brian moser's doll

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 she/her. minors dni. multifandom writer.

[icetruckprincess]

hi, i'm cherry ꨄ she/her. 22 i luv brian moser

currently writing for got / hotd / akotsk universe

minors dni | mature content | multifandom

masterlist recent main blog request anything!

[notgaybuckybarnes]

FINN BENNETT as AERION TARGARYEN

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS 1.03 "The Squire"

[darkthemestomb]

A Slut of the Seven Kingdoms.

[icetruckprincess]

the throne between us

description: bound by politics and crowned in fire, you are chosen to be aegon ii targaryen's wife for duty, not love. cold, resentful, and newly crowned, the king makes it clear he never wanted this marriage or the crown. entering a union as a stranger, only to be watched by a court that expects obedience, hiers and silence. only through small hesitations does duty begin to crack away, quietly turning into something else.

series cw & tags: aegon ii targaryen x f!reader, targaryen tendencies, canon type misogyny, canon type violence, mature content, eventual smut, toxic behavior, angst, slowburn, enemies to lovers kinda, arranged marriage, infidelity, acholoism

wc: 3.5k

notes: some events are not canon to the show / books, reader is from dorne, aegon is crowned king right before you are married, aegon has no children, spoilers for s1 & s2 of hotd.

part one | part two coming soon

please do not steal or copy my work in any way. © icetruckprincess 2026.

the first thing you learned about aegon ii targaryen was that he did not want the crown.

the second was that he did not want you at all either. you learned it in the scant minutes before the altar: you were only a reminder of his duty—an arranged marriage meant to serve a war between families, to be performed without question.

you stood beside him beneath the vaulted ceiling of the great sept, incense thick enough to sting your eyes, bells tolling as if the gods themselves were announcing a sentence for the realm to bear. your life bound to the king, your fate sealed in the name of the queen.

aegon does not even glance your way when you are brought forward. you thought you would have a chance to speak to him, or anyone from the royal family, before the procession began, but alas.

but no words were needed to understand him. his absence of words, the way his body leaned away from you as you are brought beside him, the restless energy seeping from him, like a dragon confined too long in chains spoke enough. 

it was not a feeling you were unknown to.

torn away from your home, to do the duty you’ve been raised, trained for your whole life; to be a good wife. now, the queen. everything you loved, cared for, cherished in your home; life, warmth, none of these foolish targaryen customs, only to be destroyed by the fire of the dragon. 

what was once a country that remained neutral to the dragons, a free land, vanished with the mere suggestion of you becoming queen. your father bent to the greens, aligning dorne with the realm for the first time. you were only there to give them an advantage over the usurper, rhaenyra targaryen. you had always known it, deep down.

now presented before the king, like an object, you are met with his silver-gold hair hanging loose above his shoulders, unbound in quiet defiance, as if today he will not even be properly leashed to the role he can never escape. the crown of the conqueror rests on his head, but it looks almost accidental there, like something heavy placed on a man who never reached for it. dark circles beneath his eyes speak of a night spent anywhere but sober reflection.

when the high septon begins to speak of duty, unity, and of legacy, you notice how aegon’s jaw tightens. his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides like he is restraining his urge to flee. you are close enough to feel the heat of him—wine, sweat, and something bitter and expensive. you have to stop yourself from smiling almost. you don’t take his barely contained resentment to heart. in fact, you share it in this moment. 

aegon seems to notice your half-smirk and you quickly raise your chin. 

the vows were to be spoken now. you begin, slightly averting you gaze off him , “in the sight of the old gods and the new, i take aegon the second targaryen…”

you remind yourself that you have been prepared for this since girlhood: for alliances dressed as romance, for duty dressed as devotion. you gaze upon his face fully, for the first time.

you fully expected him to not be looking at you, but he was plastered with an expression of surprise that you were doing the same.

you continue, “i am his and he is mine until the end of my days.” your voice does not waver.

aegon’s expression flatlines, knowing he is next. he pauses a heartbeat, two. the court stills.

then he speaks, voice flat and careless, as though reciting the same vows you just spoke, like he has already memorized and grown bored of them. he ends with, “with this kiss, i pledge my love.”

the sept is silent. the septon nods, and the court shifts in anticipation. his jaw is set, and aegon sets closer slow and deliberate as if even this is something he must force himself to do correctly. his eyes flicker to yours, briefly assessing you, guarded. he expects to see indifference and irritation from you, anything but the steadiness in your expression. 

you did not look afraid.you stood composed, spine straight, hands steady—simply waiting to fulfill what had been asked of you. not trembling, not pleading. just accepting.

and that, though you never knew it, was what he envied most.

because you could meet duty without flinching, while it hollowed him out. he wore his reluctance like a wound he refused to dress, resenting the crown, the marriage, the eyes upon him. you stepped into the same fate with quiet resolve, and he could not understand how. he could not say the same for himself.

he steps closer. his hand hesitates, only for a moment so small it would be missed by anyone not standing close enough to feel it. a breath drawn and held. he catches your scent, unknown to you. then his hand comes to your waist, the first touch. it’s not possessive or tender, it’s careful, as though he is unsure how much pressure to apply.

when he leans down, his mind goes blank as you part your lips, breath shallow. he leans down and kisses you. it’s brief and proper. but yet, not entirely when he leaves—his lips brush yours with just enough pressure to betray an awareness in you.

aegon steps back, eyes full of also exhaustion so deep it borders grief, and the bells finally ring, and cheers rise and the court exhales.

you both take hands and raise them in the air for the court, and more cheers erupt—their sheer happiness for your two contracts to be trapped is almost laughable. but aegon leans closer once more while the court is still loud, so only you can hear. 

his lips near your ear, causing you to shiver on reflex, “do not mistake this for kindness,” he murmurs. “i will not pretend just for you.”

you turn to him, eyes steady, lips playing a smile for the crowd. “nor will i ask you to.” you are not foolish enough to expect warmth from a man raised on disappointment.

for a fleeting moment, something flickers in his eyes, you swear. surprise, perhaps, or irritation that you did not flinch under him or fear him like his reputation precedes him. but then it is gone.

the feast after is long and suffocating. you were changed into another dress, however it does not bring much comfort, especially with the whole evening consisting of you seated and on display.

aegon is beside you, drinking like a man drowning out the world. he laughs too loudly at jests you barely hear from others in the room. he does not look at you when dancers whirl or musicians play songs of ancient love. you sit beside him, untouched, a symbol more than a wife. the new queen.

the table only gets more crowded and more goblets get raised. lord tyland, the master of coin, you learn through his introduction, comes to your table. “may the mother grant you a marriage of love and honor, my grace. my queen,” he says.

you nod, about to thank him, before aegon interrupts. “we do not need your blessings, lord tyland, for i doubt they would mean much anyway”

you can’t help but look away at the crudeness of it all. tyland, however, does not falter. as if accustomed to this, he turns his attention to you instead.

“my queen, i must inquire about your homeland… dorne, is it?” he asks.

“yes,” you reply. surely he already knows, but at least he is making some effort to speak with you—unlike your husband beside you. you can feel aegon’s eyes on both of you, sharp and incredulous, as though he cannot believe lord tyland would address you directly.

“i must say, i have not visited in years, but when i did, there is nothing quite like the heat of the sun. not even the blessings of the gods could save you,” he jokes, and you bite back, eager for conversation.

“yes, dorne’s climate can be wretched, but it is my home, and you grow accustomed to the heat… well, perhaps not someone as fair as you,” you tease in return, earning a genuine laugh from the lord.

tyland begins to question you about the summer sea and scarce trade routes alongside it, when aegon cuts in.

“she wouldn’t know,” he says lightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you feel it before you see it. the subtle shift of the room’s attention the moment he speaks, cutting through the chaos. tyland’s eyes flick toward you, then back to the king, uneasily aware of the sharpness in his words.

“dorne,” he continues, swirling the wine in his goblet. “hot sun, hotter tempers, a place where people survive by stubbornness more than sense. hardly a schooling for court.”

what he says is not loud, it is not shouted, but yet somehow everyone is listening. the true power of the king.

you only smile and look down because that is the only shield that you have, but your hands curl in your lap, nails pressing into your palms.

tyland excuses himself, and finally the shift of all the eyes in the room seems to move off of you.

before you can even stop yourself, you’re speaking back to him. “i grew up in sunspear,” you say, trying to keep your tone measured. “where the sun kills the careless and spares the ones who learn how to endure it.”

aegon’s mouth quirks, sharper than before. “i am the blood of the dragon.” his gaze holds yours, unapologetic. “fire runs in my veins, and no matter how fierce your sun is,” he continues, his voice smooth as silk, “dragonfire is hotter.”

laughter ripples through the room, though none of it touches aegon’s words. it is meant only for you—only you hear it.

he leans back, satisfaction barely hidden. your throat tightens. you felt it, the subtle assertion of dominance in every syllable he spoke towards you. even with two suns blazing from very different lands, he will win every time.

for one treacherous second, your vision blurs. you focus on the table, the rhythm of your breathing, and the imaginary scent of sand that is not there.

don’t cry. not here. not for him, you tell yourself.

a handmaiden hurried to your side, murmuring that you must leave before the king so that he might arrive later, composed, prepared for what was expected of him. you. 

you offer him a small, flawless bow, excusing yourself with impeccable courtesy. not a single crack in your composure as you turned away, skirts whispering over stone. you do not dare to turn back as a single tear slides down your cheek. 

the noise of the feast has fallen away now—no music, no laughter, no watching eyes. the bedchamber is heavy with the scent of smoke and crushed flowers, and the lingering sweetness of the baths you were made to take. all the remnants of a night of celebration neither of you asked for, nor truly claimed as your own.

candles gutter the walls, their light catching gold. gold everywhere—the crown, the embroidery, the weight of it all. the bed dominates the room, waiting with draped linens meant to be ruined.

you are sitting on the bed, brushing your hair mindlessly, when the door closes behind you with a dull, final sound.

aegon stumbles in. not badly enough to fall, but enough to betray the wine in his veins. he laughs once under his breath, sharp and humorless.

he reaches up, his fingers closing around the circlet resting on his head.

