hard yearner! satoru finally convinces you to go on a date with him
"you look beautiful baby~" gojo sings out. he is on a mission. and he has a vision.
but you do not know that—okay that's untrue. you do know but you choose to ignore it. so you stick with aggressively rolling your eyes .
what makes it even more ridiculous is the fact that you are dressed in your laziest getup . a ratty tshirt of which you had cut off the neckline to make it off shoulder to combat the heat, and loose cotton pants.
anyone with two eyes , proper hearing and a semi functional brain can tell that he is overdoing the flattery. but for what end goal you couldn't decipher. he has already been in your panties ( and probably will be again). so it was utterly lost on you why he had dragged you to an amusement park—and the fact that you had agreed to come with him.
but satoru was on a mission. he had groveled, begged, gave you the best oral, begged some more to finally get you to go out with him.
this was a start. maybe one day he would be given the privilege of holding you not just during the quick fucks, but through the night as well .
he had daydreamed the feel of your hand in his, your fingers intertwined. so with one more "you smell so delicious today baby" , he sneaks his hand into yours.
you give a little jerk, trying to shake your hand free but he just tightens his hold. "gojo let go"
his voice is as chirpy as ever. "is it a new perfume? i approve!"
when you fail, again, to wriggle your hand free you give him your best annoyed voice "gojo."
"satoru" he corrects mildly, while looking around. then proceeds to drag you to a mascot stand run by an elderly couple. they look tired in the unforgiving heat, their age doing them no favour either.
any guy would have gone for flowers, or food. or perhaps some expensive shit.
but he was gojo. funny . sappy. kind.
so when he buys you not one, not two , but three varieties of corny graphic tee's and two hats with matching 'blue jean babys' written on them, you don't complain.
somehow this little gesture of his manages to dampen your annoyance.
you have always loved to chase the high. and satoru had always loved making you reach it. so he takes on the roller coaster. the upside down swinger which you enjoyed too much. then on the 'death plunge' (which he jokes about for the rest of the day)
his mission continues though.
a swipe of his fingers against your lips 'you had some ice cream there baby'.
the classic yawn and stretch maneuver which ended up with his arm around your shoulders and you pressed into him.
and the absolute deal breaker—the kiss at the top of the feris wheel. satoru had even timed the fireworks and shit.
but you had already made it clear when you both started fucking. no kissing.
he joked about it of course when you pushed him back, but you caught that brief flicker of hurt. you should be able to ignore it. like you had done so many times before. you both had been at this game for way too long.
and perhaps you were finally losing your mind.
there was no other possible explanation for what you did after he dropped you off at the entrance of your apartment building.
after he sing songs a random tune about you looking gorgeous in your blue jean babys' hat and ratty tshirt.
after he jokes about taking you out again and making you fall in love with him. after he begs about letting him stay the night .
after he whines about you giving him a goodnight kiss, all the while the wind swept his light hair into his eyes and that awfully charming smile danced on his lips.
because you pulled him down by his shirt collar and pecked him lightly on his cheek.
that shut him up.
"go home , satoru."
you couldn't stop the small snicker at his dumbfounded expression.
he just nodded and turned around stumbling at his own feet.
you crossed your arms and leaned against the building wall and watched him as he lifted a hand to rub his cheek. then glance back at you once. then as he let out a loud howl (which you have never before heard a human make) and ran out of the apartment complex.
another snort escaped you. both at his childishness. and at your foolishness.
you really were losing your mind.
kinda pt2 of this if anyone's interested :) @chickyyy511
brat! reader demanding boyfriend 𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒏𝒂 to hold her hand while he carries all the bags
your hands feel weird. empty, you note suddenly.
then you look at your boyfriend walking just 2 steps ahead of you. both of his hands full of shopping bags and grocery packets.
it must be heavy. it is heavy. that's why sukuna is carrying them and not you. you give a sigh of appreciation as your eyes roam over his frame.
tall , dressed in dark shades, muscles pulled taut. quite the head turner. and more than capable of carrying a few bags, you mentally note.
your friends often complained about their partners expecting to split the baggage. half n half and shit that felt so absurd to you that you had obnoxiously bragged about your husband demanding that you 'do not lift a single finger'.
the girls had the audacity to look skeptical.
you pull up the camera app on your phone and click record.
