.

"well, well," he breathed, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. he looked from your face to the laptop, making sure the camera had a perfect view. "she's fucking soaked."

he slid one long finger through your slick folds, and you cried out, a strangled sound of shame and unwilling arousal. it was true. despite your terror, despite your disgust, your body had betrayed you.

"you can scream all you want," he said, his voice a low, taunting rumble. he pushed that single finger inside you, sinking it knuckle-deep with a slow, deliberate thrust. "but your body doesn't lie. it wants this. it wants me."

your back arched off the bed, a desperate, involuntary reaction to the invasion. you thrashed your head from side to side, but it was useless. he was too strong, his hold too absolute. he began to move his finger, pumping it in and out of you.

"so fucking tight," he groaned, his eyes closing for a moment as if savoring the sensation. then he opened them, his gaze burning into yours. "and so fucking wet. all this for me? or for them?"

he added a second finger, stretching you, filling you. the sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and pain that short-circuited your brain. your screams turned to ragged, panting sobs.

"answer me, baby" he demanded, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in a tight, cruel circle. "who is this for?"

"you!" you sobbed, the word torn from you. "it's for you!"

"yeah that's what i thought," he suddenly withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling achingly empty. he brought his hand up to his face, his eyes never leaving yours as he looked at his glistening fingers. then, holding your gaze, he slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.

a guttural sound of pure satisfaction rumbled in his chest. "fucking delicious," he breathed. he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that you knew the camera's microphone would pick up perfectly. "i think i'm going to start by eating your pretty little pussy."

he didn't wait for a response. he pushed himself up and leaned over you to your laptop. you flinched away, but he wasn't interested in you right now. his long fingers tapped at the keyboard, and you heard the soft whir of the camera's motor as he adjusted its position. he angled it down, capturing the entire length of your body on the rumpled bedsheets.

he returned his attention to you, his eyes dark with intent. he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, the only barrier left between you and complete exposure. with one sharp, decisive tug, he ripped them. the delicate lace gave way with a tear, and he tossed the ruined fabric aside as if it were nothing.

"much better," he said, his gaze raking over your naked cunt.

he shifted down the bed, his body a heavy, commanding presence. he settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart, forcing them wide. there was no escape. you were completely open, completely vulnerable to him. you could feel his warm breath on your most sensitive flesh, and you squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body tensing in anticipation.

then his mouth was on you.

it wasn't gentle. it wasn't exploratory. it was a hungry, possessive assault. he licked a long, wet stripe up your slit, stealing a choked gasp tore from your throat.

he didn't stop. he sealed his lips over your clit and sucked, hard, sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure-pain through you. your hips bucked involuntarily, but his hands came up to grip your thighs, holding you down, pinning you in place.

he ate you out with a messy, single-minded intensity. it was all wet sounds and desperate lapping, his tongue delving into your entrance, his teeth scraping lightly against your folds. he was devouring you, and the sounds he made were obscene, slurping and groaning as if he were a starving man and you were his feast.

"look at her," he panted, pulling back for just a second, his chin glistening with your wetness. he wasn't looking at you. he was looking at your pussy, his expression one of pure adoration. "she's so pretty. so fucking pretty."

he dove back in, his tongue swirling around your clit in tight, relentless circles. your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the silver strands, but whether you meant to push him away or pull him closer, you couldn't say.

"she behaves so well," he murmured against your flesh, the vibrations of his words sending shivers through you. "she never ignores me. not like you do."

he punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his tongue, fucking you with it, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

"no," he continued, his voice a dark, worshipful chant. "she always gets so wet for her owner, huh? she knows who she belongs to, even if you don't."

he increased his pace, his mouth working you with a ferocity that bordered on violence. one of his hands left your thigh, and you felt two fingers slide easily inside you, curling upward to find that spot that made your vision blur. he pumped his fingers in time with his tongue, a perfect, devastating rhythm.

"that's it," he groaned, his voice muffled by your flesh. "give it to me. give me what's mine."

the coil in your stomach tightened to an impossible degree. the pleasure was overwhelming, humiliating, undeniable. you could feel the audience watching, could hear the distant chime of more tips, but it all faded into the background. there was only the weight of his body holding you down, the relentless movement of his tongue and fingers, and his voice, claiming you, body and soul.

the coil inside you snapped. a blinding, pulsing wave of pleasure ripped through you, so intense it was almost painful. your body went rigid, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. your thighs trembled, your pussy clamping down around his fingers as wave after wave of release washed through you.

he didn't stop. if anything, he intensified his efforts, his tongue flicking mercilessly against your oversensitive clit as he worked you through every last spasm. he drank you in, his groans of satisfaction vibrating against your flesh as he lapped up every drop of your release, not letting a single bit go to waste.

when you finally collapsed back against the sheets, boneless and gasping, he slowly pulled away. he didn't wipe his mouth. he just leaned back over you, his face hovering inches above yours, his chin and lips slick and shining with your cum. the scent of your own arousal filled the air between you, musky and intimate.

"taste yourself, baby" he commanded, his voice a low growl. "taste what you gave me."

he didn't wait for an answer. he crushed his mouth to yours, a messy, possessive kiss. you could feel the sticky wetness of your own release on his lips, taste yourself on his tongue as he forced it into your mouth. it was a humiliating, intimate act, and the camera captured it all. through the haze of your own pleasure, you were acutely aware of the hard, thick length of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants, pressing insistently against your thigh.

he finally pulled back, his chest heaving, his indigo eyes burning into yours. "have you ever taken a dildo?" he asked, his voice rough, conversational, as if he were asking about the weather.

your mind, still foggy from your orgasm, struggled to process the question. you shook your head, a small, hesitant movement.

a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "no? just your fingers?"

you nodded again,

"good," he breathed, the word a puff of air against your lips. "then i get to be your first."

he pushed himself up, kneeling between your legs. his eyes never left yours as his hands went to his belt. the metallic clink of the buckle was loud in the quiet room. he undid his pants, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

and there it was.

his cock sprang free, hard and heavy. it was just as perfect as it had been on the laptop screen, but seeing it in person, feeling the heat radiating from it, was something else entirely. long and thick, with a satisfying heft, the skin was pale against his dark clothes, but the head was a flushed, angry pink, already beading with precum. prominent veins mapped a path up the shaft, and it jutted out from his body, a testament to his undeniable arousal.

he wrapped a hand around it, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. "this is what you do to me," he said, his voice thick with lust. "this is what ignoring me for four days did."

he leaned down again, his face so close his features blurred. his free hand came up to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing on your chin, forcing your mouth open. "open up," he whispered, his voice a dark, intimate command.

you obeyed, your body too overwhelmed, too wrecked to fight back. he hovered over you, his gaze locked on your open mouth, and then he spat. a warm, wet string of his saliva landed on your tongue. it was a primal, claiming act, and a fresh wave of humiliation washed over you.

before you could react, his mouth was on yours again. this kiss was different, deeper, more possessive. he swirled his tongue with yours, mixing his spit with yours, a messy, intimate exchange that left you breathless and dizzy.

when he finally pulled away, a string of saliva connected your lips. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust. "my turn," he said, his voice rough and gravelly.

he held his hand out, palm up, in front of your face. "spit."

you hesitated for only a second before obeying, spitting into his waiting palm. he gave a low, appreciative hum. he brought his hand to his cock, using the combined slickness of your saliva and his to coat his length. he pumped himself slowly, his fist gliding over the rigid shaft, the wet sounds filling the room. he watched you the entire time, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your stomach clench.

"that's better," he groaned, giving himself one last, tight squeeze.

then, without warning, his hands were on you again. he grabbed your hips, his grip bruising, and with a rough, effortless movement, he flipped you over. you landed on your stomach with a soft "oomph," the air knocked from your lungs. he was on you instantly, his weight settling over you, his knees pushing your legs apart.

you felt the hot, heavy length of his cock press against the curve of your ass. he shifted, dragging it down until the swollen, flushed head was nestled right against your entrance. you were still so wet, so open from your orgasm and his earlier assault.

he didn't push in. not yet. he just held himself there, the tip of his cock teasing your slick folds. he moved his hips in a slow, maddening circle, using your wetness to coat himself, getting the head of his cock "super wet" as he'd intended. the friction was delicious, torturous. you could feel every contour of him, every vein, as he slid against you, teasing your clit with every pass.

"feel that baby?" he breathed in your ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "this is what you've been waiting for..."

"...this is what you were made for."

and then he pushed in.

there was no gentleness, no slow acclimatization. he drove into you in one long, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. the stretch was immense, a burning, overwhelming fullness that stole your breath. a sharp, guttural cry was torn from your lips, muffled by the sheets beneath your cheek. he was bigger than anything you'd ever taken, bigger than you'd imagined, and he filled you completely.

he didn't give you time to adjust. he set a punishing rhythm from the very beginning, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, his hips slapping against your ass with a loud, wet smack.

the camera, positioned perfectly, captured everything: the glistening sheen of your combined wetness coating his thick shaft as it pistoned in and out of you, the way your flesh clung to him on every retreat, the slick drip of your arousal running down your inner thighs to soak the sheets.

your face was smushed into the bedding, your mouth open in a silent scream as moans were forced from your body with every powerful thrust. you felt like an animal, a bitch in heat, being taken and used, and the shame of it was mixed with a dark, thrilling pleasure you couldn't deny.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice a low, rhythmic pant. "take it. take all of it. take all of this fuckin’ cock…you're so fuckin’ tight, baby."

he brought his hand down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap. the sound echoed in the room, followed by your yelp. "such a good girl for me. taking my big cock so good..."

his hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back slightly, forcing your arch deeper. he panted, his words punctuated by the relentless slap of his skin against yours. "remember our first private show? you said you didn't know how you'd ever take all of me." he laughed, a dark, triumphant sound. "look at you now. taking every inch."

he slowed his pace for a moment, grinding into you, his cock pressing deep, making you whimper. "it makes me wonder, though..." he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper he knew the mic would pick up. "if this pretty little pussy is this tight... i wonder how that cute, tight asshole would feel."

panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the haze of pleasure. he was looking at the camera, a speculative smirk on his face. "what do you think, chat? should i find out?"

"no!" you screamed, the word tearing from your throat. "no! please!"

you started to thrash weakly beneath him, trying to squirm away, but his grip on your hip was like iron. your pathetic struggles only seemed to amuse him.

he laughed, a deep, cruel rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "shhh shh calm down, honey" he soothed, his tone mockingly gentle. "don't worry. this time, i'll just enjoy the cunny i came for."

he released your hair and grabbed your hips with both hands, his grip bruising. he resumed his brutal pace, fucking you harder, deeper, chasing his own release. your protests died in your throat, replaced by the mindless, desperate moans of a body completely overwhelmed.

one of his hands left your hip, snaking around your body to find your clit. he began to rub it in tight, fast circles, his touch knowing, exact. the additional stimulation was electric, shooting through you like a lightning bolt.

your body, already pushed to its limit, spasmed in response. the sounds of your slick wetness grew louder, a filthy, rhythmic squelching that mingled with the slap of his skin against yours and the distant, cheerful chime of tips flooding in.

"that's my girl," he grunted, his rhythm never faltering.

he leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing against your ear. "this is the last time you'll ever go live for them," he panted, his voice a low, possessive growl. "you understand? after tonight, i promise to take goood care of you.”

your mind, a haze of pleasure and pain, could barely process his words. you just wanted it to stop but you wanted it to never end. you nodded dumbly against the sheets.

a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "yeah, you do," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "fuck, you're so pretty when you get cock dumb…"

that was it. the coil inside you snapped again, harder this time. your vision went white, your body convulsing as a powerful orgasm tore through you.

a long, broken moan was ripped from your throat, your pussy clamping down around his thick cock like a vise. you could feel your release gush out of you, soaking the sheets beneath you, a final, humiliating surrender.

he groaned as your walls clenched around him, his pace faltering for a moment as he savored the feeling. he rode out your orgasm, his strokes slowing as you trembled and whimpered beneath him.

he leaned back up, his hand still resting possessively on your ass, and looked directly at the camera, a triumphant smirk on his face. he gave your ass a light pat.

"and that's cum number two," he announced to the live audience, his voice clear and full of arrogant pride. he watched the comments fly by, the tips pouring in. "how many do you think we should go for, huh?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he were taking requests.

"how many times do i have to make her cum before she decides to forgive me and stop fucking ignoring me?"

[the-darklings]

GIVING IN — BETTER BOBBY/BB.

pairing: entity!bobby franklin/bb x f!reader wc: 9.1k 💀 summary: BB has waited an eternity for someone to choose him. You finally let him in. All of him. contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut (entity sex, oral (f receiving), crazy amount of overstimulation, marathon sex, body worship!!!), non-human anatomy && shifting during sex, tummy bulges!!! (you're his cocksleeve i'm afraid <3), eldritch features (elongated tongue, additional appendages, iridescent skin), mutual praise && desperation, emotional themes of loneliness && touch starvation (yeah,,, in your monsterfucking smut ikik), references to emotional neglect in a prior relationship/guilt over moving on, past references to real bobby/reader. notes: this took years off my damn life because I kept reworking parts but I did enjoy writing it overall. pic used is for aesthetic purposes only && is not representative of the reader character. I just like looking at Finn with his mouth gaping open mid moan :) also this is NOT canon compliant for the main series. y'all just want to fuck bb && I respect that (also this was put off twice & I reckon I owe you one after Part 6). essentially this can be read as "entity x/bobby/plot never happened & you chose to stay with bb forever" au.

✶ better bobby series.

“I found something for you.”

BB is crouching beside the nest when you open your eyes, his cool fingers turning something small and bright in his palm. A button. Red plastic, chipped at one edge, the kind that falls off a coat and rolls under a shelf and gets forgotten. He holds it out to you with the nervous care of a child presenting a drawing.

“It was in one of the lower hallways,” he explains, watching for your reaction. “Near a door I haven't opened yet. It's the same red as the mug you told me about. The one your mom had. I thought—” He turns it in his fingers. The yellow light catches the glossy surface. “I thought you might want something red. There's not a lot of red here.”

You take the button. It's warm from his hand, or rather warm from the contact with his hand, because BB himself runs cool, always cool, his body temperature a few degrees below what feels human until your skin draws the heat out of him. The red plastic sits in your palm. Cheap. Cracked. 

It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's given you in over a year.

“Thank you, BB.”

He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.

“You do? You like it?”

You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”

The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

You hold out for months.

That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew. 

You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.

You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine. 

The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.

His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well. 

There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.

So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.

For months after the first kiss. Just that.

“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair. 

You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.

“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.

“What about?”

You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”

BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.

“Do you miss it?”

You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.

“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”

BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.

“Tell me about before,” he says softly.

Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.

Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body. 

Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.

Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.

The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after. 

The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.

You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now. 

You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.

That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.

You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.

“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”

“Yeah.”

“And you kept knocking.”

You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”

BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.

“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”

You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.

You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.

You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone. 

Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it. 

You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.

And you didn't leave. 

That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you. 

You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream. 

You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it. 

The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.

Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.

BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.

“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”

You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.

That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.

None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.

“Baby?”

BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully. 

You nod. “Of course.”

He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”

Your chest tightens. “BB—”

“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”

He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands. 

“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out. 

You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.

“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”

He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.

That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.

You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—

Grief. You feel grief. 

Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.

The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.

You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.

Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest. 

That girl was going home. That girl was holding on. 

This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up. 

It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too. 

The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory. 

A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore. 

Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.

BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.

You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.

You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.

“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.

BB goes still.

“You—”

“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”

The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold. 

The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.

You kiss him the next day.

He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin. 

BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.

“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.

BB stops talking.

His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats. 

“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”

You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.

BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.

You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.

Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him. 

His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.

The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.

BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much. 

His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.

His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.

The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.

You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.

You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.

“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.

BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.

“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”

You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”

“Do… do you mean—”

“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."

BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.

“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.

You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.

“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.

He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.

“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”

His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.

“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”

Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.

“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”

“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”

He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”

He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers. 

His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.

“I don't know how to. I've never—”

“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”

He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.

“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.

“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”

His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.

“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”

Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.

“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”

He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.

“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”

His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.

BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.

“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”

He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”

BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.

“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”

You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”

BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.

“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”

Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”

BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”

His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.

“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”

He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.

“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”

His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.

“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”

His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.

BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.

You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.

Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.

“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”

You come. Hard. 

Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him. 

He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.

“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”

His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.

BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.

“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”

He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.

“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”

You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”

He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.

“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”

You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”

“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”

“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”

He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”

His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.

You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.

BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.

“More?” he asks, barely audible.

You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”

His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.

“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”

“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”

He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.

You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.

BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.

“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”

He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.

He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.

“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.

BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.

He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.

The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.

The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.

“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”

“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”

You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you. 

You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.

“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”

You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours. 

His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.

“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”

He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.

You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.

“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”

You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.

“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.

“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”

He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.

“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”

He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.

“BB. Let me see.”

He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”

BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.

“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”

The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers. 

His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.

His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control. 

“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.

You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.

“Stay with me,” you say. 

He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.

“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."

Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.

“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”

His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.

“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”

His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.

You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.

The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third. 

“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”

The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will. 

By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”

Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.

BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.

He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.

And he peers down. At your stomach.

You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.

You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.

BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted. 

“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”

He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.

“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”

His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit. 

He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.

Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now. 

You’ve never heard the purr going louder. 

“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”

You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.

BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.

His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.

“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”

You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.

You nod anyway.

BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.

He fucks you until you black out.

You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.

When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.

You stir. He notices immediately.

“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”

“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”

He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.

“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”

Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”

He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.

“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”

You should be terrified.

But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.

You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.

an: never written monsterfucking aside from that one shorter piece a few weeks back so if this sucks i'm sorry. I tried.

[finnsbarbie]

۶ৎ 𝐘𝐎𝐔❜𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍. ₁₈₊

──── © 𝒹rqcaryz . est ‘ 26

⤷ 𝒶erion 𝓉argaryen ℘ 𝒹ark 𝒽aired ! 𝓉argaryen 𓂃 ♡ ︎

꒰ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ꒱ ⸝⸝ aerion isn’t very fond of you , a bit weird since you two are to marry , he doesn’t like the way you look or frankly the way you act . this trip to ashford was one for him , one for him to prove his knightly hood in whatever way he wanted to . but he didn’t expect was to end up in a bit of predicament with you , to end up in . . . love you could say . screams and threats and near death experiences are the only things that can move aerion to uncover his hidden truths

꒰ 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 ꒱ ⸝⸝ reader is described with dark hair and similar features as baelor and valarr . there is a tad bit of smut but nothing too much , just something i added to create a bit of tension for the story to move throughly . also lowkey soft aerion at the end

the breeze in ashford is warm , the heat trickling down your body making things even worse than they were before . it’s been a couple of long hours riding on horseback to this tiny kingdom and you feel worn out , as if you’re about to drop dead . your legs are sore , your back is aching for some real support , and your hands are marked with the leather of the reins . everyone can see the dissatisfaction on your face , nothing goes unnoticed when it comes to you , the princess , baelor’s sweet daughter , but there’s not much anyone can do . not with aerion’s sharp looks whenever someone talks to you , with the exception of your father , with just a glance he shuts them down leaving you still in that dreadful state

. . .

you two have been betrothed for a while now , a shocking discovery you made one day after your father called you into his study and there before you sat your uncle and aerion ready to talk about this . . . proposal . you sat across from aerion , fidgeting with the hems of your skirts as he eyed you the whole time . in all realness it was something you didn’t expect as aerion would constantly claim you were too plain for him . growing up he would call you a fake targaryen because you didn’t have silver hair and bright violet eyes , just dark hair with a sliver of white and your fathers eyes . ‘ plain . that is what you are ’ . you never took it to heart , you would partially agree with him as your tutors taught you to do , ‘ always respect a prince . always agree with a prince and do whatever he wants ’ . it was all you heard growing up which is why you felt it was your duty to accept the proposal

aerion would have rather settled for better . he wanted to marry one of his sisters as they had silver hair but maekar wouldn’t allow it . instead he introduced his son to many ladies but he dismissed all of them claiming he wanted to keep targaryen traditions and marry in the family , hypocritical as his mother was dornish . well , who was maekar to turn him down when all wanted was to make his boys happy ? but even if aerion had to settle with you , had to tolerate your dark hair and foreign eyes , had to live with the fact that all of his children won’t have silver hair , he seemed to be very overprotective of you . weird as he wasn’t very fascinated by you

. . .

but you’re here for him . only him . at least that’s what he thinks , so of course he needs to make sure your attention is on him only . give a prince what he wants , right ? when you all finally arrived at ashford , completely worn and ready to hit the freshly made bed awaiting you , you almost beamed in excitement , if only aerion didn’t have to ruin it all in a matter of minutes . he got off his horse and walked right passed you , his attention on a stable boy rather than you . you frowned at his ignorance but who were you to say anything to him

valarr was by your side in an instant , his hand out to help you down , you looked over to aerion , instinct by now , and took his hand into yours . ‘ still can’t believe you said yes to marrying him . look how he treats you ’ you sighed softly and gave valarr a sorry smile , he saw you weren’t in the mood for any conversations , nothing really , he pulled you into a hug and was about to walk you up -

‘ princess ’ aerion’s voice cut through the air like a blade , you took a sharp inhale and looked over to him ‘ yes ? . . . my dear ’ valarr made a face of disgust as he still clung to you , he hated whenever you called him that . and you hated it too but it was one of the only names aerion wanted you to call him . ‘ accompany me on a walk through the fields will you ’ it wasn’t a question , but a demand . he walked towards the two of you and grabbed your arm , gave valarr a nasty look that made him draw back and forced you to walk with him . aerion hates valarr , he’s to be heir to the throne one day and he’s your brother ; now valarr doesn’t like you like that , in the way aerion thinks every brother should love their little sisters , no valarr is just your sweet older brother but aerion loves to keep you away from him

you two walked in silence , aerion’s arm snaked around your waist , bodies close together as if you’re a token to be looked at . well , you are prince baelor’s daughter , the princess of the seven kingdoms and you make aerion look good . you make him look so powerful and he’s enjoying that , maybe it is a good idea to take your hand in marriage . the majority of the knights already stationed here in ashford looked at the two of you walking , aerion’s smug face and your bright fake smile putting on a show for these . . . lowlifes basically . it’s always a show when it comes to aerion and he knows very well that you’re not one to shut him down to whatever he asks you do . but it does get boring at one point , when you just agree with everything he does , you don’t bicker , you don’t scream at him , you don’t threaten him at all . you’re as quiet as a mouse , ‘ you’re no dragon , no wonder you don’t look like our ancestors ’