“gods,” he mutters, pulling it free and throwing it.

the crown hits the floor with a harsh metallic clatter that makes you flinch, rolling once before coming to rest at the foot of the bed. the sound echoes longer than it should.

aegon exhales and runs a hand through his silver hair, his shoulders slumping.

for a moment he just stands there, not as king or conqueror, just a man.

you hesitate, and then get up. the crown is cold when you pick it up, heavier than it looks. when you straighten, you see he is watching you with narrowed eyes, something defensive swirling in his lilac orbs.

“don’t,” he says quickly. “you don’t have to pretend to care.”

“i’m not,” you reply, honestly.

you place the crown on the table with care. you turn back to him to be met with his expression only tightening more, as if your gesture unsettles him more than mockery.

the silence stretches thin between you. you understand his resentment of the crown and all that comes with it—he has made that much painfully clear but you cannot help wondering if some of that bitterness has settled on you as well. he mocked you at the feast, yes, but you cannot tell whether it was a shield or something sharper. whether he despises the marriage itself, or the woman bound to it. you do not know, not truly. but uncertainty is not an excuse for cruelty, and you refuse to meet his coldness with your own.

his gaze drifts, not politely or entirely consciously, taking in the ceremonial fabric of your nightgown as it falls from your shoulder, then trails to the line of your neck, and lastly your hands as he sees them clenching, like you’re waiting for something. and he knows what, too.

“this is the part they’ll ask about,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the bed, shifting his stance. “they’ll want proof, as if i’m livestock.”

you sigh, feeling yourself empathize with him yet again despite how horrible he acts. “you’re not livestock—” you begin, as his sharp laugh interrupts you.

“you don’t know that.”

you step closer to him, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the tension in the room. the smell of wine is so sharpt, as if you were tasting it yourself. 

“i see a man, perhaps troubled, but a man. not the crown and not duty.” you gaze at him, all words true. without the crown, he truly is just a man.

his eyes flash, cruel and defensive.

“don’t!” he snaps. “don’t look at me like that.”

you’re startled, confused even. “like what?”

“as if you understand me,” he replies.

his anger comes fast, as if he is covering up something else. he steps close—too close now—the heat of him undeniable. dornish sun has taught you heat, yes, but this was different. this was contained, dragonfire waiting to burn you.

his hand lifts, pointing towards you. he’s almost touching your face.

“you don’t..” he says, his voice rising. “know anything about me. what it’s like to have them watching, expecting, waiting—waiting for you to fail yet again, to call you weak.”

you try to rationalize his words, knowing that he is being more truthful than he would be sober. you may not know him personally at all, but you can see right through his ways. his habits, his defense, the language of his actions. 

you contemplate what to say next, if you should say anything. 

your voice is steady when you’re ready. “forgive me, your grace, for my words and actions,” you say softly, “i am merely trying to understand the man i have just vowed my life to. you are right—i may not truly know you, my husband, yet i do know what it is like to be endured rather than chosen.”

your sentence lands harder than you expect. 

the room feels suspended, candles flickering, breath held. his mouth opens to retort, but no sound comes. his face relaxes from frustration, only to display, sadness. his gaze flicks away from you, jaw working, guilt and embarrassment wearing openly across his face.

you are about to speak again, desperate for some sliver of understanding between you, yet acutely aware that each word may only make things worse. he stops you before you can continue. “you’re right to apologize. you shouldn’t speak to me like that. you forget who i am.” his voice is sharp, defensive, and he turns away, deflecting your words as if shielding himself from something you cannot yet name.

he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t even sound threatening.

your mouth opens before you can think, words spilling out of curiosity, defiance, and the desperate need to see beyond the walls he has built around himself. even knowing they might set him against you, you cannot stop. this is the man you are to spend your life with, expected to bear his children, and already the first night is unraveling beneath your hands.

“no,” you say. “i think you forget who you are.”

he spins right back around, closing the distance yet again, his anger full flare now, not holding back, truly resembling the fire of a dragon. “you think you see me? that you’re different from anyone else in this damn place?” he demands.

your eyes widen, as he speak some truth. 

“that because you say a few careful words you’ve seen something no one else has?” now it’s your turn. your eyes flicker away, betraying a quiet heat of embarrassment, as he reads every unspoken thought.

he seems to notice your eyes flicking away and misreads it as fear, letting out a scoff. he was right, he thinks—you’re just like everyone else. thinking of him as a disappointment. what else do you have to lose?

“get some rest,” he says sharply. “this is what they’ll expect in the morning. a closed door is enough for them a silence they can twist into whatever story they need.” he mutters the last part more to himself than to you. “they won’t question it… for now.”

he turns away from you, pacing once, but his hand grazes yours for a second. its fleeting, an accidental contact, but enough to leave a warmth in its wake, a quick reminder that beneath all the anger and defense in this room, something unspoken lingers between you two. it makes both of you pause, though neither acknowledges it. 

he continues toward the door. “in the morning,” he looks over his shoulder briefly, “say nothing. let them assume.”

the words land like a command, but there is something fractured beneath them; fear, embarrassment sharpening into pride, scrambling to reclaim the ground that has been lost in this room.

you don’t argue, unsure any more words of yours will do anything but make everything much worse than it is, knowing there has been enough of that.

he leaves. the door shuts with decisive finality, causing the candles to flicker. the bed remains untouched, only a small indent from where you sat. the crown still sits where you placed it, quiet, waiting, and stripped of power.

aegon walks until the stone corridors blur. his boots strike too hard against the floor, anger driving him forward, carrying him away from the chamber before he can think too much about what he has left behind. the wine still burns his veins, but it’s fading now, leaving clarity in its wake, and with it something far more dangerous.

humiliation.

he presses a hand to his face, dragging it down hard, jaw clenched. gods, he should’ve made it simple—perform his duty, please the court. he thinks, begrudgingly, that you are a pretty sight for a dornish girl. and yet… he cannot take you. because deeo down he knows already it would be intimate, consuming, impossible to contain right now. 

never before has he struggled with taking. never before has duty and desire tangled so sharply in his chest.

the way you looked at him—not impressed, but seeing through him. why did your words slide under his skin, quiet and precise?

“i think you forget who you are.”

"yet i do know what is is like to be endured rather than chosen."

the memory makes his chest tighten. he swears under his breath and turns sharply into a shadowed alcove, bracing a hand against the wall.

he tells himself they will assume it done for now, reassuring. it can wait until the morrow, even though he knows it’s not true.

by morning, he will be king again. sharp and cold to her.

but the thought lingers, unwanted and persistent. he could face dragonfire without hesitation, but your quiet words and understanding undid him.

you stand still, uncertain how either of you will ever show the love you were never taught to give.

already on the first night, you wonder how you could ever come to know him or survive this marriage. and yet, deep down, a fire stirs, a fascination you’ve never felt before, drawn to the man who shields himself so carefully. every glance, every clash of words today has pulled you in, far beyond what you imagined when you took this path.

a/n: i am actually so brain rotted thinking about him ... part two coming soon with much more hehe

green divider by @saradika-graphics <3

[icetruckprincess]

the throne between us

description: bound by politics and crowned in fire, you are chosen to be aegon ii targaryen's wife for duty, not love. cold, resentful, and newly crowned, the king makes it clear he never wanted this marriage or the crown. entering a union as a stranger, only to be watched by a court that expects obedience, hiers and silence. only through small hesitations does duty begin to crack away, quietly turning into something else.

series cw & tags: aegon ii targaryen x f!reader, targaryen tendencies, canon type misogyny, canon type violence, mature content, eventual smut, toxic behavior, angst, slowburn, enemies to lovers kinda, arranged marriage, infidelity, acholoism

wc: 3.5k

notes: some events are not canon to the show / books, reader is from dorne, aegon is crowned king right before you are married, aegon has no children, spoilers for s1 & s2 of hotd.

part one | part two coming soon

please do not steal or copy my work in any way. © icetruckprincess 2026.

the first thing you learned about aegon ii targaryen was that he did not want the crown.