"baby?" you call out, pretending to scroll. the camera records your man as he half turns his head.
"why aren't you holding my hand?" you demand like a spoiled brat. you catch the faint upward tug of his lips as he turns his head to face forward again.
then he releases his pinky from under his grip on the bags and slightly points it. you let out a happy sound and grab onto it. making a point of zooming in your camera on the view.
then you reverse the camera and film your face.
sukuna often tells you to wipe that smug look off your face. but how can you when you bagged such a hot deal?
so you give your brattiest grin and lean your head against his bicep. the camera doesn't capture his face, he is too tall for that.
sukuna doesn't comment, even as he watches the display. what can he say? he quite likes being shown off by his princess.
omgg hiiii !!! i literally just liked and reblogged a BUNCH of your fics (sorry for blowing up your phone :'D) i love your writing!!!!! neva stoppppp (and I love the colour scheme like heloooo????!!!)
campus heartthrob and resident fuckboy GOJO SATORU shocks everyone by going exclusive with you
gojo satoru settling down was as unlikely as catching the hour hand of a clock moving.
notorious for being a lady's man , he had it all going for him. he was all bedroom eyes and cheesy smiles that can make anyone's knees go weak. he was full of loud laughter and nonchalant swagger.
like he didn't give a damn.
cigars for breakfast, skipping lunch to attend classes if he felt so, hard liquor with his frat boys and a different woman in his bed at night—for dinner of course.
he had the face, he had the body, he had the charisma. none could blame the poor souls who wanted a taste, even for just one night.
and satoru. oh. satoru was just a guy. who was he to turn away the beautiful ladies? he didn't chase after them, it was just his luck that they came to him first.
then he caught his first glimpse of you. at his party, looking so out of place that made his eyes zero in on you. not even a cup in your hands. looking so good that it made him want to do something bad.
so he slid up to your side with his usual confidence. started a conversation he could hardly care about. and ultimately, was shocked into silence when you hit him with a "sorry, that pea in your bed is going to bruise my back".
rejected him.
rejected him.
and thus began satoru's chase. the chase for your heart.
the local campus gossip forum ruminated , 'the heartthrob, gojo, has been caught getting rejected by unknown woman. the university has since, seen a rise in the number of women left unsatisfied as gojo's bedroom door has been closed for shocking reason. is a reform on the way? is exclusivity on the horizon? '
heads turned as the usually absent satoru was seen attending classes almost to the point of regularity.
gasps rang out when someone leaked a picture of him handing you flowers. red. roses.
so awfully cliche that you couldn't even blame your past self for the disgust on your face in the aforementioned leaked picture.
women raged when a video of him begging you while chasing after you on the sidewalk surfaced in the stories of satoru's frat bro's.
the man who was known for being as careless with his words as people are with their phones after a year, was suddenly mindful of his vocabulary.
when before, smirks and winks were handed out to the girls so easily—now they were reserved just for you it seemed.
and the crazy part of it all? you made him run. you made him grovel. you made him fix his failing grades. made him fix his fillipiant attitude.
and made him take 2 hiv tests.
made him give a damn.
but you couldn't change his cliché-ness. he was a sappy romantic. he snuck candy in your stationery, climbed up your window ledge and left flowers in your hair when you weren't paying attention to him.
he even started gifting you books which you had talked about in that first meeting. at the frat party. and that was when you caved in. not enough to let him in your bed. but enough to go out with him.
the frat boys tripped over themselves when they caught satoru in a white formal shirt and black slacks. a red rose in his pocket. the picture of a lover boy. the change was not sudden, he had been chasing after you for months . but it was shocking nonetheless.
and satoru. oh. satoru was in love. the goodness tasted way better on his tongue than cigar smoke. your perfume on his clothes smelled better than nightly sex.
and your hand in his made his heart race faster than any orgasm he had ever had.
he never imagined himself to be tamed by a woman. yet here he was. and he had no regrets.
not when people all around him gaped at your fingers scratching the hair at his nape.
not when his boys hollered at the tattoo of your name over his heart.
and certainly not when you finally let him in your bed.
he still had a long way to go though. to prove that he was there to stay. to prove that he was exclusive to you.