‘ i am getting a bit tired , a - my dear , shall we head back ? ’ aerion sighed very loudly and turned to look at you , you had that pout on your face that always made him frustrated ‘ wipe that stupid frown ’ you immediately did , or at least tried to , he rolled his eyes and led the way back to the castle . he didn’t seem to notice , or rather care , that your steps are faltering , that you’re growing weaker by the second . valarr was waiting for the two of you , his steps quickened when he saw you trailing behind aerion , his arms out to help you but aerion pushed him and helped you instead . something he would never do if valarr wasn’t there to be a savior . he guided you up the stairs and handed you over the a couple handmaids who led you to your room where you plopped on the bed and dozed off for a while before dinner

. . .

you freshened up , your face back to its radiant self , you felt good , you felt perfect and definitely hungry . the handmaids escorted you to the dining room where everyone was alreadly seated . the mood was down in here , your uncle’s doom and despair reining over everyone due to your two other cousins pronounced missing . valarr and aerion were glaring at each other and the lord , or whatever he was , was trying to make conversation with your father , to which he wasn’t in the mood for . you sat in between aerion and the ashford’s lord daughter , giving her a small smile that she reciprocated . ‘ okay she’s here ! can we eat now or what ? ’ maekar glared at aerion but he didn’t pay any mind ‘ yes of course ! please dig in my dear guests ’

the dinner was nicely served , freshly out the ovens of the kitchens of the castle . everything was really good , fulfilling all the stomachs around the table that seconds couldn’t even be served . there was a shift in the air when the food was consumed , smiles here and there , chattering between the grand princes and the lord . conversation sparking between the daughter of ashford , you and valarr . of course only aerion was out of the picture , drowning in his drinks and sitting way back in his chair , picking at the food like he always does . his eyes were fixated on you , the smile you possessed , the light in your eyes , the warm laugh that escaped your lips . the glint of sunlight in your hair that seemed to make you look pretty in his eyes

he looked hungry . but not for food

after dinner you made your back to the room ashford had given to you , you unpacked your nightgown and slipped right into it , washed your face and sat by the window combing your hair as you watched the sun set over the fields . aerion walked in but you didn’t notice , you were too captivated by the glistening sun to notice him hovering over you by the canopy bed . he watched as the brush ran through your silky hair , as the sun glowed over your whole entire body allowing him to see what was under the nightgown . just like you , he seemed to be captivated , under a spell because he wanted to touch you so bad in that moment . he moved to you , his footsteps quiet , he placed a hand on the top of your head and you flinched ‘ shhh . just keep being pretty for me okay ? ’ you didn’t know what he meant by that but when you felt his hands moving downwards , pressing lightly on your breasts and fiddling with your now harden nipples , well you couldn’t help but relax into his touch

you hid your face in his chest and he let out a low laugh , nothing sincere just cheeky . ‘ i want you . can you let me fuck you princess ? ’ if there even was an ounce of you that didn’t want this , it probably wouldn’t have allowed you to say no . you did your duty and nodded at him , eyes wide as he picked you up and placed you the bed . he was quick with it , placing soft kisses on your neck and the rest of your body , pinning you down while he undressed himself and stuffed his cock deep inside of you . he kept thrusting and thrusting as your moans filled room , as you scratched his back which only made him rut deeper into . he filled you up twice , the warmth cascading all over your insides , he fell right beside you and whispered something only you could hear in your ear . you sat up in disbelief , in sadness and in anger ‘ get out ’

‘ oh come on i am just messing with you ’

‘ you can’t say things like that aerion ’

‘ shhh , don’t argue with me after i just fucked you ’ you frowned at him and locked yourself in the wash room . he didn’t knock or beg you to come out , not that you expected him to do so . you stared at yourself in the mirror , picking the ends of your dark hair that he had just wished was silver like his . that he probably would be able to dye if he found a way to do so . aerion picks you apart everyday , it’s something you’re used to but it’s crazy that he’s able to persuade you to let him stick his cock in your body and then insult your features like it’s nothing . but what can you expect

you don’t know if he left during the night or before you woke up but he was gone when you finally stepped foot out of the washroom . he was probably out overseeing the preparations of the first tourney but all you knew was that you didn’t really want to see him right now

. . .

the next couple days went by quickly , you refused to leave the comfort of the ashford castle , only ever leaving your room when dinner time came around in which you sat farthest away from aerion . they all noticed the small shift between the two of you , it wasn’t like you two got pretty well with each other before but this time it was different . but no one questioned , not even your father and brother . valarr would fill you in on the tourney , telling you about his victory and about aerion’s supposed one in whisper , he would say that you aren’t missing much to try to make you feel better but it wasn’t really working . on the fifth night of being in ashford aerion didn’t show up to dinner , you supposed he was in his quarters so you went out that night to see the puppet shows valarr had told you about . alone

when you got there it was crowded with many people , civilians who came to watch the tourney and the knights in their simple attire too . you were wearing a clock over your dress and the hood to cover your face , you sat in the furthest corner of the little tent watching the show play before you . there was a dragon and a brave knight , a dragon slayer they called her , you thought to yourself that aerion would hate this play because it depicted the dragon as weak but it didn’t bother you at all . after all it was just a play . you left the tent for just a minute to buy a refreshment when all of a sudden there was a commotion . you hesitantly walked back to the tent to find aerion torturing the poor puppeteer and before you could do anything to stop him this tall man came in and started to beat aerion to pieces

you didn’t know what to do , if to interfere or to let him fight to hearts content , to his death probably . but after contemplating for a long time your heart was able to betray you and find a way to get this big tall strong man off of him . you shoved but he didn’t budge , the guards around looking at you in confusion as this hooded figure tried to take down a man . you huffed and took of your hood and announced your presence ‘ gods will you get off of him ! who do you think you are ? ’ the man stopped for a second to get a look at you but there was no real interest , not when aerion was still gripping at his neck ‘ get off of him now ! that’s an order from the princess you big hunk of shit ! ’ only then did he stop , he stood up and kneeled before you but you paid him no mind just went straight for aerion

you helped him up but he just flicked you away but you pulled him aside in hurry to leave ‘ what is your problem aerion ? ’

‘ i don’t need your help ’ he kept his voice down in a whisper , as if he was afraid anyone would hear this

‘ sure did look like it ’

‘ there’s no need for a princess to try and play savior ’ his eyes flickered to the crowed all looking at , you saw it in his eyes , embarrassment playing all over his face

‘ oh i’m sorry are you embarrassed ? ’ the sarcasm was evident in your voice and aerion’s eyes stayed glued to yours ‘ i don’t care what you feel aerion ’

‘ we’re leaving . all of us , take the big one too . and don’t try to run away again aegon ’ you made a guard retrieve aerion’s little brother who was hidden in the crowd and watched as they dragged the three of them back to the castle . aegon was taken to baelor , the knight to the dungeon and aerion to maekar . you were pacing in your room , thoughts flowing through head in need of some escape , you were angry , with aerion and the way he acted . to the girl , to the knight , to you most of all

you made your way to the parlor where you left aerion and his father , ‘ i would like to speak to aerion alone , uncle ’ your words were direct , straight forward with a hint of attitude in them

‘ in a bit - ’

‘ i think you’d be pleased to know that aegon is here . he is with my father ’ maekar looked at you in disbelief but hearing that his son was found made him seem to forget what he was talking about with aerion . he left in an instant leaving the door ajar . now it was just the two of you , it hasn’t been like this for a while ‘ again , i would like to know what your problem is ’

‘ my problem ? ’

‘ as in why did you decide it was best to hurt an innocent women ’

‘ innocent is far from what she is , did you see the things she was showing everyone , the slaying of dragons ? ’ you scoffed but he kept on going ‘ we are dragons , our family was built on dragons , the portrayal of one being killed is like a rebellion ’

you couldn’t help but laugh at his stupidity ‘ rebellion ? it was all but a bit . a play . a show . you’re taking this a bit too seriously ’

‘ this is our family - ’

‘ we don’t have dragons ! we haven’t had dragons in a long time . you’re not a dragon ! the only thing we have is our sigil and that is just but a drawing at this point . there was no need for a fight ’

‘ i didn’t need your help in that ’

‘ one more punch and he would have knocked out more than just your pretty little teeth aerion . you’re lucky i stopped him ’

‘ well i didn’t ask for help ! ’

‘ you did not have to . incase you forgot we are to get married in two months , excuse me for trying to keep my future husband in one piece ’

aerion let out a low laugh ‘ i will not stay here and argue about things you should not be involved in ’ he was walking towards the door that was wide open ‘ well i wasn’t done talking to you and you should listen to me as i am of higher rank than you ’

‘ higher rank ? look at you . look at your father and your brother , if anyone should be in line to the throne it should my father . not targaryen bastards - ’ you struck him in the face , it was unexpected to you and to him . he held onto his cheek , unsure if he should be impressed or frustrated with you

‘ i am sick of your stupidity aerion ! you can say all you want , you can call me a bastard , you can say that i’m plain and not perfect for you ! i don’t care but believe me when i say this ’ you took hold of his chin forcing him to look at you ‘ if there’s anyone who’s not perfect in this house it’s you . you act like a child , think like one , you try to be laid back but it’s all a facade . you want more , you want power , you want respect ? well then man up ’

you dropped his face but didn’t make leave ‘ we’re seeing this marriage through , that’s for sure , because it is my duty as the princess to do so . i will make sure that it does happen and if you don’t comply well then i’ll just make your life living hell . remember you were the one who wanted this . . . no one behind the walls of the keep cares for you , just us . it’s best that you don’t lose these ties ’

you left him there standing in disbelief , his face full of something new , a shift in the air and frankly in his heart . surely the people in this castle heard everything but the two of you didn’t seem to care , you were too busy making your way back to the room and aerion was just thinking about what to do next

. . .

the time in between your argument and the battle of seven , an impulsive decision aerion made to honor his dignity , he seemed to be very attentive . very much present . you have no idea why but he just seemed to be there . whenever you needed something he would appear , if you had the slightest mood change he would try to make it better . he would do the simple things that he’d never done before . walk with you whenever you wanted to , sit with you and do nothing in particular , watch you do things he had no interest in but did them because you did

you would catch him staring at you for a long time , in his eyes admiring your beauty that he somehow didn’t see before but this time admiring all of it , not just when he was drunk but all the time now . ‘ what ? ’ he would just nod and not say a word to you . in truth your slap put some sense into him , the way you screamed at him and threatened him , he liked it . he liked you when you were angry with him not when you complied to his words , he liked this version of you better than the other . for some reason this worried him a lot , it was big problem for him more than it was for you because what if something were to happen to him during the battle . what if he died ?

he wouldn’t have you . this time you couldn’t interfere and he knew that , it was the rules , you couldn’t use your superiority to stop this madness and he hated that . aerion regretted his decision deeply

the battle was hell for the two of you , imagine having to watch your father fight against your soon to be husband . you don’t have side , you didn’t chose one but it still hurts seeing them fight on different sides . and then aerion crashes , his screams billowing across the entire field and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it , he’s ready to surrender , you can see it . you’re begging to the gods to make him say it , say those words and when he finally does he just drops to the floor . unconscious or dead , you don’t know but you run down and push your way through the knights to him . the others are still there on their horses , everyone looks like shit , whether they won or they lost they all have the same expression on their faces . you take aerion’s helmet off and he’s bruised up pretty bad , his perfect face not so perfect anymore

you shake him , pat his face lightly to wake him up but he won’t budge . he’s alive , you can see his breathing body moving but it somehow still hurts . just a couple days ago you were screaming at him like there was no tomorrow , you were angry at him and didn’t want to hear from him anymore but now seeing him before you in this state really tore something inside of you . he’s been so . . . present lately that you can’t help but feel empty , you were afraid of this , afraid of him getting hurt again . some guards came to pick him up and take him back to his quarters , to which you followed leaving the rest of ashford behind

. . .

the rest of the time spent in ashford was one full of emotions , your father was pronounced dead , valarr was off the rails deep in his emotions . aerion was recovering slowly but steadily , he had just regained consciousness and the ability to speak properly but you were kind of scared to talk to him . what if he’s back to normal ? his cocky , bitchy self ? what if he’s doesn’t . . . feel things anymore . there was a knock on your door , maekar took one step in just enough for you to see and hear him ‘ aerion requests your presence ’ you nodded and made your way to where he was . you saw him before you entered , his body laying in the same position as it was when he was in a deep sleep , you hesitantly stepped forward , your footsteps quiet

‘ finally , i’ve been meaning to see you ’

‘ i’ve been dreading to see you ’

he lightly laughed , as much as his body could allow him too , ‘ there she is , my rude princess ’

my . you sat next to him on the bed ‘ you scared me , i hate to admit it but you did ’

‘ i think i scared myself too ’ you gave him a soft smile , ‘ i . . . i am sorry . for everything , this death experience made me see that i think . and you of course hitting me made me kind of fear you . in a good way ’

you lightly pressed your palm to his forward and caressed his hair , he didn’t stop you from doing so just melted into the touch ‘ do you feel okay ? ’ he laughed once more ‘ maybe i am crazy right now , tired but i am truly sorry . for your father , for all the things i’ve said . your hair is perfect , your eyes are perfect , you are perfect . not plain ’

‘ i like this . . . but it’s weird . you being nice ’

‘ you’ll have to get used to it my dear ’ now it was your turn to let out a laugh , he smiled at you before taking your hand into his

‘ we can’t get married like this ’ aerion looked at you like you just cut him up ‘ not when you look like this , i need your pretty face back . . . i guess i’ll have to wait for you ’ you rolled your eyes at him and he pulled you in for a kiss . it was sincere , it was real , it wasn’t sloppy or rushed or anything bad . it was meaningful

‘ beware , i’ll come back better ’

‘ not as good looking as me though ’

‘ never that my love ’

maybe aerion was going crazy . but during the entire time of his recovery back home he was kind , loving , attentive , and always there just like before . it seemed like this was here to stay and you didn’t have a problem with it . nights together were probably the best , he wasn’t tame at night and you loved that , he was free in your bed , in your body . a dragon he was . he did come back better in time for the wedding , prettier and healthier . and lucky for you those vows that he said were kept , he never went behind your back , never said shitty things to you ever again , you two did argue a lot but it only made the heat rise between the two of you

let’s just say every other argument led to the birth of a babe and of course just more sparks of love between the two of you

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER : bobby franklin from backrooms !

bobby franklin x gf!reader … You’d already decided to break up with Bobby. He’d been acting a bit shit, maybe even cruel without realising it, but before you could do it, he vanished into the Backrooms. You were gutted, had a good cry, buried the guilt along with the anger, and then he came back. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ heavy angst ⋆ guilty complex ⋆ toxic relationship ⋆ emotional abuse ⋆ codependency ⋆ caretaking ⋆ hurt no comfort ⋆ run, baby, run ⟢ words count: ~8k

notes ⟢ having already been through a bit of a shit relationship myself, I felt well inspired to write this. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

The knock on the door came after two in the morning, three spaced-out taps you barely hear over the telly being on some random channel you stopped paying attention to hours ago, eyes glazed over at nothing while the sofa sinks under your weight and the cold coffee mug on the coffee table's already left one of those brown rings you'll have to scrub off later (if it ever matters cleaning anything ever again).

No one came looking for you at that hour, no one could come looking for you anymore, not since the missing poster got taken down from the lamppost on the corner because "it's been a while, love, we need to move on", not since you stopped answering his mum's calls because hearing her cry made you want to vomit from guilt, and for a second you think about ignoring it, about letting whoever it is knock until they give up and go away, but your feet are already moving on their own across the rough hallway carpet, the robot vacuum's strap catching on your middle finger and you nearly fall, swear quietly in a voice that doesn't sound like yours, reach the door with sweaty hands and a heart beating so deep in your chest it seems to echo through the empty flat.

You look through the peephole and the whole world seems to pull the rug out from under your feet because it's Bobby, not just any Bobby but the Bobby, way too thin and way too pale with the "End Apartheid" shirt you gave him in the second month of dating now torn at the shoulder and stained with something dark that could be dirt or could be dried blood, greasy hair stuck to his forehead like he's just climbed out from underwater, eyes sunken and red with bags so deep they look painted on, and he's standing there on the landing of your building's staircase like he's just appeared out of nowhere, no car, no backpack, nothing but his own bruised body and a look of desperation you'd never seen before, the kind of desperation that wouldn't even be capable of screaming anymore.

You open the door without remembering unlocking it, without remembering turning the key, and he's there so close you can smell him, a strange smell of damp and sweat and something that reminds you of the bottom of a basement no one's set foot in for years, and your throat closes up because part of you was still hoping it was a mistake, that the poster was wrong, that he'd just disappeared for a while and would come back like nothing had happened, but the truth is you'd already given up, you'd already cried every tear you could cry and then stopped because crying didn't bring him back and also because, deep down in that dirty, selfish place you wouldn't even tell your therapist about, there was a little voice whispering that maybe it was better this way, that maybe you were free, that maybe now you could finally end things without having to actually end them, and that little voice is now silenced because he's alive and he's here and he's looking at you like you're the only thing in his world.

"Hi," Bobby says, and his voice comes out hoarse and small and cracked in the middle like every letter costs him a piece of his throat, and he tries to smile but the smile is a strange twitch at the corner of his mouth, and he says "hi" again like he doesn't know what else to say, like he rehearsed this for days or weeks or months in the dark of that yellow place and now all the words have run away.

He takes a step forward and falters, his right hand slapping against the doorframe with a dry sound that makes you jump, and he holds on there like the world's tilted and he'd fall if he let go, and you see his fingers — the fingers that used to doodle on your shoulder when you watched films on the sofa, the fingers that used to squeeze yours when you were nervous — they're now caked with dark dirt under broken nails, with little cuts on the knuckles that look infected, and you feel your stomach turn not just from disgust but from something that feels like anger but isn't quite anger, it feels like frustration, feels like injustice because you'd already decided, you'd already prepared yourself, you'd rehearsed your speech in the shower and in front of the mirror and in the sleepless early hours, and now he's here all broken and vulnerable and asking without asking, just with that look of a hurt dog that makes you want to hit him and hug him at the same time.

"Can you let me in?" he asks, and his voice falters in the middle of the last word like he already knows the answer and is scared of it, and you think about closing the door, think about saying no, think about saying "Bobby, we need to talk, there's so much I needed to tell you before you disappeared", but the words won't come and your hands won't obey either and you step back making space for him to come in without even having decided to do it, your body moving on its own while your head screams this is a mistake, this is a mistake, you don't owe him anything but it's too late because he's inside your flat, crossing the living room you haven't tidied for weeks with a strange way of moving like he's forgotten how to walk in a straight line, his wobbly legs knocking against the corner of the table and knocking over a pile of bills you haven't paid, and he doesn't even apologise, just keeps going toward the sofa like he already knows where the furniture is, like he dreamed about this place every night in the yellow hell and is now following a map etched into his soul.

He sits down slowly, so slowly he looks like an old man, and when his back finally hits the cushions he lets out a sound that's a deep, tired noise from his chest like he's been holding his breath since he fell into that hole and only now has permission to let the air out, and you stand there in the middle of the room looking at him with your arms crossed and your jaw clenched, trying not to remember the last time he sat on that sofa, trying not to remember that's where he said "you're being dramatic" when you tried to talk about how lonely you'd been feeling, that's where he turned his back and picked up his camera and started laughing about how good the footage with his mates had turned out while you swallowed your tears alone in the bathroom, that's where you swore to yourself you were going to end it, that you deserved more, that you weren't going to spend another year being treated like a supporting character in someone else's life who barely noticed you existed.

Now he's here again, but different, so different it hurts, and you don't know if this Bobby is the same one who hurt you or if the hole took that Bobby away and gave you back a different one, and that doubt is worse than any certainty because if he's the same then you need to end it, need to be brave, need to say the words you swallowed for so long, but if he's not the same — if he's really changed, if the fear of death made him see what he lost — then ending it now would be Cruelty with a capital C, would be kicking a dog that just got hit by a car, and you're not that kind of person, you never were, but you've also never been in this position before, never had to choose between your own happiness and the sanity of someone you once loved.

He lifts his hurt hand with trembling fingers, and makes a small gesture for you to come closer, and your feet move before you can think, and suddenly you're sitting next to him on the sofa, so close his leg touches yours, so close you can feel the strange heat of his body mixed with that smell of damp and dirt, and he doesn't say anything, just tilts his head slowly until his forehead rests on your shoulder, and you feel his weight, the weight of everything, of every day he spent lost, of every time he must have thought about you, of every promise he made to himself that he'd be better if he got out alive; and your hand rises on its own, your fingers sinking into his dirty hair without your permission, and you want to believe this gesture is affection but you know it's not, you know it's guilt, you know it's fear, you know it's the same dirty part of you that felt relieved when he disappeared now trying to make up for it so you don't feel like a monster.

"I thought about you," he mumbles against your shoulder, "where I was I thought about you, about how much of an idiot I was, about how you deserved more, about how I didn't tell you I loved you the last time we saw each other because we'd argued because I was being a prick and then I ended up in that hole and thought I'd never get to say it again," and the words all come out run together, without pause, like he's been saving up this speech for weeks and now needs to vomit it out before the chance passes, and every word is a punch to your stomach because you remember that last argument, remember every detail, remember you had your coat on ready to leave and he didn't even get up from his chair, remember you said "Bobby, I can't live like this anymore" and he answered "then don't", and you left slamming the door and swore you weren't coming back, that you'd put his things in a box, that you'd change your number and disappear from his life like he disappeared from yours long before the hole swallowed him.