the second was that he did not want you at all either. you learned it in the scant minutes before the altar: you were only a reminder of his duty—an arranged marriage meant to serve a war between families, to be performed without question.

you stood beside him beneath the vaulted ceiling of the great sept, incense thick enough to sting your eyes, bells tolling as if the gods themselves were announcing a sentence for the realm to bear. your life bound to the king, your fate sealed in the name of the queen.

aegon does not even glance your way when you are brought forward. you thought you would have a chance to speak to him, or anyone from the royal family, before the procession began, but alas.

but no words were needed to understand him. his absence of words, the way his body leaned away from you as you are brought beside him, the restless energy seeping from him, like a dragon confined too long in chains spoke enough. 

it was not a feeling you were unknown to.

torn away from your home, to do the duty you’ve been raised, trained for your whole life; to be a good wife. now, the queen. everything you loved, cared for, cherished in your home; life, warmth, none of these foolish targaryen customs, only to be destroyed by the fire of the dragon. 

what was once a country that remained neutral to the dragons, a free land, vanished with the mere suggestion of you becoming queen. your father bent to the greens, aligning dorne with the realm for the first time. you were only there to give them an advantage over the usurper, rhaenyra targaryen. you had always known it, deep down.

now presented before the king, like an object, you are met with his silver-gold hair hanging loose above his shoulders, unbound in quiet defiance, as if today he will not even be properly leashed to the role he can never escape. the crown of the conqueror rests on his head, but it looks almost accidental there, like something heavy placed on a man who never reached for it. dark circles beneath his eyes speak of a night spent anywhere but sober reflection.

when the high septon begins to speak of duty, unity, and of legacy, you notice how aegon’s jaw tightens. his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides like he is restraining his urge to flee. you are close enough to feel the heat of him—wine, sweat, and something bitter and expensive. you have to stop yourself from smiling almost. you don’t take his barely contained resentment to heart. in fact, you share it in this moment. 

aegon seems to notice your half-smirk and you quickly raise your chin. 

the vows were to be spoken now. you begin, slightly averting you gaze off him , “in the sight of the old gods and the new, i take aegon the second targaryen…”

you remind yourself that you have been prepared for this since girlhood: for alliances dressed as romance, for duty dressed as devotion. you gaze upon his face fully, for the first time.

you fully expected him to not be looking at you, but he was plastered with an expression of surprise that you were doing the same.

you continue, “i am his and he is mine until the end of my days.” your voice does not waver.

aegon’s expression flatlines, knowing he is next. he pauses a heartbeat, two. the court stills.

then he speaks, voice flat and careless, as though reciting the same vows you just spoke, like he has already memorized and grown bored of them. he ends with, “with this kiss, i pledge my love.”

the sept is silent. the septon nods, and the court shifts in anticipation. his jaw is set, and aegon sets closer slow and deliberate as if even this is something he must force himself to do correctly. his eyes flicker to yours, briefly assessing you, guarded. he expects to see indifference and irritation from you, anything but the steadiness in your expression. 

you did not look afraid.you stood composed, spine straight, hands steady—simply waiting to fulfill what had been asked of you. not trembling, not pleading. just accepting.

and that, though you never knew it, was what he envied most.

because you could meet duty without flinching, while it hollowed him out. he wore his reluctance like a wound he refused to dress, resenting the crown, the marriage, the eyes upon him. you stepped into the same fate with quiet resolve, and he could not understand how. he could not say the same for himself.

he steps closer. his hand hesitates, only for a moment so small it would be missed by anyone not standing close enough to feel it. a breath drawn and held. he catches your scent, unknown to you. then his hand comes to your waist, the first touch. it’s not possessive or tender, it’s careful, as though he is unsure how much pressure to apply.

when he leans down, his mind goes blank as you part your lips, breath shallow. he leans down and kisses you. it’s brief and proper. but yet, not entirely when he leaves—his lips brush yours with just enough pressure to betray an awareness in you.

aegon steps back, eyes full of also exhaustion so deep it borders grief, and the bells finally ring, and cheers rise and the court exhales.

you both take hands and raise them in the air for the court, and more cheers erupt—their sheer happiness for your two contracts to be trapped is almost laughable. but aegon leans closer once more while the court is still loud, so only you can hear. 

his lips near your ear, causing you to shiver on reflex, “do not mistake this for kindness,” he murmurs. “i will not pretend just for you.”

you turn to him, eyes steady, lips playing a smile for the crowd. “nor will i ask you to.” you are not foolish enough to expect warmth from a man raised on disappointment.

for a fleeting moment, something flickers in his eyes, you swear. surprise, perhaps, or irritation that you did not flinch under him or fear him like his reputation precedes him. but then it is gone.

the feast after is long and suffocating. you were changed into another dress, however it does not bring much comfort, especially with the whole evening consisting of you seated and on display.

aegon is beside you, drinking like a man drowning out the world. he laughs too loudly at jests you barely hear from others in the room. he does not look at you when dancers whirl or musicians play songs of ancient love. you sit beside him, untouched, a symbol more than a wife. the new queen.

the table only gets more crowded and more goblets get raised. lord tyland, the master of coin, you learn through his introduction, comes to your table. “may the mother grant you a marriage of love and honor, my grace. my queen,” he says.

you nod, about to thank him, before aegon interrupts. “we do not need your blessings, lord tyland, for i doubt they would mean much anyway”

you can’t help but look away at the crudeness of it all. tyland, however, does not falter. as if accustomed to this, he turns his attention to you instead.

“my queen, i must inquire about your homeland… dorne, is it?” he asks.

“yes,” you reply. surely he already knows, but at least he is making some effort to speak with you—unlike your husband beside you. you can feel aegon’s eyes on both of you, sharp and incredulous, as though he cannot believe lord tyland would address you directly.

“i must say, i have not visited in years, but when i did, there is nothing quite like the heat of the sun. not even the blessings of the gods could save you,” he jokes, and you bite back, eager for conversation.

“yes, dorne’s climate can be wretched, but it is my home, and you grow accustomed to the heat… well, perhaps not someone as fair as you,” you tease in return, earning a genuine laugh from the lord.

tyland begins to question you about the summer sea and scarce trade routes alongside it, when aegon cuts in.

“she wouldn’t know,” he says lightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you feel it before you see it. the subtle shift of the room’s attention the moment he speaks, cutting through the chaos. tyland’s eyes flick toward you, then back to the king, uneasily aware of the sharpness in his words.

“dorne,” he continues, swirling the wine in his goblet. “hot sun, hotter tempers, a place where people survive by stubbornness more than sense. hardly a schooling for court.”

what he says is not loud, it is not shouted, but yet somehow everyone is listening. the true power of the king.

you only smile and look down because that is the only shield that you have, but your hands curl in your lap, nails pressing into your palms.

tyland excuses himself, and finally the shift of all the eyes in the room seems to move off of you.

before you can even stop yourself, you’re speaking back to him. “i grew up in sunspear,” you say, trying to keep your tone measured. “where the sun kills the careless and spares the ones who learn how to endure it.”

aegon’s mouth quirks, sharper than before. “i am the blood of the dragon.” his gaze holds yours, unapologetic. “fire runs in my veins, and no matter how fierce your sun is,” he continues, his voice smooth as silk, “dragonfire is hotter.”

laughter ripples through the room, though none of it touches aegon’s words. it is meant only for you—only you hear it.

he leans back, satisfaction barely hidden. your throat tightens. you felt it, the subtle assertion of dominance in every syllable he spoke towards you. even with two suns blazing from very different lands, he will win every time.

for one treacherous second, your vision blurs. you focus on the table, the rhythm of your breathing, and the imaginary scent of sand that is not there.

don’t cry. not here. not for him, you tell yourself.

a handmaiden hurried to your side, murmuring that you must leave before the king so that he might arrive later, composed, prepared for what was expected of him. you. 

you offer him a small, flawless bow, excusing yourself with impeccable courtesy. not a single crack in your composure as you turned away, skirts whispering over stone. you do not dare to turn back as a single tear slides down your cheek. 

the noise of the feast has fallen away now—no music, no laughter, no watching eyes. the bedchamber is heavy with the scent of smoke and crushed flowers, and the lingering sweetness of the baths you were made to take. all the remnants of a night of celebration neither of you asked for, nor truly claimed as your own.

candles gutter the walls, their light catching gold. gold everywhere—the crown, the embroidery, the weight of it all. the bed dominates the room, waiting with draped linens meant to be ruined.

you are sitting on the bed, brushing your hair mindlessly, when the door closes behind you with a dull, final sound.

aegon stumbles in. not badly enough to fall, but enough to betray the wine in his veins. he laughs once under his breath, sharp and humorless.

he reaches up, his fingers closing around the circlet resting on his head.

“gods,” he mutters, pulling it free and throwing it.

the crown hits the floor with a harsh metallic clatter that makes you flinch, rolling once before coming to rest at the foot of the bed. the sound echoes longer than it should.

aegon exhales and runs a hand through his silver hair, his shoulders slumping.

for a moment he just stands there, not as king or conqueror, just a man.

you hesitate, and then get up. the crown is cold when you pick it up, heavier than it looks. when you straighten, you see he is watching you with narrowed eyes, something defensive swirling in his lilac orbs.