so as he lay stroking your back as you slept on his chest, he planned the perfect little outing to take you on the next day. (and ways to woo you so that you would invite him to your bed again)
𝜗ৎ────── 3 TIMES HE WAS YOUR ENEMY AND THE 1 TIME HE WASN'T ,, ᘜ. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔
꒰ 5+1 ꒱ type shi ,, highschool au ,, g is a hot nerd hastag nerdjo ,, i tried to get the pining right but idk you tell me ,, .ᐟacademic rivals —> lovers ,, follows the 3 year japanese hs system (grade 10 to 12)
0. PROLOGUE
you were over the moon that your stellar grades got you accepted to such a prestigious highschool. excited for the next three years to come , you stared at the sprawling, shiny campus before you. truly an academics haven.
with jittery nerves , you followed the other fresh faced 1st years to class, making small talks about your previous school and listening to their old stories.
introductions were made when the homeroom teacher arrived. there were many meritorious students, no doubt. but one especially caught your gaze.
he was tall with blond hair and behind his rimless glasses were the prettiest eyes you had ever seen. as blue as the ocean.
you couldn't stop staring as he spoke. he didnt blabber or fumble like some of the others, just a few sentences. voice sharp and clean cut.
gojo. satoru gojo. and he was beautiful.
and when he caught you staring, the smile he gave you made sleep impossible to come that night. it felt like a dream . but then the next day came.
and the nightmare started.
I. YEAR 1
as the high slowly started to wear off, things started to get clearer. the first thing you noticed—besides his beauty—was that he was competitive. to a fault.
for every right answer you gave he made sure to give the next two. for every question you asked the teacher, he asked a follow up one. he seemed to know everything.
he was smart. he was good looking. and he knew it.
but what he didn't know was that you both were a match made in hell. so you started your own streak.
finding loopholes in his questions, no matter how petty. finding errors in his answers. sniffing haughtily if he got an answer wrong (that was like one time, so you regret not scoffing and coughing as well. it was a historic moment)
year end exams came. everyone breathed a sigh of relief as normal classes were replaced with study blocks. the classroom did not sound like two teens going into gorilla warfare with intellect instead of guns, anymore. just quiet sounds of turning pages and scraping of pen against paper.
that year you tied gojo as the 1st ranker of year 1. with the exact same marks in the exact same subjects, up to the very .987....E on that calculator.
and somehow, things got uglier.
II. YEAR 2
when petty rivalry escalated to him hiding your chem notes two days before the midterm exam—the ones where you had meticulously noted each derivation, each of the hundred reactions that made phthalimide , and every single word that kohlrausch had uttered in his lifetime about his freaking electrolyte like he was your grandpa leaving behind his journal—you finally snapped.
he topped the midterms.
when the devil works hard, you work harder.
you became quiet in class. no longer participating in his game of 'your 1 is 2 of mine ' . you observed him from afar, scheming the perfect revenge plan.
he tried to goad you when didn't rush to one up on him in class. "what? have you given up studying? couldn't keep up?"
but you held your tongue. even when you wanted to slap that infuriating smirk off his beau—ugly ass face. your time will come.
on the day of your physics final exam, you bumped into him in the hallway, scattering your exam supplies. he laughed at your clumsiness , absolutely unaware of the tiny pieces of parchment being slipped into his pant pockets.
later , as the examiners checked the uniforms of students before letting them enter the exam room, disbelieving gasps rang out. disapproving stern voices were heard. lots of groveling pleas were made.
the golden boy was made to start the exam an hour late.
you topped the finals.
that spot of 1st ranker was another tie for year 2.
III. YEAR 3
the last year of high school brought in new distractions. the other sex.
you were fixated on your studies though. you were determined to come first at least once in your highschool carrer.
it didn't shock you when gojo got a girlfriend. no. what shocked you was that he was letting lose.
he seemed to almost not care anymore. not about topping the class, atleast.
you would catch him staring at you, quickly averting his gaze when you raised your eyebrows at him. or just smirk at you in that arrogant way of his. it infuriated you to new highs everyday.
when before he used to spend his lunch hours studying just 3 tables away from yours, it was now spent holding hands on the bleachers with his girlfriend.
you scoffed to yourself whenever you saw them together. and you ignored the little voice in your head that kept chirping that she looked...kinda nice. with him.
you aced your midterms. yet the victory felt somehow... underwhelming.
it wasn't that his empty library spot taunted you or anything. it wasn't that you missed having an academic competitor. and it definitely wasn't that you were jealous.
nope.
so you said 'yes' when the school's notorious playboy asked you to prom.
and tried to shove him off when started to get too touchy and demanding on the dance floor.
and gaped like a fish when gojo satoru punched the dude so hard the fucker had a bandaged nose for the next two weeks.
and continue quietly on with life after that as satoru started avoiding you like the plague, feigning nonchalance.
finals rolled in. and rolled out . like the tides of the ocean.