But you didn't do any of that because by the next morning he'd already vanished, because Clark rang desperate asking if you'd seen Bobby, because the police showed up at your door with photos and questions and a look of "another young one disappeared without explanation", and you stood there with the box of his things in the middle of the living room waiting for the right moment to give it back and the right moment never came because the grief came first, because the guilt came first, because everyone started treating you like the grieving girlfriend before its time and you let them because it was easier than admitting that the two of you had already finished long before he disappeared.

Now he's here, alive, saying he loves you with a wobbly voice, and you can't say anything because the truth — the rotten, ugly truth you swept under the rug of grief — is that you didn't miss the Bobby who left, you missed someone, you missed not being alone, but not him specifically, not that 22-year-old lad who made jokes at the wrong time and forgot your things and made you feel like you were always the last priority on his list, and the worst, the worst of it all, is that you caught yourself thinking, in the darkest nights of grief, that maybe it was better this way, that maybe you could finally start over without needing to have the difficult conversation, that the universe had done the dirty work for you, and that thought ate away at you from the inside, made you cry with disgust at yourself, made you drink alone in the dark kitchen while repeating "I'm not a bad person, I'm not a bad person" like a mantra that didn't work.

He lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you with red, watery eyes and asks:

"did you miss me?" and the question is so simple, so direct, so full of a vulnerability that the old Bobby would never have allowed himself to show.

Your answer gets stuck in your throat like a bone, and the silence stretches on for too long, for seconds that turn into an eternity, and you see his face change slowly, see the hope dying in his eyes in slow motion, and when you finally manage to open your mouth to lie — because lying would be easier, because lying would be kinder, because lying would let him sleep in peace tonight — he shakes his head like he already knew, like the answer's been written on your face since the moment he knocked on the door, and he whispers: "it's alright, I get it, I deserve it", and looks away at the floor of your messy flat, and what hurts isn't seeing him sad, what hurts is realising that part of you — a part you hate, a part you want to tear out with your fingernails — feels relieved that he finally understood.

You stand up first, not out of your own will but because the silence after that "I deserve it" got too heavy like the air in the flat had turned to water and you needed to move so you wouldn't drown, so you reach your hand out to him without thinking, without planning, and Bobby looks at your open palm with an expression that hurts it's so vulnerable, his red eyes glistening in the middle of the room dimly lit by the kitchen light you forgot to turn off hours ago, and he hesitates for a second that feels like a whole lifetime before placing his cold, hurt fingers on yours, the touch so light it barely exists, like he's scared of squeezing too hard and breaking something or maybe like he thinks you're a ghost who'll disappear if he holds on too tight.

"Come on," you say, and the word comes out drier than you meant, like you're talking to a stranger on the street and not the boyfriend who came back from the dead, but you can't adjust your tone now, can't fake sweetness when your head's still spinning with all the things left unsaid, all the arguments left hanging, so you just pull him up off the sofa with a sharp movement that makes him groan quietly — somewhere in his shoulder, maybe his back, maybe some bruise you can't see under the torn shirt — and you feel a pang of guilt, but it's a tired guilt, the kind that doesn't really hurt anymore, just weighs you down.

"You need a shower," you say, not a suggestion.

Bobby agrees with a nod so weak it looks like his neck can barely hold up his own skull, his eyes fixed on some point beyond your shoulder like he's still half trapped in that yellow place, half floating between the world of the living and something else he can't quite name.

The walk to the bathroom is short but feels like it takes an hour, every step Bobby takes dragging and uncertain, his hand gripping yours with a strength that contradicts the fragility of the rest of his body, and you notice he's looking at everything — at the narrow hallway of the flat you used to share before the disappearance, at the photo frames on the wall you couldn't bring yourself to take down, at the half-open bedroom door showing the messy bed where you slept alone for so many nights — and every thing he sees seems to hurt in a different way, like he's redrawing the map of a place that was once his and now doesn't know if it still is.

You turn on the shower before letting him into the small, damp bathroom, the water taking ages to heat up because the building's old and the heater's always been rubbish, and while you wait you stand there in the middle of the shower stall with your hand under the cold water feeling the drips run between your fingers, and it's funny because at some point in your life taking a shower was such an automatic thing you didn't even think about it, and now every second feels stretched out by the awareness that Bobby is there behind you, leaning against the bathroom wall with his eyes closed, breathing deeply like the steam from the hot water is the first good thing to touch his skin in weeks.

You turn around and start taking his clothes off without asking, without ceremony, your fingers pulling the "End Apartheid" shirt over his head, what was once your gift now unrecognisable, torn and stained and smelling of damp, and when the fabric falls from his shoulders, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself making any sound because Bobby's body — the body you knew so well, you touched and kissed and pressed against your own on nights when you pretended to love each other — is covered in marks that weren't there before, purple and yellow bruises scattered across his ribs and arms, long red scratches running from his wrist to his elbow like something tried to grab him and not let go, and on his right shoulder a round wound that looks like a burn but not quite, the skin wrinkled and pale like it was pressed against something very hot or very cold or very wrong, and you don't ask what happened, not yet, because you're scared of the answer and also because part of you — that selfish part you're trying very hard to ignore — doesn't want to know the details, wants to keep believing that the Bobby who disappeared was just a mediocre boyfriend who vanished by accident, not a tragic hero who survived unimaginable horrors and now deserves all the love and patience in the world.

You take off the rest of his clothes with your eyes down, focusing on the movements of your hands so you don't have to look at the marks, so you don't have to look at his face which is pale and tired and so different from the lad who used to laugh about his boss's misfortunes at the furniture shop, and when he's completely naked in front of you, shivering a little, looking away at the blueish bathroom wall, you say:

"Get in."

The word comes out more steady than you feel, and he steps into the water without complaining, without making a joke, and the absence of his dry humour hurts in a way you didn't expect because the Bobby you knew would have made some stupid comment by now, would have said something like "didn't know you had a thing for assisted bathing" with that crooked smile that was irritating and charming at the same time, but this Bobby just stands still under the hot water with his shoulders slumped and his head down, the water running through his greasy hair and washing away a layer of dirt and sweat and maybe blood, forming a brown circle in the shower drain that goes down slowly making a choking sound, and you watch him for a few seconds before sighing deeply, pulling off your own hoodie and pyjama bottoms and stepping into the shower behind him, because there's no way to wash him properly without getting wet and also because — you admit to yourself with a bitterness in your mouth — because part of you wants to be close, wants to feel the warmth of his body against yours even if it's only for a few minutes, even if it's just to remember what it's like not to be alone.

You soap his shoulders first, running the liquid soap slowly, making circles on his bruised skin with a gentleness that surprises you because this isn't how you imagined touching him again, not after everything, but your hands seem to have forgotten the anger and only remembered how to care, and Bobby stays still under your hands like a frightened animal that doesn't know if the touch will hurt or comfort, his breath coming out in little spasms every time you go over a bruise, and you feel it when he finally relaxes a bit, his shoulders dropping a few centimetres, his head tilting back against your chest without warning, and you let him, keep soaping his chest and his arms and his hands.

When you reach his ribs where the scratches are deepest he makes a quiet sound, and you feel your own eyes sting because it's so unfair, so deeply unfair, that you have to give your boyfriend a shower — the boyfriend you were planning to dump — like he's a sick child, that you have to pretend everything's normal when the only thing you want to do is shake him by the shoulders and scream you treated me badly, you made me feel so small, you made me believe I didn't deserve anything better, and now you come back all bruised and sorry and I can't hate you because that would be too cruel, because everyone's going to look at you like a hero who survived and if I leave you now I'm the villain of the story, I'm the girlfriend who abandoned her traumatised boyfriend, I'm the monster.

"What happened down there?" you asked, your voice coming out harsher than you meant.

Bobby takes so long to answer that you think he's not going to answer, that he'll pretend he didn't hear or that he's too tired to talk, but then he turns his head slightly, just enough for you to see his profile.

"You won't believe it."

His voice is so small, so tired, that you almost give up asking again.

"Try me," you answer, soaping his back in circular motions.

He sighs deeply before he starts talking, and while the words come out — about the rooms, about the rope that wouldn't let go, about the knot that pulled tighter and tighter while he tried to free himself — you remember last summer before the disappearance, Bobby came home late after "helping Clark with something" and you asked where he'd been.

"I told you, at work."

His bored voice meant you're being annoying, stop asking, but you pushed because his phone was off and Clark had said he hadn't seen him all day.

"Stop interrogating me, for God's sake. I don't have to account for every step I take."

He shouted, and you remember the sound echoing through the walls of the small flat, remember the bedroom door slamming so hard the picture frame fell off the wall and the glass broke, remember spending the whole night picking up the shards off the living room floor while he slept like nothing had happened. The next morning he apologised with that smile you loved and you accepted like you always accepted because it was easier than fighting again, easier than admitting it hurt, easier than accepting you deserved more than crumbs of attention and outbursts of anger.

Now he's here, under the shower, telling you about how he felt something grab his ankle while he tried to climb back up, and you listen to every word with a dry mouth and a tight heart, but at the same time a dissociated part of your brain is comparing this vulnerable, sorry Bobby with the Bobby who called you "dramatic" when you said you'd been feeling depressed, with the Bobby who laughed when you suggested couples therapy.

"If you're not happy, no one's keeping you here."

You remember that Friday night, him playing video games without even looking at your face while you cried in the bathroom.

He talks about the yellow place, about the endless hallways and the lights that don't flicker but also never turn off, about the things that move in the dark of the side rooms and how he learned to walk in silence, to hold his breath, to not make a sound even when the despair squeezed his chest, and while he talks you rinse his hair carefully, running your fingers through the wet strands to get all the dirt out, and he shivers under your hands.

"I thought I was going to die alone," he says, his voice starting to crack. "On some random Wednesday, with no one knowing where I was."

His voice finally breaks and he starts crying, ugly and convulsive, shaking his whole body, sobs that seem to tear at his throat.

"Came back for you," he murmurs against your shoulder between one sob and the next, the words wet and jumbled. "Thought about you all the time, about how badly I treated you, about how much of an idiot I was, about how you deserved someone better. And I swore that if I got out of that place I was going to be better… that I was going to deserve you."

Every word is a knife in your ribs because you wanted to hear this six months ago, a year ago, long before he ended up in that yellow hole, you wanted him to wake up and realise he was losing you, but not like this, not with the weight of a near-death experience on his back, because now you'll never know if he's really changed or if he's just clinging to you like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a plank hoping not to drown again.

You don't answer, don't know what to answer, just keep rinsing his hair and running your fingers along the back of his neck with a tenderness that isn't exactly genuine but also isn't completely fake, it's somewhere in the middle, in the grey area where everything in this relationship seems to have lived from the start.

When the water finally runs clean from his hair, you turn off the shower and get out first, grab the fluffy towel that was hanging on the door and wrap him in it like he's a child, drying his arms and his back and his hair with gentle movements while he stands there shivering, his eyes red and swollen from crying so much, and you notice he doesn't try to touch you back — doesn't pull you close, doesn't grab your waist, doesn't do any of the gestures the old Bobby would have done in a moment of intimacy like this — and you don't know if this is respect or fear or exhaustion, but you're silently grateful because if he tried anything now, if he tilted his face to kiss you, you don't know if you'd be able to push him away or if you'd just let it happen out of guilt, out of pity, out of that desperate need to feel something that isn't this suffocating mess of love and anger and relief and regret.

"Let's sleep," you say, reaching your hand out to him with a small smile on your face.

He nods, takes your hand, and follows you to the bedroom dragging his bare feet on the cold floor, and when you turn on the bedside lamp — because you know, without needing to ask, that he won't be able to sleep in the dark, not after spending weeks or months or god knows how long in that place where the only light was that sick, eternal light — he lets out a sigh so deep, so heavy with gratitude, that you feel your eyes sting again, and you hate yourself a little for it, for being so weak, for still feeling something for someone who treated you so badly for so long.

You lie down side by side, you with your back to him at first because you can't face his face right now, can't look him in the eyes and pretend everything's fine, but he doesn't complain, doesn't ask you to turn around, just lies there breathing slowly on the other side of the bed like he's scared of taking up too much space, scared of touching without permission, and this new caution in him is so strange and so sad that you end up turning over after a few minutes, turning to face him and pulling his arm until he's wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck, his warm, uneven breath against your skin.

One of your hands rises on its own to stroke his damp hair while the other rests on his back, feeling the scratches and bruises under your fingertips, and you realise you're doing exactly what you've always done — looking after him, calming him down, putting his needs above your own — and a small, fierce part inside your chest wants to scream, wants to say why is it always you? why am I here comforting you when you spent months ignoring me, putting me down, making me feel like I wasn't important enough even for a proper conversation? but your mouth doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, and the silence stretches out between you like a third person in the bed, heavy and uncomfortable.

"Will you stay?" he asks after a long time, his voice so low it sounds like a thought spoken out loud.

You don't know if he means will you stay with me now, tonight or will you stay with me forever, after everything, but either way the answer that comes out of your mouth is the same because you still haven't learned to say no to him, still haven't learned to prioritise your own pain over his.

"I will."

You whisper against the top of his head, and you feel his body relax immediately against yours, his shoulders dropping, his breath starting to steady, and you lie there staring at the bedroom ceiling with your eyes open in the yellow dimness of the lamp, listening to his heartbeat against your chest and your own heart beating in a completely different rhythm, like the two of you are no longer in sync, like maybe you never were.

The clock on the wall shows half two, three, half three.

You realise you don't have to decide anything right now, that you can put it off, that you can push this decision further and further until you yourself become unsustainable; you close your eyes finally, and the sun's already high, but the room stays dark because of the drawn curtains, those curtains you bought in your first month living alone, before Bobby moved in, when you still liked waking up to the morning light coming through the gaps. Bobby's lying on his stomach in bed, his face turned toward your side, his arm stretched out to where you were before like he tried to reach you while he was sleeping and couldn't.

You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly, so you don't wake him, and watch his face, the dark bags under his eyes that look painted on, the pale skin that's lost the tan of someone who worked at the shop and ran off to uni meetings, his jaw more defined because he lost weight in the yellow place, his cracked lips that you put Vaseline on last night without him noticing, and you think he looks older now, something in him has gone and not come back, something that might have been that ability he had to not take anything seriously, which was annoying most of the time but was also part of him, the part that made you laugh when you didn't want to laugh. Now he looks like every day in the Backrooms hell left a brick on his back, and you wonder if he'll recover, if one day he'll go back to making crap jokes at breakfast, if one day he'll forget enough to be able to sleep in the dark again, and the answer that comes doesn't exist, because no one knows, because trauma isn't a broken leg where the doctor says "six weeks and you'll be fine", trauma's a guest that moves into your house and decides when it's leaving (if it ever does).

You're so focused on his face that you don't notice the change in his breathing until he starts to move, first a small tremor in the fingers stretched out on the sheet, then a sharper movement in his leg, like he's trying to run in his sleep.

"No," he murmurs. "No, no, no, no..."

You reach out your hand to touch his shoulder, but he thrashes so hard your hand slips, and he turns onto his back suddenly, his arms coming up like he's trying to protect himself from something, and you hear your name, and it breaks something inside you, something you didn't know was still intact.

"Run," he whispers, and now his voice is louder, and his hands clench into fists by his sides like he's getting ready to fight. "Run, run, don't look back, run for God's sake, run..."

You stay sitting on the edge of the bed, your hand hovering halfway to his shoulder, and you listen to him beg you to run while he sleeps, and you understand that at some point in the Backrooms, he saw you, maybe in every room you were there, and in every one he was trying to save you, except you didn't ask to be saved, didn't ask to be the reason he keeps fighting, didn't ask to be the centre of anyone's universe, especially not his, especially not now, when you already had your bags packed to leave before he even ended up there.

"Run, go, I'll hold him, I'll hold him, just run..."

You finally find the strength to touch his shoulder, to shake him gently at first, then harder when he doesn't respond, and his eyes snap open with dilated pupils, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves, and it takes him a few seconds to understand where he is, to understand that you're here, alive, whole.

"You're here," he says, his voice cracking in the middle.

"I'm here," you answer, giving a small smile while stroking his face. "It's okay, we're home."

He sits up in bed suddenly, and his arms grab you, his fingers digging into your back like he's scared you'll dissolve into the air, and he buries his face in your neck and breathes deeply.

"It felt so real," he murmurs.

"It was just a nightmare," you say, and the words are empty, they're the words everyone says, the words that mean nothing, because you know that for him it isn't "just" anything, that the line between nightmare and reality is so blurred now that he probably can't even tell the difference anymore, that he'll wake up every day for weeks or months or years not knowing if he's back in the real world or if he's still trapped in that place, and you don't know if you have the patience for that, don't know if you have the strength for that, and just thinking about it makes you feel exhausted, makes you feel that deep tiredness that sleep doesn't fix, that only leaving would fix.

You hold him until the tremors stop, until his breathing returns to an almost normal rhythm, your fingers making circles on his back while he calms down and his body relaxes against yours, and you go back to that night, two weeks ago, when you still thought he was dead, when you were sitting on the same living room sofa with a glass of wine in your hand and absolute silence inside the flat, and you caught yourself thinking for the first time in two years, I don't feel guilty about being alone, and the thought scared you so much you nearly fell off the sofa, because you realised that his absence wasn't a hole in your life, but a relief.

You could go to bed without having to wait for him to finish gaming, could cook what you wanted without hearing complaints about the food, could watch the films he hated without having to negotiate for the remote, could exist in your own space without being treated like a piece of furniture, and the worst, the worst of it all, is that you didn't miss talking to him, didn't miss touching him, didn't miss absolutely anything except the idea of what you could have been, and that idea had been dead for a long time, buried under all the arguments and all the silences and all the times he made you feel small.

You wanted him to stay missing.

The thought comes now, in bed, while he shudders against your chest, while the smell of his freshly washed hair rises and you can't pretend you didn't think it, can't hate yourself enough to erase it. You wanted him to stay missing, and the guilt of that desire is eating away at everything inside you, because how can you wish for someone to disappear? How can you look at him, all broken and hurt and dependent like a newborn baby, and think I'd rather you were dead? What kind of monster does that? What kind of person sits in their own bed with their boyfriend who survived hell and wishes, in the darkest depths of their heart, that he hadn't come back? But you can't lie to yourself.

He lifts his face and looks at you with eyes still watery, and asks: "Are you okay?"

Even though he's just woken up from a nightmare where you died, even with his hands still trembling, he asks if you're okay, and that breaks something because you wanted him to ask that before, wanted him to look at you before with that same concern, wanted him to notice before that you were drowning in silence while he lived his life like you were just part of the scenery.

"I'm okay," you lie.

He looks like he wants to say something, but you get up before he can speak.

"It's getting light, you need to eat something," you say without turning to him. "You're too thin."

"You don't have to look after me," he answers. "I know you're not obligated."

Of course you're not obligated, and yet here you are, making coffee, giving showers, holding hands, lying about staying, because the alternative — leaving him alone, abandoning him when he's at rock bottom — is so unbearable to imagine that you'd rather be unhappy yourself than carry the weight of knowing he fell apart because you left.

"I'll make a sandwich," you say, and you leave the room without waiting for an answer, without looking back, and in the kitchen you lean against the sink and breathe deeply several times, trying to hold back the wave of nausea rising in your throat.

You open the fridge, take out the cheese, the ham, the bread, start making the sandwich, hear his footsteps in the hallway before you see him, and when he appears in the kitchen doorway, he's wearing an old, baggy shirt he always liked to wear, and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"You don't have to do this," he says, looking at the sandwich you're making.

"I know I don't have to," you answer, and the laugh that comes out is bitter, so bitter it even surprises you. "But I'm going to do it anyway. It's what I do, isn't it? I look after you, even when I shouldn't."

You finish the sandwich, cut it in half, put it on a plate and push it toward him.

"Eat," you say. "Please."

He sits in the same chair as before, takes the sandwich with trembling hands, and you watch him eat like you're watching a documentary about the life of someone you don't know anymore.

"I'm so sorry," he says between bites, and the phrase is so repeated now that it's lost all meaning, become just a set of sounds his mouth makes when he doesn't know what else to say.

"Stop apologising," you answer, exasperated. "Sorry doesn't fix anything. You've said sorry a million times in the last twenty-four hours, saying it more won't make a difference."

"Then what do I do?" he asks. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Anything. I swear."

You think about what you'd say if you were being honest, if you didn't have to walk on eggshells.

You leave me alone, is what you want to say. You disappear from my life like I'd already decided you would. You give me the breakup I didn't have the courage to ask for and the disappearance I didn't have the courage to wish for.

But the words that come out are different.

"You start therapy," you state. "You deal with the nightmares. You learn to sleep alone. You find a job, any job, and you start building a life that doesn't depend on me to exist."

"And us?" he asks, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word. "What happens to us?"

Nothing, you think. We were already finished before you ended up in that hole. We just forgot to tell each other.

"I don't know," you say out loud, and that's the truth, the only truth you have the courage to admit. "I don't know what happens to us, Bobby. I just know that I can't be the only thing holding you together, because if I am, and if one day I decide to leave... you won't have anything left. And I don't want to be responsible for that."

He lowers his head, and the tears drip onto the plate, mixing with the crumbs of the sandwich, and you look at him and see a broken man, a man who lost everything and is clinging to the only thing left, and you know, with a certainty that squeezes your lungs like a too-tight belt, that he won't survive if you leave. Not in the physical sense — you don't think he'll kill himself — but in the deeper sense, that the person he was before will die for good, and what's left will be an empty shell, a survivor who never learned to live, only to exist.

And you don't want that, in truth, you never wanted that. You just wanted to break up with him, slowly and painfully, and move on, and forget, and one day find someone who looked at you like you mattered, and now you're trapped in this purgatory of guilt and fear and a responsibility you never asked for, never wanted, that was dumped in your lap like a child that isn't yours but will die if you don't look after it.

"Lie down," you say. "I'll finish up here and come to the bedroom."

He gets up slowly, takes the plate, carries it to the sink, and for a moment the two of you stand side by side, you with your arms crossed and him with wet hands dripping into the sink, and he whispers "thank you" before leaving, and you stand there, staring at the window.

You finish washing the plate, dry your hands and go to the bedroom, where you find him sitting on the bed with a photo of the two of you from the day you met.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"More or less," you answer, watching him stroke the corner of the photo. "Only a few minutes, probably. You're basically a ghost to me, I thought you were asleep."