“don’t,” he says quickly. “you don’t have to pretend to care.”

“i’m not,” you reply, honestly.

you place the crown on the table with care. you turn back to him to be met with his expression only tightening more, as if your gesture unsettles him more than mockery.

the silence stretches thin between you. you understand his resentment of the crown and all that comes with it—he has made that much painfully clear but you cannot help wondering if some of that bitterness has settled on you as well. he mocked you at the feast, yes, but you cannot tell whether it was a shield or something sharper. whether he despises the marriage itself, or the woman bound to it. you do not know, not truly. but uncertainty is not an excuse for cruelty, and you refuse to meet his coldness with your own.

his gaze drifts, not politely or entirely consciously, taking in the ceremonial fabric of your nightgown as it falls from your shoulder, then trails to the line of your neck, and lastly your hands as he sees them clenching, like you’re waiting for something. and he knows what, too.

“this is the part they’ll ask about,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the bed, shifting his stance. “they’ll want proof, as if i’m livestock.”

you sigh, feeling yourself empathize with him yet again despite how horrible he acts. “you’re not livestock—” you begin, as his sharp laugh interrupts you.

“you don’t know that.”

you step closer to him, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the tension in the room. the smell of wine is so sharpt, as if you were tasting it yourself. 

“i see a man, perhaps troubled, but a man. not the crown and not duty.” you gaze at him, all words true. without the crown, he truly is just a man.

his eyes flash, cruel and defensive.

“don’t!” he snaps. “don’t look at me like that.”

you’re startled, confused even. “like what?”

“as if you understand me,” he replies.

his anger comes fast, as if he is covering up something else. he steps close—too close now—the heat of him undeniable. dornish sun has taught you heat, yes, but this was different. this was contained, dragonfire waiting to burn you.

his hand lifts, pointing towards you. he’s almost touching your face.

“you don’t..” he says, his voice rising. “know anything about me. what it’s like to have them watching, expecting, waiting—waiting for you to fail yet again, to call you weak.”

you try to rationalize his words, knowing that he is being more truthful than he would be sober. you may not know him personally at all, but you can see right through his ways. his habits, his defense, the language of his actions. 

you contemplate what to say next, if you should say anything. 

your voice is steady when you’re ready. “forgive me, your grace, for my words and actions,” you say softly, “i am merely trying to understand the man i have just vowed my life to. you are right—i may not truly know you, my husband, yet i do know what it is like to be endured rather than chosen.”

your sentence lands harder than you expect. 

the room feels suspended, candles flickering, breath held. his mouth opens to retort, but no sound comes. his face relaxes from frustration, only to display, sadness. his gaze flicks away from you, jaw working, guilt and embarrassment wearing openly across his face.

you are about to speak again, desperate for some sliver of understanding between you, yet acutely aware that each word may only make things worse. he stops you before you can continue. “you’re right to apologize. you shouldn’t speak to me like that. you forget who i am.” his voice is sharp, defensive, and he turns away, deflecting your words as if shielding himself from something you cannot yet name.

he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t even sound threatening.

your mouth opens before you can think, words spilling out of curiosity, defiance, and the desperate need to see beyond the walls he has built around himself. even knowing they might set him against you, you cannot stop. this is the man you are to spend your life with, expected to bear his children, and already the first night is unraveling beneath your hands.

“no,” you say. “i think you forget who you are.”

he spins right back around, closing the distance yet again, his anger full flare now, not holding back, truly resembling the fire of a dragon. “you think you see me? that you’re different from anyone else in this damn place?” he demands.

your eyes widen, as he speak some truth. 

“that because you say a few careful words you’ve seen something no one else has?” now it’s your turn. your eyes flicker away, betraying a quiet heat of embarrassment, as he reads every unspoken thought.

he seems to notice your eyes flicking away and misreads it as fear, letting out a scoff. he was right, he thinks—you’re just like everyone else. thinking of him as a disappointment. what else do you have to lose?

“get some rest,” he says sharply. “this is what they’ll expect in the morning. a closed door is enough for them a silence they can twist into whatever story they need.” he mutters the last part more to himself than to you. “they won’t question it… for now.”

he turns away from you, pacing once, but his hand grazes yours for a second. its fleeting, an accidental contact, but enough to leave a warmth in its wake, a quick reminder that beneath all the anger and defense in this room, something unspoken lingers between you two. it makes both of you pause, though neither acknowledges it. 

he continues toward the door. “in the morning,” he looks over his shoulder briefly, “say nothing. let them assume.”

the words land like a command, but there is something fractured beneath them; fear, embarrassment sharpening into pride, scrambling to reclaim the ground that has been lost in this room.

you don’t argue, unsure any more words of yours will do anything but make everything much worse than it is, knowing there has been enough of that.

he leaves. the door shuts with decisive finality, causing the candles to flicker. the bed remains untouched, only a small indent from where you sat. the crown still sits where you placed it, quiet, waiting, and stripped of power.

aegon walks until the stone corridors blur. his boots strike too hard against the floor, anger driving him forward, carrying him away from the chamber before he can think too much about what he has left behind. the wine still burns his veins, but it’s fading now, leaving clarity in its wake, and with it something far more dangerous.

humiliation.

he presses a hand to his face, dragging it down hard, jaw clenched. gods, he should’ve made it simple—perform his duty, please the court. he thinks, begrudgingly, that you are a pretty sight for a dornish girl. and yet… he cannot take you. because deeo down he knows already it would be intimate, consuming, impossible to contain right now. 

never before has he struggled with taking. never before has duty and desire tangled so sharply in his chest.

the way you looked at him—not impressed, but seeing through him. why did your words slide under his skin, quiet and precise?

“i think you forget who you are.”

"yet i do know what is is like to be endured rather than chosen."

the memory makes his chest tighten. he swears under his breath and turns sharply into a shadowed alcove, bracing a hand against the wall.

he tells himself they will assume it done for now, reassuring. it can wait until the morrow, even though he knows it’s not true.

by morning, he will be king again. sharp and cold to her.

but the thought lingers, unwanted and persistent. he could face dragonfire without hesitation, but your quiet words and understanding undid him.

you stand still, uncertain how either of you will ever show the love you were never taught to give.

already on the first night, you wonder how you could ever come to know him or survive this marriage. and yet, deep down, a fire stirs, a fascination you’ve never felt before, drawn to the man who shields himself so carefully. every glance, every clash of words today has pulled you in, far beyond what you imagined when you took this path.

a/n: i am actually so brain rotted thinking about him ... part two coming soon with much more hehe

green divider by @saradika-graphics <3

[icetruckprincess]

helllooooooo - is this blog alive ?? many apologies, truly, for being gone for so long , life is has been a wreck :/

with that being said i think blood and devotion will stay as three parts. i would love to write maybe a little one shot or headcannons on brian / rudy from my fic if anyone would like the request!!

this does not mean that i am done writing for brian at all - i don’t want to disappoint anyone, i just have finally gotten some inspo for a new fic with another character, that’s making me excited to write again.

hint : is anyone into hotd?? hehe

thank u for all the support on blood and devotion, i truly didn’t know there were that many brian moser fans, and the love for my fic was honestly surprising. so again thank u and pls stay tuned for more !

love,

cherry ꨄ

[icetruckprincess]

hi all!!

so sorry for being so mia, life has been so much recently that I've had literally no time to write at all. that being said, i do have chapter 4 planned out now, and plan to start writing it this weekend!

pls stay tuned, and thank u always for the support heheh

love,

cherry ꨄ

[icetruckprincess]

hi all!

in the process of writing part four of blood & devotion! i hope u guys enjoyed it and the direction im taking it in :)

in the meantime pls fee free to request anything for brian / dexter hehe

part four coming soon!