IV. GRADUATION
the valedictorian sash was put around you on the graduation day. your speech was full of the usual jazz— motivation, a pinch of humour, a small effort at being relatable, and a whole lot of praise for the school faculty.
but the speech wasnt really your concern. it was the boy loitering against the tree away from the bustle graduates and their parents.
you stomped your way to him, breathing hard at the exertion, "you broke up with your girlfriend."
he looked up surprised. it wasn't really new. it was quite the talk of the school after that 'prom-punch' .
he shrugged as he lowered his gaze. you watched his cheeks colour slightly.
you continued, slightly emboldened by his reaction, "why did you let me get the first place?" he stiffened, almost unnoticeably.
you had seen the merit list. he was second in your year. so he definitely did care about 'mundane' things like studying. even if now he seemed to have taken a liking to acting like he didn't.
"i guess you are just better than me." faux confidence, the arrogant smirk, loose shoulders as he leaned against the tree. he looked every part the rival from your first three years of highschool.
but you knew him better than anyone. three years of trying to beat, sabotage, and pine after someone makes you quite the body lingo expert, apparently.
so you strode right up into his space and pressed your lips to his after saying "and i think you are full of utter shit"
and somehow your petty school rivalry became something more.
.ᐟ COLLEGE MIDTERM BREAK
you looped your arms around his neck, giggling wildly as he spun you around. the kiss that followed was just as sweet and rewarding after staying away from him for so long.
he pressed his forehead onto yours, " is the grass any greener now that you are so far away from this miserable town?"
you hummed as you kissed him again. "definitely greener. but lacks a certain blue." he grinned at that. then nuzzled your cheek. you whispered in his ear. "and my favourite rival."
and he made up for that by preparing worksheets and racing you on who could complete their assignment first.
much to your annoyance he did, the first time.
so you rewarded him , though much willingly, by riding his cock for an hour.
naturally, the next day you beat him by completing your assignment just mere minutes before him.
and he rewarded you by eating out your pussy for two hours afterwards.
and you swore you never loved him more(okay, perhaps when he did the prom-punch. it was iconic for a reason!)
𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒— i love my men blond and my characters in a hate/love, pine/kill situationship :D . and im prolly never getting over my jjk phase atp. lmk if u guys want g's pov !
queen @chososprettygirl 's whipped gojo series has me on a chokehold 😋
"where you goin' babyyyy " gojo whines after you push him back on his bed the second time. his expression is every bit the way he acts around you. lovesick.
"back to my apartment" you reply dismissively, gathering your bag and keys. you curse as you look at the time on your phone. much too late.
it was another impulsive decision on your part. and you really didn't do impulsive.
bare arms wrap around you tightly. "stay the night, pretty pleaseee" he begs , burying his face in the crook of your neck.
you give an irritated huff, twisting out of his embrace and walking out of the bedroom. you hear him trailing behind you like a kicked puppy.
"i even got food , look! its from that one place you love, the one with the yellow signs ! its gonna go to waste! " he says hopefully. as you make your way towards the front door , your gaze falls on the kitchen counter where two covered plates of said food sits. " atleast eat with me!" he whines again.
when you dont respond he snags your wrist. this makes you turn to him sharply.
his hair is mused , grey sweats hang low on his hips. red scratches cover his chest.
you had texted him late. asking to come over. and he had agreed readily. he never said no to you no matter how awful the timing.
you feel a little guilty then. so you start patiently. "look. i had a fucked up day. needed release. thats all."
he is as undeterred as ever. you sometimes wish you had his optimism.
he moves closer to you, "exactly! so les' eat together and we can even watch a movie! and after that we can do round tw—"
you cant stand the sight of his big blue eyes all hopeful and mushy and full of feelings. so you shove him off again.
