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about â© char. she/her. 21. full time student. personal, multifandom and reader-insert blog. i don't tag nsfw. 18+ only!
tagging â© characters and media by name. fic rec tag. inspo tag.
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. âThe aquariumâs got a new whale shark exhibit,â you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark â surprise surprise â swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
âDo you think they only have one?â you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt canât see the billboard. âIt says gentle gi-ant,â you explain, ânot gi-ants.â
Mattâs response is a pained groan.
Heâs lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody â classic Matt.
Youâre kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. Youâve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
âWhale sharks are solitary creatures,â he says. âThey only gather to eat.â
Hmph.
You donât like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isnât weird. Like a whole year hadnât passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like youâre still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every âWould you still love me if I was a worm?â-esque question.
âWell thatâs sad,â you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but itâs clear he means to comfort you. âThey prefer it that way. Besides,â he winces, âis it the aquarium down on Surf? The buildingâs too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldnât get a permit for more than one.â
âThen maybe they shouldnât have any.â
âEven if whale sharks prefer to be alone?âÂ
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But thatâs too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, âEven if.â
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You donât have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, thatâs where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But thatâs an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. âWhy would I need a doctor?â asks a dying vigilante. âThis random civilian has seen Greyâs Anatomy, right? Thatâs basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.â
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Mattâs injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. Itâs one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile â swallow fear â and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently â very, VERY gently â you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
âSorrysorrysorry!â You hardly recognize your own voice. Youâre too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies donât cure pain.
Distraction might.
âHave I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, donât get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I donât miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.â
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Mattâs apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatterâs rights under your white refrigerator, and youâre one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
Youâve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, theyâd definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
âŠ
âŠ
âŠ
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
Heâd go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlordâs violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Mattâs care.
And Matt â sweet, loving, woeful Matt â makes it all worse by saying, âI offered to buy curtains.â
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. Youâd cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey wouldâve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldnât have. Maybe itâs something else. Greyâs Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
âSure you donât want any pain killers?â you ask him. âIâve got Midol in my bag.â
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. âYou know you donât earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?â
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though âlaughâ might not be the best word for it. Itâs more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
âHold your breath,â you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
âThatâll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.â
A vein pulses at his temple. âFeels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.â
âIs that a joke?â You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. âYou know altar boy humor goes over my head.â
âI was never an altar boy,â he reminds you.
You tut. âHow ableist.â
âNot because Iâm blind.â Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. Youâve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. âI was a nervous kid,â he explains, âespecially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought Iâd drop the candles and set the altar on fire.â
âWhat a headline,â you say. âLocal Blind Boy Burns Parish: Godâs Judgment or Innocent Mistake?â
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, âCouldnât you have carried the wine?â
âYou mean the body of Christ?â
Your eyeroll is affectionate. âThe wine.â
Transubstantiation is one of those things youâve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Mattâs no exception. A devout lover of God â yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. Heâs always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
âIf the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,â he says, âyou can bet he wasnât eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.â
âIf only he could see you now,â you say. âWell not now, but in court. Iâve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.â
âYou mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?â
âWhatever. Hey, while weâre on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?â
âA barristerâs wig?â
âDo you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?â
âI do,â he says, âand youâre cutting into my paycheck.â
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Mattâs stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now â a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. Itâs easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. Itâs easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldnât be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Mattâs dead.
Okay â okay, okay! â not dead since heâs still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, âEyes open, Murdock.â
âWhy?â His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesnât obey your command. âWant to see if I can tell how many fingers youâre holding up?â
âYou probably have a concussion.â Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. Whenâs the last time he got tested for hepatitis? âThe last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.â
Youâre pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
âWould you miss me?â he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course youâd miss him.
âFoggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,â you tell him. âDo you know how many waffles your life would cost me?â
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
âThree,â he says.
âWaffles?â you ask.
âFingers,â he chuckle-coughs. âThatâs how many youâre holding up. Three.â
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
âIâm not holding up any fingers, idiot.â
He huffs softly. âTalk about ableism.â
Youâre offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. âThat was so not ableist!â
âNext youâll claim Braille offers subpar education.â
âSince when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And Iâm not even calling you an idiot because youâre blind! Iâm calling you an idiot because youâre an idiot.â
âOuch. So you really think so low of me?â
âI just said so, didnât I?â
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. âRemember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?â he asks.
âRemember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?â You smile when he chuckle-coughs. âYeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.â
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe thatâs only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble âFair enoughâ that doubles as your path of least resistance. Heâs always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isnât easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isnât as much a third party in this room as the billboardâs glaring lights.
Youâve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
âWhatâs Psalm 88, anyway?â
Matt likes this question.
âYou dated a Catholic for two years,â he says, âand you donât know Psalm 88?â
âSorry, I hadnât realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking yourââ
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off â his voice an octave too high â with a sudden urge to recite.
âLord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friendââ his voice wavers here ââand made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,â he says, âis my closest friend.â
You say nothing.
Needle inâ
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
âoutâ
You think about the breakup.
âpull threadâ
The breakup youâd initiated.
ârepeat.
âNOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.â
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you wouldâve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
Iâll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure heâs okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. Youâre on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains â stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
âSome of your best work.â
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. âIâm surprised,â he adds. âI thought youâd be rusty.â
âYour faith in me is astounding, Murdock.â
âMy faith in you is boundless,â he shoots back. âBut itâs been a while since you last played nurse.â
With theatrical flair, you say, âAn artist never forgets how to paint.â
âEven if they swore theyâd never touch a brush again?â
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadnât meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, butâŠhurt. You know this because you know Matt, and heâd sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful â like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like heâs trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Mattâs profile â bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed â as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him â he asks, âHow about now?â
You donât answer. You donât know.
You canât look away from him long enough to find out.
âI wouldâve bought curtains,â he mumbles, and you donât know what heâs talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. âIf you wouldâve told me the light bothered you, IâŠâ He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. âI wouldâve fixed it.â
Your eyes start to burn.
He wouldâve tried, you know. He wouldâve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step â two, three â to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
âI know,â you say.
âThen why didnât you tell me?â he asks.
âIâm telling you now, arenât I?â
âBack then. Why didnât you tell me back then? It wouldâve been an easy fix.â
Your laugh is half-sob. âNo, Mattââ
He reaches up to cup your cheek. âYes,â he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but donât pull away from him, either.
âFine. Youâre right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and theyâll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?â
He winces. âIâm not dead yet,â he tries to argue.
âYet,â you say. âKey word, Matty.â
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if youâre being honest, you hadnât even left because of the lying and the secrets â though they were factors. When it came down to it, youâd left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldnât survive watching him die.
Only now â with the warmth of his hand on your cheek â can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you wonât be front row for his death. That it wonât be you holding pressure to wounds that canât be stitched, crying âLord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?â
But that doesnât free you from pain.
Youâll feel Mattâs death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadnât realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That youâre happier without Matt. So much time â each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
Youâre not happier without Matt.
Youâre not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
âIâm sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldnât have. I know when youââ He canât make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.â
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. âI donât think the shelter will take him.â
âCanât say I blame them.â
You donât know when you grabbed Mattâs other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that youâre playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadnât coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean heâs feeling better? You hope so â and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. âMattâŠâ
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Mattâs enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.â
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
i love listening to song on repeat!!!!! reblog if you love listening to song on repeat!!!!!!!!!
baelor targaryen + little details
no rest for me and im not even that wicked ?
for @sugurugetos
FINN BENNETT in BACKROOMS released by A24 on May 29, 2026.
â iâd sing of love in such a novel fashion (m);
modern!maekar targaryen x reader.
summary: it has been almost a year since you first moved a floor below the grumpiest, moodiest, hottest man you have ever met, and he has not yet given you the time of day. you have greeted him, regularly, when running into him in the elevator. you have baked him cookies, lent him your umbrella whenever heâs forgotten his, and looked in every single fucking store for his preferred soothing salve when he mentioned his joints were hurting. seven above, you just want him in your bed. and maekar? well, unbeknownst to you, and against the sake of his sanity, maekar wants the very same thing.
themes and genres: smut (18+, MDNI!). modern!au, hot dilf neighbor!au, best friend's dad!au. maekar is a retired wrestler. i felt like i really needed to highlight this part because it really is all i can think about.
word count: 4.77k
content warnings: canon divergence, age gap (not directly especified, but reader is implied to be in her late 20s and maekar in his late 40s), very little plot to a whole lot of smut. unprotected sex, manhandling, oral (male receiving), hair pulling, fingering, pinv, dirty talk (he talks you through itttt), creampie, rusty after-care... welp. this is pure filth, guys.
author's note: is wrestler!maekar very much cm punk coded (especially current day punk), you ask? yes, he is! mister best in the world lives rent free in my mind and is, in fact, sort of what i envision modern!maekar to have been like in the ring. anyways, i will write more about this pairing soon because i'm now obsessed with them, but tell me what you think! also, my baelor besties, despair not: his own modern!dilf au is already in the works! and without further ado, i hope you all enjoy! | crossposted on ao3.
Maekarâs peace of mind was officially, absolutely, utterly, royally, fucked.
It had only been a year since you moved into the apartment right below his, and, at first, he had not noticed you.
It was not personal. He merely lived his life by routine; a treat he allowed himself after so many years of laying it on the line, heâd often say.
In the years since heâd retired from in-ring wrestling, he lived quietly, and he lived simply, and Seven fucking hells, that was just the way he liked it. His kids were all independent adults now, living their own lives while he still tried to learn to build his own in their absence.
He had found balance in repetition, he had found solace in familiarity.
He would wake up before the sun rose and run his obligatory ten kilometers on the trail by the coast. He would stop by the same restaurant and place the same pick-up order: coffee (one sugar, no cream), a small green juice (with extra lime), and an egg white omelette with wild mushrooms. Sometimes he would be stopped and asked for a picture or an autograph, sometimes not. He always took his food back home and ate it while watching the morning news and completing a crossword, ignored his brotherâs texts, and went along with the rest of his day. He'd eventually text Baelor back around mid-day, anyways.
It was not personal, it was routine. It was careful, guarded, intentional. It was how he quieted the ghosts. There were no more limelights, no more cameras, no more crowds, and there was no more Anvil. There was just a man learning to manage the stillness that came after a lifetime of motion.
But him not noticing you right away did not mean you did not want him from the first time you saw him.
By the seven, it was not your fault! He was returning from one of his runs, looking downright heavenly in a black compression shirt and sporting a deep scowl, with a series of slightly faded tattoos cascading down his arms, and you all but drooled. He grunted a quiet âgood morningâ to you before the elevator stopped at your floor, and you decided, right then and there, that the seven heavens were real, and he was an angel made flesh.