-cherry ꨄ

[icetruckprincess]

blood & devotion | part three

decription: haunted by memories and unanswered questions,of your night with rudy, you try to move on—until a chilling sense of being watched shatters your calm.

chatper cw: brian moser x f!reader, brian as rudy, manipulation, stalking, canon type violence, implied violence, toxic behavior

wc: 4.7k

part one | part two | part three |

please do not steal or copy my work in any way. copyright © icetruckprincess 2025. all rights reserved.

the first thing you noticed was the cold.

not the kind that seeped through the windows or crept under the doors, but the kind that came from an absence of warmth, breath, presence. your hand reached out blindly into the soft dawn. fingers skimming across the sheets, searching for where rudy had been. the space beside you was not just empty, but untouched. as if he'd never really been there at all.

you blinked slowly, the fog of sleep fading in your mind as you tried to piece together the night before. the taste of him still lingered on your lips, the scent of his cologne, cedar and musk—clung faintly to the sheets. your body ached in that pleasant, sore way that came after something so intimate. but rudy was gone.

no note. no message. just a silence that pressed too hard against your chest.

you sat up slowly, pulling your sheets with you, more for the comfort than modesty. your apartment was eerily still, only the distant whir of tires on wet pavement outside filling the emptiness. it had rained sometime in the night.

you put on one of your old sweatshirts and the cold in the air tingled against your skin. the lamp was still on from the night before. it confirmed that last night with rudy hadn’t just been a dream.

it felt like more than just sex. more than charm and banter and maybe a few drinks too many. there was something beneath it all, an invisible pull. you felt it now even, like he took a part of you whenever he left.

you tried to shake the feeling, feeling stupid for even thinking things would be different, but it clung to your skin.

you eventually settled down on your balcony outside. the humid miami air latched onto you, wrapping around like an uncomfortable hug. the rain from the night before made everything soft and gray outside. you pulled out your sketchbook into your lap and let the pencil find its way across the page. you didn’t even know what you were drawing, or planned anything, it was more instinctive and meditative for you.

what formed under your hand surprised you.

fingers. not your own. his.

long, elegant, strong. the same ones that ghosted down your spine and tangled in your hair.

your pencil moved slower now, tracing the knuckles. you couldn’t help but imagine his hands in a different light, such as his tenderness as he caressed your hand with his thumb at the candlelit table.

but yet, there was something else. a tension to the drawing, a shadow in the lines, that you couldn’t even explain what it was or why your drew it.

in the corner of the page you scribbled your thoughts, you couldn’t help it as they were tumbling out of your mind,

he left without a word, but i still feel him. in my skin, in the air. what happened last night, it wasn’t just lust, i know it. and i think he did too. so why did he disappear? why am i even thinking about this? why can’t he leave my mind?

you abruptly closed the sketchbook before you wrote any more. you sighed, and shook your head to yourself. you hated that the words from your head were there in ink. how you let yourself write them down, affirming that you still believed in something soft. that things would be different like you hadn’t learned by now.

you sat there for a bit, hand resting on top of the closed book like it might keep more thoughts from spilling out. you were smarter than this. last night, all the signs were there, a perfect night, a perfect man, and then gone. nothing but silence.

the week passed in fragments.

you went about your life, outwardly unchanged—teaching your art classes, sketching, checking your phone far more than you would like to admit, and visiting on tony. he still wasn’t awake but that didn’t stop you from going. the truth lingered unspoken, you were hoping to see rudy as well.

after all he was tony’s doctor, he should have been there.

but he wasn’t.

when you asked about him, casually, like it didn’t matter, one of the nurses only offered a polite smile and a vague answer, “dr. cooper’s out for a bit.”

that was all that they gave you, no page, no message. no trace of him at all.

you felt foolish and guilty for even asking for someone else while visiting tony, but the air in the hospital felt heavier than ever. the single glimpse of warmth in that sterile place, was gone.

so you stayed by tony’s side, trying to forget how rudy treated you like you weren’t disposable that night. in the way that he touched you, like you weren’t just somebody to pass the time with. like he meant it.

the days continued on to pass on like nothing.

tony’s condition didn’t get better, but didn’t worsen. you drew his eyes, what they would look like if they opened again, his leg, with the lower half missing. you desperately tried to recreate the feeling rudy explained to you about his work. you continued to write about rudy, as you couldn’t help it, shutting it away in your journal for only your eyes to see.

you were told by a nurse that the miami metro were to come as soon as tony woke up—eager to ask questions, of the ice truck killer. to get tony’s statement, to make him relive that horrid time he was captured. tortured. watched. just thinking about it made you shiver, the hair on your arm rose. made you feel like you had eyes on you.

and when the days continued on, that feeling never quite left.

it started with small things. a chill down your spine when walking home from your parked car. the strange moment in the hospital hallway when you turned around, certain someone had been standing behind you—only to find no one. the way your neighbor’s cat hissed at a shadow that wasn’t there.

you brushed it off, told yourself you were just paranoid about tony, and the lingering feelings towards rudy. that it was doing strange things to your perception.

but you couldn’t shake the feeling. especially one evening, after work. the minute you stepped into your apartment, you felt the air shift. it was almost unsaid—just a lingering trace of something familiar. a faint scent of cedar—your heart tugging at the scent. you locked the door behind you and stood still, listening. but nothing.

still, you walked the apartment slowly. nothing seemed out of place, or was missing, but something wasn’t right. you continued to shake it off, and headed for the shower. hot water always helped you clear your head.

steam filled the bathroom, curling around your limbs like a second skin. you stood under the spray, eyes closed, trying to not naturally think of him. rudy. the feel of his mouth on you, the way his voice dipped low when he told you were beautiful.

and then—

a sound.

barely audible. a creak. the faintest brush of something against tile. you froze.

the hot water pounded on your back, but you didn’t move. your ears strained, every muscle tense. a soft thud echoed—like a door closing gently. your breath caught in your throat. you yanked the curtain aside, heart racing. nothing.

the apartment was silent again.

but you swear, you felt someone.

you turned off the water, grabbing the soft blue towel, wrapping it around your wet body, sticking like glue.

wrapped in only a towel, and dripping, you padded through your apartment. you checked every door, every cabinet, every closet. nothing. no one.

you knew someone had been there.

you turned back toward your room, your pulse still fluttering beneath your skin. damp footprints trailed behind you, whispering against the hardwood floor. the air was still wrong like quiet after a scream.

that’s when you saw it. your sketchbook. it wasn’t where you left it. in fact, it was open, a single page fanned out like an accusation.

you blinked, your heart thudding faster. you always had it closed, tucked away, and here it was now exposed, spine stretched, your drawing and handwriting, plainly visible in the dim light.

you stepped closer, towel clutched tight to your chest.

your breath caught again.

it was a page you had just written last night. one you had written about him, this time drawing his eyes. the words and drawing raw and confessional, vulnerable.

someone had read them.

a cold rush swept over your skin that had nothing to do with the water still on you.

your fingers trembled as you reached out and closed it, heart pounding louder than ever.

someone had been here. someone had seen you. not just your body, but your space.

inside of you.

and you couldn’t help but think, of rudy.

down the street, brian sat in his car parked just down the street. his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. he had almost been caught and he is. he had stood in your bedroom only minutes earlier.

he hadn’t meant to go in, just to scope the outside of your apartment, for the next time he planned to continue his plan. but something inside him pulled at his heart, as he saw you undress for the shower. your figure illuminated by the dim light. your silhouette had passed the fogged bathroom glass, and for a moment he’d almost wanted to stay. make himself known to you again.

so he went in.

he moved slowly through your apartment, careful and practiced. and when he entered your bedroom, his eyes found your sketchbookl.

he just couldn’t help himself.

ever since he had seen you drawing in that room, he was curious to see what was inside. what you drew.

he hesitated, his fingertips hovered over the cover. he felt wrong doing it, but then quickly discarded that thought. you weren’t anything to him. so he opened it.

the marks of pencil had smeared slightly, written hastily, emotionally. his jaw tightened, your drawing, he recognized his eyes, and read the words over and over.

this wasn’t supposed to happen. you weren’t supposed to feel this way about him, be this affected by him. not about him. he forced himself to breathe. the next line he read, carved more into him than any blade could,

if he knocked on my door again, i’d let him in. god help me, i’d let him back in. let him see me again, in and out. he touched me like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

his pulse roared in his ears. for a moment—just a moment he forgot who he was. forgot what he was.

brian moved before he thought, settling the journal down too quickly. too carelessly.

then, the shuffle of the shower curtain, the sudden terror of being seen.

he slipped out, silent as a breath, the door closing behind him with a gentle click.

but part of him stayed there.

he returned to his car, faster than ever, mind racing.

you had written about him, drawn him.

written details of the night you spent with him, and about how it haunted you in the best and worst ways. how you felt a spark that you couldn’t explain.

the same one that tormented him the whole week he was away from you, was tormenting him now.

he told himself this was about control, curiosity. the kill. he was supposed to be watching you, so he was. all week long. to study your patterns, getting close enough to finish what he started. but everything in that journal of yours, in his head, contradicted the plan. you felt it too—the pull.

brian rested his head against the wheel. he should walk away; this is too much distraction. find another woman to carry out his plan. that’s all that should matter to him. you were supposed to be a piece for his puzzle, another woman he cut up and created art out of. not this.

you were jsut supposed to be a piece of puzzle for dexter. to see his brother. none of these weird feelings in his chest.

this distance he created between you two was to dull the ache. that if he kept you away he’d remember who he was, not who you made him feel like he could be.

he noticed throughout the whole week as he watched you, the slump in your shoulders. the way you looked over your shoulder, almost disappointed that no one was there. like you wanted him to be there, watching you.

he drove back to his place in silence. thoughts stirring, he needed to get these thoughts out of his mind.

a few more days passed as brian convinced himself that was the way to let that connection between you two die. he would meet you as rudy once more, destroy the current.

he would forget you and continue his plan with another woman, another victim. someone who didn’t matter. he needed to kill, to regain control. he still had a plan, one he intended to execute, and he needed to play his part. even if his sense of self was unraveling, everything he once believed in. he knew better than this. the closer he got to you, the harder it would be to pull away, he couldn’t handle another hesitation. he couldn’t afford weakness. so he decided he would visit you again, give you the closure and cut it off. play the part as rudy cooper. not give affection, or warmth. he would talk to you as a stranger would and he would remind you, and himself that you were just a thread in his web.