"i dunno what you think this is. but im not looking for whatever you are trying to offer—other than sex." you say as you walk out the door.
you were being extra harsh on purpose. you had tried everything. kind words, reassurances followed by slow carreses , easy rejections to the commitment bit.
but nothing worked on the man.
he makes a pitiful sound as he hurriedly follows you out of the apartment . barefoot and shirtless. "jus' one date babe. pleasee. i swear ill make you fall in love with me !"
you closed the elevator door on his face.
you could hear him louldy calling out your name as he sprinted down the flights of stairs after you entered the lobby. the lobby receptionist feigned ignorance as gojo caught up to you.
he was full on throwing a tantrum now, voice all loud and high pitched and slightly out of breath, "the dicks good enough for ya! i swear the whole package 's even better ! one date and if i don' succeed we can go back to jus' fuckin' i promise"
embarrasment made your cheeks pink. you knew he was being so openly crass on purpose . a backhanded tactic to pressurize you.
"none can make you cum as hard as i do baby! whose gonna eat you out th—"
"FINE!" you scream as you slap your palms on his mouth , effectively shutting him up.
you could see his eyes scrunch up at the corners. can feel the victorious grin slowly forming against your fingers. he mumbles something. you remove your hand.
"one date. no take backs now. i've got witnesses" he says happily, face all childish mischief. you give a tired sigh.
"yes. one date."
his shit eating grin grows in size. the cold night air turning the tips of his ears pink. with a long finger, he pointed to his lips
──────ꫂ᭪݁ your husband 乙𝐔𝐊𝐎 sets the bed chamber on fire on your wedding night ♡ﾟ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
after pining. and pining . and some more pining—
the first night of your marriage had finally arrived. zuko couldn't keep his hands off of you for even a second after the lengthy ceremony.
you both had been promised to eachother since a young age.
it had taken years of time and patience—understanding—to finally be ready to stand before the priest. to be united in matrimony.
years of learning the ways of ruling. the way of the people .
years of long afternoons cooped in the cavernous library studying the ancient scrolls.
years of learning the better half.
and somewhere in between, love had blossomed.
zuko didn't know if it was familiarity. or the way you tucked his long hair behind his ear. or the way you sometimes knew the correct answer even before him, and your eyes lit up when the royal tutor praised you . or perhaps in the way your dark eyelashes cast long shadows on the apples of your cheek.
but all he knew was that he was—had been in love with you. for a long time.
and as he slowly pushed into you , it was nothing like how he imagined. but it was everything he could have ever wished for. your little gasps were the sweetest melody to his ears. your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, slowly tightening as he started to thrust into you.
he was careful and slow. giving you the time and care that you—his wife—deserved.
he was a patient man.
all the while zuko kept his gaze fixed on your face. he watched mesmerized as your eyes started to become half lidded—pain transforming into pleasure. his fingers found your clit , tracing slow circles. learning the tells of your body. learning the soft sounds that you made when his fingers found the little nub.
it wasn't long before you were spasming around his girth, whimpering 'i love you ' over and over again that he finally started to chase the high.
he was a patient man really.
but the mere sight of you , so beautiful and pliant and warm under him—he was a man gone blind.
and like a blind man he chased the fire that glowed just behind his lids. all consuming and addictive.
gods the stinging of your nails scratching against his back—pain never felt more good.
and as he finally thrust into you one last time before he came undone—his teeth found the sweet sweet spot in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. you smelled divine. he lapped at your neck, inhaling your natural scent mixed with hints of the ceremonial incense which he knew clung to him too.
you were soft under him , tugging at his hair again. but he couldn't bring himself to move his face from the crook of your neck, his safe haven. he imagined he was possibly too heavy, half slumped over you the way he was as he came down from his peak.
your voice floated to his ears as if through smoke. "my lord..."
he grunted once. still nibbling on your skin.
"zuko." this time your voice was firmer. his fire lady. he looked up. "i love you, my fire lord" you had repeated.
and he realised the chamber was, infact, smoking. burning was the correct term really. the heavy curtains were on flames, blazing the walls and the woven carpets and mats.
it was an inferno around you both, in the literal sense.
later ,long after the flames were put out—the burning gossip did not die down for months. the fire lord and lady were prone to accidental bursts of fiery passion.
zuko quite liked the rumours . enjoyed the reminders of that night that the quiet whispers of his councilmen brought him.
he wanted to remember it.
your face—illuminated by the flames, smiling as you lay in his arms in the middle of the raging fire around you both—was something he would remember for a long long time. there was no panic. no hurry to leave the burning chamber.
he had realised he would probably set the world on fire for you. the bed chamber was just a small demonstration.