Maekar Targaryen, you noticed, was quiet. He was grumpy. And, to your dismay, would not give you the time of day, no matter how much you vied for his attention.
No matter how many cookies you gifted him under the guise of needing an opinion on a new recipe. No matter how many times you lent him your umbrella when he would forget his. No matter how many stores youâd visited to find a salve he mentioned in passing the days he said his joints were hurting.
And so, this time, you had come to ask him for help building a bookshelf.
It was ridiculous, you knew, but at that point, you had exhausted all of your options. You needed time alone with him! You needed to have him look at you somewhere that was not inside a busy elevator, or the middle of a grocery store, or the smokerâs area in the shared neighbor lounge. So, because desperate times called for desperate measures, you had paired the cutest lace panties you owned with the shortest mini-skirt on sight, and had slipped on a tank-top with no bra on.
Not that you had not played that trick before.
Unbeknownst to you, Maekar had begun to pay attention. It was somewhere along the elevator greetings, and the mail room run-ins, and the fact that you had somehow befriended his eldest son, with the two of you becoming inseparable in the last few months.
He had noticed the times you bent down in front of him after âaccidentallyâ dropping your keys, and the times you wore thin, flimsy tops with nothing underneath. He remembered the times you leaned far too close to his frame, smelling like fresh tangerines, and he had not been able to stop noticing.
You were about the same age as Daeron. His son would go on and on about you every time he visited, and he would commit every detail to memory. You were about to finish a phD in early Westerosi history, owned two cats, and smoked mentol Dragon reds. You liked watching nature documentaries, growing your own herbs on your windowsills, and attending rock concerts. And he liked you.
Seven above, he liked you far more than he ever thought he would. More than he should, probably.
And so the moment you knocked on his door with a printed page of instructions in hand and looking like the sweetest of temptations, Maekar knew there was no escaping the fact that he was just as crazy for you as you were for him.Â
You looked up at him through your lashes while biting on your lower lip, and that had been how his mouth had found yours: desperate, hungry, completely uncaring of anything that was not the hunger building in the bottom of his stomach.
So, yeah. Maekarâs peace of mind is officially, absolutely, utterly, royally, fucked. But when you drag your fingers down the soft, supple skin of his abdomen, he cannot find it in himself to give a single damn about anything else. He nips at your lower lip and runs his tongue over the inside of it before it enters your mouth, and his heart threatens to explode inside his chest.
He guides you back through his living room while his tongue massages yours, his hands running down your sides over the fabric of your top. He angles your head upwards and revels in your taste, kissing you deeper, walking you towards the sofa. He sucks on your tongue, swallowing a moan before it can threaten to interrupt the kiss, and grinds his growing erection against your middle.
His mind floods with desire, and it all shifts. Want is building in his abdomen, sending shivers through his skin. He takes your lower lip between his teeth and pulls, ever so gently, making you whimper against his panting mouth.
Anything else but this is completely irrelevant, the world spinning on an axis consisting merely of your touch. And your scent. And the way you look when youâre moving until youâre on your knees in front of him, looking up at him as your fingers find the waistband of his trousers.
Theyâd been made just for him: tailored to his precise measurements, rising one finger bellow his belly-button, with two centimeters of ease around his waist. They have a slight break, the hem covering the back of his shoe, and heâd chosen the fabric to be a deep blue linenâGods, he really does not give a single fuck.
His hands meet yours as they undo his belt, fingers lithe and agile and way less careful than yours in their movements, as he undoes the buckle and pops the button of his trousers open. He does not even care about removing the belt from the hoops before he slides his pants down and kicks them back, out of sight, out of the way.
Your hands continue moving down until they rest on the outside of his thighs as you raise yourself on your knees just enough for your nose to reach his belly button. And Maekar lets out a breath, ragged and desperate, as your tongue flattens against his abdomen and you lick down, slowly as if to cause him the most blissful of deaths, down over the path set by a silver happy trail. Down until you reach the bulge growing under his briefs, deep gray and sinfully fitted, already damp with pre-cum; and you donât stop, sucking on his arousal over the fabric.
âFuck,â he curses under his breath, hands shaking at his sides. He fists them once, twice, and then extends his fingers again.Â
Again they shake, and he waits.
He clenches his jaw and breathes in, deeply. He keeps his eyes on yours, patience thinning as his pleasure begins to thicken, and he all but moans the moment you finally pull his briefs down his legs.
His cock hangs with borderline obscene weight, throbbing with so much need that makes your mouth water. You move your hand to his base, fingers struggling to close around the thickness of his shaft, and you give him a slow, experimental pump.
He hisses, and you lower your mouth towards his waiting cock, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down his body. You pump him again, teasingly, as you look up to lock your eyes with his and press a soft, fleeting kiss to his reddened tip.
Your lips are wet with slick when you grin up at him, and he scowls.
âDonât be a fucking brat,â he spits from between clenched teeth. âYou wanted my cock so bad, huh? Practically begged for it for months, and now youâre not going to give it a proper suck?â
âYou made me work for it for way too fucking long, as you said,â you smile, eyes shining with playful mirth. âShould I not return the favor?â
Maekar scoffs. His jaw sets tighter, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance. His moodiness has always been weirdly entrancing, but it does not compare to the downright heavenly sight of his relief when, finally, you take the tip of his cock inside your mouth and suck.
He has never been a pious man, has never thought of himself as a fervent believer, but the wet heat of your mouth envelops his length and he knows heâll spend the rest of his life singing praises to this very feeling.
âJust like that,â he whispers under his breath. âFuck, sweet thing, just like that.â
The nickname comes out of nowhere, born in the depths of his pleasure and expelled in a low, grave noise that knocks the air out of your lungs.
You take him deeper in your mouth in retaliation, eyes closed in the bliss that is the throbbing of his shaft against your tongue. The corners of your mouth burn at the stretch as you lean forward, taking a deep breath before the tip of your nose brushes over his lower navel.Â
Maekar curses above you, hips moving ever so slightly as if with a mind of their own, and your eyes roll back as his cock pushes back against your throat. You lean back, pumping from his base to where he leaves your mouth before you dive forward again, bobbing your head along his length. You swallow around him, and he shivers. You look up at him and wink, and he all but dies where he stands.
And itâs the stretch, and itâs the heat, and itâs the way heâs holding back from thrusting inside your mouth, and your mind is spinning with how good it feels.
He exhales out his nose and throws his head back, allowing his eyes to flutter closed. His fingers trail up your back until they reach the crown of your head, weaving themselves within the strands of your hair tight enough for him to close his fist and pull upwards, ever so slightly.
You whine, the sound hoarse and ragged around his cock. He pulls again in response and your cunt clenches around nothing. It is a wet, messy affair; rivulets of slick dripping down your thighs as you pull his thick cock out of your mouth, a string of spit bridging the fat of his head to your parted lips.
He pulls back on your hair again and your gaze meets his, smile saccharine and completely unrepentant as you give his cock a slow pump before licking up the side of his shaft. Your tongue traces up a vein and he hisses, cursing under his breath as you smack the head of his cock against your flattened tongue once, twice â three torturous times before you close your lips around it and suck.
And Maekar has had enough.
âCome here,â Maekar grumbles, moving his hands down from your hair to your shoulders, hoisting you up on your feet.
Your lips are wet with saliva and slightly swollen from his girth. He grunts as he angles your face upwards, large hands cupping your jaw, and he guides your mouth up to his.Â
He doesnât kiss you.Â
He stills against the side of your mouth, no doubt paying back for your teasing, flicking his tongue against the corner of your lips as his hands run down your back. And down over the curve of your ass. His breathing grows deeper as he cups the flesh in his hands, caressing slowly over the fabric of your skirt, and drinks in the gasp that leaves your lips when he lays a quick, gentle spank on it.
âYou look like pure sin in this skirt,â Maekar mumbles, his grip still tight. âThis is what you wanted, hm? For me to touch you like this?â
You nod, eyes darkened with desire as you keep your gaze on his. His cock throbs painfully against your clothed middle, coated in a mixture of spit and arousal.
âOr perhaps you wanted me to do more?â He asks. âWanted me to fuck you hard, did you? Split your pretty pussy open with my cock?â
It is a strange thing.
You have been attracted to him for months. And in all that time, all throughout the torturous year where he had been nothing but your upstairs neighbor, nothing more than your friendâs ridiculously hot dad, you had managed to form what you had thought to be a somewhat clear picture of him.Â
You have come to the conclusion that Maekar is quiet but polite (for the most part, ignoring the fact that he cusses like a sailor at the minor inconvenience), grumpy but attentive. He is disciplined and athletic, intelligent and collected. He is, also, pretty much what Michelangeloâs David would look like if it were to walk alongside mortals, you think.Â
You thought you knew what Maekar Targaryen was like. And you had never imagined heâd be this fucking good at talking dirty.Â
âThatâs it, isnât it?â Maekar hums, and tilts his head to the side. âYou want me ruin this fucking pussy, pretty girl? Stuff it full of me?â
The warmth of his touch as he squeezes your flesh makes you feel like youâre on fire. You drink in his words as if they alone would quench your thirst.
âPlease,â you whisper, words breaking past a moan that begins to form.
âPlease what, pretty?â Maekar teases, voice deep and quiet. âPlease fuck you stupid with my cock? Come on, use your words for me.â
âYes. Fuck, yes, Mr. Targaryenââ
A moment. He stills, grip tightening. His breath hitches, almost imperceptibly, against your skin. And then he moves with a deeper hunger, with a deep noise that grows with his chest as he turns the both of you until the fabric of the couch grazes the back of your legs.
You look up at him as you fall back onto the couch: eyes wide, glazed with unadulterated lust, lips parted in anticipation. He has not seen a prettier sight.Â
âKept my hands to myself too fucking long, pretty thing,â he grumbles, and it is, finally, his turn to kneel. Finally, the moment he lays worship to your figure, and your touch, and the warmth of your skin that makes his head dizzy with want.Â
He leans closer to your body as it lays against the cushions, and feels blessed once more. âHad to see you prancing around with Daeron and pretend my cock did not harden every time you wore one of these slutty little tops. Had to see you bend over in the elevator, the hall, the fucking fruit aisle at the supermarket, and pretend I did not want to take you right then and there. You see how youâve ailed me?â
His words are slow and deliberate. The rhythm of your heartbeat is not. Maekar takes his time, running his big fucking hands up your legs, digits coarse and calloused from all of the years spent in the ring. He leans forward, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, and presses a kiss to the soft, tender skin of your inner thigh.Â
You can barely refrain from closing your eyes. His touch is unrepentant and intoxicating, and you donât want to miss a second of it. Not when it feels like being struck with lightning.