He doesn't ask why you didn't take sleeping pills, doesn't complain, and that's different too because the old Bobby would have complained, would have said something like "you could've taken that crap they gave me to sleep, you know? Then you wouldn't be bothering me at this hour" in that tone of someone making an accusation disguised as a joke, but this Bobby just lowers his head and murmurs "you could have woken me up, we could have talked about it" and you really want to ask why he decided to change, because fear alone wouldn't be capable of that.

"Bobby," you begin, sitting down next to him. "We need to talk."

He lifts his head slowly, and his eyes meet yours, and you see the fear that this is the conversation, the fear that you'll say the words he must already know deep down.

"That's fine," he says, and his hands are shaking a little. "Go ahead."

"Before you disappeared," you say slowly, "we weren't okay."

"I know," he whispers.

"You know?" and your voice rises a bit. "Because I tried to talk to you so many times. I tried to sit here and say that something was wrong, and you... you ignored me. Or worse, you made me feel like I was making up problems."

"I know," he repeats. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

"Sorry doesn't fix a damn thing," you say, and the sentence comes out harsher than you meant, but it's true, it's a truth you swallowed for so long. "Sorry doesn't erase the nights I spent crying alone in the bathroom while you played video games in the living room. Sorry doesn't erase the times you called me dramatic because I wanted to talk about us."

"I was an idiot," he says, and his hands are so trembling now. "I was an idiot and I didn't deserve you and I knew that down there, every time I thought about you and remembered the way I treated you."

You want to believe him. God, how you want to believe him.

But there's a part of you — a cynical, hurt, deeply tired part — that whispers he's only saying this because he nearly died, he's only saying this because he needs someone to hold his hand while the world falls apart, and when he feels better, he'll go back to being the same as always, and you'll be there, trapped again, waiting for crumbs.

"Remember the fight we had about kids?" you ask, and you see his face change and his eyes widen a little.

"Please," he begs, his voice so low it sounds like a prayer. "Not now."

"Why not now?" you insist, and you feel the anger rising hot in your chest. "Why do we always have to wait? Why can we never talk about the difficult things?"

And you go back to that night like it was yesterday.

It was a Saturday, and you'd been to a friend's birthday, a friend who'd just had a baby, and the house was full of people and noise and children running from one side to the other, and you caught yourself looking at the baby in its mother's arms, a small, pink, fragile being, and you felt something, not necessarily a desire to have children, but a desire to at least think about the subject with him, to know what he felt, to align your dreams or at least understand where each of you stood.

You waited for the party to end, waited to get home, waited for him to finish watching the footage he'd taken while sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, and when you finally found the courage, you sat down next to him and said:

"Bobby, what do you think about us talking about... the future?"

He didn't even take his eyes off the borrowed camera.

"What kind of future?"

"Family, you know? Kids. Whether you think about it, whether you don't... I just wanted to know."

That's when he laughed.

"Kids?" he repeated, like you'd suggested they move to Mars. "We can barely pay the flat's bills, and you want to talk about kids?"

"I'm not saying I want to have kids now," you answered, feeling your patience starting to wear thin. "I'm saying I want to know if you want to have them at some point. It's a normal conversation, Bobby. Couples talk about this."

He finally put the camera aside, but the look he gave you was cold, like you were a problem he always needed to solve.

"Look," he said, and his voice had that tired tone that said you're being annoying again, let's get this over with, "I don't know, alright? It's not something I think about much. And frankly, the way things are, I don't know if it's a good idea to bring a kid into the world right now. The world's shit, we're poor, we don't even know if we'll still be together in two months."

You swallowed hard.

"What do you mean 'we don't even know if we'll still be together'?" you asked, your eyebrows knitting together.

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, made that face of here we go again with the drama.

"I'm just being realistic, couples break up, it's normal. You can't plan a whole life based on 'what ifs'."

You remember how your chest hurt in that moment.

"So you can't even imagine us together in five years?" you pushed, because you were a masochist and needed to hear it.

"I don't know," he repeated, and got up from the sofa, stretched his arms, yawned. "Look, maybe yes, maybe no, we'll see, you can't keep thinking about that right now."

He went to the bedroom and turned on the telly, and you sat on the sofa for a long time before going to bed, where you lay staring at his back while he snored softly, seeming perfectly fine with the fact that you were never a priority, and that was the first time you thought about leaving.

"You said you didn't even know if we'd still be together in two months," you remind him. "You said it like I was disposable."

"I didn't say that," he argues, his eyes filling with tears.

"You did," you retort, pushing your hair out of your face, like a hysteric, exactly like he used to call you. "You said 'we don't even know if we'll still be together'. And I sat there thinking, Bobby, trying to understand how someone who says they love me can say something like that."

"I was being immature," he says, and the words come out fast, desperate. "I was being a prick, I didn't think about things. I didn't... I didn't realise what I had."

"You never realised," you answer, and your voice cracks in the middle, but you keep going because you need to, because these words have been stuck in your throat for months. "You never realised anything, Bobby. I told you about my day and you barely looked up. I asked for us to do something together and you said you were tired. I tried to talk about feelings and you called me dramatic. And I kept accepting it, kept accepting it, kept accepting it, until one day I woke up and thought 'I don't know who I am without him anymore, but I also don't know who I am with him'."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"I wish I could go back in time," he says finally, his voice so small it sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I wish I could erase everything I did and start over, be better, treat you the way you deserved from the beginning."

"But you can't," you say, and it's just a fact, a truth you both already know. "You can't go back in time. Neither of us can."

"Then what do I do?" he asks, and the desperation in his voice is so raw, so naked, that you feel your own anger retreat just enough to make room for that painful thing that lives in the middle of your chest, that thing that is still love or maybe just the memory of love. "Tell me what to do, because I don't know. I don't know how to fix a whole person when I can barely fix myself."

You could say you go to therapy, you get treatment, you learn to be a decent person on your own before trying to be part of someone else's life, but the words don't come, because you know he won't do it, that he'll promise and even try for a few weeks and then go back to his old habits because it's easier, because the comfort of mediocrity is a trap he always falls into.

"I don't know," you answer, and it's the most honest thing you've said in a long time. "I don't know what you do, Bobby. I don't know what I do."

He lifts his eyes to you, and for a moment you see the boy you met back in your teens, the Bobby who made crap jokes but was always there when you needed him, that boy who held your hand in the cinema without even realising he was doing it, that boy who said "I love you" for the first time with a trembling voice and ears red with embarrassment.

He's still in there somewhere, buried under layers of neglect and immaturity and fear, but you don't know if you have the strength to dig anymore.

"You're going to break up with me, aren't you?" he asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, that yes, that's what you want, that's what you need, that's what you rehearsed for so long, and suddenly you're crying. Bobby pulls you into a hug and you should push him away, should say don't touch me, but your body doesn't obey, and you bury your face in his shoulder and cry everything you didn't cry in the months he was gone, cry the anger and the guilt and the relief and the fear and that horrible, confusing thing that isn't love.

"I'm not going to break up with you today," you say, and your voice is hoarse from crying. "I don't know if we're going to be able to fix this," you continue, the words coming out slowly. "I don't know if I want to fix it. I just know that right now, today, I can't tell you to leave."

"I don't want to leave," he says, too desperate. "I want to show you I can be better."

"Showing isn't the same as being," you answer, and finally lift your eyes to him. "You can show me for a week, for a month, but I need to know if you are, Bobby. If deep down, when the fear passes and life goes back to normal, you'll still be the person I need. Or if you'll go back to who you were."

He doesn't have an answer for that, but the truth is neither do you.

You lie down together in bed and he strokes your hair, closing his eyes, but you don't pretend you've forgotten anything, you remember everything perfectly, every argument, every insult, every scream, every bit of crap you lived through under that roof, but there's still a part of you, small and stubborn and deeply stupid, that still believes he can be the man you always needed him to be, even knowing that hope isn't a plan and that loving alone was never enough.

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[chrissv4mp]

nikki freeman who just wants to be a writer...nikki freeman who writes poems about you ☹️ just imagining her reading one to you and it's so beautiful

aspiring writer!nikki, you are loved oh so dearly ☹️☹️

nikki freeman who's only dream is to get out of california and become a new york times best-selling author!! she rambles to you about her dream every day she gets off work—late nights, early mornings, mid-day shifts, whatever it may be, she's always coming home later a long, tiring day and resting her head on your lap to tell you about how she wants to quit and become a writer.

whenever she does write, however, her muse is—nine times out of ten—always you. you're the one thing that's been consistent in her life, and she shows her gratitude and love for you through her passion and skill in writing.

sometimes you catch her murmuring to herself an idea. and, no, it doesn't matter where you are. she's just always bursting with new ideas, creativity flowing in the way you've never missed a chance to admire since the day you met her behind the counter of cassell's music store. for further elaboration, you definitely met her at the register on your way to pay for something... and found her immersed in the middle of writing a page for her book. her deep-rooted love for the activity is present in even the simplest things, and she's not afraid to show it.

oh, but she becomes so shy once you two start dating and your interest in her work becomes so much clearer!

you're always peering over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the words on her laptop screen while she's focused on the couch. funny thing is, she hardly ever notices when you do because she's just in her element. fully in the zone.

that's not to say she doesn't catch you at all, because trust me, she absolutely does. and when she sees you trying to be sneaky, eyes slowly drifting onto her laptop, her face flushes and she quickly changes her tab—not because she's embarrassed, no, far from that. she's just nervous to see what your reaction would be, whether you'd like it or hate it. the latter is very much unlikely, which is why you pretend to be offended once she gets comfortable enough to finally show off her work.

"okay, shakespeare," you'd teased the first time you read a page of her book, brows furrowed and lips pouted in faux-offense. "what, you thought my reading ability was too low to let me read this?"

and she'd take your teasing so seriously at first. "no, baby! you're so smart, i just—" she'd continue to rant on about how smart and capable you are, and before she even realized the smug smirk on your face, you'd cut in the middle of her sentence with a simple:

"nikki. i'm pulling your leg."

"...oh!"

after that point, her shy nature around you would slowly fade into something of the past. and soon enough, she'd start writing short poems about you and her endless love and admiration that she has for you.

she'd be a little sneaky with it, asking you directly if you liked a specific line and questioning whether or not it was too corny to "add in her book." those lines never made it into her book. matter of fact, there wasn't a thought in her head that told her to add it in!

her mind was only on finishing the poem, writing more, and "accidentally" leaving them out for you to find. one day, however, she gathers just the right amount of courage to finally finish one, walk up to you, and ask if she could read it to you face to face. of course, you're over the moon when she brings up the idea, eyes lighting up and pupils dilating like she's never seen in the however many months you've been dating each other.

the first time she reads a poem for you to you, it's so beautiful it brings tears to your eyes.

her tone of voice and the sincerity in which she reads the lines has you trying not to make a peep or so much as breathe at all, afraid that one singular movement or interruption in the space would ruin the moment entirely.

when she's finished reading, you're a mess. she almost thinks you don't like it upon seeing your teary eyes and flushed cheeks, lips pouty and puffy from biting them to suppress any cries that might've slipped free. nikki immediately comes over, arms tight around your body and asking what's wrong.

you tell her how beautiful her writing is, through tears of course, because you're unable to do anything but admire her in the moment.

aspiring writer!nikki who might just continue to dream if this is how you react to her work every time :(

[bambiibun]

✦ TWO FLAMES ALIKE ⋆ aerion targaryen.

⋆ aerion brightflame x twin sister! reader.

ᵎᵎ summary. once sharing womb, now entwined in madness — two dragons in mortal flesh, forever bound to one another. † now, at ashford tournament, a twisted feeling caused by you, his dear twin sister, will ignite his fire. jealousy.

warnings. au, +18. sexual explicit content ahead. mdni. heavy TARGCEST, afab! reader, reader is described with the typical targaryen appearance, violence, death, SMUT, hair pulling (m receiving), oral (f receiving), semi public. 3.8k. request.

notes. longest fic i've ever made. r u guys proud of me

࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝕻𝖆𝖘𝖙.

“My little dragons.”

Those were the first words uttered as both babes, born within the same hour, were tenderly laid upon Dyanna’s trembling arms. She was too exhausted to summon even the faintest steady smile, too spent to fully express the overwhelming tide of love that surged within her chest at the sight of her healthy newborns nestled against her.

She could not have been more profoundly content. Her firstborn son, delivered two years prior, had entered the world equally robust, pink-cheeked and brimming with vitality — his sandy hair a mirror of her own rather than his father’s.

Yet these twins she now cradled, one upon each side of her chest, had been born with hair of pure silver, shimmering like moonlight upon polished marble. Dyanna was certain that when they at last opened their eyes, they would gleam a vivid violet, as though forged by the very blood and fire of ancient Valyria.

Her little dragons.

The infants still wailed with the raw vigor of their first desperate breaths, though Dyanna herself remained lightheaded from the ordeal. The heavy scent of sweat and blood lingering in the chamber stirred a throbbing ache in her temples — one she chose not to ascribe to the twins’ ceaseless cries.

Maekar appeared at the doorway the moment the maester granted him entry, confirming that the birth had gone flawlessly. Still, he did not release the breath he had been holding until his gaze fell upon the three figures nestled together on the rumpled bed.

“You must rest, my love,” he murmured, his voice nearly lost beneath the infants’ cries. He approached the bed, one arm extended. His eyes settled upon the babes, and a rare gleam of wonder softened his characteristically solemn features. He kneeled beside her. “Give one to me.”

Dyanna shifted carefully against the pillows, preparing to pass him the child closest to his side — the boy.

The slight movement drew the twins momentarily apart as she turned to lift the infant toward her husband. Their cries sharpened at once, growing even more piercing.

Dyanna froze, brow furrowed in concern as she studied her son.

“What troubles him?” Maekar asked, his tone firm yet laced with unease. He glanced about the room as though answers might linger in the air. The maesters had withdrawn to afford them a moment of privacy now that the peril had passed. His gaze returned to Dyanna, then to his son. “Is he in pain?”

The mother had no answer. Slowly, she drew the boy back to her body, pressing him closer to his sister. Their tiny hands fluttered across her skin, and the boy’s delicate fingers curled instinctively around his twin’s wrist, like the softest of anchors.

The wailing ceased at once — for both of them.

Dyanna and Maekar exchanged a fleeting glance. While her eyes brimmed with tender affection and quiet awe, a shadow of uncertainty flickered in his.

Only the Gods knew what destiny they had woven for these children, for they only sought comfort in one another.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙.

The morning sun’s rays streamed through the tall windows lining one side of Ashford Castle’s corridor, bathing the interior in a pleasant, golden warmth. Outside, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the metallic clang of armor, and the murmur of the crowd could be heard — most likely placing wagers on who would triumph in today’s jousts.

Aerion strode down the hallway already clad in his armor. Crimson dragon crests in enamel stood out boldly against the dark steel of his helm, rendering it as imposing as a dragon itself. He carried the helmet tucked beneath his arm, pressed against his coal-black surcoat, where the swirling flame-like patterns gleamed in the sunlight. No one turned to stare; the extravagant design made it obvious who approached: Aerion Brightflame. No one sought trouble with the monstrous prince.

Though he paid no mind to the worms he passed, his gaze remained fixed on the great mahogany door beyond which lay his sister’s temporary chambers. His steps were purposeful, determined to see her before mounting his horse and unhorsing every fool who dared face him. He wished to make her proud — as he always did.

An unconscious smile curved his lips as his hand reached for the door handle, but it burst open before he could grasp it. He staggered slightly as a servant girl fled the room at a frantic pace. He did not bother chasing her or punishing her insolence, as he normally would. Instead, his smile turned mocking. He stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him, and his heart gave a heavy thud at the sight of you.

Oblivious to the commotion, you stood before the vanity, adjusting a piece that the clumsy girl had failed to place properly in your braided silver hair. Unlike a common tiara, your dark headdress rose several inches upward — black as jet, its central base adorned with intricate filigree flowers and glittering with inset rubies. As extravagant as your twin brother, and as dazzling as someone of your bloodline was meant to appear.

“Sister,” Aerion called, watching your reflection in the mirror as he approached with that effortless familiarity he reserved only for you.

A calm smile touched your lips, as though you had not just terrified a harmless servant.

“Oh, brother.” You placed your hands on the front of your skirts and exhaled heavily. “The servants in this castle are all utterly inept.”

Aerion’s gaze lingered on your celestial headdress, then drifted over your blood-red gown with its black ribbons, the shoulders rising like dragon claws, and the chain bearing the three-headed dragon emblem crossing your chest horizontally.

“How did they fail you?” he asked, genuinely curious. Everything seemed perfectly in place — every accessory, every jewel, crafted as though made for you alone.

“Their hands trembled like a newborn’s while fastening the pins,” you replied with a contemptuous curl of your lip. “She kept pricking me like some fumbling novice.” You finally turned to face him. “She fled in terror. I merely told her that if she hurt me again, I would rip out her windpipe with my bare hands and feed it to the pigs. It was nothing more than a warning.”

“We keep them better trained at home,” Aerion scoffed. “They don’t shatter from a mere threat.”

You made a soft sound of disappointed agreement in your throat and moved away from him to pick up a delicate, translucent dark silk cloth. Turning, you held it between two fingers. He approached at once, as if he already knew what you wanted. He removed his gloves, setting them on the bed, and took your hand with surprising gentleness.

“Use this to bless me with your favor in the jousts,” he asked commanded as he began tying the silk around your wrist so it could be easily untied and given to him on the field.

You could feel the warmth of his touch against your skin, a sensation you had grown accustomed to since you first knew your own name. Accustomed to his heat. To his overwhelming presence. To the silent understanding that you were his and he was yours by right.

“If I were to grant it to you, I would tie it on your wrist myself without delay,” you said, your eyes watching as his fingers stilled the moment your words sank in.

His violet eyes, identical to your own, lifted to meet your gaze.

“Hm?” His entire expression had grown deadly serious, as though some foul jest had left your lips.

“You heard me. Father has been pressuring me about marriage again,” you replied lightly. Aerion stared at you as if the words could not possibly be yours.

How dare you even entertain such a thought? It was written in the blood that two dragons such as you were destined to be joined in marriage. The duty of keeping the blood pure fell upon you both. And it was not duty alone that drove him. The desire to possess you ran like molten fire through his veins.

With an angry snarl, his free hand seized your other arm, nails digging into your skin as he forced you to face him squarely.

“We dragons stand far above arranged marriages. We do not bow to the laws and decrees of Westeros as lesser men do. We are gods.” His voice dropped low and rough, as though merely speaking the reminder cut like knives across his throat.

And you knew it to be true. You clung to that truth as fiercely as he clung to you. Yet your gaze held his without faltering. A small spark of satisfaction gleamed in your eyes.

Yes, you were destined. Yes, there was no purer blood than yours — the blood of twins born from the same womb, fated to be together from cradle to grave. Your temper complemented his, and together you were terror incarnate to any fool who dared provoke the dragon’s wrath.

But you had grown tired.

With you, he was relaxed, so certain of your belonging that it rivaled his certainty in himself.

Yet you craved more.

You wanted his fire. You wanted his rage. You wanted to see him erupt. You wanted to watch him burn the kingdoms for you.

So you smiled.

“Let the knight who unhorses you be worthy of my favor in the coming jousts,” you said sweetly, like honeyed poison. “And of my hand in marriage, should he prove bold enough to claim it. Which he will.”

Fury danced in Aerion’s violet irises. His fingers remained pressed into your skin, leaving marks. His knuckles had turned white, and his jaw was clenched so tightly you saw the muscle twitch.

“You speak as though you have already foreseen my defeat,” he hissed. His tongue swept across his lips, fighting the urge to tear yours away with his teeth for such provocation. With remarkable restraint, he released you and snatched up his gloves, stepping back. “You are wrong, sister. I do not come here to play, like this herd of swine who dare compete. I come to win. And you know the dragon ought never lose.”

“You should hurry. The knights must already be assembling on the field.”

Rage bubbled hot inside his veins, a feeling he wasn't accustomed to when the receiving end were you. A heated, ugly feeling was shaping in his core. Aerion bared his teeth in contempt.

“You will regret those words.”

The sun bathed the high royal stands where you sat beside Maekar, granting a privileged view over the field where the jousts would soon commence.

All around, the hurried bustle of squires attending their knights, the nervous whinnying of horses being armored for the impending clashes, and the lively chatter and laughter of the common folk formed a chaotic symphony that did little to calm your racing heart.

You tilted your head, glancing at the empty seat where Aerion usually sat beside you. He was now mounted upon his great coal-black stallion. Your eyes returned to the field, sharpening like a falcon’s upon your twin. He drew every gaze with his extravagant splendor. His mount was draped in a barding of fabric cut in the furious hues of fire — orange, crimson, and gold. With every powerful stride, the cloth billowed and snapped like living flames. A dragon-scale chanfron adorned the horse’s head. It was impossible not to stare. The rider attracted attention like a magnet, and his regal, arrogantly graceful seat made the more impressionable ladies smile behind their fans like helpless fledglings awaiting devouring.

Your upper lip curled in open disdain. Maekar shot you a stern glance. Everyone was watching — not only Aerion, but you as well. The announcement that your hand was available for marriage had several knights eyeing you with shameless interest. You showed them no contempt, however.

Your earlier words to Aerion still echoed in your mind. If anyone unhorsed him, you would accept their offer of marriage.

Fortunately, you knew no one was capable of throwing him from his saddle. Especially not now, with the future of his beloved sister at stake.

The blast of trumpets pulled you from your thoughts. When you refocused, your eyes were still locked on your twin as he paraded his horse at a slow, deliberate pace. Not once did he lift his gaze to the royal box. He must still be furious.

A herald began the announcements. It seemed Aerion was to face a capable knight of House Tyrrell, easily recognizable by the rose emblazoned upon his shield.

Your fingers toyed absently with the fine dark silk tied around your wrist — the very token Aerion had fastened there with such certainty that it belonged to him. You straightened your spine in anticipation as the knight in question halted his white destrier before the royal stands. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Aerion, completing his own lap of honor, reined in his stallion and turned in your direction, lifting his visor with narrowed eyes.