he didn’t want to give you closure, or himself, but he had to. or that version, the one who felt and ached, felt would win. and brian couldn’t let that version survive.

a couple more days passed as brian convinced himself that was the way to let that connection between you two die.

he would meet you as rudy once more, destroy the current. but little did he know that as soon as he saw you in the hospital the next day, that everything would go out the window.

ever since the night you discovered someone invaded your home, you were barely out of the hospital room. still no sign of rudy. you felt violated, watched, but oddly seen. your mind had been racing, overthinking, wondering if it was really possible to consider that it was rudy. his scent, the shift in the air, it was all the same as how it was when he was physically there. not to mention the notebook, open to the page about him. but it couldn't have been—rudy wouldn't break into your home and stalk you? how could you know, you barely knew him, you told yourself. your thoughts vanished as the elevator dinged and the doors opened, signaling it was time to get off, and to stop thinking of rudy.

in your hands, was small, fruity cake, to celebrate tony being awake. as you walked down the hall, the hospital was unusually loud for once—not with the beeping monitor or urgent code, but with laughter, chatter, and the quiet hum of relief.

as you walked in the room, you were greeted by some family members, miami metro officers, and nurses. the past few days of you quite literally living in the room, gave you some connection. tony was smiling, talking and even cracking a few jokes with the nurses. and even flirting with one officer, debra morgan.

debra introduced herself to eva a couple days before tony woke up. the two of you became a bit more than acquaintances, due to the length of your stay and the conversation you two had. she had long, honey brown hair, and an unfiltered charisma to her. she wasn't polished in the way most women tried to be, but in striking way that made you look twice. confident. loud and magnetic.

ever since tony woke, he was making half-clever comments, crooked grins, and leaning-too-close charms. you and your aunt joked, the first thing he does when he wakes up, is flirt with women. but debra, didn't roll her eyes, or walk away, she bantered with him. she smiled even. sure, she was a cop and wanted to get his statement, hell that's why she was there for two days, but she really seemed like she cared about tony’s experience, had empathy. it warmed your heart.

you took your place near the door to tony's room, arms crossed, posture too stiff to be comfortable. you watched as everyone huddled around tony, giving everyone the space to do so. you couldn't help but look, your eyes in each every corner in the room for all the wrong reasons, searching for him.

you told yourself you were fine, and you were happy, but you were exhausted. sleeping in a chair for a few nights was not comfortable, not to mention the wandering thought of if rudy was the one in your apartment. but you were happy. so happy to see tony.

tony called your name, breaking you from your thoughts, “you look like hell.”

your laugh came out soft and breathless, a poor attempt at being casual, “thanks, i've been going for that.” tony always a tease. you walked closer to him.

“you get any sleep this week?” he asked.

“not really, but don't worry. i'm more worried about you.” you replied.

he frowned, reaching his hand out that still had an IV taped to it. you took it immediately. he whispered so no one else in the room could hear, a private moment between you two, “i'm sorry that i scared you.”

you smirked, “you're not allowed to do that again,” whispering back.

“deal,” he said, his smile gentle. “but seriously… you okay? the nurses told me you’ve been sleeping here the past couple of nights.”

you opened your mouth to answer, but the sound of footsteps turned your blood cold. the air shifted, such a familiar feeling. the pull of gravity subtly rerouted. and then you saw him.

rudy.

his silhouette in the doorway, a bouquet of hospital-safe flowers in one hand, that smile—charming, easy in full effect. he walked in with practiced confidence. as if the last week hasn't been a gaping void, as if nothing has happened.

your breath caught in your throat. you hated how handsome he looked. how familiar the night came to your mind. how his eyes found yours immediately through the small crowd of nurses and visitors, locking on like a thread being pulled taut.

you didn’t smile. you couldn’t. your stomach was a riot of nerves, grief and fury.

you watched as he introduced himself around the room, to your family members, the officers, debra, and tony.

your heart pounded. rudy was good. he smiled at debra, joked with tony, blending in like he hasn't disappeared without a word. you turned away before you could see more, before the heat in your chest could burn through the rest of your composure.

but you didn't make it far. a hand, his hand, touched your elbow.

your name left his lips like it was etched there, “…can we talk?”

you didn't look at him. you couldn’t, wanting to keep composure. the two of you blended within the amount of people in the room, but you didn't want anyone to catch on.

“sure” you replied, voice low.

he led you toward his office, where the party faded. when you both entered and he shut the door, you turned sharply, gazing up at him with angry eyes.

“what is this?”

his face widened, as if he didn’t expect you to speak first.

your name flowed off his lips too tender, too familiar, “…look i—”

you couldn’t help but interrupt him, “you left, no like you vanished. i thought something happened.” your voice choked up a bit, and you couldn't help it. you didn’t mean to get upset, but you were. you didn’t know where this confidence to confront him came from, but you needed him to know your pain. you had nothing left to lose.

his voice was low, laced with almost regret, “i know—”

again you stopped him, “i thought i made you up. i thought that night between us was different—I don't know this is stupid.” you felt defeated trying to explain this to him, embarrassed, but little did you know rudy knew exactly how you felt.

brian’s mind was racing. this conversation was supposed to be the closure to get away from her. to cut the thread, burn the bridge and kill the weakness. but watching her spin, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. this should’ve helped him, should’ve reminded him that this was the danger to this, all these unwanted feelings. but all it did was make guilt twist into his stomach.

“i didn’t mean to disappear,” he said, which was a lie, “things got… complicated.”

your eyes narrowed. “complicated? you vanish for over a week—after, after that night and now you just show up here like nothing happened?”

brian looked down, his mask slipping between himself and rudy. his jaw tightened. he didn’t have a lie ready for this part, this conversation was supposed to be his control, not yours.

“i came to see tony,” he offered weakly. you watched as his eyes struggled to stay on you, like he was lying, keeping the truth from you. “to check in, i wanted to introduce myself to him—”

your laugh was short and joyless, “bullshit.”

you were so angry. why show up now? why do this now? why pretend like it meant nothing?

you took a step closer to him, and your voice dropped but the fire stayed in, “if you came here for tony, why are you looking at me like that?”

he blinked. how did you know, how were you reading him now? when did the power shift?

he tried to look away from you but couldn’t. he should’ve walked out, but instead he stepped in too. just a little. just enough to breathe in the air between you and him. just enough to let your scent, lavender, and the memories pull him under again.

“i told myself this was the last time” he murmured before he could stop himself. you caught on.

your brow furrowing, “what?”

“i came here for closure,” he said, his voice softer now. “to see you one last time to make sure i could walk away.” he spoke as if he was surprising himself with each word. and he was. because the truth was already settling into his bones whether he liked it or not. as soon as he heard your voice, as soon as you looked at him like that, hurt, but still wanting answers. he knew. this was not the last time the two of you would see one another.

“then why are you here asking me to talk? why are you still standing here, rudy?” your voice almost a whisper as you gazed up at him. brian’s eyes dropped to your mouth, the same mouth that whispered his name in the dark. that trembled against him. the tension in the room, sexual and physical, was so thick, not even a knife could cut through.

he took a slow breath.

“because i can't seem to forget you,” his words like a confession, as if they were to himself, “even when i try.”

you blinked, your expression softened, not expecting to hear those words from him. your eyes instinctively tearing up. the confession you’ve been waiting to hear all this time. that you weren't the only one that felt this pull. that there was something unexplainable between you two.

“it was you, wasn’t it?” you asked.

his stomach clenched. he forced a confused frown, “what?” he knew exactly what you meant.

your eyes continued to search his, his hesitation bringing you to further explain, “god, i almost wish it was you.”

you watched his eyes widen with your words. that was not what he expected.

you swallowed, “because then maybe it meant that you still cared, maybe it meant that i'm not crazy, for missing someone who vanished like none of it mattered.”'

brian’s chest was tight. he didn’t know how to respond, this was not happening how he planned.

he watched the way that your eyes shimmered with anger and longing, something too honest to fake. and he felt the way he was loosening.

you looked at him like he mattered, his absence affected you. looked at him not with disgust for watching you all week, but almost relief. the silence stretched between you both, taut and trembling. you couldn’t even speak. the weeks worth of overthinking and questions, all led to this moment.

he took another step, closing the space between them. his expression softened, features gentled. his guard lowered. your name left his mouth—it wasn’t fair, “…i see you, and i forget what i’m supposed to be.”

your breath hitched.

that was all it took for you. the confession of his truth, that she didn't dare to hope for. your heart thudding painfully in your chest.

“i shouldn't be here,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, “i shouldn’t be doing this with you.” you took a step back, you could feel yourself under his pull again, waiting for his touch. but you wouldn’t fall for it this time. you couldn’t.

but he followed.

not a full step—but a lean, enough to make you look back at him. “i know,” he said softly. your hand brushed the wall beside you, fingers splayed to steady yourself.

he looked at you, really looked, the curve of your lips, the storm in your eyes. the way that you were holding yourself back right now, everything you were feeling.

he lifted his hands slowly, deliberately, giving you time to pull away.

you didn’t.

his fingers brushed your cheek. featherlight.