âYou donât have to hold back any longer,â you reply, and he kisses you again. âI wantâNo, I need you to touch me.â
Maekar hums. Low, teasing. He lets his teeth scrape over your skin as his fingers trail up, up, up⊠until they hook around the soft lace of your panties. They fall to the side with a quick, sudden riiiiiiiip, baring you to the hunger in his gaze.
He looks at you the way a predator would at its prey when it is just about ready for the taking.
His pupils are blown wide, eyes hooded with desire. Soft, wild strands of platinum hair fall over his forehead, over his brows, over his eyelashes. It is a beautiful sight, the ease with which he allows himself to exist in the moment. It is only yours for the taking. You bite softly upon your lower lip, and decide you will treasure it forever.
âLook at you, pretty girl,â he mutters. His fingers graze over your lips, mesmerized by way you leak just for him, and he parts your folds to fully expose you to him. âAll Iâve done is let you suck my cock and youâre already dripping. Mustâve wanted it too much, didnât you?â
He pairs his words with a caress. His fingers press softly on your clit, and your hips buck towards him, desperate for his touch. For his warmth. For anything, please, Seven above, please â
âAnswer me, sweet thing,â he says. You feel him circling your sensitive bud with a painstaking level of patience, digits coated with your slick. âKeep your eyes on me, and answer my question.â
Your mouth parts as your brain scrambles for a response. You wet your lips with a quick flick of your tongue, and he circles his finger slightly faster. Harder. Rougher.
He is looking for words and gets a moan instead. He decides, right then and there, no other sound could ever compare.
âYes,â you breathe out, finally. âYes, fuck. Maekar, Iââ
He stops, retrieving his touch from where you need it most, before his fingers trail back down your slit until they reach your opening. And keeping his eyes on yours, and moving so painfully slow, he introduces a finger inside your clenching hole.
You moan, ragged and hoarse, leaning closer to him as he begins pumping his finger in and out. In and out. In and out until youâre aching for him.
Itâs barely enough to make you feel full, his index larger than it is thicker, but you barely have enough time to dwell upon your woes when he slips a second finger past your folds and curls both digits deep inside you. Maekar grunts, and presses another skin upon your thigh as he continues his ministrations.
His free hand curls around your hip and presses down when he feels you moving against his fingers, keeping you just where he wants you. He opens his lips to suck on your skin, his tongue flat upon your thigh as he flicks his fingers inside you even deeper, even faster.
âTake your top off,â he grumbles, breath hot against the spot heâs just sucked on. Itâs sure to leave a mark. Youâre to wear it like a badge of honor. âCome on, pretty. Let me see them properly. Youâve teased me too much, donât you think?â
You do, breasts falling free, nipples pebbled and aching to be touched; so you do just that, and the sight has Maekar almost bursting where he stands.
And youâre so close. Youâre so, so close, and your eyes are just about to fall shut with the promise of relief. You let out a quiet moan as you knead at your breasts, and thereâs a sheer layer of sweat covering your skin as you repeat his name under your breath like a prayer. Because itâs so good, the stretch and reach of his digits so fucking delicious, and his gaze so godsdamn electrifying, and youâre seconds away from finally letting go.
Then, again, he stops.Â
He retrieves his hand, long fingers completely coated in your slick.
He brings them up to his lips and sucks, keeping his eyes on you the whole time, and you moan again. You think it is cruel, and you think it is downright wicked, and he looks none but absolutely satisfied by the action.
âMaekar?â He hums, tongue flicking down the side of his finger.
A pause, and you realize your mistake. You're eager to correct it. âMr. Targaryen.â
And he does not smile, nor does he smirk. But his eyes glisten with mischief, and your breath catches in anticipation.
He straightens, using one hand to pull you closer to the edge of the couch while the other fists his leaking cock. He pumps it, slowly, almost as if teasing himself the exact same way he teased you.
Almost as if reveling in the slowness, almost as if feeding from the wait. Almost as if trying to commit the look on your face to memory, almost as if trying to engrave the sight of you on his skin.
You wrap your legs around his waist as your cunt clashes with his navel, and the friction that comes from the contact sends a shiver down your spine.
âLook at her, all but begging for my cock,â Maekar hums, and as if to doom you to a certain kind of hell, drags his thick, throbbing length along your sopping slit. âYâthink sheâs ready, pretty thing? Think we prepped her just enough? Oh, sheâs fucking dripping for me.â
His tip presses against your opening, and heâs thicker, much thicker than the fingers he prepped you with. A moan leaves your lips, your body moving as if called forth by his.
âOh, fuck,â he pushes forward just an inch. His voice breaks and his breath falters. He looks beautiful like this. âFucking hell, thatâs it. Taking me so well.â
He continues, cock pushing inside you until heâs sheathed in completely, until your clit grazes the place where his happy trail begins. Youâre completely stretched around his length, absolutely full of his girth, and it has you closing your eyes in pure, pure bliss.
Maekar stills for a moment, and lets out a breath.Â
âYou just needed this, huh? Mâdoll needed my cock,â he mutters, more talking to himself than you, but his words burn through you just the same. âYou justâFuck, you just needed my fucking cock.â
Your head falls back against the couch, hands gripping onto his forearms like a lifeline. Heâs breathing heavy, ragged, lowering himself until his chest pushes down against yours, and your arms wrap around his torso when he does.
And itâs heavenly, an absolute miracle, the way this beautiful, gorgeous man looses himself in you.Â
Maekarâs lips find your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as he quickens his pace. The scrape of his beard against your skin tethers you to him like an anchor, and he is everything you can see, and everything you can feel. Your lips part and a moan slips past them when he does, your nails digging into his back as he moves, thrusting faster. Harder.
âIâMaekar, Iâm gonnaââ you whimper, voice much quieter than it had been.
âSâokay, pretty,â he replies, with a grunt. He angles his hips just slightly before he thrusts again, and you gasp against his hair. âI got you. I got you, IâOh, youâre squeezing me so fucking tight. My pretty dollâs gonna cum? Let go. Let go, I got you.â
You donât answer. You cannot. But your hands grip even tighter onto his back, gentle fingertips grazing over a myriad of scars, and youâre in ecstasy.Â
He keeps moving, thrusting, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your ears until it all goes away for one blissful, perfect moment.
Your legs lock around his waist as you cum, and he keeps thrusting, and all you can smell is the depth of his aftershave and the musk of his cologne. The back of your eyelids are painted with stars, your heart explodes inside your chest, and you moan his name like a prayer. Thereâs only pleasure, and thereâs only him, and heâs holding you through it all. And fuck, if itâs not a beautiful, all-consuming feeling.Â
âYeah. Yeah, just like that,â he whines, sound foreign and unfamiliar, but barely noticed in the peak of your orgasm. âKeep squeezing me like that. Taking my cock like you were made for it, arenât you? Gonna make me cum, fuck!â
He thrusts one, two, three more times, and your nails dig into his skin again. Suddenly, heâs falling, and he closes his eyes, and he does not give a fuck about anything that is not the wave of pleasure that courses through him and wrecks him down to his bones.
His brows furrow, nose scrunched up in beautiful agony, body locking in and drawing tight as he rides his peak. He moves, shaking slightly when his legs begin to burn, and he moans against your body before it breaks into a sharp, sudden silence as he spills inside your spasming cunt.Â
His chest rises and falls rapidly against yours, both of you trying to regain your breath as you revel in a world that consists only of each other. He keeps his eyes closed, forehead buried against your neck, breathing in your scent, and he feels warm all over. Your hands, still resting on his back, trail lower, caressing his damp skin as you come down from your high.
Not that you want to. No. Maekar pants over you, and his hair falls over your face, smelling softly of cedar and oak, and heâs still holding onto you oh so tightly. Youâd stay like this forever if you could.
But it all begins to come back in small doses: the ticking of a clock nearby. The golden light seeping in through thin linen blinds. The softness of the fabric under your body. It is all there, a world eagerly awaiting for your return.
Your voice breaks through the stillness.Â
âI always knew you liked me back.â
He opens his eyes and purses his lips.
âNo, you did not,â he answers, quietly. âBrat.â
His voice is a different kind of deep, not the same sort of guarded that comes to him like a second nature after years of pulling walls up. Maekar hums, sated and content, and tightens his hold around you. He runs his lips down the outside of your ear, catching your lobe between his teeth, and you shiver against his arms.
Seven above, it is all absolutely perfect.Â
âMaekar?â You speak again, voice dripping with amusement. He adores the sound of it. âYou are going to help me with my bookshelf, right?â
âFuck no,â he scoffs, but there is no bite. There are just mellowed, softened edges that have replaced the sharpness of barbed wire. Surrender. âIâll just ask my brother, or something.â
You laugh, and he rolls over. He slips out of you, and you wince. He notices, and kisses your navel before he straightens. His back cracks as he stands up, and he groans. Tired. At ease.
âHeâs an architect,â he elaborates. âBuilds houses and all that, yâknow? He can build your fucking bookshelf if you want it so badâfuck off, no, Iâm not talking about my brother right now. Fuck him.â
âFuck him?â You tease, wiggling your eyebrows as you laugh. âIs your brother also a DILF?â
âA what?â He narrows his eyes and fights back the urge to roll them back. Oh, forget the beatitude. He looks exasperated once more, back to his prickly, moody self, and heâs and so, so beautiful. âActually, I donât even want to fucking know. Spare me the fucking pain. Weâre taking a shower before you stain my sofa any further, and then Iâll get lunch delivered. Prawn linguine sounds good?â
Your grin only widens, and youâre in heaven.
Maekarâs peace of mind is officially, absolutely, utterly, royally, fucked. Luckily, so are you.
©BREAKSPEARZ â thank you for reading, let me know what you think! do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.
crazy how quickly dust accumulates. i should be allowed to put my trinkets on a shelf and not touch them and they remain in perfect condition forever. dont even get me STARTED on the inside of a computer. why do i have to brush your teeth. youre technology.
listen to me. this is my final message to you. when you are at your lowest a fictional guy will come to you and when that happens you must start putting them in situations. this is the meaning of life.
àŠ BEWITCHED
FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: aerion is sick of lys, and aerion is sick of you. so, he does what any true dragon should do, and he puts you in your place. except when you actually do leave him alone, he finds that he doesn't feel quite as victorious as he should.