“My dragon princess,” announced Ser Tyrrell with solemn courtesy. He raised his lance so that its tip reached you near the wooden railing.

You rose gracefully and folded your hands neatly over your abdomen as you stepped forward. The knight appeared far more nervous in your presence than at the prospect of facing your brother. That would change soon enough, you were certain.

“I humbly beg your favor for this joust. Would you do me such an honor?”

Maekar kept his gaze fixed on the scene, tapping his finger uneasily against the arm of his chair. Aerion clenched his teeth, staring daggers at the knight while gripping his own lance with the clear desire to charge forward and drive it through the man’s nape until it burst from his mouth. That was his sister. His lady.

“You dare present yourself before me,” you asked with icy composure, “begging my favor to defeat my own brother?”

The knight seemed to reconsider every choice that had led him to this moment. A terrible threat coiled in your throat, yet the words that left your lips were soft as silk. “Foolish. Or perhaps brave. Here it is.”

Ser Tyrrell exhaled in visible relief as you tied the dark silk around his lance. The crowd erupted into fresh cheers.

A dragon granting her favor to a rose, so that it might face another dragon. What madness was this?

The trumpet sounded once more. The knight offered a slight, respectful nod before riding to his position. Aerion did the same with barely contained rage, slamming his visor shut and urging his stallion forward with a sharp, angry thrust of his hips.

Aerion was seeing red.

Moonlight bathed the sandy arena where the jousts had unfolded hours earlier. The ground remained churned and scarred, yet an eerie stillness hung over the field, as though time itself had halted. There was no one else present — only you and the solitary song of crickets accompanying your steps. Shards of splintered wood and lingering traces of blood still marked the earth, imperfectly cleared by the squires.

You walked slowly toward the largest pool of blood staining the sand. The dried blood of Lord Tyrrell, now a dark, crusted stain upon the arena floor, summoned vivid memories of the events that had transpired mere hours before.

The thunderous clash of lances. The piercing screams of horses. The sudden whirlwind of sand thrown up by pounding hooves, followed by a sepulchral silence as the entire crowd held its breath. When the dust finally settled, Tyrrell’s convulsing body lay exposed, the tip of your twin’s lance driven through his throat. Too precise to be an accident. Aerion never missed.

The wet, gurgling death throes of the dying man drowning in his own blood were eclipsed by the horrified gasps of the spectators, who turned away and covered their mouths in dismay. Yet you felt a dark, twisted satisfaction watching Aerion’s unnerving calm as he committed murder — for you.

A faint smile curved your lips.

The sound of footsteps made you turn. Aerion stood before you. He stepped unhesitatingly into the pool of dried blood, his eyes finding yours.

He had shed his armor and now wore his customary red-and-black attire. Less imposing, yet no less dangerous — though those wide, almost boyish eyes refused to leave yours.

“Do you see what happens?” he asked, lips tightening with irritation. He gave the crimson sand a dismissive kick. He regarded you as one might scold a wayward child, his voice soft as silk sheathing steel. “When you doubt your brother. When you wager against him. I struck the blow… but you killed him.”

“I did not aim the lance at his throat,” you replied dryly, fighting the urge to smile with open satisfaction.

Aerion pressed his lips together, suppressing a grin of his own, and shrugged with feigned innocence. “I felt obligated.”

That look on his face — as though the most natural response to the threat of losing you was violence. As though he would gladly slaughter any man and walk away unscathed, solely to keep you by his side. As though he would defy every law of Westeros for his beloved sister.

“You have pleased me,” you declared, lifting your chin with regal poise.

“I did not do it for your pleasure, my dear sister.” His mouth widened into a dangerous, wolfish smile as he stepped closer. The heat radiating from his body became almost tangible. “I did it for mine.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, and he slowly licked his own. Before you could draw another breath, his hand closed firmly around your arm. He pulled you after him, dragging you toward a small, deserted pavilion not far from the bloodied sand.

To claim the reward he so richly deserved.

Aerion had kissed you before. Innocent little pecks, fleeting brushes of lips — before your father had swiftly put an end to such behavior, at least in his presence.

But the way he kissed you now was savage.

His mouth claimed yours with raw hunger, his body pressing you back until you stumbled against a table. Even then, he did not break the kiss. If anything, it grew more dominant. His teeth sank into your lower lip, drawing a stifled gasp that he seized upon, plunging his tongue into your mouth to taste you as he had always longed to.

Your tongue met his with equal fervor, sliding and coiling around it with a sensuality that stole the breath from his lungs. His dominance faltered for a moment as you sucked on the slick muscle, pulling a deep groan from him. He braced himself with one hand on the table beside your hip.

With his free hand, he impatiently untied the laces of your gown, one by one, until the fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet.

The cool night air kissed your bare skin, but your brother’s merciless mouth soon warmed every inch it touched.

Breathing hard against your cheek, lips parted, he tilted his head to trail kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbone, leaving a wet path in his wake. While one of your hands braced against the wooden table behind you, the other buried itself in his hair, not guiding but holding, as his heated mouth descended to one of your breasts.

“Someone could walk in,” you gasped, even as you made no move to stop him. “We don’t even know whose tent this is.”

A crooked smile curved his lips before they closed around one hardened nipple, drawing a sharp arch from your back.

“Let them enter,” he murmured against your skin. “They’ll learn it belongs to us now.”

You meant to reply, but he silenced you with a sharp bite to the side of your breast. His mouth moved to the other, lavishing it with the same hungry attention. He licked and sucked until the peak glistened with his saliva, then continued downward. Lower. And lower still.

“Brother,” you whispered breathlessly, eyes widening as you watched him sink to his knees before you.

He rested his chin against your stomach, looking up at you with an arrogant, predatory smile. His lips were slightly swollen from the kiss and glistening with the mingled wetness of your mouths.

“What?” he asked mockingly. “Is this too fast for you?” He lowered his head again, pressing kisses and soft bites across your navel and lower abdomen. His hands gripped your waist firmly. “This is what happens when you keep poking the dragon all day. You haven’t stopped teasing me once — and I won’t stop now, even if I have to drag your apologies from you screaming.”

Without another word, he hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder, spreading you open for him. He buried his face between your legs, eyes fluttering shut as his nose brushed along your swollen folds, making your hips twitch. His grip turned ironclad, holding you still as his tongue dragged a long, slow lick through your slick heat. Then he closed his mouth around your clit and sucked hard.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. The sharp sting only made him groan with pleasure and devour you with even greater fervor.

His tongue plunged inside you, drawing a loud moan from your throat. Aerion growled against your cunt, tilting his head to reach deeper, his nose brushing your sensitive bud with every thrust.

He loosened his grip just enough to let you grind against his mouth while he fucked you with his tongue. His eyes remained locked on your face, drinking in your expression of ecstasy, which only made him more ravenous.

You were close — your walls fluttering and clenching around his tongue, your movements growing erratic.

“Come in my mouth,” he rasped against your soaked flesh, baring his teeth in raw desperation. “Please… you taste too fucking good.”

You surrendered completely, pressing his face harder between your thighs. The coil of pleasure snapped, unraveling in a wave of moans and curses from you both. Aerion never pulled away, drinking every drop as it flooded his tongue and dripped down his chin. He swallowed greedily, as if he had never tasted anything purer — or more sinful.

When he finally drew back, a shadowed, satisfied smile played on his glistening lips. His chest heaved in time with yours.

“Was this what you needed from me?” he asked, pressing one last lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising to his feet. His eyes burned into yours. “For me to kill for you... to kneel for you?” He leaned in closer. “Next time, speak plainly... or I’ll take you in front of all those fools who think they have any chance with my sister.”

© bambiibun 2026.

[englandscallingme]

aerion targaryen fic recs

still updating

the dragon and the lioness

amnesia

summerhalls delight

all he wanted

only soft for reader

how to train your dragon

the pretty ones are always temperamental

the price of spite

like father like son

soft spot

the softest side of fire

the dragon in the star

call out my name

wrong number

that sweet soft side

she’s my wife

after the lists

i am the fire

[moonofessos]

can you write queen!rhaenyra×princess!reader? reader is rhaenyra's niece and nyra is in love with her, no angst please ՞߹ - ߹՞

Rhaenyra Targaryen x princess!reader

warning(s): targcest (aunt/niece relationship), canon-divergent romantic content, Age gap,

wc: 962

The knock on the chamber door was soft, almost hesitant. Rhaenyra looked up from where she sat by the fire, her expression transforming the moment she recognized the gentle sound.

"Come," she called, her voice warm with anticipation.

The door opened slowly, and there you stood, bathed in the golden light of the corridor torches. Rhaenyra rose immediately, her face breaking into a smile that she reserved only for these private moments, only for you.

"My sweet niece," she breathed, crossing the room with graceful urgency. "I had hoped you would come tonight."

You stepped inside, allowing her to close the door behind you, sealing away the world beyond. Here, in the sanctuary of her private chambers, the weight of titles and propriety fell away like discarded cloaks. Here, you were simply two souls who had found something precious in each other.

"I could not stay away," you admitted softly, and the confession brought such tenderness to Rhaenyra's violet eyes that your breath caught.

She reached for your hands, cradling them in her own as though they were something sacred. "You never have to," she murmured. "These chambers are as much yours as mine. You are always welcome here, always wanted."

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the rich tapestries that adorned the walls. Rhaenyra led you toward the cushioned seat near the warmth, but instead of sitting beside you, she drew you close, guiding you to rest against her.

"Come here, my darling," she whispered, her arms encircling you with infinite care. "Let me hold you."

You settled into her embrace, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the security of her arms around you. Rhaenyra's fingers traced gentle patterns along your arm, each touch deliberate and reverent.

"Do you know," she began, her voice low and intimate, "that I spend my days counting the hours until I might see you again? That in council meetings, I find my thoughts drifting to the sound of your laugh, the way your eyes light when you smile?"

You tilted your head to look up at her, finding her gaze already fixed on you with such open adoration that warmth bloomed in your chest.

"Aunt," you whispered, though the formal address felt strange for what existed between you now.

"Rhaenyra," she corrected gently, her hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Here, in this room, I am simply Rhaenyra. And you are my heart's dearest treasure."

She leaned down slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, but you remained still, waiting, wanting. When her lips met yours, it was soft as silk, tender as a prayer. She kissed you with such gentle reverence, as though you were something infinitely precious that might break if handled roughly.

When she pulled back, it was only to press another kiss to your forehead, then your temple, her lips lingering against your skin.

"My sweet, sweet niece," she murmured against your hair. "My beloved girl."

You turned more fully into her embrace, your arms winding around her waist as you buried your face against her shoulder. Rhaenyra held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other traced soothing circles on your back.

"I love you," she confessed into the quiet of the chamber, the words falling like drops of honey. "I know I should not, I know the world would condemn what I feel, but I cannot help it. You have claimed my heart so completely."

"And you have mine," you replied, your voice muffled against her but no less fervent. "I love you, Rhaenyra."

She made a soft sound, something between a sigh and a laugh, full of wonder and joy. Her fingers threaded through your hair as she pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of your head.

"Then we are both blessed and cursed," she said with gentle humor, "for I do not think I could bear to be parted from you now."

You shifted, and she adjusted immediately, helping you settle more comfortably against her. Soon you were curled together on the cushioned seat, your head resting over her heart, her arms wrapped securely around you. The fire painted everything in shades of amber and gold.

Rhaenyra's fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, occasionally pausing to squeeze you closer. She pressed soft kisses to your hair, your temple, any part of you she could reach without disturbing your comfort.

"Stay with me tonight," she whispered. "Sleep here, where I can hold you, where you are safe and cherished."

"Yes," you agreed without hesitation, feeling her smile against your hair.

"My precious girl," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "My sweet niece, my love. I will spend every moment I am given showing you how deeply you are treasured."

The night deepened around you, but neither of you moved to seek a bed. Here, entwined in each other's arms, you had found something more restful than sleep. Rhaenyra continued her gentle ministrations, her touches soft and loving, her whispered endearments a constant melody.

"I am yours," she promised quietly, "as you are mine. Let the world think what it will beyond these walls. Here, we are simply two hearts that have found their home in each other."

You pressed a kiss to her collarbone, feeling her arms tighten around you in response.

"Always," you whispered back.

"Always," she echoed, and sealed the vow with another tender kiss.

The fire burned low, the candles flickered, and still you remained wrapped in each other, content in the perfect sanctuary you had created together.

[eroticanas]

☆ ──꒰☁️꒱ ❞ ‧₊˚ LAVENDER DREAMS

☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ drunk and frustrated after too many nights dreaming of you, Daeron sneaks into his sisters room and takes what he wants.

contains! noncon, targcest, somnophilia (kind of), requested material.

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ Daeron swayed in the doorway of your chambers, the flickering torchlight from the corridor casting a long, dancing beam across the stone floor. it was late at night, and the room was hushed. it smelled of the lavender incense you always liked to burn—you said it helped you sleep. for Daeron, the scent helped to get him off: he had spent many a night with a pouch of lavender clutched to his nose, his hand on his cock while he thought of you.

you—the real you, not the one that existed in his daydreams—lay curled beneath silk sheets, a pattern of shallow breathing barely stirring them. you were completely oblivious to the prince stumbling towards your bed.

Daeron reached down, his fingers clumsy as he gripped the edge of the sheet. with one slow tug, he peeled it back, exposing you to the chill of the night air. he leaned over you, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin.

he touched your ankles, revelling in the smoothness of you, caressing upwards towards your thighs and pushing your flimsy nightgown upwards, bunching it around your waist, leaving your bottom half naked.

Daeron felt a surge of heat in his gut. gods, the perfection of one’s own blood could not be matched. he brought his hand to his mouth, licking his fingers with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, wetting them with saliva. he pressed his fingers against your slit, rubbing up and down with a touch that was almost tender. it sounded wet, which made him suck in a breath to calm himself down. he worked his fingers toward your opening, priming you for what he wanted.

he pushed down his breeches, his movements jerky as he fumbled with the drawstring. he freed his cock, thick and throbbing, the head already weeping with anticipation. he positioned himself, the tip of his shaft brushing against your wettened folds. you stirred.

your eyelids fluttered open, pupils dilating as you registered the silhouette looming over you. “Daeron?” you whispered, voice still thick with sleep, “what are you doing?”

“just… loving you, sister.” he murmured, voice slurred, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

you blinked the fog of sleep away, and it cleared to reveal terror. you tried to scramble backwards, but he grabbed you, pinning your arms to the mattress. “get away from me! Daeron, stop it!”

“now, now…” he chuckled, “no need for all that noise. you’ll wake everyone, and we don’t want that, do we?”

“you’re drunk, just let me go.” you said, trying to ration with him.

“i’m just a little festive,” he leaned down and nipped your earlobe, “and you’re so wet for me. i can feel it. you want it.”

you opened your mouth to yell, hoping a nearby guard would hear and come to your rescue, but he clamped his hand over your mouth before a sound could come out, muffling your cry into a pathetic little whimper. he shifted his hips, guiding his cock back to your opening. with one, forceful thrust, he buried himself inside of you.

you let out a strangled cry against his palm, body arching with the shock. he groaned, the tightness of your scared, virgin cunt gripping him like a vice.

“gods, you’re so tight…” he gasped, his voice losing its charm and turning into a vessel to show his need laid bare. “so fucking tight.” his thrusts were erratic and heavy, no doubt result of the alcohol in his system. the sound of your bodies meeting filled the quiet room; a wet and rhythmic noise as he slid in and out of you.

his grip on your face had loosened. “please,” you sobbed, eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears, “stop, please, stop.”

“hush,” he grunted, hips slapping up against you with a loud, fleshy thud, “just take it. be a good girl for your brother.”

he released your mouth fully now, moving his hand down to properly grip your hip. he increased the pace, his balls slapping hard against your ass. he could feel the friction building, the heat of your internal walls squeezing him despite your consternation for the whole situation. he reached down, his thumb grinding harshly against your clit, forcing a mixture of pleasure and pain through you.

“look at you,” he panted, his voice ragged, “squeezing me so hard. you love it, don’t you? tell me you love it.”

you couldn’t even bring yourself to say something. all that came from your open mouth was a ragged sigh. Darron laughed at it.

he thrust deeper, his cock hitting deep, ramming up against your cervix with a blunt force. he felt the build up in his loins, the pressure becoming unbearable. he let out a low, animalistic growl, his movements becoming frantic. with a final, purposeful shove, he seated himself to the hilt and shuddered. his body stiffening as he came, pumping hot jets of cum deep into you. he stayed there for a moment, panting, sweat dripping onto your nightgown, staining the fabric, the smell of sex and wine thick in the air.

he slowly withdrew, the sound of his cock slipping out of your wet pussy a wet, suctioning thing. he looked down at you, your legs shaking, inner thighs smeared with a mixture of his seed and your own fluids.

“see?” he whispered, leaning down to kiss your forehead with a clumsy affection, lips hot on your clammy skin, “you did like it.”

[abbyslovergirlxo]

Your envy would be easier to swallow if you hadn’t loved her so much.

You’d heard many whispers of the pale hair inherited by the Targaryens. And yet it didn’t amount to the glisten of her beautiful strands the first time you’d seen her. One would believe living in the same castle as her for years, sharing formalities with another in stone corridors would lessen the intensity of her presence. One would hope, you would. Somehow though it only intensified. She was a walking painting, someone's muse breathing in the flesh. Once, when she was lounging on the balcony with your sons, you wished so badly you were capable of the oil portraits that decorated the throne room. Maybe then you’d be able to capture that soft warmth on her skin, the sun that never diluted her beauty but paraded it, the gentle smile she held even as Daeron pulled on her skirt.

The hatred you had for her was more of a tantrum if anything. But certainly you were allowed such a thing, weren’t you? You’d been married off at only 10 and 4. Pregnant at 10 and 6. You’d always be a child in a way. Even if the years had passed, even if your twin boys were capable of running around instead of sucking at your breast. You’d watched Rhaenyra for six years. You watched her sneak into brothels with no consequence. You watched her be announced as the heir to not one kingdom, but seven. You watched her mount Syrax and fly into the clouds with no worry. You watched her hold Daeron and Aeny’s until they began to cry, to which she could simply hand back to you or some maid. You watched her dance until her feet bruised in the great hall, all while you remained tucked in your seat and holding a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes for your husband.

You’d never wish less for her. Never. And yet you’d find your hand reaching when she showed you how unjust your life had been simply through her living.

“How beautiful your boys are. They look just like their mother.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you? I’m starting to think you’ll never call me Rhaenyra. I’d prefer it. Truly.”

She’d said that to you an hour after you’d given birth. She was the first person to visit after the maesters left you to rest. Your husband had been off somewhere, doing whatever it is princes choose to do while their legacy is pushed out in blood and screams. You remember more than you’d like to. Your hair had been a mess, the sweat from your labor still etched on your skin and clothes. And yet still she’d approached you before she even looked at the cradle, picked up your limp hand and told you how good you’ve done. You’d made some exhausted joke about how awful you must look.

“Oh hush. You look like a warrior. Can I?”

You nodded as fast as possible, hoping she’d go to the boys and miss the flush blooming in your cheeks. One could’ve mistaken her for a mother herself with how natural she was, cradling Aenys and grinning.

“He’s a heavy one, isn’t he?”

It was awful. And you begged the gods for forgiveness every day since. But you let your mind wander. You wished she’d been a man. You wished she’d been the one who lifted your veil at the altar, snuck a kiss to your cheek before the ceremony dinner. She’d probably be gentle in your shared chambers, littering kisses on your skin like she did with your boys. Or maybe she’d be unlike your fantasy and sharper, more demanding. Would she whisper like this every night? Praise of your beauty and efforts even when there was no room for it? Would she be here like she is now? Holding your hand and telling you how good you’ve been, how proud she is? You wished she’d been the one who you thought of when your eyes caught the glint of your wedding ring. You wished she loved you.

In a moment Rhaenyra was setting him back in his cradle, coming to your side.

“What is the matter? Why the tears?”

I can’t stand how much I want you.

I can’t stand how much I wish I was you.

If I were to kiss you, to even dare, would you recoil or pity me?

I love you so sickly I can hardly bear it.

Isn’t that awful?

The part of you that you kept locked up, pressed between responsibility and nobility, was clawing at you. She was Your Grace to you. She wasn’t Rhaenyra. She was cradling your son because that’s what people do to babes. She was holding you gently because that’s what kind people do. She’ll leave this room and flaunt her perfect hair wherever she pleases. She’s a future queen. You’d do well to remember that. And you would. But in that moment you were tired and your breast were swelled with milk and distaste.

“Nothing, Rhaenyra. You are much kind. That is a scarcity here it seems.”

a/n: wrote this in fifteen minutes because hotd is back and doomed yuri is so fun. anyways im not sure how much i like this and yet im considering a full fic on this because Rhaenyra would infact kiss reader back!!

[finnbennetits]

can someone please recommend me rhaenyra targ x fem reader fics please ☹️💧💧🥺😢💧💧

[onlymriel]

my RECOMMENDATIONS of one shot - serie de aerion targaryen!!

ONE SHOT MDNI!!

- earned loyalty by @maybestrid33

summary: your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.

- DARLING UNCLE! by @imeow33

summary: you and your uncle, aerion, are very close, some might even say a bit too close.

- the prince's whore by @darktargslut

summary: kidnapped as a child and presumed dead, you survive years of abuse before becoming the kept woman of Prince Aerion Targaryen, in a world where survival means loving a monster, your fragile sense of safety shatters when your past resurfaces in the worst possible way.

- one softer flame by @bellvirine

summary: to the rest of the red keep, prince aerion targaryen was a monster—cruel, arrogant, and utterly untamed, but to his twin sister, he was both a protector and a beautiful snare from which she could never escape, when noble lords from every corner of Westeros arrive at king's landing to court the princess, they remain blissfully unaware that approaching her means invoking the dangerous wrath and fire of the brightflame.

- dragon or man by @veridian-dreams

summary: you tread carefully when you start working in aerion's home, you have heard the rumors about him after all, you attempt to go unnoticed, and you hope you will succeed as your fellow maid tells you that aerion looks at no one who isn't of targeryan blood, you an orphan from flea bottom are certainly not that, so why does he keep looking at you with those angry violet eyes? and why do you feel those angry violent eyes on you everywhere you go?