“i want the one thing i shouldn't,” he said, barely above a whisper. “you.”

your eyes fluttered shut for a second, his words washing away every red flag or sign that told you to leave. he didn’t move, not until you looked up at him again, your face screaming don't, but your body leaning in slightly.

that was all it took.

his lips caught yours in a kiss that was at first hesitant—like a question. soft and coaxing, but when you deepened it, and your hands gripped his coat. like you needed him to stay—it deepened. darkened. heat blooming beneath skin and memory.

it wasn’t sweet. it wasn’t safe. who knows if it was right. but you didn’t care.

it was the kiss of two people who knew this wasn’t right, but wanted it anyway.

his hand slid to your hair, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moved against yours, calming it. you gasped against him when his other hand found your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. he pulled you flush against him.

your lips parted from his for a moment, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding over yours in a slow deliberate stroke that made your legs weak. your fingers gripped his coat, holding on like you didn’t trust yourself to stand.

he kissed you like he was trying to remember everything about you. take back all the missing days in between the two of you. make up for it.

and you kissed him back like you were waiting for this, for him, since the moment that he disappeared.

the air between you two was electric. your back fully pressed against the wall now, he crowded in, not quite touching beyond lips and hands. but the tension said more. the hunger levied in the inches the both of you didn’t cross yet.

you broke away first, gasping, your forehead falling lightly against his.

he didn’t move, still holding you like he wasn’t ready to let go. and he wasn’t. he was afraid of what would happen if he did. everything happening was like someone else was controlling him.

your voice was barely a breath, “you’re going to ruin me.”

his lips brushed against your cheek, then your jaw. “i already have,” he said as he smiled into your skin.

but even then, he knew—he was already ruined too.

a/n: omg im so sorry ive been gone for so long, i had finals and the got sick right after... so editing this took longer than i wanted :(

i hope it doesn't come across as confusing when i switch more to brians side of view, i really wanted to show the internal struggle he was feeling since it would really take a lot for brian to even consider being w someone mhehehe

[xostargirlox]

[icetruckprincess]

hi everyone! i promise im not mia ive just been swarmmmmed with finals !! its my last yr in undergrad so im also finishing my thesis and then graduating!

part three is the longest yet so it’s taking me a bit to edit it—i’m so bad with spelling errors lol so i have to reread my work a thousand times.

thank u for being so patient and i hope ur still looking forward to it heheh

lots of love,

cherry ꨄ

[icetruckprincess]

your brian fics are the best omg, keep going xx

aghhhh! thank u sm it means a lot to me to receive sm love and support ꨄ part three will be out soon i promise & i think the series will be more than three parts ... hehe so many ideas

lots of love,

cherry ꨄ

[icetruckprincess]

thought i would share my matching shirt with brian mehehe ꨄ

[oxypill]

need to be held disorder

[hisiceprincess-deactivated20260]

specifically like this & by him

[icetruckprincess]

blood & devotion | part two

description: you thought the evening would be harmless—a simple date, a glass of wine. but rudy has a way of leaving an impression, and the night takes an unexpected turn. passion and secrets intertwine, drawing you deeper into rudy's world. unknown to you, darkness lies beneath the surface, and you are left with more questions than answers.

chapter cw: brian moser x f!reader, brian as rudy, drinking, nsfw content, drinking, manipulation, implied violence, canon type violence, mature themes.

wc: 2.9k

part one | part two | part three

please do not steal or copy my work in any way. copyright © icetruckprincess 2025. all rights reserved.

you stood before the mirror, adjusting your hair for the third time. your hands were trembling, but it wasn't nerves— it was the anticipation. after days of second-guessing whether this whole date was really a good idea, rudy kept resurfacing your thoughts. brief as your time with him had been, rudy had left a mark that you couldn't shake. 

so there you were, swiping on lipstick with careful hands, whispering to yourself that it was just a harmless evening. a glass of wine, nothing dangerous, nothing serious. but deep down you knew it was a lie. 

the restaurant rudy chose was dimly it, intimate. the kind of place where people told secrets and fell too quickly into each other’s arms. shadows danced along the wall, stretching tall. jazz murmured from hidden speakers, wrapping around your shoulders like silk. 

rudy looked breathtaking under the low lights, his green eyes always catching you with that same intensity that left you breathless at the hospital. he wore a crimson button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms again, revealing his strong wrists and careful hands. he smelled of cedar and musk—warm and dark. 

you sipped a dark red wine that tasted like velvet and listened to him talk, his voice low, “well i studied in paris for bit. studied prosthetics, and then ended up here in miami after.” 

you blinked, caught off guard, “paris, wow. i’ve never been.” 

he smiled, “ it wasn’t just school” he started, mouth tugging into a quiet smile. “i needed distance. there’s peace in being somewhere no one knows your name.”

the way he said it made your skin prickle. distance from what? it was too early to pry, but it didn't mean that you weren't curious. 

“or where you came from?” you asked softly. 

he nodded, “exactly.” 

the space between you two seemed to narrow in the silence, as it always did. the jass hummed low, like a heartbeat underneath the table. his eyes caught yours again, searching, and then dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting back. 

“prosthehics... it’s oddly intimate work, “ he murmured, directed to you.

your gaze drifted to his hand as he circled the rim of his glass with a fingertip, slow and deliberate. it was impossible not to watch.

"the mechanics of movement are beautiful,” he continued voice softer now, laced with awe. “tendons, joints,—the architecture of it all. we’re built so precisely, and yet… it’s only when something is missing that we understand the elegance.”

the way he said missing, like it was both a tragedy and a fascination pulled at your heart unexpectedly. tony flashed in your mind—his absence. 

and rudy, almost as if he sensed it, reached for your hand. 

his palm was warm as it closed over yours, slow and gentle. his thumb began to trace over your skin, like he was smoothing out the ache in you. 

you parted your lips gently, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. 

“im sorry,” he said, voice low and remorseful. “i shouldnt have, i know—"

“no.” you interrupted quickly, the words tumbling out. you didn’t want to lose the chance where he seemed to be opening up to you. “please keep going.”

he hesitated, his thumb stilling over your hand. you leaned in just slightly, eyes pleading, “i want to hear more. about you.”

his expression shifted—just for a second. a flicker of surprise, or softness. then something darker and deeper passed into a twitch of a smile. 

“the body tells a story,” he said, holding your gaze. “sometimes more in it’s absence than in its presence."

your breath caught. you felt pinned in place, not by fear, but by something else. you couldn’t look away, “you make it sound almost… intimate.”

he titled his head, amused, eyes bright. “it is. you spend hours with a single limb. you start to know it in ways it's owner never did. the slope of it. the weight. the things it once could do. it's like learning someone by what they've left behind.”

you stared at him, eyes wide. still holding his gaze, still in his spell. 

hushed you replied, “you talk about it like it’s art.”

he smiled wistfully, “sometimes it is.”

his thumb swept over your hands again, just once, before he slowly let it go. you almost reached after him, fingers twitching, but you stopped yourself.

you looked away and breathed out the air you forgotten you were holding. you took another sip from your glass, your lips tremebling slightly.

his eyes didn’t leave you. he was waiting for your reaction. so you obliged.

“youre not what i expected,” you said the words barely louder than the music. 

“no?” he asked, lips tugging. 

“not at all. i thought you’d be…simpler. someone who talks fast and leaves faster.” you said it with a light laugh, but you meant it. no one ever lingerd like this. looked like this. not at you.

no one connected to you like this. the way he described his job so poetically mimicked the way you felt about drawing. 

he chuckled softly, shaking his head. “i guess i disappoint.”

you smirked, feeling heat crawl into your cheeks. “not yet.”

the night stretched on—rich and dangerously. conversation flowed but always with the undercurrent of something unspoken. he listened to you attentively, as if memorizing every detail you shared. his eyes kept returning to your hands when you gestured or to the line of your legs in the candlelight. 

and you noticed.

but your instincts—the ones that whispered this was all too perfect, were drowned out now, soothed under the weight of wine and the gravity of him. the way he made you feel seen. 

your laugh came easier the more he spoke. your posture softened, you heart beat faster, and it was not just because of the wine. 

and so when he asked to take you home, you didn’t hesitate. you said yes. 

the ride to your apartment was blur. the air between you both had grown thick with tension, heat and desire. he even walked you to your apartment door. streetlights hummed above you two. a breeze teased your hair across your cheeks. 

“thank you," you said as you stopped in front of the door. “i didn't expect to enjoy tonight this much.”

“i did,” he murmured, stepping closer. “from the moment i saw you in the hospital, i knew.”

before you could ask what he meant, his mouth found yours. your back hit the wall gently, as he covered your head so it wouldn't hit the door.

you broke away first, feeling a whirlwind, but whispered, “come inside.”

he followed you in. 

your apartment felt different with him in it like the air had shifted. you turned on a lamp by the couch, casting everything in a soft amber light. it wasn’t loud, but quiet, the hum of the city outside was your only witness.

you turned to him, heart in your throat, and found him watching you, like something he couldn’t believe was real. 

rudy stepped in close, and you didn’t move away. 

he tilted his head, asking for permission without even saying a word. you nodded almost eagerly, jolting when you felt his hand find it’s way to your back. 