WARNINGS: Aerion POV (LOL), fem!reader, jealous/possessive!aerion, mentions of Targaryen madness but no actual display of it (in this part :P), reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described, tw aerion, semi-public sex (donât worry theyâll stop being open whores soon LOL), rough sex, blood play, gagging/minor choking, switch!reader (sub!leaning this time), switch!aerion (dom!leaning this time); WC: 10.5k-ish
AUTHOR'S NOTES: EHEHEHEHHEHEHE guys I'm having so much fun writing this fic. Eventually I'm going to make a masterlist for all of the parts to throw them together and I'm going to name it "How To Train Your Dragon" KADHFISHFUSADF LOLLLLLLLL or I might save that for a different fic, but it's too funny I have to use it. I actually rewrote this part a few times because I couldn't figure out where I wanted to go with it. Originally, I wanted Aerion to have like an actual display of Targaryen madness, but I think it would be better to save that for a later installment. I think the next installment whenever that may be (gonna take longer this time bc I have a lot of work to get done) is going to center around him figuring out why she was exiled and I'm excited to get into that because it's quite the story. Anyway â I hope you enjoy! comments and relogs are always appreciated, mwah mwah!
READ: INCANDESCENCE | SAUDADE
Aerion hates Lys.Â
Between magisters angling to secure a dragon for a son-in-law and perfumed courtesans drifting through torchlit halls like painted ghosts, the city feels poisonous. Decadent. Drowned in silk and scented oils thick enough to choke on. He cannot breathe without tasting rosewater and myrrh. He cannot think without fury curdling his blood and indignation fogging all coherent thought.
He curls his hand around the goblet at his side until the thin Myrish glass cracks beneath his grip. They do not understand him hereâno one understands him anywhere, but at the very least, Westeros is home. Westeros hates himâfears him, whispers about him, judges himâbut it knows him. They look at him and see what he isâa dragon, fire and bloodâthey speak his name in the Seven Kingdoms with caution, and lower their eyes when he walks by.
These Lyseni look at him and see only opportunity. A displaced prince to take advantage of. A scandal dressed in silver hair and violet eyes to exploit. A dragon clipped of its wings and sent across the Narrow Sea to be made more palatable. Aerion sees all of their calculations when they think theyâre being slick. He sees the way fathers present daughters in hopes of tying their line with a prince of the blood; in the way servants watch for signs of temper, eager to report whether the exile is manageable or monstrous.Â
He lifts the goblet and drains it in a single swallow. The wine is sweetâtoo sweet. Everything in Lys is sweet, and syrupy, and soft, and heâs sick of it. It coats the tongue and dulls the senses, trying to keep him weak and malleable. He wants something sharp enough to cut. He wants hard-packed earth and steel, not mosaic marble and silk.Â
He throws the goblet at the wall furiously, watching it shatter against the pale stone, ignoring how a servant girl flinches and scurries away as he rises to his feet and paces the solar, agitated.Â
He hadnât even done anything wrong. Heâd meant to teach a lesson, that was all. The puppet girl incited rebellion, the hedge knight overstepped, and the crowd dared to laugh.Â
What was he meant to do? Smile? Yield? Laugh along with them?
A dragon who endures mockery without response ceases to be a dragon at all. A dragon answers with fire and blood. He had done what he was meant to do, and they treated him as though heâs the villain of the tale. As though it was his hand that struck his uncle down, his arm that swung the mace. As though Baelor wasnât the one who chose to stand against his own blood, with some fucking oaf who dared to lay hands on a prince of the blood.Â
The gods answered the Trial of Seven as they were meant to, and still, they blame him. As if divine judgment must bend itself to their comfort. Aerion might have withdrawn his accusation, but if the gods struck his uncle down on that field, perhaps it was not Aerion they judged. Except no one wishes to speak that truth aloud, because itâs easier to name him the monster and send him across the Narrow Sea to pretend the problem has been solved.Â
He swallows the bitter lump in his throat, chest tight with something that he refuses to name.
Lys will suit you, his father had said while Aerion was still tasting his own blood with every swallow. While his ribs still ached with every breath, and his face was still swollen and split from that brute of a hedge knightâs blows. He couldnât rise from the bed to argue properly, wasnât even given the chance to defend himself. Maekar had spoken the words and turned his back on him, treating him as though he were an inconvenience to be managed rather than a son to be defended.Â
His next exhale is shudderedâfurious, betrayed, pained, heâs not sure. His hands wrap around the railing of the balcony, looking over Vyranoâs manse, over the glittering city and pale marble domes, knuckles white and fingers trembling. Music drifts upward to where he stands, lutes and soft laughter ringing incessantly in his ears.
He hates it.
âââââââ
Aerion hates Lys, and Aerion hates you.
As if this wretched city of silk could get even worse, you had to come along with it. You laugh when he threatens, and lean closer when he snarls. You speak to him in the old tongue as if itâs your birthright, poured into your mouth with your motherâs milk; as if High Valyrian were not a privilege of fire and blood, but a toy to be rolled across your tongue for amusement. Aerion wants you dead, but he canât even get people to answer questions about you, much less the opportunity to put his blade through your throat.
You are impudent, and disrespectful, and whorish, and you have left bruises up and down his throat, scratches along his abdomen, like a wild beast.Â
He stands before the polished silver, fingers tracing the marks you left on him, studying them with a deep frownâbruises bloom dark where your mouth lingered, lines sting across his body when he moves the wrong way. The haze of pleasure is long gone, and Aerion is enraged. The marks do not suit a prince of the bloodâa dragon. He looks almostâ
His jaw tightens, gaze flicking away.
He had not meant for it to happen that way. He meant to remind you of your placeâto show you the edge of the blade you thought to play with and make you flinch, to teach you that dragons are not toys to be handled at whim. Instead, you had laughed and mocked him, drawing him into a guessing game of identity, and he had let you. You had straddled him like he was some perfumed boy from a pillow house, like he was yours to take, and he had let you.Â
Aerion hisses as he turns his back to his own reflection, pacing. He cannot sit. He cannot breathe. The memory of your mouth at his throat feels like flames beneath his flesh, and every time he thinks he has doused it, it flares again. The audacity you had to just leave, he thinks furiously. To rise from his lap, fix your dress, and leave him thereâbreathing heavy, cock softening inside silk, blood and spit smeared around his mouth like a maiden whoâd just been kissed silly. You had strolled back into the festival with the ease of someone returning to their seat at supper, and heâd been left reeling, trying to pretend he wasnât.
He drags a hand through his hair, nails catching on tanglesâhe needs to cut it again. Heâs been trapped on this flowery prison for over a fortnight, and already heâs starting to look like one of the silk boys. His thoughts flash, sharp and ugly, when he catches sight of the bruises on his reflection as he whirls around again. He should have taken you with him that night. Shouldâve hauled you down from that balcony by your hair and dared the magisters to stop him. Should have made you scream his name in the middle of their jeweled garden until the whole city remembered what it means to touch a dragon.
The doors to his solar creak open, and a servant hesitates in the threshold, bowing deeply.
âMy prince,â the boy begins cautiously, âMagister Vyrano asks if you will attend supperââ
âGet out,â he says, not even turning to look at him, pacing back over to the balcony, knuckles white around the railing as he stares out to the west, where the Summer Sea gleams beneath the setting sun. Somewhere beyond it lies Westerosâpacked dirt and steel, storm and smoke, not silk and perfume, not you.
The servant flees, as they always tend to when they realize heâs in a foul mood, and the doors fall shut with a muted thud that leaves the room too quiet.Â
He remains at the railing, breath coming hard through his noseâeverything feels wrong. He canât sit, canât breathe, his skin feels too itchy, too tight, too hot, burning the same way it always does before waking dreams.Â
Itâs just anger this time, he tells himself.Â
Heâs not Daeronânot weak, not a mad man, no matter what everyone else says. Heâs Aerion Brightflame, a dragonâin control, always. You just pissed him off enough that he cannot think straight, so he needs to handle this, handle you.Â
Still, he exhales deliberatelyâlong, counting, forcing his breath to even out the way Daeron once taught him when they were kids, the first time he found Aerion screaming on the floor, nails bloody and ripping through the skin at his neck, before he turned to the bottle and forgot he was a brother. His pulse pounds at his temples, fingers flexing against the stone rail.Â
He forces his mind elsewhere, and to his frustration, he finds it drifting right back to you, but this time, a more pleasant feeling sweeps over him. Your laugh. Your mouth. Your hands on his skin, fingers brushing through his hair, tracing his jaw, lips caressing his.Â
His jaw tightens, equally incensed by the idea of feeling calmed by you as he is by the idea of feeling disrespected by you.Â
He still doesnât know anything about you, he realizes furiously. Wellâhe knows some. He knows the sound you make when he presses his nail into your wrist and drags his tongue up your throat. He knows the shape of your hips beneath silk, and the taste of your blood.Â
But he doesnât know your house. He doesnât know where youâre from, or who your father is, or what banners would rise if he dragged you into the street and put a knife to your throat, or why nobody in this god-forsaken city will answer any of his questions about you. Why doors close when he asks, and smiles turn bland, and answers turn slippery, as though youâre the only thing in Lys that cannot be purchased, and heâAerion Brightflame of the House Targaryen, dragon blood, prince of the Seven Kingdomsâmust simply accept that.
He will not.Â
He cannot.
He slams his palms against the railing and paces away, agitated again, itching at his too-hot skin. He needs to do something about this.Â
Westeros would never have allowed this.
In Westeros, he would have dragged you into a chamber and barred the door. In Westeros, no magister would dare interfere. In Westeros, his name still carried weight enough to bend the room around it. In Westeros, he couldâve fucked you and then killed you, and nobody wouldâve bat an eye.Â
Here, he must calculate. He must tread carefully and pretend to be agreeable while they measure him like livestock at auction, because for every slip of restraint that gets back to his father, heâll be stuck here longer. The humiliation of it burns deeper than your scratches, and you are complicit in itâthe primary enabler of it, evenâwith your treacherous games.
Aerion hates Lys, and Aerion hates you.
He just wants to go home.
âââââââ
He finds you at dusk in the same place he first met you.Â
Youâre sprawled on that same sun-warmed rock, red chiffon instead of purple clinging damply to your thighs, the edges of it drifting lazily in the Summer Sea. The sky bleeds gold and violet overhead, the horizon swallowing the sun in a slow descent. You look exactly as you had that first dayâuntouched by consequences, unbothered by the world and exile and him.
As though he has not spent the better part of three days unraveling over you.Â
He already finds himself irritated, and you havenât even spoken a word yet. He stops several paces away at the edge of the water, boots sinking slightly into wet sand. He doesnât announce himself, but you know heâs thereâhe can tell by the faint curl of your lips.
âYou took your time,â you say lightly, not even opening your eyes.
His jaw tightens. He steps closer, close enough that the tide laps against the edge of his boots. The hem of his coat flutters in the salt wind. You finally open your eyes and tilt your head back to look at him, and Aerion finds his mouth drying, gaze slipping to the way you unintentionallyâintentionally?âbare your throat to look at him, the way silk clings to your skin, the way you lie so lackadaisical as though you have no care in the world.