- INSOLANCE IN VAIN by @vaeliia

summary: in the shadows of a quiet room, an educated but caged and humiliated mind and a dangerous prince collide in a fierce, intoxicating struggle for possession.

SERIE MDNI

- chosen by @loveobx

summary: you live your life trying to avoid your husband as much as possible, but find yourself facing his wrath after committing an accidental offense

[finnbennetits]

THEY GOT THE HENNESSEEEYYYYY

[ghostlybfgf]

YOU'RE MY NUMBER ONE

summary: what should have happened to you happened to him. his wish, the potion worked, but at what cost? or, aerion's obsession au (version one)

pairing: aerion targaryen x ladyinwaiting!reader

warning(s): psychological themes, DARK!FIC, descriptions of violence, allusions to smut, angst, mention of death, slight valarr x reader, manipulation, aerion becomes somehow more psycho??

word count: 5.2k

a/n: a little late but here :)) also was listening to this song on repeat while writing this, hence the title

The whole thing is below himself. A pathetic means he’d snatched from the hand that held it in all but an instant.

A prince of the blood seeking help from townsfolk, a woods witch out of them all. And for the very purpose of the one thing he cannot seem to get his hands on..

You’ve lingered at court for years, brought from the confines of your noble house when you were just a girl, standing at the same height as him then. A lady in waiting for Lady Jena Dondarrion, his own aunt, and you were exactly what he viewed you as, what you should be.

Forbidden fruit.

You were taken under her wing, shielded and protected by the elder ladies just as you were by your father’s title. And it still leaves him with a scowl at just the thought, because he shouldn’t even give you one.

You’re careful, always present, a sparkling eyesore in royal jewels and silken dresses that remains standing in his way in corridors and blinds his view as you cheer for his cousin in the royal box at tourneys. You’re simply there, and yet still, you find a way to take over, laughing in jest, sitting so close, so comfortably with his family, his blood. The very people he only orbits, you bond and live beside. So pleasant and proper and.. captivating.

The same woman who stands dutifully among ladies and Kingsguard, the very one that charms his uncle and cousins with a smile and quip, the same who has his own younger brother chasing after you with laughter so loud it makes his head ache.

So achingly beautiful it grates at him. Chips away at everything he’s laid so properly before everyone like a vice. That now it’s seemingly driven him to the point of madness.

He shouldn’t have to do it, any other maiden or lady would be falling at his feet, no matter how nervous or scared. And he should have that, you should be doing so, but you won’t pay any mind to him, nor even give the chance. Kind and polite, tight lipped smiles from across the long table or a simple nod in shared company, that’s all. He doesn’t return them, but he watches, he waits.

In fact you bide more time into his cousin Valarr. The Young Prince, the one they speak of such a dutiful husband he will make, a great man like this father, that betrothals are soon to flood in with time. The man you reserve the softest smiles for, your arm in his as you walk amongst court.

And it makes him seethe.

Because he knows who it should be. And it should be him.

—

The ride back to the keep was a deadly silence, eerie with only the distant thunder of Ser Donnel’s stallion behind his own. Rain washed down in torrents, chasing them into the gatehouse as he slid from the saddle.

Ser Donnel had not questioned his Prince on the whereabouts, or why he called on him at such a late hour to journey into the streets of Flea Bottom, but they had done so. A small cabin the place was, down the back of a dingy, cobbled alleyway, lit only by torchlight in which the man stood vigilant underneath. Many would go to such a place for their ailments, whatever troubled them, their head, their aches, but no such place for a royal.

They had maesters for that. Though Aerion insisted, shoving past the older knight with a frown.

Whispers carried just as fast through King’s Landing, more so than their Ravens did. And the ailment the Prince had ordered for would not be cured by some lowly maester’s balm. This was urgent. And Aerion listened, far more than people cared to notice, and those whispers led him there.

“Should you need anything else, your Grace?”

Aerion fumbled with the belt of his cloak, tugging it from himself as the dirt caught from the streets and rain fell to the ground, leaving only his shirt and trousers clinging to him. His eyes flickered only for a moment, before shaking his head, shoving a small bundle into his pocket.

“No. Leave me.” He called back, straightening the tunic at its collar.

And the man took his leave, standing straight backed as Aerion passed him from the stables and walked in heavy strides through the pouring rain and into the lower stairwell of the Keep.

The damp still drips from him now, the warmth of the chambers doing little to settle the aching anticipation in his bones. The backs of his calves press sharp into the wood of the bed frame beneath him, boots planted harsh into the floor. His finger flicks back and forth along the clasp that encases the bundle.

A sphere, much like a perfume or pomander lord’s carry on their belt, something unsuspecting. Its patterns cover in gold and silver, wrapped in black twine all along its outside. A witch’s knot. One he’d heard through the woman’s rambling inside of the rickety, old store. Supposed that it was to ward evils away from its user, if used correctly.

He lets out a huff, sharp and drawn, eyes drifting along every intricate detail before cracking it open.

A singular diamond shaped vial lies inside of it.

He wasn’t certain what to expect, the witch left that much of it out. But its results are the only thing he’s after, no matter how queer the insides might seem. The liquid near enough matches his eyes, a deep velvety purple, swirling with a dark shimmer silting at the bottom.

Thunder rumbles low in the distance, rain now lashing onto the windows with a ferocity that would make some tremble. Would leave others to think on their decisions, to take their time to weather the storm around them, to think of such outcomes.

But he doesn’t, because Aerion never has, and he doesn’t care to any longer.

The instructions come back to him in parts, staring solely into the palm of his hand where he reaches for it with jerked fingers. But it doesn’t come simply, nor without price. He goes to take it, reaching in before he can stop himself from embarrassing himself any more. Though his movement acts otherwise, just as he plucks it, he jerks back, raising his finger to his lips where a searing pain pricks at him, the sphere tumbling to the floor.

A thorny branch from the twine sticks into his finger, catching along the skin and pouring blood from down until it drips onto his wrist. He bring it between his lips, sucking it into his mouth and licking it once before snatching it away, the sting of it dripping into his palm, his brow pulling tigh.

Remove the binding, break open the seal, speak your truth.

And drink.

That was all he was told. He can’t help but think how pathetic it sounds.

But he does it regardless, uncorking the vial with a sharp pop and bringing it to his lips before he can think against it. Aerion pauses in a single breath, eyes fluttering closed and open halfway.

“Make her be mine.” He rasps.

And he drinks, tipping the substance down his throat without another second that passes. It catches in the back of his throat, the taste tangy and bitter, a sickly bitterness that coats his tongue, slapping it against the roof of his mouth.

And it’s done.

—

The morning welcomes the way it does most often. With a chambermaid and gentle greetings, and a pitcher of water at your bedside. News of an upcoming tournament held in the near Stormlands is on everyone’s lips, carrying from room to room before a knock wraps at your door.

Your maid eyes you, following carefully as you nod, “Please.” She bows with a simple smile, settling the tray of cloths and linens in her hand onto the table before stepping towards the door.

Lady Ellyn steps in with a peek of her head around the heavy wood, near enough making your maid jump as she steps back, sliding the door open further. Your closest confidant, one your own age unlike many of the other ladies. Her hair cascades in a braid that weaves her golden hair down her back, as fair her complexion. A wide smile breaks on her rosy face when she sees you, thanking the young girl gratefully before jumping at the end of your bed.

The very image of her cousin, Lady Aelinor Penrose, married to the Prince Aerys. You only hope, silently, a similar sorrow won’t fall on her also. A girl far too giddy and joyful, even at this time in the morning.

“Come we must break our fast.” Her hand taps the plush furs, tugging them slyly as they slide from your legs, the cotton your your nightgown going with it. You snatch it with a warning glare, stopping her from pulling it completely.

“If you’ll allow me to be ready first.” You huff, raising your arms above your head with a yawn. She nods, rolling her eyes as she stands from the end of the bed to round to your side. The mattress dips as she sits herself onto it, kicking her legs off of the edge as she waits. And waits, expectant eyes blinking at you.

“Fine, fine I’m coming.” She claps her hands at that, rising as you do with her, sliding, less wistfully out of the comforting warmth of your bed.

Lady Ellyn stays with you as you are dressed, chatting away about the travelling market passing through King’s Landing. You listen, but her voice drifts, eyes following out of the window, watching the birds that circle the street. Hands lace your bodice carefully, a deep pale gold with trimmings of crimson and silver jewel.

“Oh.. you look ethereal.”

Your feet step from the stool carefully, taking a deep breath from the boning breaking into your spine and chest. Your maid curtsies, both women looking at you in a profound awe, and though she doesn’t speak, her face tells that she agrees.

“Careful, wearing such a dress, the Prince Valarr will be all over you.” Lady Ellyn takes your arm with a snicker, and you swat her with the other, a grin finding its way to your face.

“Well suppose I’d have some competition with you, my lady.”

The pair of you find your way through every winding hall until you settle in the great hall. You break your fast with the ladies. Lady Jena, Lady Dyanna greet you with a nod and a smile, seated already beside their good sisters Lady Aelinor and Lady Alys. All seem to be in good spirits, you and Lady Ellyn seated opposite one another as another elder lady sits at your right.

Talk picks up as it usually does, fresh fruit picked from gardens and far away orchards, toasted bread and jams are decorated and layered china bowls and plates. You take your helping as the rest of them do, chatter echoing the hall, heard only by yourselves and the Kingsguard that stand tall by each large door.

It only depletes to a silence when they open once more, all heads turning in a wondrous gaze. Prince Valarr steps across the hall, greeting the older ladies first and his mother with a kiss to the cheek.

They remain in their seats while you and the lower ladies rise at his arrival, chair scraping out behind your knees as you hold your skirts.

His aunt Dyanna teases him, remarking with a sip of her summer wine that he’s avoiding council again. Valarr only laughs, light and courteous, completely princely.

And then from across the table, his eyes land on you. It’s natural, just as he’d expecting you to be there, and the smile softens on his face, meeting his eyes as he steps closer. Only then does he excuse himself from his mother, leaving them to resort to their whispering just behind.

“My lady.” His voice is gentle, more tender than it should be for such a meeting and you feel another pair of eyes on you. Lady Ellyn. Staring obviously from across the wooden table as she sits down quietly.

You curtsy, inclining your head before your eyes meet again. Golden brown and violet, the very image of his father’s, except they aren’t as hardened, boyish still beneath the young manish demeanour.

“My prince.” Your skirts sweep the stoney floor as you stand upright, mere inches between you, blinking up at him.

“I’ve been hoping I’d catch you.” He speaks hushed enough it’s for you, but loud enough it doesn’t inspire scandal.

That alone makes Lady Jena exchange a knowing smile with Lady Dyanna. One only mothers seem to be aware of. And his glaring advance to orbit your side.

A short laugh escapes you, tucking your arms in front of you, “I wasn’t aware I was difficult to find.”

“No,” Valarr smiles. “I’ve simply been elsewhere.” He states it as though disappointed, as if elsewhere were not where he wanted to be at all.

“I’d hoped…” He clears his throat, a rumble under his breath, inclining his head, feeling the burn of eyes at his back, before they swiftly look away. “Though it may not be proper, that if you attend the tourney…”

He looks almost embarrassed, a blush creeping his pale cheeks as he shakes it from himself. You offer him a nod of encouragement.

“…you might consider lending me your favour.”

A thumping appears fast and palpating in your chest and you blink, once, twice and hard. The pair of you have known each other since you were children, surrounded by propriety and politeness in close encounters, and you had always been close. But a favour was something else entirely. A favour was a promise.

Surprise wracks your features, and somehow everyone around the table is far more interested than they were before. Lady Aelinor covers her mouth to hide the grin that appears, though you cannot say the same.

Yours widens, more than you can stop yourself, stumbling out your words, “I’d be honoured.”

It is simple, courtly. Nothing improper that would leave gossip for either of you, but he takes your hand in his, a warm palm curling gently around your own.

“Then I will not disappoint you.”

He bows his head, releasing you from his grip carefully before returning to the hall, bidding the rest and his mother a farewell. And nothing more. However as the door closes, the table erupts. Laughter and chatter, swooning and fawning over you as you make an attempt to sit down again. A reddened blush covers your cheeks as you listen to them.

A favour..

Perhaps you’ll be crowed his Queen at the tourney.

Lady Jena hushes them, finding you from across the raucous, and she simply nods, lending an understanding motherly gaze, settling you the way it always had. She doesn’t speak it aloud, but talk for far longer than known have you and Valarr been considered for a match.

She had only hoped it had happened this way.

Valarr had chosen of his own accord, and he had chosen you.

However, shadows encase the halls of the Red Keep, tracing the very perimeters of tapestries and stone that you can’t quite see. Another pair of eyes, beyond Ellyn’s excitement and the ladies’ awe, watches on.

Aerion sees it all.

He hadn’t planned to stay as long as he did, merely passing through on his way to his own duties. To things much more important. But then he saw it, witnessed with his own eyes how his cousin stood himself before you, cohorting and smiling.

Only his eyes were not on Valarr, they were on you.

His fingers tighten around the twisted pommel of his sword, shoulder resting onto the thick, marble pillar beside him. It’s tight enough his knuckles are turning white, skin near splitting with how he hard he curls his hand around it. But he doesn’t notice, not even as a voice addresses measly and careful behind him.

Aerion doesn’t just pretend to not to hear it, he can’t. All he can hear is the rush of blood thrumming in his ears. All he can see is Valarr’s smile, proud and affectionate, and you smiling back. And he twists his hands tighter.

The bell tolls and breakfast comes to an end, clattering plates and pattering footsteps that don’t even notice him standing in the distance. Not his mother, or his aunt, or you. Instead you’re taking Lady Ellyn’s arm, whispering happily as you leave.

“The roses must finally be blooming.” She speaks to you as a jest, nudging your arm as you follow everyone toward the outsides. Though it sparks something in you, softly joking back as you loosen your arm.

“I believe I’ll see for myself.” You purse your lips as you move from each other, turning your backs with a promise to find the other later.

Aerion doesn’t move for another minute. Or maybe two. He isn’t counting, only turning his head without his eyes following to the voice insisting at his side.

A squire. A skinny young man dressed in washed colours. He says something about his father and uncle, that he has been called upon.

Aerion only tells him that he’ll be there shortly, waving him off. The boy scurries away, ducking into a bow before leaving once more to deliver the news. Even though he has no intention of following just yet.

And it is not questioned, because it’s completely him, even if more detached. Callous and careless, perfect in the fractured way of a Prince not bothering to concern himself. And only when the hall has emptied, does he rise from the pillar.

He adjusts his hand, tearing it away from his sword without urgency, straightening the drape of his cloak as he turns for the other doorway. He’s attempting not to explode on the spot seeing you disappear into the gardens. But he doesn't follow openly, he lets you leave first, down the steps of the Keep and out onto the balustrade that overlooks the hedgerows and flowerbeds. It’s rare for you not to have an escort, it's improper, wrong even for you.

And so Aerion takes another path, stepping with a practiced ease across the other side of the balcony, circling it so that by the time you reach the rose garden, he’s already standing around the altar of flowers, rocking on his heel. If you did not have an escort, you will. His hands clasp behind his back, one lazily on the pommel of his sword, staring out over the hedges, as though he’d been admiring the flowers.

It’s something you’d always done when time would allow it, escaping endless company and lessons to be with your thoughts. You were looking forward to it, on your lonesome, time to think over what had just happened at breakfast. But the head of mussed silver hair made you slow where you walked. You pause for a moment, the crunch of gravel turning his head at the sound, and for a moment you go to walk the other way but violet eyes catch you. You curtsy just as fast, the way you’d been taught.

“My Prince.” You speak gently, wavering in confusion. It doesn't feel as familiar as it did before, as it did with Valarr, but you do it out of politeness.

He doesn’t answer straight away, only turning to face you with his body, face still fixed on the roses.

“You favour this garden.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. And you smile, rising to straighten your knees.

“I do.”

You always have, stalking away from court just as enamoured with the ocean of greenery in the midst of the stone and hardened rock, as you have since you were a girl. He was right. Though how he one was a mystery.

“I’ve noticed.” It’s simple, nothing but a mere observation, one that perhaps had been made by many over time.

But he changes the subject before you can ask.

“The white roses are dying.”

You glance beside him, toward the bed of them.

“They bloom again in spring.” You counter softly, tutting silently at Lady Ellyn’s comment from earlier.

“I know.”

You squint your eyes at him, tempting a foot forwards, skirts hanging in between your fingers. You hadn’t many conversations with the Prince, with orders to keep your distance always whispered into your ear, you’d listened, but you hadn’t realised he’d been so odd. Cocky and dismissive, yes.

But the tension was almost one sided. The grit of his teeth evident as if he were in deep thought.

“You usually come earlier.”

“I beg your pardon?” A muffled laugh escapes your throat and you blink.

“You’ve been late this week.”

“I.. have?”

“You’ve been attending to my aunt, have you not?”

It’s as if discussing the weather, once again, only an observation, and a crystal one at that. One anyone could work out easily enough.

“Well she has a great need for me, for all of us. I didn't realise anyone had noticed.”

“I notice many things.” Aerion falls casually, the natural hint of arrogance clear in his tone.

Like my cousin Valarr taking a liking to you.

He looks at you then, finally. And you feel yourself shrink, not shyly, but under the complete intensity of it. And so you busy yourself, standing on the opposing side to him as you reach for the dying roses, plucking the heads from them.

“Do you enjoy court?” His eyes follow you, burning into your back as you tempt a smile back up at him.

“Very much.”

“Four years you've been here.” He tastes it on his tongue like he's contemplating it, settling in his stance to take you in fully.

You go to pluck another rotten bloom, grasping it in between your fingertips when a thorn catches the pad of your finger. A sharp hiss escapes you, a dark bead of blood welling across your skin. It’s small, simple, only enough to burn, you could have wiped it away on your skirts and been done with it.

Only a figure appears at your back, a hand enclosing around your wrist. Quicker than either of you had expected. Your eyes flicker between him and your hand, his grip turning it in his hold. His thumb steadies your palm, studying the crimson beading across your hand like something catastrophic.

“It’s only a thorn, my Prince.”

He doesn’t answer, his thumb hovering closer, just beneath the cut. A touch almost reverent as he punched it by the slightest to stop the blood.

You laugh again, sharper this time, attempting to ease the strangeness.

“I’ve survived worse. Suppose we both have in this court.”

It’s still silent, but his face contorts. Agreement in a sense you wager. And then you realise, he’s still holding your hand. The skin is warm, warmer than you’d expected, calloused from swords and rough at the edges even though it’s pallor is almost entirely without blemish. Save from the risen line across the side of his palm.

“You have hurt yourself.”

He blinks for the first time, slowly, flickering his eyes to your own. As though he’d forgotten.

“What?” His eyes snap up, still holding his fingers around your own.

“Your hand.”

You turn it gently before he can pull away and stop you.

”This.”

The scar where the twine bit into him.

His skin shudders under yours, and for a heartbeat he simply stares at it, and the memory comes rushing back.

The linen, the black twine, the vial.

Her to be mine.

His fingers tighten, not simply to hurt but enough that you notice, snaking your hand from his carefully, but it stays there.

“It’s nothing,” His voice comes too quickly, brow pulling tight and tone distant, “A scratch.”

“It looks painful.”

“It isn’t.”

"I suppose we both enjoy injuring ourselves." The words cut deeply, your smile more cutting. Almost innocent just as you try to ease the awkwardness.

But Aerion cannot tear his eyes away from the two hands. Yours and his. The tiny drop of blood from your finger and his faded scar, resting against one another.

A sign. And for the first time it settles wholly in his chest, there isn't doubt, not just arrogance, but something is telling him.

Divine.

He doesn’t speak of it, he releases your hand instead, a beat too late. Your own fingers enclose around your wrist absentmindedly, swiping away at the last drop of blood from your finger, the wound closing already.

“It has been five.”

He looks up again.

“Five years in court.” You correct him, smoothing your sleeve over your arm.

“I know.” He takes a step back, eyes growing distant as he nods, flexing the length of his fingers to curl them into his scarred palm.

“I forget you’ve probably read everyone’s histories.”

Aerion doesn’t answer. Because he didn’t learn any of that from record, he had learned it by remembering. Something that now, is all he seems to know.

You go to speak, to dismiss yourself and apologise for the predicament you’d found yourselves in, that somehow that would cure the pained confusion from his face. But another voice calls out and does it for you. You cannot quite make it out, but you turn your head, Aerion’s ears pricking, barely acknowledging it.

“I ought to go.” You call out to him, inclining your head to attempt a better look. Out of pure politeness.

He nods, “Of course.”

And you go, leaving with a scoop of your skirts and taking off the way you came. He doesn’t follow, he doesn’t even move, simply rests back onto the wooden beam beside the roses, fingers resting out along their stems. Across the thorns and petals and the drops of blood you’d left onto the whites of them.

He exhales sharply, violets fluttering closed as he watches on from the opening of the gardens. Because he doesn’t have to move to know where you’ll go, what will happen next. It’s already mapping over and over in his head.

You’ll take Lady Ellyn’s arm, and journey your way to the Lady Jena’s compartments, making your way across the east gallery of Maegor’s Holdfast to join the rest of them.

And through the bay windows of the lower quarters, he can see it all, just as he predicted. The first crack of satisfaction breaking its way onto his features, because now he doesn’t have to want for anything, it’s coming to him.

Or so he thinks.

—

The corridors bustle far too early for the hour, alive with movement and the sounds of footsteps and talk echoing the halls of the Keep longer. Ladies hurry between apartments, while squires carry polished helms. Servants step hurriedly aside as members of the royal family pass.

The tourney is only days away, and everything feels louder. An inescapable chaos that for once is more joyous than it is uncontrollable.

You walk beside Lady Jena and Lady Ellyn. Conversation drifting from gowns to the coming lists, Jena wonders aloud who might be crowned, eyeing the pair of you at her side

“Perhaps Prince Valarr has already chosen.” Lady Ellyn teases and your cheeks warm.

“Do stop."

More footsteps resound from the opposite end, steel plated heavy ones, already armoured from morning drills and practice, cutting you off from where you’re about to further scold Ellyn.