“you sure?” he asked, voice careful. 

“yes” you whispered. no hesitation. just want. 

he exhaled, something like surrender. he leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. but you didn’t. you met him halfway. 

his mouth was warm and precise. not greedy, nor urgent. he kissed you as if he was trying to understand you—his lips brushing yours softly as first, then deeper. his hands went to your hips, sliding around you with the same devotion he spoke about with prosthetics. as if you were something he needed to know by touch alone. 

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. you felt his chest against yours, his breath hitching when your lips parted from him. for only a second, as he pulled you back.

his tongue moved with slow control, deliberate like everything else about him. he tasted of wine and something else you couldn't be bothered to think of.

“you’re beautiful,” he said into your neck, his voice so close it sent shivers through your spine.

his hands moved under your shirt, exploring you gently, reverently. you helped him remove it, and he paused to take you in.

his fingers traced over the lined of your ribcage, then over your collarbone, as if mapping you. his eyes were fixed on your body like it was a canvas he studied from afar and now finally had the permission to touch.

you undressed each other slowly, carefully. no rush. no shame. the slow reveal of his skin underneath felt like unwrapping something dangerous and rare. his lean lines of his torso with taut muscle under his tan skin. 

but what caught your eye and what stopped your hands as it reached for him, was the tattoo on his upper arm. you couldn't stop looking, it wrapped his arm like a secret that whispered deeper things. 

it was simple at first glance: dark ink curling together, wrapping around muscle like it belonged there. but looking closer you saw it was hounds, chasing one another, bound together. you should’ve asked about it, but he kissed you hard before you could even. 

when your back hit the bed, you let out a breathless laugh. he followed you down, eyes drinking you in as if you were something holy. 

but he didn't rush, he didn't even kiss your lips again. he moved lower. 

his lips moved down your neck, to your collarbone, then your chest. he took his time, tracing the curves of your body with his hands and kisses. his mouth was warm, his breath hot. when he reached your stomach, he turned to look up at you. 

“you have no idea,” he whispered, his voice like silk, “how perfect you are.”

he kissed the inside of your thigh and you gasped, hips tilting upward on instinct. but he held you down steady, controlled as his hands splayed against your skin as if to ground himself in the feel of you. 

and then his mouth was on you.

you cried out, back arching as his tongue moved with deliberate devastating precision. it wasn't just pleasure, it was worship. he licked you up and down, pausing to kiss between each motion, not to tease but to devour you.

“rudy—” you whimpered, hand tangled in his dark curls.

he looked up at you, his pupils wide, lips glistening, and a crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“let me make you fall apart in my hands,” he murmured, voice low and tender, "let me take control.” 

and you did. 

he returend to your clit with relentess attention, refeusing to stop even as your hips jerked and thighs trembled against his shoulder. you came with a broken cry, shuddering underneath him, your chest rising and falling like a storm had passed through you. 

he kissed his way back up your belly, ribs, the swell of your breasts. he left a faint trail of breath and drool across your skin. 

“i—i want you. please rudy” you whispered. 

he hovered above you in the quiet of the bedroom, the city lights casting a soft glow on him— striping his body in shade and gold. your eyes followed the trail of hair that led from his navel downward, and when he let his briefs fall to the floor, you gasped softly.

he was… beautiful. thick and long, resting heavy against his lower stomach, his desire was visible, unashamed. but there was nothing crude about it. 

this was the man who touched you like you were art. who spoke of bodied the way poets spoke of marble. who kissed you like each one was a promise. 

and now he was offering himself to you. not demanding, simply waiting. watching your face for an answer. 

your thighs parted on instinct, your breath hitched.

“please.” you whispered.

and that’s all he needed to hear. 

when he entered you, it wasn't with force—it was with care. deep and patient. like he was savoring the moment. a groan caught in his throat and your body stretched around him, full and filled. 

he pressed his forehead against yours and in return you wrapped your legs around his waist. every movement was slow and measured. every thrust was like a secret shared in fragments.

“you feel like..” he stared, but couldn’t finish as he moaned. 

you kissed him, not needing the words. you felt it too.

there was something electric in the way he looked at you while his cock pushed into you, like he coudln't understand what he was doing, only that he needed it. his hand slid over your cheek, your shoulder, your hip—tracing you again.

he murmured your name unto your skin, like a confession.

his pace quickened and became rougher. he lifted your legs to his shoulders. it hurt a little, but the kind that burned hot, that made you want it more.

“don't stop,” you whispered, “please.”

he continued his pace and he lowered himself down to kiss you like he needed it you breathe. you felt yourself almost coming undone for a second time, wanting it more than ever. 

your reached for his hand, and guided it towards your throat. his eyes widened, only for a second, as he understood completely. his fingers wrapped around your throat, squeezing gently and possessively as he pushed deeper, never breaking rhythm. 

your eyes fluttered shut. 

“no,” he groaned out, voice laced with command, “look at me.”

you opened your eyes immediately and there he was, watching you like you were prey he had chosen. and yet, you didn't feel afraid. you felt like his. 

you cried out, begging for more and he obliged. 

rudy was in control completely of you, and yet he felt something underneath. your eyes continued to lock with his, and he saw something he hadn’t expected: care. it disarmed him. 

you didn’t even know who he was, or what he had done, but looked at him as if he were whole. like he was something worth touching. 

your hands reached up, gently touching his jaw, “rudy, please” you whispered on the edge.

he heard it. felt it.

and when you came, it was breaking and real—your body shaking under his, as you dug your nails in his back. which only encouraged him to move faster, aching for a release of his own. he followed after, with a low groan into your neck.

but he didn't let go of you. he stayed there, skin to skin, his breath hot on your throat. 

you fell asleep like that. wrapped in his arms, your head ending up on his chest. the beat of his heart echoing under your ear like a note to a song.

brian didn’t sleep. 

he lay still, watching you in the hush of the early hours, the city still humming outside the window. 

your skin was still warm, breath still soft against his chest. the tension you carried during the night had vanished, melted into the sheets. you were fast asleep. brian stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

his heart was still beating too fast, but not from exertion, something else. you trusted him. you had looked at him like he was real, like he could be good. gazed at him with your eyes saying he deserved to be touched.

he turned his head slightly, just enough to look at your face in the half light. your lashes lay dark against your cheek, your lips parted. still flushed from earlier, you looked soft, unprotected. 

it was perfect. he could kill you right now. it was so easy. you were already his, and you had given yourself. 

his fingers hovered above your throat. this was the plan. he always had a plan, and it always ended the same way. he could squeeze the air out of your neck just like he did before, but with more force, watch you struggle to breathe, losing the light out of your eyes. he reached for it, his fingers grazing your neck—but then stopped. 

your hand shifted in your sleep, reaching for him instinctively. his hand didn’t move. 

his heart stuttered. his chest twisted in a way that didn't make sense- burning and wrong. it was a feeling brian didn't have a word for. but it felt nostalgic and distant. 

your breath was steady. the same breath that had gasped his name hours earlier, the same breath that trusted him with the closeness no one else had earned. 

he clenched his jaw, trying to avoid whatever this was. he inhaled sharply through his nose and peeled himself away from you. careful not to wake you.

he stood at the edge of your bed, watching you, as he dressed in silence. 

he moved towards to couch, sitting in the dark, hands trembling. he had never hesitated before. never once. his eyes lingered on your form under the covers once more, your arm stretched out from where it had reached for him in sleep. 

he couldn't kill you, not tonight. 

you were too close to knowing him. too close to making him feel like he could be known. and that was dangerous for you. for him. 

so he left without a sign. no note, no message. no fingerprint or strand of hair for you to remember him by. he closed the door behind him with the sound of a whisper, and slipped out of your apartment like a shadow.

he would kill from afar, he decided. let the obsession fade. cut the attachment surgically, let it rot like a limb.

but just not tonight. not after the way you looked at him. not after the way you held him. 

and not with that indescribable feeling still in his chest—warm and terrible.

a/n: i hope you guys like this one hehe.. im so awkward when it comes to writing intimate scenes lol. also i think this will be more than three parts mehhehe. enjoyyyy!

[icetruckprincess]

MASTERLIST

BRIAN MOSERꨄ

ꨄ blood & devotion : fin.

part one | part two | part three |

AEGON TARGARYENꨄ

ꨄ the throne between us : ongoing

part one

[icetruckprincess]

oh boy! another brian writer for our small, teeny tiny little fandom. welcome welcome!!! hello! hope to get to know u soon

good stuff so far! lots of luv.

-🤍

omg thank u sm, this message is so sweet, truly. would love to get to know u and everyone as well. i've been a silent reader myself for so long, and i finally got the courage to post my own writing. also bc we all needed more content of him hehehe.

lots of love to you as well!

-cherry ꨄ

[sweetdumthng-deactivated2025050]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy,moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious,gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.