âYou marked me like some beast claiming territory,â he accuses, voice low and sharp, watching as you roll onto your stomach, smiling lightly as your gaze wanders openly over him, lingering on the bruises marring his neck, on the scratches you know are hidden beneath his tunic. He thinks you have some nerve, someâ
âYes, you do look thoroughly mine, donât you?â you say, and Aerionâs vision nearly goes red, teeth grinding so badly that it almost hurts. âDoes that bother you?â
âBother me?â he hisses, stepping into the shallows until the water darkens the leather of his boots. âYou presume ownership of a dragon.â
He knows he isnât going to like what you have to say before you even say it. You smile sharply. âWell, most who ride a dragon would be considered to have claimed it, donât you think?â
He balks at your words, furious, and then he forces his expression to smooth. âYou bit me.â
âYou bit me back. In fact, you bit first, if I recall correctly.â
âYou made me bleed.â
You smile wider at that. âAgain, I was only returning the favor.â
âYou marked me,â he repeats, enraged because he still canât get past the audacity of you leaving marks along his skin where everyone can see, as though heâs some courtesan fresh from a patronâs bed.Â
The lingering looks have been unbearableâservantsâ gazes dipping down to his neck with wide eyes, a magisterâs daughter staring openly at the dark bloom along the curve of his neck and the length of his throat before lowering her lashes and making an excuse to leave. The only thing worse than the parasites of this city trying to pawn their daughters off to him is the way theyâve stopped trying because they think he belongs to you.
Your smile softens, just a little. You hum. âAnd you wear it well.â
The simplicity of it steals the next retort from his mouth, blinking once as he stares at you, thrown off by the lack of mockery in your tone. He doesnât like the uncertain feeling that spreads through him, so he pushes it away, expression hardening, shutters slamming down behind violet eyes. He says coldly, âDo not speak as though I am yours. You mistake indulgence for possession.â
You donât have a quick remark this time, studying him carefully, amusement fading and being replaced with something more attentive, as though realizing that heâs not as keen to indulge your whims today. He thinks he likes this lessâthe idea that you can, in fact, be serious, that youâre not all languid smiles and careless laughs. He feels far too seen right nowâheâs too hot, heâs too fucking hot, too itchy, everything is wound too tight.
âI told you I tire of your games,â he continues, jaw set, âand you have exhausted my patience. I am done playing. You pushed too far with thisâthis mess. The way people look at this, at meâI am not claimed. Not by you or anyone in this wretched city. I belong to no one. You donât get to behave as though you have some tether around my neck because you left bruises where others could see them. I am not yours, and I will not have Lys thinking otherwise.â
He is ranting. The words donât come out as the sharp orders he wants them to be; the longer he speaks, the more his skin burns, and they end up coming out too fast and too hissed. For a long moment, you simply look at him. The soft sound of waves crashing against rock and sand, the warmth of water sinking into his leather boots. The last light of dusk is swallowed by the horizon, turning the water from gold to indigo. Something calculating flashes in your eyes briefly before your gaze finally flits away, dismissiveâsomething about it makes him shift.
âI know,â you say at last, and the casualness of it catches him off guard. âI never said you were. You are not mine, and I am not yours. It was only some fun.â
The words donât bring him the ease he expects, and he wants to snap that heâs not bothered, but he just stands there still as stone, staring at you, gaze trained on the side of your face as you look away from him. The sea breeze brushes your hair away from your neck, and his eyes land on the faint bruising he left beneath your ear, and he remembers the way your pulse fluttered when he pressed his mouth there, the feeling of your body against his, the soft moans and hitches of your breaths, your hands on his skin, gevie.
âGood,â he says, though the word feels strangely hollow in his mouth. âThen we understand each other.â
You hum lightly, looking out toward the sea again. âWe do.â
He is unsettled. His fingers clench at his side, digging into his palms, and he has to force himself to unclench them before his nails break skin. He is unsettled, and he shouldnât be unsettledâhe got what he wanted. He drew the line, and you agreed; for once, not plaguing him with your disagreeable, disrespectful, impudent nature. He has won.
So, heâs not sure why heâs still standing, watching you from the shallows, the curve of your profile against the darkening horizon. You still look unbothered, as though nothing in this exchange cost you anything at all. He hadnât realized he was waiting for resistance until it didnât come.
He doesnât like that realization, so he turns on his heel, stiff as he leaves the beach. He canât help the part of himself that still waits for the teasing: âtil next time, prince!
It does not come.
âââââââ
Days pass.Â
He attends suppers he does not wish to attend. He listens to magisters drone about trade routes and alliances. Their daughters sit near him again, because theyâve resumed trying to woo him on their fatherâs behalf once theyâve realized he is not yours. The bruises on his throat have faded, and the scratches on his abdomen have healed.
And Aerion is bored.Â
He is so painfully, agonizingly bored that he writes up a vicious letter to send to his father, and then a more desperate one, wanting to come home. He sends neither, burns them in the fire in his room, and stares at the flames too long. He has been stuck on this perfumed prison for a moon, and no one has bothered to reach out to him, not to see if heâs been settled or to see how heâs doing. He wonât be the first to reach out if they canât even bother to see if heâs alive.
He thinks about you incessantly.Â
He finds himself scanning rooms without meaning to and finding them severely lacking when he does not spot your familiar lazy smile; his eyes glaze over mid-conversation with whichever magister or daughter is trying to make small talk with him, nervous, walking on eggshells in a way you never did.Â
He goes to pillow houses to busy himself with at least keeping his cock warm, but he only leaves more incensed than he came. He lies back against velvet cushions while a girl with your hair color kisses along his throat, soft and reverent, and he feels nothing. She doesnât even dare let her teeth graze his skin, afraid to leave a mark, afraid of him. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling instead, dismissing her with a flick of his fingers.Â
He attends feasts and various other gatherings, hoping that youâll be there, but you never show, and heâs forced to listen to a magisterâs daughter recite poetry in High Valyrian that makes his teeth ache with how butchered it sounds. He corrects her pronunciation once, disdainfully, and she flushes scarlet and falls silent. He does not bother speaking again, and he leaves early.
He ends each day with a ride at dusk, alone, circling the island without admitting to himself where his path driftsâthe northern edge, the sun-warmed rock you like to bask yourself on like a lizard, but itâs empty every single time. He tries not to acknowledge how disappointed he isâevery single time.Â
After a few days pass, Aerion realizes that he had expected you to push, to test the boundary he set, as you had been the past moon, no matter what venom he spat at you, but you have withdrawn completely. You donât come to events, donât wander the gardens, and when he idly asks the magisters about you, trying to feign indifference, nobody gives him a clear answer. He stops by the Perfumed Garden to see if youâre talking to your whores, but they deny even seeing you, and he canât tell if itâs a practiced lie or the truth. Itâs as though youâve evaporated from Lys altogether.Â
He has won, he has to insist to himself. The dragon always winsâespecially against some upstart island girl who thinks herself untouchable. You have simply learned what the world knows as truth: House Targaryen always comes out on top, Aerion always comes out on top.Â
So why in the seven hells does total victory feel like losing?
âââââââ
Youâre here.
Aerion knew it the moment he stepped into the roomâbefore his eyes found you, before he had any proof beyond the way his hair was suddenly standing on end.Â
He wasnât sure if you would beâyou only seem to attend events hosted by the First Magister, and Aerion supposes itâs because youâre his guest, just as Aerion is Vyranoâs, but this debauchery Vyrano calls a feast seems to be in celebration of a holy day for Lysâs cat god. It would be disrespectful for you not to show up at a magisterâs manse on a holy day, and you seem well enough liked by the nobility for him to assume you wouldnât be openly disrespectful to them, even if you are to him.
The hall is drenched in gold and smoke, braziers burn along marble walls, and Aerion canât help the way his gaze clings to the flames, forcibly looking away to the silk banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling, embroidered with the sleek, watchful shape of their cat god. The scent of incense coils thick in his lungs, heavier than usual, not the usual rose; thereâs something sweeter threaded through it that clings. It curls low in his stomach and lingers there, seeping into him in a way that makes his muscles lax.
The laughter in the hall is different too, he notes absentlyâlooser and slower, as though something warm and indulgent has slipped between their skin and softened the edges of restraint. Sharp laughter becomes languid murmurs, and casual touches become lingering caresses. Fingers trail more boldly over silk. Heads tip back a little too far. Mouths linger too close to ears. Even the magisters seem at ease, their eyes glassy as they gesture through negotiations they will not remember in the morning.
Aerion feels distinctly uncomfortable, his tongue pressing to the back of his teeth as he ignores the incense burning in his lungs, forcibly loosening his inhibitions. He accepts a goblet from a passing servant without looking at her, using the cool weight of it to anchor his focus before anyone can see even a flicker of weakness. His gaze moves across the room, as though disinterested, and thenâ
And then he sees you.
You look the same as you always have, draped in silk chiffon, lounging on cushions, surrounded by beautiful women and pretty boys who smile and charm and trace your skin like they have some right to your body. The sight of it makes his blood hot, and heâs furious because he won, so he should be the one at ease, not you. He doesnât even know why heâs so angry.
Youâre reclined in the center of it all, one arm thrown lazily over the cushions, fingers idly tangled in the golden curls of a girl kneeling at your side while a boy with kohl-lined eyes pours wine into your goblet, his other hand resting lightly at your waist as though it belongs there. The magisterâs son youâre talking to, a pretty thing with golden hair and violet eyes, sits close to you with his own courtesans pawing at him. He snorts at something you say, and youâ
You look bored.
Your gaze drifts over the hall with faint disinterest, lips curved in something that is not quite a smile. You let them touch you, let them drape themselves across your lap and shoulders and thighs, but you donât look as though youâre enjoying it. Donât look the way you did that night on the balcony, eyes bright and glittering, smile sharp and taunting. Â
Your attention lifts from the magisterâs son and finds him across the room, as though drawn to him. Your expression doesnât change, but you do tilt your head to the side, assessing him, and Aerion thinks he should look away, find something or someone else to distract himself with, but he canât seem to draw his gaze from you, so he only lifts his chin, challenging. You raise your eyebrows at him, lips curved up in a small smile.Â
Inexplicably, he almost moves to make his way over to you, but pauses when he watches the magisterâs son reach up, fingers brushing beneath your chin, guiding your face toward him as though he has earned the right, stealing your attention back to him.
Aerion stills.Â
The boy smiles lazily, wine-hazed and emboldened by incense and entitlement. He says something too low to carry, thumb stroking once along the lines of your jaw, where Aerionâs mouth traced greedily a few nights before, where your pulse had fluttered beneath his tongue, and something hot spreads through himâhot and green and very, very ugly.Â
You donât pull away, and you donât lean in, but you let him lean in, you let him press his mouth to yours, and you let him move closer.Â
And your eyes never leave Aerionâs.