Aerion's breastplate catches the light filtering through the window, one gauntlet hanging loosely in his hand. You catch sight of him in a rush as you turn the corner, and the corridor narrows.

There is no avoiding one another.

All of the ladies curtsey.

“My prince.”

You offer the same polite smile as always without saying a word.

And for just a heartbeat too long, his gaze travels over you with quiet familiarity

Lady Dyanna notices, “Aerion.”

At last he turns, his mother’s voice reaches him.

“You’ve been on the practice field since dawn.” She mentions gently, looking him over and the scratches and dents that litter the armour.

“I have.”

"You’ll wear yourself out before the tourney.”

A faint corner of his mouth lifts, self assured and arrogant.

"I doubt it.”

Yet while he answers her, his attention drifts.

Back to you, with just his eyes. Like a compass stubbornly finding north.

You shift your weight, suddenly and strangely aware of yourself. Lady Ellyn begins speaking again, incoherent and hushed into your ear as the congregation begin to dismiss themselves.

“Aerion.”

Prince Maekar’s voice cuts cleanly through the corridor, as commanding as you'd expect. Aerion straightens instinctively, his father approaching with measured strides. He is dressed for the yard himself, a stern coldness set onto his features as he reaches him.

“You’re late.” The older man speaks with a measured annoyance.

“I arrived before sunrise.” Aerion bites back coolly, not enough to push, but enough.

“And yet Ser Donnel has been left waiting.” Maekar stands at his side, starting to shoulder him out of the way, “You’ve kept him.”

Aerion glances toward the training yard, then back to you. For one final time. And it is enough that even Maekar notices the delay.

“What is it?”

The question is simple, heads turning to face them both as Dyanna shakes her head, Jena on her arm huffing amusedly.

Aerion answers almost immediately, “Nothing.”

Maekar follows the direction of his son’s gaze for an instant only. He sees, a cluster of ladies and his son’s disobedience. Nothing else. And the sight annoys him further.

“Come.”

This time Aerion obeys.

But not before inclining his head toward you. A gesture no different from any other prince might offer. Only when he’s disappeared around the corner does Lady Jena murmur, almost teasing,

“The prince seems unusually attentive of late.”

“The tourney must have everyone restless.” Lady Ellyn laughs, the group of you stepping through the stoney corridors and out into the halls.

You smile because it’s the easiest response. Because what else could it be? And yet find yourself looking towards the empty corridor where he’d vanished.

You try to shun the thought, the idea of it. But it had felt, for one impossible moment, as though none of them had held his attention quite as completely as you had.

—

The chambers are thrown into darkness by the time he gets to them, ordering every servant out of his way as he enters. Every one of them scurries with trays and pitchers in hand, doors closing swiftly behind them.

Aerion had taken up all day in the training yard, fighting whatever prickling itch had settled itself inside of his bones. And no amount of driving his sword had aided it, it only made it worse.

It was supposed to work out in his favour. To do exactly what he had asked it to do. For you to be his more than anyone else in the realm. And he had been plagued for so long, too long, made to live a life so troubled and pathetic.

But it was going to be different, because he found a cure. It was meant to be what he wanted, and what he wanted was you.

The witch must have cursed him, tricked him into another means in his desperation, because it twisted itself into something far different.

It will enhance what is there, leaving only the truth. Her words still ring loudly in his head, pulsing in his temples with every moment that passes. Love shall grow deeper, desire will burn, and obsession.

Well, it overflows.

And denial is a cruel mistress. One that comes back to bite those that aren’t careful, and he denied it even now, but Aerion had fallen into its trap. Because you did not feel what he had, desire and lust and want wasn’t your emotion. You were simply oblivious, trying to figure out every advance he had been making.

It was his.

The idea angers him. That you would have been anything else but his the way he wanted you to be. It makes him tick to imagine you elsewhere but at his side, a rage so raw it pumps tight in his veins along with whatever else has planted itself inside.

His hand collides with the marbled basin, hard and fast, stone cracking under force. A pained groan leaves his throat, eyes flickering to catch his face in the reflection from the dimly lit candles behind. The expression he finds undoes him, wide eyes and crazed, deep violets blown a deep black, rimmed a bloodshot crimson at the edges from lack of sleep, rendering him almost lifeless.

“What the fuck is this.” Aerion isn’t certain who he’s talking to, but it comes out a lowly whisper, the pain pricking hard up his fingers. He attempts to flex them but they only freeze his grip, stiffening like the aching in his back. The muscles of his chest stretch in the glow as he straightens, watching his hand intently. He doesn’t go to aid it, nor bathe it in the warm water below, he just stares. Allows himself to feel the tingling sensation run up his arm.

And that’s when it replaces itself. Like a sudden snap of a tree branch underfoot.

A new feeling washes over him all at once, one that takes the pain away and the angst with it. His eyes squint at his skin, focusing on the broken skin of his knuckle. And suddenly it breaks him open much like the wound, the confusion fading, like the first drop of wine onto a pure tongue.

Why was he questioning it? Why not just let it happen? The questions differ from the old ones. He no longer asks why it’s happening, or what is. This is purpose, this is what he had asked for, and pride would not let him falter.

No, he wouldn’t let it.

If the potion was strong enough to come to fruition, to bring him closer to you, he’d give into it. It wasn’t doing harm, it was the divine, the way it should be. And so he’d let it take over, allow it to do its work, he’d continue his advances like he had planned to all along, this time harder.

Perhaps that way, you would come around.

—

Muddled. That’s the only way you can describe it.

The days before the tourney pass in a blur of banners, arriving lords and restless anticipation. And they pass with excitement not only of the celebration itself, but of you, and the two princes who are circling you.

Aerion begins appearing where you’d least expect him, not often enough to call it coincidence and yet it’s too often to ignore.

The library one afternoon, though he’d never struck you as a man fond of books. The castle walls at dusk, overlooking the training fields where you’d only stopped to escape the heat. The sept of all places. One other place you’d found that grants you freedoms and peace away from court, and yet a shadow lingers behind the entrance, beyond where the candles burn low at the altar.

Aerion treats it like chance, hardly speaking, still looking down his nose at everything that passes him by. He is still what exactly what you’ve come to view him as, cutting, controlled. A deviant in the eyes of many. The Prince you’d been warned about hasn’t changed, he’s only embedded himself.

And you told yourself it was. Chance.

You had to.

Yet something had shifted. And not even in him, in you.

You’d begun looking first. Before entering a room and before stepping into a corridor, some foolish part of you wondering whether violet eyes might already be there. And more often than not, they were.

At supper, he no longer sat with the detached indifference you’d heard whispered about since first arriving at court. He still spoke little, carried himself with that same cold composure, yet whenever laughter drifted from your end of the table, his gaze followed it. Fleeting glances had turned into things you’d feel, long enough that the burn of a cold stare was almost always on you.

When the eve of the tourney came, the Great Hall filled with music and anticipation. The feast was brighter than usual, draped in crimson linens and the dragon’s banger. Knights boasted with their cups in hand, ladies quietly wagering amongst themselves.

You were situated in the very center, taken with the conversations of Lady Jena and Lady Dyanna, attending to their husbands who they sat beside, no doubt in private jest of other lords. Your plate was empty, wine steadily sinking to the bottom of your cup as you glanced around the room.

Prince Valarr accepted endless well wishes with an easy smile, turning about the hall gaining many a favour from the crowd. Though Aerion remained almost entirely silent, not rising from where he shoved himself into his chair at the far end of the table.

The only time he seemed truly attentive, was when another lord leaned a little too close to hear what you’d said over the music. A meagre thing. Elder Lord Beesbury sharing his excitement for the tournament to come, as he had done in his drunkenness to near everyone else in the room.

But Aerion saw what he wanted to, his goblet paused halfway to his lips, watching over the golden, jewelled rim before taking a sip. Lord Beesbury had departed with a gentle hand to your shoulder, fatherly, encouraging, and nothing more.

And Aerion had already turned away, sinking the last of his Arbor Gold with a sharp clatter to the table.

It became difficult to remember the Prince people had warned you about. Though not for the reasons as before. Before it was duty, responsibility to bow to those higher than yourself, it was recognition.

But now, he seemed sharper than ever. It felt as though the rest of the court occupied his attention by obligation, while yours held it by instinct.

And what was one to do when he has suddenly deemed that you are worthy of his attentions.

Aerion had never proved them to you as his cousin Valarr did. He did not leave tender written letters in the hands of your maids, nor did he have flowers brought to your chambers, in fact you’d had more conversation with squires in the years you’d been living beside him than ones with him.

But he stood closer, vigilant like he claimed it his as his birthright, across every space that had you found yourself in, in places that were hard to ignore.

And it was enough to leave you wondering.

Why, you?

—

Aerion had always resorted to some sort of violence. It was custom, to be expected. He was a knight, a Prince, he had some reason to make people fear him.

It was how he first gained the name, Brightflame.

But something flickered deeper beneath it all, something more fierce than the anticipation sitting amongst the lists. This was a drive unpredictable, a thirst for blood that couldn’t be quenched. He'd splashed his face in cold water many times before leaving the pavilion, adorned from helm to toe in the agile, scaled steel.

It wasn’t nerves that consumed him.

He had ridden in too many lists for that, and the young lord opposite him was hardly a challenge. One look had been enough. His seat sat too high, his grip too eager on his reins.

He would not last, that much was certain.

The thought made something warm and terrible course beneath the steel on his shoulders. It had begun the moment his eyes found you amongst the royal boxes.

Bathed in Targaryen crimson and black, sunlight catching the embroidery upon your sleeves as you leaned forward beside the other ladies. Unaware and smiling politely at those around you. He committed that to memory, tightening the reins of his stallion as he swung himself atop it.

Before more of the scene caught his sight, unconsciously following to where you sat beneath the sun.

A young lord lowered his visor only halfway, flashing that broad, youthful grin at you as he stops right before the box.

“For you, my lady.” His lance tips toward your stand, blinking up at you hopefully. A ripple of laughter and knowing murmurs traveled through the galleries surrounding the lists.

Whispers had already begun these past days. The courteous letters from Prince Valarr, the lingering conversations. Now another young knight had found courage enough to dedicate a tilt in your honour.

You smile because court demanded it. Nothing more, and instead your mind began drifting to who would be his challenger. Valarr came across your mind.. and you’d hoped in silence it would be. That the tourney would be as grand as people were speaking of and you had reason for your favour to be given. Truly.

But it had already been decided, hooves thundering in a burst through wooden gates before anyone could catch him.

The herald’s voice carried across the field and all heads snapped up.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame.”

The roar that answered swallows the rest.

His horse shifts beneath him, stamping impatiently against the earth. Aerion settled the lance beneath his arm with practised ease, violet eyes never once leaving the man opposite.

Few seconds passed as squires rushed to each of their sides, checking the lasts of their armour and swiftly running back as the first horn sounds.

They charge, steadfast with a few yards between them until they narrow. Wood shatters, the impact echoing across the lists as both lances splinter into flying shards. Neither rider yielded an inch.

A respectable pass, an unassuming one. The crowd applauds loudly, Lady Ellyn gripping your hand with the same harsh tension squeezing in your chest.

The young lord laughs as squires hurried forward with fresh lances, Aerion rounding his stallion from the other side as he snatches the one from his hand.

“Well struck, my prince.”

The second tilt comes harder, the laughter from the lord ringing in his head beneath the helm, the sight of a smile through his visor. The young lord aimed for glory now, lowering his lance sooner, riding faster.

And so Aerion waited.. and waited. He did not bite. Not until the final heartbeat, where he shifted barely an inch in the saddle.

The opposing lance skims harmlessly across his shield. But his own strikes true, a sharp angle upward to the shining bottom of his breastplate.

The crack rings across the grounds, breaths held tight in throats as both men waver from the strength of the collision. The young lord lurches violently, nearly torn from the saddle and every face leans in, clutching fans and wooden beams. A breath passes and coin is slyly passed in the lower crowds, predictions already being made. But he rights himself to cheers from the crowd, swivelling his helm properly back onto his head.

A close thing, too close.

Aerion watches him recover, slamming down his visor with a growing satisfaction.

All eyes watch on with an intrigued intensity. Prince Baelor with his hand wrapped around his wife’s own, face unreadable as he studies his nephews movement. And his expression cracks, the familiar recognition of something dreadful to come. Prince Maekar sits near enough the same from the other end, only with less interest and with his back slumped in the chair, knowing just as much as a father would.

Something is wrong.

You manage to stomach what you can, gaze flitting between both men as they prepare themselves for another round. A hush falls over the stands, and by the third pass, the laughter disappears. completely.

The young lord no longer smiles. And all of the joy seems to fade. He adjusts his shoulder where the last blow had landed, wincing before taking another lance. And from across the field, Aerion is an unnerving still, his horse breathing steadily hoof kicking up the mud, where his chest heaves, unable to.

You find yourself gripping the edge of the splintered wooden beam below you. Though you aren’t certain why, only that something about the Prince was more unsettling than usual.

Not his skill. But his focus. Far too narrow for what could be considered normal, as though the rest of the tournament had fallen away, a deadly calm.

And it leaves only one obstacle before him.

The final horn.

The horses spring forward once more as it sounds, dust exploding in the mud beneath pounding hooves.

The distance vanishes almost instantly, because this time Aerion does not merely seek victory. He seeks blood. And he drives through the impact, lance sticking squarely against the young lord’s groin with a sickening force that sent him flying clean from the saddle.

He hit the ground shoulder first rolling to his side and then landing on his head. The sound silences the cheering, every one jolting backward at the side of his horse continuing riderless down the lists.

The young lord does not rise, his groans turn guttural and wheezed, breathless with the dented armour shoving into his cracked rib.

And for a lingering moment, no one moves, only squires rushing to his side with maester’s following. Voices erupt from every side of the field, your head turning to follow and chase every sound.

“A healer, we need one.”

“Clear the lists.”

Aerion slows his stallion at the far end of the barrier, glancing back only once with his head held high. His face stays unreadable, hidden beneath the dragon scale helm without so much as a scratch. As though he, too, were merely watching another unfortunate accident.

Yet from your place amongst the royal boxes, something cold settles in your bones, a shiver wracking your body. You remember the way the young lord had raised his lance towards you, the way Aerion was watching, or must have been the way he entered himself upon the tilt. And though the applause had died, the feeling that this had not been simple misfortune refused to leave you.

Because it was not.

The herald concludes Prince Aerion the victor for the morning despite the scene. Though he does not smile, in fact his face doesn't change at all as he raises the visor for a final time. The man’s blood drips down his cheeks, splattered across his nose and forehead, silver hair dirtied with mud and sweat, and the faint curve of his lip.

One that can only be seen as, pride.

Most eyes remain fixed upon the injured knight as he is lifted carefully from the churned earth, one arm hanging limp, blood soaking steadily through the padding beneath his breastplate. Servants hurry around him as the lists descend into organised chaos and the royal box remains seated, lords with faces in their hands, ladies shuffling readily to exit, quiet in the tense understanding you all are aware of.

Tradition demands its ending. The victor must name his Queen of Love and Beauty.

Moments pass before his horse turns, midnight black under armoured bone and ivory. But he doesn't ride to the pavillion of noble ladies, nor does he stop before the Prince's to bow, he turns to you.

Your stomach knots in one impossible heartbeat, and you wonder, hope, that he might pass. Maybe he will choose another, forget the weeks that have passed and the confusion he had led you both into.

But he doesn’t

He continues guiding the stallion to the royal boxes, lance still tucked beneath one arm. Its splintered tip is dark with mud, a smear of blood stains the ash wood lower down where it had been gathered after the final tilt.

The crowd falls strangely quiet, even the murmurs seem to wait and you rise because every lady chosen before you has risen. Because there is no graceful way not to.

But he doesn’t stop for them, Aerion stops beneath you.

Violet eyes meet yours, and for once they look whole. Bright in a sinister sense, like you are the very thing he can see. And only him.

Without speaking, he lowers the broken lance, the use of a weapon now tranformed asan offering.

Upon its jagged end rests the circlet of winter roses. White petals, much like the ones you recall from the gardens, already beginning to bruise beneath flecks of drying earth.

“My lady.”

His voice carries only far enough for those nearest to hear. There is no flourish or perormance, not even for the sake of his victory, but there is confidence, out of want. Because everyone’s eyes are on you both, you can feel it, everyone can see. His father, his mother, the crown Prince, even Valarr from the distant saddle of his own stallion, seated tilting his head in intrigue.

And a jealous silence.

The circlet trembles ever so slightly as you reach for it. And so he takes it himself, rising as you lean clutching the balcony, to place it upon your head.

His fingers brush your temple as he does, deliberate with a singular touch of a strand of your hair, before pulling back. He shifts back into the saddle as you rise straight in front of him, forcing a smile and the bend of your knees into curtsy. His head turns, taking the reins in hand as he faces Prince Baelor and the hosting lord.

“Your Queen of Love and Beauty.” Aerion announces.

Only then do the cheers begin, scattered and uncertain, excitement growing louder as tradition overtakes unease. You shove yourself back into the wooden chair, glancing at Lady Ellyn as her she eyes you back, mouth agape and in shock. Everything that is expected of you, you have done, posture straight and graceful.

Yet beneath the roses, your skin has gone cold.

—

By sunset, the remaining tilts are abandoned. Officially, it is out of respect for the injured knight. Unofficially, no one much wishes to continue after what they’ve witnessed. The boxes empty early, the crowd sifted back into their respected pavilions where music plays quieter, more tranquil, and wine flows heavily.

Every conversation somehow finds its way back to the lists, and you have long left the bustle behind, choosing to be farthest from it. The roses have begun to wilt against your hair, sticking thorny into the corner of your head as you remove them before reaching your pavilion, carrying them loosely in one hand.

The petals leave damp marks across your fingers, the broken ones falling onto the carpeted trail beneath you.

Aerion sees you before you see him, though you don’t notice him at all. He has been walking without destination. Or so he tells himself. The maze of tents stretches ahead, canvas walls shifting gently in the evening breeze.

He rounds one corner with a roll of his shoulders, the weight of his armour discarded.

And he stops, not because of you. He lets you walk on, the dark hues of dusk creeping in over the shadows of the trees. The flap of a healer’s pavilion hangs open, and inside something more curious. The young lord laid beneath candles and incandescent, his breathing shallow as the maester binds cracked ribs while another mixes milk of the poppy nearby.

The knight’s eyes are closed. But he is alive, broken, but alive.

Aerion watches for only a moment, the maester’s do not notice him, no one does.

You step quietly between the rows of pavilions, clutching the circlet of roses he’d placed upon your head. You never glance toward the healer’s tent, never see the knight within, disappearing into your own, canvas falling shut behind you.

Aerion remains where he is, gaze lingering first on your tent until he shifts back to the injured lord.

The maester speaks to another as he shakes from the bed, “If the night is kind, he shall recover.”

Aerion’s jaw tightens in certainty, looking once more toward the closed flap of your pavilion, toward the place where you are beyond sight.

The decision settles over him with terrifying calm, an inevitability.

He turns away before anyone notices he’d ever been there. And long after the camp has fallen into silence, hours passed when the last torches burn low and even the horses have stilled, Prince Aerion returns to his own bed.

Alone.

—

You’d been none the wiser, in fact no one had been. Wine flowed delicately in your system and sleep succumbed you in the early evening. Though your mind lingered occasionally.

The Prince.

You hadn’t thought much of him before. Only what you had been told. Callous, cruel, a bully to many, even his brothers. Much like his father in a darker sense someone had mentioned. Though Prince Maekar was cold, he bore the love in his children and for his elder brother Prince Baelor quite clearly.

Aerion was something different.

There was a glint in his eye that often unnerved many people, many young maidens falling into hushed whispers from his presence alone. There was a darkness there, one you had witnessed today with your own eyes, as much as you wanted to deny it.

He shouldn’t have paid attention to you at all. As a lady in waiting to his own aunt, it was hardly a need for you to cross paths at all, but somewhere along the lines, he had began appearing inside every part of your life, forming his own web that had you tangling and restless even in dreams.

Existing where he never had before.

The morning comes damp and cold, due prickling the morning grass where drunkards still sway and grumble their chants past the tents. The stoked fire has burned low, the furs from the bed gifting you the last covers of warmth. You toss and turn for a while, shifting under the sheets so harshly your hair musses around you. You sit up at last, abandoning the idea of sleep altogether.

Myrish carpet finds your feet as you press them into the ground and into your slippers, tugging the large, silken coat from its stand and around your shoulders, your chemise hidden dignified underneath. Maids sleep in their beds around you, snoring softly where rest has not yet escaped them, but you don’t go to wake them. Instead you let them rest, crouching and tiptoeing out of the pavilion and into the morning air.

There are few still moments before it comes tumbling down. First it is a scream, shrill and piercing from metres away, and then running, the first breath of fresh air you take stolen as your eyes snap fully awake.

You follow the sound, and it seems others from every direction have the same idea, men and women rushing down the road, to find something that makes you stumble.

“The knight..”

You don’t hear the rest, the crowd picks up before you're drawn from it, sliding through the sea of heads until you find your place at the front, coat cloaked tight around your middle.

The knight had succumbed to his wounds, crumpled in a heap in the middle of the stoney pathway, and in a pool of his own blood. How unfortunate, voices counter. It happens.. a tragic tilt, an injury too great.

“Shame..” Another voice you hear.

But something doesn’t feel quite right, it doesn’t make any sense. He was taken away by the maesters and that was the last anyone had seen of him. A stab wound opened from his back, ripped around a hole in his thin cotton shirt. This was no injury, it’s fresh and still leaking..

It’s murder.

The commotion grows wild, biting colder than the chill of the morning as you glance around, stepping back from it as the thought punches you in the chest. Perhaps it’s a lie, perhaps it’s just another fool making scandal for the sake of it.

Perhaps—

A familiar face makes its way out of the crowd, one that stirs you more than it should.

Aerion.

Standing on the outskirts of the townsfolk jeering and yelling, far from the royal pavilions you’d both been assigned to.And he’s looking, already. Not at the knight’s crumpled body, not at the crowd.

At you.

As though your opinion and the shock on your face matters more than the dead man lying fifty yards away.