"i love you" he had whispered back.
and he hadn't been more sure of anything in his life.
𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒— i can never get enough of this trope :D *cough* violet sorrengail in that one scene in fourth wing *cough*
ꮼ───you love to keep your husband 𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐨 all to yourself────── ݁ ⛧ ₊
your entire body shudders as you ride your high, your legs weak and quivering from where they are wrapped around his waist.
your vision is blurry, so your other senses compensate by heightening themselves tenfold.
the silk sheets cling to your sweat slicked skin, as you arch your back when he hits that little spot again, and again and again,
"Zuko—"
you never finish your sentence. by the gods—you do not remember what you wanted to say in the first place .
your nails claw into his back as he continues to pound into you, his warm mouth firmly latched onto your neck.
your senses run amok , registering things that are usually so insignificant.
your nerves feel as if on fire. you are over-stimulated . the chamber smells of the sweet incense you had lit an hour or so ago. and of sex.
the heavy mahogany bed creaks underneath you. you feel his hair as it cascades around you, his teeth as they sink into your skin, him inside you.
It's painful. it's addicting.
his thrusts start to slow. the slow drags against your walls makes you whimper and moan. his mouth captures yours , swallowing your sweet sounds. he tastes like fire and a little like you.
its messy, droll runs from the corner of your lips—mixing with your tears that hadn't even realised had escaped from your eyes.
with one final thrust, he collapses onto you, burying his face between your breasts. you cherish the feeling of him in your arms. you smell him, you smell yourself on him.
his chest heaves as he regains his breath. you slowly brush away the sweat slicked hair from his forehead. his skin looks golden under the yellow candlelight.
your fingers trace the jagged lines on his back . even with your eyes closed, you know where each one begins and ends.
its a peaceful lull. a slowing in time.
the knocker raps harshly against the large ornate wooden doors. you can faintly make out the muffled panicky words of the councilman.
"my lord? the elders are waiting!"
your lips tug into a guilty smile as you feel him sigh against your skin. you had made him late again.
"wait for me here?" he murmurs lowly, voice hoarse. not for the frantic councilman outside. just for your ears. so you whisper back, just enough for your husband to hear.
"where else would i be , my fire lord?"
𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 - this is a hot(fiery) mess but....im weak to temptation :'D
───────♡ﾟYou have been leaving hints for him, but 𝐀𝐚𝐧𝐠 is oblivious to your advances of course ⛧ ₊
The eyes are the window's to one's soul.
Utter bullshit really.
'Cuz you have been making heart (—and stars and wind and moon and what not) eyes at your best friend for years now. And he is as dense as ever. You had started to think that perhaps your eyes were the issue, maybe they were a bit too opaque. So you started to adopt other means to get his attention the way you needed it to be.
Food. He worked very hard to make sure that Free City was a safe space for all benders and non benders alike. As a result he sometimes skipped his meals—too occupied with his duties. So you started with making him hand cooked meals.
He had been extremely shocked, considering how you had never been much of a chef. More prone to rolling around on the ground playfully fighting with him. But he had accepted it with a cheeky grin. Your eagerness had burst forth when he had taken a bite—his little nod and words of gratitude making your heart flutter.
And that was that. No blushes (not on his part atleast), no confessions, nothing. After not getting the desired reaction you felt angry.
So you moved on to plan B.
Touching. You tried to sneak in little touches here and there. A brush of your fingers along the exposed skin of his palms, a little pull on his robes, brushing your knucles lightly against his neck.
His eyes darted to yours in that same affectionate way it always had since your teenage days. In the same way a best friend's eyes did. And you were starting to get truly and exceptionally frustrated.
It was at this point you started to question if he even saw you in the way you wanted him to. Was his lingering gaze— that you always felt when you weren't looking just your imagination? Were you the only one who was stuck with these unrequited feelings?
No. He was your best friend for so long. You refused to believe that this was some one sided thing. He was just shy. He needed a little push.