The magisterâs son deepens the kiss, encouraged by the fact that you donât push him away, not noticing that you are barely meeting him either. Your mouth parts because his does, and your body shifts because his hand urges it. Your hands remain idle at your sides, lips moving just enough to feign interest.
And your eyes never leave Aerionâs.Â
Aerion wants you fucking dead.Â
What sort of fucking levels of disrespect is letting someone shove their tongue down your throat while holding eye contact with him?
He feels heat crawl up his spine, through his shoulders, into his throatâsheer disbelief, rage, he doesnât even know what the ugly emotions spreading through him are. He can hear his own heartbeat, his own words, echoing through his headâI am not yours, I belong to no one, we understand each other. And he is not. He is not yours. Aerion belongs to no one. Aerion is a dragon, a princeâhe is not shackled by a girl on an island of silk and perfume.Â
So why is he so fucking angry?
Itâs the disrespect, he tells himself.Â
Your fucking impudence, the way youâre blatantly trying to goad a reaction out of him because he told you enough is enough. Aerion has never been so openly provoked before. Even that fucking hedge knight, he was trying to protect that puppet girl, notâhe doesnât even know what your goal is? Antagonizing him just for the love of the game? His face feels flushed, and his nails dig into his palms.Â
This is what it looks like when I donât play with you, dragon prince, you taunt him without saying anything at all. This is what it looks like when Iâm free to do as I please. I told you I would stop, didnât I?
He hates you. He hates you, and he hates this city. He hates that he got what he wanted, and he still feels like heâs losing. He hates that his knuckles are white around his goblet while youâre lying languid on velvet cushions, kissing another man. He hates thisâhates his father, hates his brothers, hates that oaf of a hedge knight that caused all of this. He hates that heâs been suffering indignity after indignity since he arrived at Lys, and he hates that he still is now, even after supposedly fixing the issue. He hates you.Â
The magisterâs son pulls back slightly, murmuring something against your lips in that syrupy Lysene dialect that makes Aerionâs teeth grind. He brushes his nose along your cheek and says something that makes a few of the courtesans nearby laugh, but you only smile easily, gaze finally dragging away from Aerion to look at him.
He feels a courtesan at his side, fingers hovering above his arm, not daring to actually touch him. He hears a faint: âMight I please you, my prince?â in that soft and lilting Lysene dialect that grates Aerionâs ears now more than ever, because he can imagine whatever that boy is saying to you in the same form. All rounded vowels and syrupy consonants, High Valyrian dragged through silk and sugar until it lost its edge. Under any circumstances, Aerion would have despised the sound of it, but now it feels like blade scraping bone.Â
He hates it. He hates Lys. He hates the Lysene dialect. Hates the way it sounds now against the roar building in his ears. Hates the way it sanded the edges off a language meant for dragons. Hates the way theyâre trying to do the same to him with silk and incense and pillows and sweetness. Hates feeling like this. Hatesâ
He is moving before he even knows what heâs doing.Â
The courtesanâs fingers never quite make contact; he steps forward, and they fall away, retreating instantly at the look on his face. The crowd parts for him, clearly sensing danger even in their incense-induced haze. His blood is roaring, something dangerous rearing in him that he cannot seem to control. He knows heâs making a mistakeâhe set the boundary, he was the one who shut you down, and if word gets back to his father that heâs acting like some unhinged beast on a Lysene holy day, heâll only be stuck on this wretched prison island longer.Â
And yet, his world narrows to the line of your throat, the angle of your mouth, the boyâs fingers resting where they should not, and Aerion just cannot think straight.Â
The magisterâs son looks up, mildly annoyed, as Aerion approaches the cushions, and Aerion thinks he has some nerve looking at a prince of the blood as though heâs a nuisance. This whole island is filled with impudent wretches, and you are the worst of them all.Â
âMy prince,â he says, attempting an easy smile.
You are pointedly not looking at him now, attention resting on the boy at your side. You say something softly in the Lyseneâs liquid dialect, and Aerion thinks it's disgusting hearing you speak this bastardized version of High Valyrian. His jaw tightens, and the boy laughs at whatever youâve said and reaches for your hand as though to pull you closer.
Aerionâs hand comes down on his wrist before his fingers can brush your skin, grip so tight that the boy immediately winces, teeth grinding together, pain flashing across his face. Aerion squeezes tighter, enjoying the way his expression twists more.
âMy prince?â he repeats, tone strained now as he looks up at Aerion through long, gold lashesâmore indignant than fearful. Aerion hates Lys. Back in Westeros, any lordâs son would have fumbled out apologies and fled.Â
âYou may leave,â Aerion says coldly.Â
The boy stiffens, pride flickering to the surface, and Aerionâs eye nearly twitches. âWe were merelyââ
âI am aware of what you were doing,â Aerion cuts in, speaking through his teeth now. âYou may leave.â
His gaze flicks over to you, and youâre watching him again, but he canât read the expression on your face. The boy attempts to tug his wrist free, but Aerion does not release him, twisting the angle to make it more painful.
âYou must misunderstand,â the boy says lightly, though the laughter has left his voice. âShe did not object.â
âNo,â Aerion agrees, well aware that many eyes are trained on the tense conversation taking place. A few nearby courtesans and nobles fall silent entirely now, and the music continues, but it falters, watching eyes multiplying in the corners of the room. Heâs making a spectacle of himself, he knows it, and he cannot fucking stop himself. He hates youâhe hates you. âShe did not.â
I do. I fucking object.Â
The boyâs jaw tightens. âThen I fail to seeââ
âMy patience wanes,â Aerion warns tightly, nails digging deep enough into his wrist to draw blood. âYou do not want to see it exhausted.â
The magisterâs son rips his hand back, and Aerion allows it this time, relishing in the way he cradles his wrist to his chest, desperately trying to smooth the pained expression into something dignified.
Your gaze is still trained on Aerion as you speak. âGo,â you say, leaving no room for argument. âIt appears I have an ill-tempered dragon to tend to.â
The magisterâs son inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, pride warring with prudence, but the blood welling at his wrist, and the way Aerion still looks as though heâs one wrong word away from worse violence, causes him to rise to his feet and leave without another word, desperately tending to his wounded pride. The courtesans flee with him, clearly with no desire to be near Aerion while heâs in such a foul mood.
âWell,â you say blithely after a moment when your area is mostly cleared. You look over him blandly. âYou are in quite the state.â
Aerionâs tongue presses against the back of his teeth. He did not think so far ahead, and now that the magisterâs son has left and the flames licking at his blood have started to subside, Aerion is hyperaware of the number of eyes not-so-subtly pinned on the two of you. He feels agitated, tongue darting out to wet his lips.Â
Mad Aerion, people would whisper back in Westeros, he knows it, even if they were all careful to never say it while he was in earshot. Mad Aerion, quick to temper, quick to violence, quick to cruelty.Â
Everyone here sees it now, tooâyou see it now, tooâand itâs going to get back to his father, and heâs only going to be stuck here longer. The disgraced son, the unwanted prince.Â
Mad Aerion, the Brightflame, the prince who got his own uncle killed over an imagined slight, the unhinged exile who cannot govern himself in a room of silk and wine.
You seem to recognize the stiffness in his shoulders, because you sigh, looking away briefly before holding your hand up to him, beckoning him to help you to your feet. He does after a moment, fingers wrapping around your wrist, feeling the warmth of your skin, the flutter of your pulseâit reignites the flames beneath his skin, except not with rage this time. He hates it. Hates even more that a part of him relaxes when your skin is against his. He doesnât let go right away, not until you raise your eyebrows at him.Â
âWalk me to the gardens,â you say, hand coming up to hold his bicep. Your gaze slides to the side to land on Vyrano, who watches Aerion warily. You tell him blandly, âThe incense is quite strong tonight, magister. Itâs making me feel agitated.â
Aerionâs eyes slide shut as soon as you say itâfrustration and helplessness eating him alive, fury at himself, at Lys, at you. The incense isnât bothering you at all, he thinks furiously. Youâre handing him back a sliver of the dignity he destroyed. Giving him an excuse for his behavior, so his erraticness doesnât get back to the wrong people. You understand the necessity of restraint better than most, he betsâbirds of a feather, a fellow exileâany mistake can extend a sentence, a single lapse of temper and one year becomes ten.
You squeeze his bicep, beckoning him to play along. He inhales once, steadying himself and forcing his shoulders to lower by sheer will.Â
âThe room is stifling,â he says coolly, letting just enough irritation lace his voice to make it believable, but not volatile. âWe will take some air.â
Vyrano nods quickly, apologizing, relief plain on his face that this spectacle will not escalate further. The music resumes its earlier cadence, conversation slowly returning in your wake, but the watching eyes remain, tracking the two of you as you make your way out to the hall in the direction of the gardens.
âMm, you know, you are quite fickle, prince,â you say lazily as soon as there are no unwanted ears listening in. âYou indulge me. You fuck me. You entertain my little games. Three days later, you decide you are above it all and declare yourself done. And nowââ your fingers trace idly over the sleeve of his shirt, âânow youâre throwing a tantrum when I behave exactly as you demanded.â
He doesnât answer because answering requires admitting you are right, and he would sooner bite his own tongue off.
âYou wanted distance,â you continue, âso I gave it to you. You wanted to be unclaimed, so I behaved as though you were. And suddenly, that is as intolerable as my games supposedly were. What am I to think, prince?âÂ
He says, voice clipped, âI did not throw a tantrum.â
You hum, unconvinced. âYou nearly snapped his wrist in half.â
âHe was presumptuous.â
âI was allowing him to be presumptuous.â
âYou were provoking me,â he hisses, grabbing your wrist and backing you into a marble pillar, angry again as he remembers how you held eye contact with him while you allowed that silk boy to touch you. His forearm presses against your chest to hold you in place, and you look as unbothered as everâpleased, even. He hates Lys. He hates you. âDo not pretend as though it was anything else. It was just another game of yours.â
He almost expects you to deny it, but your lips curl up into an easy smile. âEverything is a game, zaldrÄ«tsos,â you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes. Little dragon. His throat bobs. âI was only curious as to how much you meant those words on the beach.â
His teeth grind together. âSo you meant to what? Humiliate me to figure it out?â
âI did not humiliate you. You did that all on your own, prince,â you say, and Aerion has half a mind to force you to your knees and put that insolent mouth of yours to better use, stitch up the pride he just shredded before half of the Lysene court. âFor all of your concern about being seen as⊠claimed, you were the only one in that room who behaved as though you were.â
Aerionâs jaw tightens. His forearm presses more firmly against your chest, not enough to hurtâenough to remind you he could.