That should be the first thing to properly make your stomach turn, and then the memories come. They rearrange themselves cruelly.

The gardens, the roses and the way he knew you’d be there.

The thorn and the scar on his hand, the way he finished sentences before you were able to even speak. The fact his pride was not just about bitterness, it was knowing, it was stating facts only you were aware of.

The way he’d watched the knight all afternoon and the prolonged silence when the man spoke. The crown he placed in your lap and the burn of his eyes bearing into yours.

It’s all there, it just wasn’t in the right order before.

—

You don’t accuse him, you can’t. Doing so would be high treason, and stating it would be against what you want to believe.

But you cannot breathe in this air, swarmed with people and stuck between the entrance of the paviliona, and him. So you leave, you take off behind where anyone can see.

The woods. The only place you can think of, and you nod to Lady Ellyn as you pass who only gives you a short nod, peeking from the tent beside you own, her face a pale through the mist.

The woods.

And not because you're running, but because it’s quiet, it’s the closest place you can put distance between all of this. You walk further than you mean to, your lungs burning leaving an ache in your throat. Past the horses, past the pavilions, until the shouts are only nearby echoes through the trees.

You come to a stop along the root of a large oak, hand bracing against its rough bark as you catch your breath. The leaves shake and shudder with the breeze, shades of green shading you all around.

“A curious place to hide, dove.”

The name punches your chest, knocking whatever air was left in your lungs from them. You don’t jump, but the hairs on your skin stand on end, your eyes closing tight. Because somehow, you had already known he was going to come.

“Did you follow me here?” You breathe out, pressing your hand tighter to the tree, standing straighter.

“No,” Twigs crunch under his boots, his tone nothing short of calm and collected, the dangerous kind, “I though you’d come here.”

You turn on your heel, and the sight nearly makes you laugh. His hands are clasped in front of him, sunlight filtering on the striking silver of his features, red tunic clasped perfectly.

“Why were you there?” You don’t know what to make of you own words, it comes out so fast in a burst as you rise to stand opposing him.

He raises an eyebrow without looking away.

“At the gardens you were there..”

“The roses..” You continue without cowering, stepping forth on the uneven earth.

“You knew that I would be there.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t falter not once, and your eyes dart past him, right toward where knights and Kings guard rush past over the bushes.

“The knight.”

It’s the first time he looks away, not in guilt or remorse but recognition. The lines of his face draw tight, striking in the dappled light.

And you notice, shuffling in place, slippers sinking into the dirt.

“Did you do it?”

A long silence comes, and so you ask again, clearing your throat as if scratches.

“Did you kill him?”

There it is. His jaw tightens, muscle flexing from the bone.

“He wasn’t worthy. He presumed himself.”

Your nails bite into your fingers as you clutch them at your sides, he dares a look once before looking away, to your hands, to your face. Like it doesn’t phase him.

That’s all he can say. The knight thought himself worthy. Of you. Your blood runs cold, there’s no denial in it, and he doesn’t even begin to give it.

You blink, gaze catching the faintest flicker of blood on his sleeve, darker than the crimson tunic, running a dark brown along the hem.

“You’re frightening me.” You state it loudly, shakily on your breath as twigs crunch underfoot.

That breaks something him, it cuts him deep. Because he didn't intend to frighten you, he wanted you closer, to be near you, to make you see what he sees.

To make you his.

He steps closer, a foot disappearing between you.

“A Prince wouldn’t—” You start, raising your head to meet his height.

“Wouldn’t what?” He takes another step, head tilting at you and your mouth snaps shut. And he answers for you, he’s already forgotten duty, no care left for it.

“I’ve done everything I know.” Another step. “I’ve buried everything else, fought it, ignored it. It refuses to leave.. you refuse to leave.”

“All it’s about is you. Where you are, and why you’re not by my side.” He sounds almost annoyed, like the admission angers him.

He steps forward again, and you're frozen on the spot, rocking back on your heel.

“I have no reason to be at your side.” You speak plainly.

His hand wraps around your arm, looking down as you attempt to yank it back, but you can’t, he has it firmly gripped, shoved between your bodies as he stands right before you.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” He whispers lowly, violets turned a dark purple, so deep you can see your reflection in them, startled.

“Then let it go..”

He chuckles then, low and dark and broken. And the look in his eyes is something you’ve never seen before. It’s chipped away at the edges, so undone and unhinged as if you’ve asked him to stop breathing.

“If I could..” He leans in closer, breath hitting your jaw as you turn your head away, the sickly woody scent of him reaching your nostrils . “I would have weeks ago, but you keep— you’re still here.”

“Why me, all of this.. you don't love me, it’s simply the idea.” You stumble out, biting the words around your tongue as you bare your teeth back in warning.

“Don’t.” His fingers grip tighter, clamping at your wrist.

“Don’t what?” You counter.

“Reduce this.”

You stare at him instead of speaking, and his brows furrow, because you don’t give him anything, a blank space that he’s created, “You’ll see.” He assures and he releases you from his grip, your arm wrenching free as you step backward.

And he lets you, he doesn't chase, left in the hollow of the woodland, nostrils flaring as he hands his head.

—

The walk you take is slow, unnerved with your fist clutched tight to your chest.

The grounds are dismantling piece by piece with servants packing their wagons, pavilions taken apart, and squires rushing by. Everything moving on just as it usually does. And some part of you imagines you’d dreamt it, how wrong and odd it is to think of such a thing.

That perhaps the grief over the knight has made everything seem stranger than it is.

The canvas shifts gently in the breeze as you reach it, stepping inside amongst the maids, now awake and folding your clothes and dresses. Some hand long over the bed, others draped over chests, but you pay no mind to any of it. It is the table that catches your eye first.

More so what’s on it. Beneath the flowered vase, the one Valarr had gifted you in china blue. There it sits.

An envelope. Yellowed parchment pressed in a dark, crimson stamp, pressed with the three headed dragon along its lining. Your eyes stare longer than your fingers are tempted to move, tracing over the seal before you finally break it.

It tears with a pop, the envelope opening to reveal the letter inside. All of it perfectly placed. So calculated it could only be one of two.

All eyes in the room fall to you hushed with their heads low, parchment crackling softly beneath your fingers

It’s not a love letter, or a simple request, it’s formal.

The sort of letter a noble would send. A Prince. It speaks of honour, of houses, of futures and seeking permissions to court.

To take care of you and properly.

Nothing inside of it would be deemed improper, yet every word your eyes flutter over carry the weight of what you’d heard between the trees. Not because of what you have dreamt, or the teases that have came your way.

Not because they are from Valarr, they’re not. But because cause they are his words.

Written in that same dark, unwavering hand.

“By your side, it would be an honour to take my place.”

The words are rearranged, and so clearly not his, at least not the way he’d word it.

Because the words jumble before your eyes as you blink, and the only thing you see, hear, is his voice ringing in your ears and your stomach turns sharp, bile rising in your throat.

What Aerion had been truly meaning to say.

Be mine.

Leaving out the final part, the one that lingers in his head.

You already are.

loving taglist: @starxs-s @multyfangirl @targlocket @dearlizzies @silkaurum @curbitkirby 💗

[finnbennetits]

this is so fucking good wow

[the-darklings]

https://x.com/dragonkxsser/status/2071499574464872612?s=46

this gif of finn in domina (also 😵‍💫😵‍💫 #needthat, also this looks like it could be the nest 👀) except its bb fucking companion and he can’t stop trembling and purring bc its so good yes pls. companion originally starting fully on her knees but the dicks too good and bb was not holding back so she just ended up prone with bb’s hand in her hair 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

You start on your knees.

That's how it begins. You on your hands and knees in the nest, the warm pile of blankets bunched under your palms. The amber light of the lamp falling through the fabric he's hung from the ceiling like curtains, like veils, turning the whole space into something honeyed and intimate.

BB's hand is at the small of your back. Resting. His thumb tracing the knobs of your spine one at a time the way someone would trace the beads of a rosary, slow and reverent, committed to the count.

He's behind you. Not inside you yet. He's looking.

You can feel the looking. The seven translate it as a low warm pull behind your navel, all seven of them humming at half-attention, picking up the quality of his gaze the way skin picks up sun. The air between your shoulder blades feels warmer where his eyes are resting. You drop your head between your arms and breathe and wait.

"Ready, baby?"

His voice is low and a little rough at the edges and you nod into the blanket.

BB pushes in.

The whole length of him in a slow, careful slide that opens you up inch by inch. He doesn't stop until his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs, and the sound you make is not a word, it's just air leaving you like he's pushed it out from the inside. The seven light up all at once and BB's hand at your back spreads wide and presses down, holding.

"There," he breathes. "Oh—there, sweetheart."

He starts to move.

And he's not holding back.

You can tell immediately. The careful version of BB—the one who reads the seven in real time and adjusts, who treats your body like an instrument he's learning to play lovingly—that version is not here tonight. What's here instead is the drive, the thing underneath, the patient ancient hunger given permission to take what it wants, and what it wants is depth.

The first real thrust knocks the breath out of you. Deep, grinding, his hips rolling forward with a force that slides your knees an inch across the blanket, and the ridged texture of him—he hasn't bothered with the smooth human surface, he hasn't bothered with any pretence at all—drags against your inner walls in a long rippling wave that makes your vision narrow.

You moan, arching into the sensation. "Oh—"

"Yeah." His hand slides up your spine. Into your hair. His fingers gather the damp weight of it, gentle, then firm, tilting your head up from the blanket just enough that you can breathe properly. "Yeah, baby. I got you. Just hold on."

BB fucks you with slow, heavy strokes that use the full length of him, pulling back until you're whimpering at the wet drag and then grinding forward until the depth of him is pressing against places that make your eyes roll and your hands fist in the blanket and your mouth open on sounds you can't control.

And he's trembling.

You feel it first through his hand in your hair, a fine vibration in BB's fingers, not quite a shake, more like the hum of a wire pulled taut.

Then through his hips where they press against you at the apex of each stroke, the muscle of his thighs quivering. Then through the harmonic, which is not the steady controlled hum you know but something broken open, stuttering, catching on itself like a record skipping.

That purr-register gone ragged.

BBis inside you and he's overwhelmed, and the trembling is the body's way of trying to contain what is running through it, and it's failing.

"Baby—" his voice cracks, ragged on a moan, the Bobby-drawl fraying, "—baby, you feel— I can't—you're so—"

He can't finish the sentence. He gives up on the sentence. He gives up on language entirely and makes a sound instead. Low, wrecked, pulled up from somewhere underneath the Bobby-shape, somewhere old and wordless, and his hips snap forward harder and you keen.

Your elbows give.

A slow buckling, your arms folding under you as the force of him drives you forward and down, your breasts pressing to the blanket, your cheek turning against the soft pile of it.

You try to hold the position. Your knees are still under you, hips still raised, the angle still presenting, but the next stroke is deep, deeper than the last, and the one after that is deeper still, and your knees slide backward and your hips sink and then you're flat, prone, belly-down on the blanket with the warm weight of him following you down.

BB covers you.

His chest to your back, the cool-going-warm length of him draped over you, his mouth at your ear, his hand still in your hair, and the angle has changed—god, the angle has changed—the downward position tightening everything. The pressure of the blanket under your hips tilts your pelvis just enough that every stroke grinds the ridged length of him across the spot the seven have been guarding for months.

"BB—"

The name hits him like a hand on a bell. His whole body shudders.

Full shudder, crown to heel, the trembling cresting into a wave, and the harmonic pours out of him uncontrolled. Not the purr anymore but the deeper thing, the frequency, the one that vibrates through the floor and the walls and the warm pile of the nest and through your sternum. The seven sing back and the resonance between his body and yours and the seven becomes a single humming chord and you're flying apart from the inside—

"More," you choke into the blanket, moaning loudly into the blankets. "More, BB, I need—more—"

He whines in response.

A high, thin sound you have never heard him make before, and his hips stutter against you and you feel him shift.

The cock lengthens inside you. You feel it happen: the deliberate stretch of him reaching deeper, the ridges multiplying, the girth thickening by fractions, and the shift is not sudden. It's rolling. The shape of him rewriting itself to fill you fuller while he's still moving, and the sensation of being reshaped from the inside by a thing that is reshaping itself to match is—

You cry out.

Your hands claw at the blanket. Your face wet, tears soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has gone past the point where it's a distinct sensation and become a state. A condition, a thing your whole body is doing, every nerve firing in tandem, the seven blazing so bright they're almost tangible—

"I know," BB slurs against your ear. His lips are on the hinge of your jaw, his breath coming fast and uneven, the careful human rhythm of it abandoned. "I know, baby, I know, it's—it's so much, I know, but I need—just a little—just a little deeper, sweetheart, just—there—"

He presses deeper. You sob, clawing at the sheets.

"Just like that," he whispers, shaking. "Just like—oh—just like that, you're perfect, you're so perfect, you're so so perfect, baby, I can feel you. I can feel all of you—the seven are—they're singin' so loud, sweetheart, you should hear what you sound like from the inside."

His hand in your hair tightens. An anchor for both of you. His forehead drops to the back of your neck and his mouth is open against your skin and you can feel the harmonic coming out of him in waves now.

Not a hum anymore but a keen, the eldritch version of the sound you're making, and the two sounds layer and braid and the nest hums with the combined frequency and the lamp pulses and you feel the warm curtain-light flicker across your closed eyelids.

"BB—BB, I can't—it's too much, it's—"

Your voice breaks and you hiccup over the sound.

"I know." His voice is rough. Barely there. Slurring on the vowels, the consonants dissolving. "I know it is, baby, I know, I'm sorry, I just—you feel so good. I need to feel you, I need—just a little more, just—please—you feel so—I've never—nothin' has ever—"

He can't finish.

BB gives up on trying to finish. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and his hips roll into you. He's not thrusting anymore, not the sharp deep strokes of a minute ago, but a grind. His pelvis sealed flush against you and the full ridged length of him working in slow, devastating circles against the deepest place he can reach, and the texture of him is dragging against every nerve you have in a continuous rolling wave that doesn't crest and doesn't ebb.

It doesn't give you a single second to breathe between one pulse of sensation and the next.

Your mouth hangs open, your fingers clenched in the blanket to hold on.

Tears run freely now, soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has crossed some threshold you didn't know existed. Past the point where your body can process it as discrete sensation, past the point where the peaks are distinguishable from the valleys, into a place where it is just one thing. One continuous roaring note, your entire nervous system lit up and screaming and the seven are amplifying every single second of it.

And the seven are doing something they've never done before.

The feedback loop is open, wide open, all seven gates singing at full volume, and they're not just catching your pleasure and passing it to BB anymore, they're catching it, passing it to him, receiving his version back, amplifying it, and feeding it back to you.

And the amplified version hits your nervous system and produces more pleasure and the seven catch that and the loop accelerates—

Your vision goes white at the edges.

The warm amber curtain-light blurs and bleaches and for a terrifying, gorgeous second you cannot see anything at all. You're just sensation, just the grinding pressure of BB thrusting inside you and the seven singing at a pitch that is vibrating your actual bones and the weight of him on your back and the wet heat of his mouth on your neck, kissing and licking and sucking, and the harmonic pouring through your sternum and you are—you're going to—

"BB—" it comes out thin, desperate, slurred, "BB, I'm—I think I'm gonna—I can't see—"

"I got you." Immediate. Even wrecked, even shaking, even slurring, immediate. BB's arm tightens around your ribs. The grind slows by a fraction. Not quite stopping, he cannot stop, but easing just enough that the seven pull back from the screaming edge by one degree. "I got you, sweetheart, I'm here, I'm not lettin' you go anywhere. Stay with me. Stay right here. Just feel me."

You gasp, trying to nod as it dissolves into a whimper. The white recedes. The amber comes back instead, blurred through tears. You can feel your heartbeat in your whole body, hammering, and the seven have eased from their shrieking peak into something that is still blinding but no longer threatening to take your consciousness with it.

"There we go," he breathes against your neck, kissing the damp line, pulsing inside you. "There you are, baby. Right here. My good girl. So good for me."

And then, because the drive is still running, because the feel of you clenching and fluttering around him in the aftermath of almost going under is apparently more than he can take, BB's hips snap forward.

Hard. One sharp, deep thrust that punches the air out of you and buries him to the absolute limit of what the reshaped length can reach inside wit a wet squelch, and he stays, and grinds. That slow, devastating circles find the spot again and your body seizes around him.

You come with a violent flutter.

There's no crest. An avalanche. It takes you from the feet up, your toes curling, your calves locking, your thighs clamping around nothing because there's nothing to clamp around.

He's inside you and you're flat on the blanket and the only thing to do with this pleasure force is take it, and you scream into the pillow, a sound you did not know you could make, and the seven catch the scream and translate it and send it hurtling down the loop and—

BB snarls above you.

You feel the moment his body exceeds capacity. The trembling hits a frequency that's no longer trembling but vibrating, every molecule of the shape BB built shaking at a pitch that blurs the edges of him, and the harmonic doesn't just pour out of him, it erupts. A sound so deep and so vast that the walls of the nest bow outward like lungs filling and the blankets shudder and the curtain-light swings and somewhere in the corridor outside the room shifts.

BB comes inside you in a gush so powerful you sob, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth and into wrecked blankets below.

You feel the overflow.

The saturation point inside you reached and exceeded and the excess having nowhere to go but out.

What comes out is hot—hotter than he's ever been, the fever-warmth of him spiking past anything your body has memorised, the warm flood pouring into you in heavy pulses that the seven catch, each one, and hold.

It produces a secondary wave of pleasure in you that rolls through the first one and compounds it and your climax, which was already an avalanche, becomes a thing with aftershocks. Your body pulses around him in helpless clenches and flutters that you can't control and that BB can feel, each one, because the loop is still running.

Because the seven are still translating, because your pleasure is still becoming his pleasure is still becoming yours—

The loop runs for what feels like hours.

Peak feeding into peak feeding into peak, the two of you locked together prone on the blanket, his weight on you and his face buried in your neck, his arm a steel band around your ribs.

The seven sing so loud the sound becomes physical, a vibration you can feel in your teeth, in the small bones of your wrists. Your body is doing things without your input—clenching, releasing, clenching again, the involuntary rhythm of a nervous system in freefall, and every clench pulls another small sound out of BB, animal sounds, wrecked sounds, whines and gasps that have no Bobby left in them at all.

When the loop finally begins to slow by degrees, the peaks getting fractionally smaller, the spaces between them getting fractionally wider. Until the spaces are big enough to breathe in and you both breathe, a long shuddering simultaneous inhale that sounds like surfacing from deep water.

Your vision clears.

The amber comes back in full. The curtain-light steadies. The seven ease from their blinding chorus into a warm, steady hum that feels almost apologetic, like seven small fires banking themselves after nearly burning the house down.

He's still inside you, still shaking. The trembling hasn't stopped and you're starting to understand that it may not stop for a while. That what just moved through him was too large for the body and the body is still processing it the way a bell still rings after being struck.

"Baby," he manages. One word. The only word he can apparently find. His mouth shapes it into the crook of your neck like he's pressing it into your skin for safekeeping.

You try to answer. What comes out is a breath that might have been a laugh, and your hand finds his where it's clamped around your ribs and your fingers lace through his and you squeeze, once, because that's all you have.

One squeeze. I'm here. I felt it. I know.

BB squeezes back, his fingers trembling in yours.

You become aware of the mess slowly.

First the wet. You're lying in it.

The blanket beneath your hips is soaked. Warm and slick and too much, more than a human body could produce, because his is not a human body and what comes out of him does not obey human volume. It has pooled under you, gathered in the dip the weight of your hips has made in the nest, and when you shift even a fraction you feel the warm slide of it against your belly, your inner thighs, the crease where thigh meets hip.

Then the glow.

You almost miss it. Your face is still turned sideways on the pillow, eyes half-closed, lashes damp, and the amber curtain-light is soft enough that it takes a moment to separate one warm light from another.

But there—at the edge of your vision, where the blanket is darkest with mess of it—the faintest luminescence. Not bright. A soft bioluminescent shimmer in the slick of him, barely there, the palest gold-white, like something living at the bottom of a very deep ocean giving off its own light.

"BB," you whisper. "It's—it's glowing."

He makes a sound against your neck. A low rumble that vibrates through your spine, half-embarrassed, half-pleased, entirely spent.

He knows. He can feel it, the way he can feel everything that is still him regardless of where it is. The substance on the blanket, all the substance overflowing inside you, the seven rooted places. all of it still pulsing in the same slow diminishing rhythm, the tail end of the overflow settling into stillness.

BB's hand unlaces from yours. Slides down, slow, across your ribs, over the dip of your waist, and comes to rest low on your belly. His palm presses flat. Warm. Possessive in the old way, the way his hand always finds that place, but tonight there is intent in the pressure, a slow gentle push, and you feel it.

You feel him inside.

The cock is still seated deep, still hard. He doesn't soften the way human men soften. The refractory period is not installed, the body simply stays at whatever state of readiness he chooses, and right now he is choosing to stay full in you.

When his hand presses against your belly from the outside you become aware of the shape of him from both directions. The hard length of him inside, pressing against your front wall, and his warm palm outside, pressing toward it, and between the two pressures your belly becomes the held thing, the kept thing, and the sensation is so intimate it makes your breath catch.

BB rubs. Slow circles. Gentle, absent, the way he strokes the small of your back when you're standing in the kitchen.

Except now BB's hand is on the soft low curve of your belly and he's pressing just firmly enough that you can feel the ridge of him shift inside you with each pass. Feel the extra pressure push more of his release out of you, dripping down in a wet, thick gush.

Each circle pushes his cock a fraction of an angle, just enough that you feel it move, and the moving is not a thrust, it's not even sex, it's just... awareness. Him making sure you know he's still there, making sure you can feel the full shape of what is still inside you, hard and pulsing and present.

You're ruined, a wreck. Your face, tear-streaked, and your thighs, trembling. You're lying in a puddle of faintly glowing come in a nest an eldritch entity built you out of love, and his hand is on your belly, and his cock is still inside you, and you're so far past okay you don't have the word for it.

BB's hand keeps rubbing. Slow circles, slow circles.

You close your eyes.

You let him hold you.