So you moved on to the last stage of your plan.
You found him sitting on the cliffside, the moonlight making him glow. Taking a seat beside him, you dangled your legs and gazed down at the void.
Conversation had always come easily with him.
He talked about his day, about his duties , about his little students whom he was teaching the ancient texts of air bending. You told him about yours.
Then came that usual lull in the conversation—achieved only through years of being each other's shadow. Of being each other's constants.
Glancing at the void below you once more, you took a deep fortifying breath. It was now or never.
Turning your head you kissed him. To your horror, your lips landed on the edge of his in such an awkward way that the gesture could hardly be called a 'kiss' . And of course the noses were trying to fight for space.
And ofcourse he was frozen.
"This was a bad idea..." ,you muttered as you pulled back, colour blooming on your cheeks. You tried to play it cool, "You know, just—just forget it." You couldn't even look at him.
But he shocked you as he turned your face gently by your chin to face him. Then as if he had all the time in the world, he softly brought his lips to yours.
Perfect kiss.
With his head tilted at just the right angle. With your noses perfectly aligned. With your lips perfectly slotted with his.
You briefly wondered if this confident man was the same oblivious one who couldn't catch your hints even after months. Had he been pretending?
Then you swiftly ignored that thought and focused on the magnificent feeling of the kiss. And the things that followed after. Which you thoroughly enjoyed of course.
That night while you lay tangled with him, you couldn't help but ask "Aang...were my advances too vague?" He was quiet for a few seconds, so you chanced a look at his face.
"No. I was just waiting for that mind blowing first kiss from you."
The shit eating grin on his face told you all you needed to know. So you took your revenge .
By climbing on top of him for the 'you had lost count'—th time of the night.
And Aang couldn't even complain.
He had been waiting for so long.
He had of course been in love with you for a whole lot longer.
𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 - I can never not imagine my man being silly and playful 🥹 (with his hot bod ofc)
── .✦Your husband, 𝑨𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 , hates sweet things. Too bad you are the epitome of it ‧₊˚
From the minute your betrothal to the brightflame prince became public knowledge, gossip started filling every corner of the castle. The more you heard the crude whispers about him, the more your heart wilted. An odd emotion bubbled up in your chest—defensiveness perhaps. But you were uncertain whether it was for your honour or your soon to be husband's.
He was supposedly the cruelest person in Westeros, not in possession a single kind bone in his body, no place for sweetness in that bitter black heart of his.
An extreme contrast to your nurturing personality. Everything about you—from the honey on your cheeks absently smudged during your baking escapades, to the sweet scent of vanilla that always followed you—was sweet.
So when you left the comfort of your home to go to kings landing, you fortified yourself for the imminent life filled with heartache. Rejection. And you prayed that it wouldn't come to it but you braced yourself for it nonetheless—humiliation.
And how utterly wrong you were.
Because Aerion Targaryen was addicted to you at first glance.
A whiff of your cloying sweet scent, so distinct from the overpowering perfume of the whores, kept him wanting more, and more. His fingers on the dips and curves of your body , his tongue tasting the sweet honey that somehow found its home on your skin, the vanilla scent that always permeated his bed chambers—he was a man gone.
Aerion prided himself as a tough soldier, basked in the fear that he influenced in others. There wasn't any place for softness or sweetness. Yet , when you shyly waited at the corners of the training grounds with the cloth wrapped sweets that you baked with your own hands, he couldn't bring himself to deny you. Not when your cheeks were tinted pink from the heat and your eyes peered up at him with such gentleness. He took a bite out of every single one.
It was a naive attempt of yours, wanting to please your new husband.
You had heard of his aversion to baked goods and sugary treats. So you had taken extra caution with the amount of sugar and honey you added, keeping it the most minimal. You had expected him to refuse your gesture. So you were the most surprised to see him take a bite of every single piece.
You became extra cautious from the next day—decorating his desserts beautifully, planning the recipes almost to perfection to suit his taste. You enjoyed baking. And you enjoyed it even more when you did it for your husband.
Neither was Aerion soft nor was he slow in his passion. He did not do gentle. So his actions confused him almost to frustration.
Why did he find himself slowing when he took you from between the silken sheets every night ? Why did he find himself worshipping you, inhaling your sweet scent and savouring your quiet sounds of pleasure ? And why did he always find himself pulling you just a little bit closer to hear your breathing slow down as you drifted off ?