âYou think this is amusing,â he says. âYou think you can prod and poke and taunt me like some beast in a pit.â
âI never thought you a beast,â you murmur. âBeasts are simple. You are woefully complicated.â
âYou said you would stop,â he reminds you.
âI did no such thing, I only agreed that you were not mineâyet.â
Aerion inhales sharply through his nose,
âSo what? You vanish, and then came back with more games even more impudent than you were originally? Is that how this works?â
âI did not vanish. I was giving you time to cool off. It was a strategic retreat,â you say with a lazy smile. âYou didnât really think I would give up so easily, did you? I was just deciding on a new plan of attack, since I seemed to have thoroughly upset you with my first. I was, ah, reevaluating, so to speakâyouâre quite the ill-tempered dragon, prince, itâll be a challenge to make you heel, but rest assured, I enjoy a challenge.â
Aerion thinks he should put his blade through your neck. Wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze until your eyes bulge and your pulse dies beneath his fingers. Heâs never met a woman so fucking disrespectful before.
He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth to clam himself and seethes, âAnd you thought this would be a better âplan of attackâ?â
âActually, this was not part of my plan at all,â you say with a laugh so easy that it makes him startle. âI only meant to goad you into a conversation. I did not anticipate that you would get so jealous just from a kiss, prince.â
Aerionâs vision swims red. His arm leaves your chest to close his hand around your neck, pulling you close to him, and he hates how hard his pulse thrums against his skin, how his breath hitches when he touches you.
âI am not jealous,â he hisses. âJealousy is for weak men. I am a dragon. Dragons take. They do not beg or pine or stand idle while others lay hands where they should not.â He leans in, breath ghosting over your mouth. âThey claimâwith fire and blood.â
Your pulse flutters wildly beneath his thumb. He feels it. He likes that he feels it. Likes that your breath catches, but you donât look afraid of him, that your pupils are blown wide, but not in terror. This is not silk or perfume or the syrupy indulgence that Lys tries to drown him in.Â
Thisâthis is sharp enough to cut, this is steel.Â
For a long moment, the world narrows to the heat between your bodies and the blood rushing through his ears.
He has been drowning since he set foot on this cursed island. Drowning in sweetness, and watchful eyes, and magisters measuring him like livestock, offering daughters to him like whores in expensive silk. Drowning in the humiliation of exile, and the knowledge that every laugh in a hall might be about him, and the fact that his own father would see him cast across the Narrow Sea as an inconvenience to be managed.Â
But this is not drowning. You are infuriating. You are impudent, and disrespectful, and whorish, and you bruise and scratch and treat him like an equal instead of a prince. He hates it, he hates you, and yetâit is fire, and steel, and blood. If he must suffer hereâif he must endure silk and incense and fathers parading daughters before him and whores too afraid to properly touch himâthen he needs something that will keep him sharp while Lys tries to sand down his edges and call it refinement.Â
He will have you, he decides, and Aerion always gets what he wants.Â
âAnd what,â you murmur, âexactly are you claiming?â
His grip shifts from your throat to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to crane your neck back, baring your throat to him. He likes this too, itches to bend his head down and put his teeth into your neck, the same way you did to him.Â
âYou,â he says simply. He adds immediately, âDo not misunderstand. Claiming you does not mean I belong to you. You are mine, and thatâs the end of it. Itâs not a bargain or mutual surrender. It simply is.â
Neither of you speaks. Heâs close enough to feel the warmth of your breath on his lips, close enough to almost taste the wine on your tongue, close enough to see that your lips are still swollen slightly from that magisterâs sonâs kisses. His grip tightens in your hair instinctively, twisting, and you let out a breathless noise.
âGods, you are something else,â you laugh. Aerion almost finds offense to the fact that youâre laughing at him, fingers bruising your hip, but he hesitates when he sees the way youâre looking at him: pleased, almost adoringly. He realizes that you, too, must be drowningâhave been for much longer than him, even. He knew from the moment he met you that you werenât cut from the same silk cloth and pillowed touches as the rest of this island. âAerion Brightflame, I will never tire of you.â
You donât give him the chance to say anything else, leaning in despite the fingers twisting your hair to press your lips against his, and Aerion lets out a low groan into your mouth, lashes fluttering shut. His hand tightens reflexively in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss.Â
Itâs nothing like the way you let the magisterâs son paw at you, lips barely moving against his, attention drawn elsewhereâyou kiss him like you want to fight him, like you are fighting him, lips sliding messily and teeth threatening to break through skin when it seems like he might win. You slide your hands up his abdomen, slipping beneath his shirt, and Aerion fights a shudder, muscles tensing when you drag your nails against him, lips parting against yours as you roll his bottom lip between your teeth.Â
âYou mistake one thing, though, zaldrÄ«zes dÄrilaros,â you murmur against his lips, smiling. Aerion inhales sharply at the sound of your smooth High Valyrian, cock already aching in the silk he wears. Bitch, he thinks bitterly, furious at himself, because he couldnât even get his cock working when he had two whores draped across his lap in a pillow house, but the moment your lips are against his, and youâre whispering in the old tongue, heâs almost spilling himself untouched. Youâve used black magic on himâheâs sure of itâand yet, all he does is roughly hike one of your legs up around his waist and press you back against the pillar again, muffling a grunt against your skin as his lips slide down to your jaw. âYou will be mine.â
He bites down hard, and your breath hitches, a low moan of his name spilling from your lips. His mouth drags down your neck, open and wet, trying to distract himself from the heat that rapidly spreads through his abdomen. He slips his hand between your bodies to slide his fingers against your cunt, letting out a smug huff when he feels how slick you are.
âLÄ«ve,â he breathes out, hand slipping into his own pants to pull out his cock, hissing, so painfully hard that his hips instinctively jerk into his fist when he wraps his fingers around himself. âNyke yenka ezÄ«magon ao drÄmmagon va ñuha orvorta isse bona tistÄlion syt mirre hen lÄ« turgon naejot Ć«ndegon.â
Whore. I should split you open on my cock in that hall for all of those parasites to see.
You let out another breathless laugh, one hand sliding up his body to thread through silver hair, pulling his face from your neck. His breath hitches when your nails scrape against his scalp, and his jaw falls half ajar when he feels you drag your tongue up his neck before pressing your lips to his again, sucking lightly at his bottom lip.
Fuck, he thinks, throat bobbing as he squeezes hard at the base of his cock to stop himself from finishing before he even sinks himself inside of you. Youâre going to be the fucking death of him.
âSkoros keligon ao, ñuha dÄrilaros?â you say, dragging your lips to his ear and sucking hard at the spot beneath it.Â
Whatâs stopping you, my prince?
My.Â
My.Â
Aerionâs grip on his cock tightens to the point itâs almost painful in a desperate effort to keep some semblance of pride, but thereâs no hiding the choked noise that spills out of him.Â
âAh, gaomagon ao hae bona?â you say, tongue flicking out to trace his ear. His forehead drops against the marble next to your head, desperately trying to use the coolness of the stone to anchor himself before he makes a fool out of himself. âSkori nyke brĆzagon ao ñuhon?â
Ah, do you like that? When I call you mine?
Aerion might actually kill youâhe wants to sink his cock into your cunt and his blade into your throat with equal fervor. Maybe both at the same time, if youâre lucky.
Later. For now, he just needs to focus on not spilling himself untouched.
âHoskagon zaldrÄ«tdos,â you continue, mouthing at his neck, bruising him again, despite the painful grip he has on your thigh. He pants against your neck, barely biting back a noise closer to a whine than a moan. âSkoro syt gaomagon ao daor ivestragÄ« aĆla sagon ñuhon? Mazeman syze gaomagon hen skoros iksis ñuhon. AĆha orvorta lĆz, aĆha Ädrugan bÄneâ
Prideful little dragon. Why wonât you let yourself be mine? I take good care of whatâs mine. Your cock wet, your bed warmâ
Aerion hisses, letting go of your thigh and relishing in the way you yelp when your leg hits the ground. You blink, confused, and he grinds his teeth together before he grabs your hips and flips you around so that your chest is flush to the pillar. He kicks out one of his feet to hit your ankle, forcibly spreading your legs, and hardly gives you the time to orient yourself before heâs pulling your hips to him, thrusting into you to bury his cock deep into your cunt.
âHah,â you gasp. âFuckââ
Aerion relishes the expression on your face now, lips parted and swollen, eyes wide. His nails dig deep into your hips to keep you still, teeth grinding together as his abdomen tenses and cock twitches inside of you. He brings one hand up to slide your silks down your body, revealing the bare skin of your back, before settling it back on your hip. He dips his head down to lick up your spine, feeling the way your body shudders beneath him.Â
He likes thisâyou helpless on his cock, cunt spasming around him, wide-eyed and cockdrunk just fromâ
You let out another breathless laugh, halting his thoughts. âMijessis ilinÄ«tsos zaldrÄ«tsos. OzmijiĆ nyke. Nykeââ
Impatient little dragon. Youâve missed me. Iâ
One hand leaves your hip to slide up your body, grabbing your mouth roughly. You let out a surprised noise when he shoves two fingers in, pressing down hard on your tongue to silence you.Â
âAo ydragon tolÄ« olvie,â he hisses before sinking his teeth into your shoulder to muffle a moan as he rocks his hips hard against your ass.Â
You talk too much.
His hand slides around your body to press flush against your abdomen, holding you still as he fucks you hard. His eyes fall shut, tongue lapping at the blood heâs drawn at your shoulder, fighting moans as your walls spasm around his cock, sucking him in deeper with each thrust of his hips. You try to say something around his fingers, but he only presses down harder on your tongue, shoving his fingers deeper down, making you gag once before he lets up.
He drags his lips up to the crook of your neck, sucking and biting and marking you up the same way you had the nerve to do to him, drowning in the lewd sounds of his hips slapping against yours and the sloppiness of his cock plunging in and out of your cunt. He pulls you back so that your back is flush to his chest, your hands braced against the pillar, and he presses his lips to your ear.
âIvestragon nyke aĆha odre,â he pants. âKesan addemmagon ziry. Skoros mirre issa.â
Tell me your price. Iâll pay itâwhatever it is.
He means it. He thinks he has never meant anything so earnestly except for when he was a child and swore he would be the one to bring dragons back. He would drain the royal coffers, take Casterly Rock by force, and drain its minesâif thatâs what it took to match your price. He would have you. You would be his. No matter what it takes.Â
âIvestragon nyke!â
Tell me!
The words tear out of him violently, desperatelyâhe is not begging, he does not beg, but something drips from the words that makes him feel smaller, so he resorts to fucking you harder, fuck out any memory of him being weak, bury himself into your cunt, mold it around his cock so that you never even think of another man.Â
Dragons do not beg or plead; they take what is theirs, so he will take you. Fuck your price, your price wonât matter when the only cock that can please you is his. He slides his fingers out of your mouth, but covers it with the palm of his hand to yank your head back more, tilting it to him.
Your eyes are glassy, half rolled back, and he can feel the spit dribbling from the corner of your mouth against his palm, the wetness against his thighs that spatters every time his cock plunges inside of you. His hand over your mouth tightens, squeezing your cheeks, holding the back of your head against his shoulder, and each muffled, broken you let out against his hand makes his cock ache.
He kisses up your neck messily, leaving a trail of blood and bruises, and he presses his lips into your temple as he rasps, âGevie. Ăuhon.â
Beautiful. Mine.
He chokes over a moan as you writhe against him, hips rocking and eyes rolling back when you cum on his cock. His hand slides down your abdomen to your cunt, finger dipping between your folds to rub your clit. You strain against him, head tossed back against his shoulders, kicking your heels back into his shins to try to push him away, but he only presses you back against the marble pillar, keeping you pinned between him and it as he snaps his hips up faster, determined to make you break.
He laughs breathlessly, licking up the tears that spill over your cheeks and mocks, âĆdres, iksis ziry daor? GaomÄ daor hae ziry gaomagon ao?â
Sensitive, isnât it? You donât like it, do you?
You sob out something muffled that sounds like his name, and Aerion hisses, hips stuttering and breath leaving his lungs in a gasp of yours as he buries his cock deep and cums inside of you, forehead pressing against the back of your head as his heart races, desperately trying to catch his breath. His hand drops from your mouth to slink around your waist, eyes sliding shut.
You, naturally, break the brief moment of peace to speak as soon as your mouth is free, because you canât help yourself. His eyes slide shut in exasperationâimpudent.
âGods, itâs been ages since someoneâs fucked me like that,â you sigh, and Aerion is pleased that a good fucking seems to be all it takes for you to drop your disrespectful behavior and show some proper gratitude. Then you add, âDoes the prospect of being mine really bother you so much? We are both exiles, both alone, both bored, and we please each other well enough, donât we? Why must you throw a tantrum over it?â
Aerion clicks his tongue, fighting a hiss as he pulls his softening cock from your cunt and fixes his trousers. You turn around to face him, leaning back against the pillar as you fix your dress. Aerion finds his lips curling up into a smug smile when he sees how thoroughly wrecked you lookâlips swollen, blood and spit smeared across your lower face, chest still heaving as you try to catch your breath.Â
âI do not belong to anyone,â he repeats, ignoring how you roll your eyes. âIâm a dragon, not a common whoreâand I did not throw a tantrum.âÂ
âMost dragons were claimed,â you remind him, and he sneers at that. You tip your head back against the marble, looking up at the night sky. âUnfortunately for you, I am not a common whore either. I suppose that means I canât be yours.â
Aerion presses his lips together and says, âYou might be, for all I know. A well-connected, well-versed common whore who taught herself High Valyrian to charm her way into a dragonâs bed and poison him once heâs let his guard down.â
You hum as though amused, and then you say, âI brought you something.â Aerion flicks a curious look at you, watching as you loll your head to the side to look at him. He raises his eyebrows. âFrom home. This was my actual plan of attack before your tantrum, if you were wondering. A giftâand a hint, if youâll indulge my games.â
Aerion clicks his tongue disdainfully, because of course you never intended on abandoning your loathsome game, although he canât help the curiosity that pricks at him. He spits, âI donât want anything from Westerosâand I did not throw a tantrum.â
You raise your eyebrows. âMy home, not yours,â you correct with a mysterious smile, and he furrows his brows at you, watching as you pull something from your sleeve, dangling it in front of him.Â
At first glance, it only looks like jewelry, and Aerion is a split second from a snide comment about how you have some nerve gifting him a necklace as though heâs a common whore for you to woo with trinkets, but he pauses when he looks closer and sees the rubies embedded in the black metal and the ripple patterns that swirl around them. He takes half a step closer, lips parting, is thatâŠ
You dangle it out of reach when he tries to grab it, and he scowls at you, but his heart is beating rapidly, breath lodged in his throat.Â
Is that Valyrian steel?Â
His heart feels like itâs about to race out of his chest, blinking once at where youâre holding itâalmost all of the Targaryenâs Valyrian steel heirlooms are gone. The bastard, Bittersteel, fled with the sword Blackfyre across the Narrow Sea, and Aegonâs crown rots in Dorne after King Daeronâs death, while the Dornish lie and claim ignorance. Aerion only recognizes the necklace for what it is because heâs seen Dark Sister in the Bloodravenâs hands in passing.
Bitterly, he thinks itâs typical. Everything of value in his house, everything that connects them to their ancestryâit all either ends up dead or in the hands of enemies or bastards. The dragons were killed off because of their idiotic ancestors, and the only thing left to connect them to the old blood was stolen or is in unworthy hands.Â
Except⊠he could have something. Him. Not his father, not his brothers, not his cousins. Him. And he deserves it anyway, doesnât he? Heâs the only one who actually bothers to learn about their ancestry; heâs the one who has spent hours poring over crumbling accounts of the Freehold, over sorcery and dragonlords and a people who did not kneel to gods or kings, while his brothers and cousins focused on the Conqueror and their recent history. He stares at the necklace you hold greedily, tongue darting out to wet his lips.Â
âHow do you have that?â he rasps, throat bobbing, gaze snapping toward you, and then slipping back to the necklace. âWhy would you give me this? If you are jestingââ
âIâm not jesting,â you say, and Aerionâs heart pounds, breath quickening. âTurn around.â
Aerion watches you for a moment, pride warring with hunger, and after a few long seconds, he turns his back to you, stiff, shoulders tense. He half expects you to leave while his back is turned, make him look like a fool by getting his hopes up and disappearing. But he hears you make your way over to him, feels the warmth of your body against his back, and thenâhis breath hitches when he feels the cool metal snug against his neck, when he feels your fingers brush his skin as you clip it on, and your lips press against the nape of his neck as you step away.
He clenches his fist once to stop his fingers from trembling as he lifts his hand to brush it against the metal, lashes fluttering shut. He swears he can feel the magic thrumming within it, hear the beat of wings in the air, and the warmth of flames against his skin. He turns to face you, throat tight and eyes sharp and accusatory.
âWhy would you give me this?â he asks, voice low.
âWhy not?â you counter, as lackadaisical as ever, as if you didnât just place a piece of his ancestryâone that he never thought heâd haveâagainst his throat. âIt suits you.â
He hates that answer.
Hates how easily you say it. As though Valyrian steel were silk ribbon. As though dragonforged metalâolder than kingdoms, folded in fire and blood and spells men no longer understandâwere something to be chosen for aesthetic pleasure.
This is from your home, you said. Where in the world would have Valyrian steel in abundance that you would just casually give it away? Qohor? Maybe? But it doesnât explain why the Lyseni treat you as thoughâ
âVolantis,â he says, knowing itâs right as soon as the words leave his mouth. âYouâre from Volantis.â
How had he not seen it sooner?
Volantisâthe last city that still pretends the Doom was an interruption rather than the end of an empire, where the blood of Old Valyria runs thicker than anywhere else in the world. They say that within the Black Walls is the closest the world will ever come again to the Freeholdâstreets walked only by old blood, families who trace lineage back to dragonlords. There are even whispers that the Volantene old blood retain the secrets to Old Valyrian blood magick and pyromancy.
Thatâs where you come fromâhe knew it, not Lysene silk and softness. Fire and blood of your own right. No wonder heâs been so drawn to you; no wonder you are the way you are.
âUdrimmi dÄrilaros,â you murmur with an easy smile. Clever prince.
Who are you? He wants to demand again. Why were you exiled? Why would you give me this? Who are you?
Instead, he settles for: âVolantis does not give Valyrian steel away for free.â
What do you want in return?
âNo,â you agree. âIt hoards it. Sits on the relics of a dead empire and calls it heritage. You should see my familyâs vaultâyouâd think it was common as copper.â
Something ugly and envious curls in his stomach, but he forces it away. At least everything is finally coming togetherâwhy you speak High Valyrian as though itâs your mother tongue, and why the Lysene tread so carefully around you, refusing to answer his questions. The Old Blood of Volantis are powerful, and the Targaryens no longer have dragons to keep themselves above the rest of the world. The only question left is why you were exiled from the Black Walls, but he has a feeling you wonât answer that.
âWhy did you give me this?â he asks again, more subdued this time.
âWell, consider this a proper declaration,â you say easily. When he furrows his brows at you, you wink at him, lips curling up into a smug smile as you explain, âFor courting, of course.â
Aerionâs face flushes red, balking at your words, but before he can say anything, you lean in close, lips brushing against his ear as you breathe out, âAlso, it makes you look thoroughly mine.â
You nip at his ear playfully, before you skip back a few steps, and give him an easy smile.Â
Flustered, he snaps, âYouââ
You turn on your heel to leave, making your way back to the hall. You wave over your shoulder and sing, ââTil next time, prince!âÂ
Aerion exhales, staring after you, lips parted, body wound tight, fingers still brushing the metal you laid against his neck. He canât still the rapid pace his heart beats at, no matter how hard he tries.Â
He hates Lys, he really, truly does, but maybeâ
No, he definitely hates you, too.Â
âââââââ
reader: sure, we understand each other Also reader: plotting to disappear off the face of earth for a week to make him miss her and then return with a gift that she knew he wouldnât be able to refuse so he would have to parade around Lys wearing a collar everyone knows damn well is hersÂ
Aerion: I do not belong to anyone Also aerion: wears someoneâs collar just because itâs Valyrian steel Â
If you guys couldnât tell, I am so fascinated by Volantis and the Black Walls, so Iâm excited to get the chance to use this little series of one-shots to expand on my image of it. I imagine that within the Black Walls is probably the closest the known world will ever come to knowing what Old Valyria was like. And I think it will be interesting to explore with Aerion as a love interest since he would be interested in knowing more about his heritage, also think he might be wildly jealous, which serves for interesting dynamics LOLÂ
I also like the idea of certain cities hoarding old relics of Valyria. We know canonically in Westeros, there are only 227 Valyrian steel weapons, many of which are missing, but TWoIaF says there could be thousands in the rest of the known world/Essos. And it just makes me snort that these noble houses in Westeros prize their single heirloom, while people like the Volantene old bloods have entire vaults full of it LOLLLL
Guys theyâre literally fine what is everyone talking abt đ„đ„đ„