Aerion hated sweet things. And the kisses you always left on his cheeks every morning were the most obnoxious, yet the sweetest things he had ever experienced.
But he found himself craving those kisses anyway.
Craving the smile that lit up your face as you made a show of kissing him with loud smooches . He was vaguely aware that his lips were quirking with the barest hint of a smile—too lost in your glittering eyes and rumpled messy locks as they flowed down your bare shoulders.
Aerion did not understand intimacy.
There wasn't any sense or logic in his actions , just you in his arms, running your fingers through his hair as he buried his nose in the juncture of your neck. Where the honeyed scent was the strongest. Or when he kissed your palms, where the scent of sweet fruits and dough made his mind whirl and his senses dull.
He snapped sometimes. You knew of his anger, volatile and hot roiling in his veins. He was the brightflame prince after all. You could see the resignation in his gaze immediately after, expecting you to finally run out of your reservoir of forgiveness.
But if there was just one admirable virtue of yours—it was patience. You knew how to knead and mould the dough just right, add just the perfect amount of sugar and honey. Perfection wasn't attained in a day. You have worked on the same recipes again and again.
Giving up on something wasnt what you were accustomed to.
Not on baking.
And certainly not on your husband.
In those moments , you just let your arms wound around his neck and placed your head against his chest. Listening to his heart beat, letting the days grime and sweat on his warriors uniform onto you.
It was enough. Him, in your arms , was enough.
Your husband wasn't the ideal husband, you knew so. But when he sagged in your arms and ran his fingers down your hips, you couldn't deny that he was yours.
How could you deny your heart when he kissed you so sweetly, and touched your skin with so much reverence despite the callouses that marred his palms ? When, despite his avoidance of sweets, he still tasted your creations without complaint ?
Your husband hates sweet things, yes.
Too bad you are the epitome of it.
And too bad he is in love with you—just as you are with him.
𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒— just a fluffy word vomit cuz I can't stay away from my ooc hubby for too long 🥹 🫶
tags : Neteyam x fem navi reader , fluff , yearning
ᝰ.ᐟsynopsis: The Sully's return home to Omaticaya after the end of the war. So does your first love─ and first heartbreak.
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The closer the ikrans flew towards the home tree, the faster Neteyam's heart beat. The happiness was still there, as was the eagerness. But there was that strange.... apprehension.
Almost two years away from home, away from the forest, away from you.
Leaving Awa'atlu was harder than he had expected. There was the distinct air of grief surrounding the reefs. Like in any war, losses had been suffered. Friends which had been made along the way, had to be left behind. It wasn't in his nature to leave behind people who needed him. But the Omaticaya needed his father- and him. When he had first gone there, coming back home seemed like the biggest gift to him. And it still was. But somehow the salt still lingered on his skin.
How were the people going to receive his family now? How were you going to react to his return? It had been many moons since he had seen you, had heard your voice. What if things had changed now? He wanted to slap himself.
Ofcourse things must have changed.
You both had been barely sixteen when he had left. Two years had changed him immensely. When war had changed him mentally, the battle itself had changed him physically. Age had made him taller, broader. The nasty wound on his chest had left its mark as well. How could he expect you to remain the same , when he himself wasn't?
But he still couldn't get the image of the tears clinging to your lashes from the night before he left. The night he told you that he loves you. He had meant every word. And he still does. He had said those words aloud during the lonely nights at Awa'atlu, imagined your blush , imagined you smiling─ not your tears. No, he couldn't bear them. They had haunted his dreams for so many nights.
He had chosen his duty over you. He did not regret it. What he regretted were the circumstances, the timing. He wouldn't blame you if you had found someone else for yourself. Someone who wasn't a coward who left their best friend─ lover behind.
But he was. He couldn't bring himself to drag you into this war. He wouldn't be able to fight knowing you might be out there somewhere, fighting for your life as well. If there was one thing he wanted, it was to come back home to you. Omaticaya was your home, your family. He couldn't take that away from you, couldn't drag you away to Awa'atlu.
So Neteyam didn't know exactly what he expected when him and his family entered the village grounds again. The people had swarmed them. Welcoming them back with open arms. There was happiness and celebration. He couldn't partake in any of it, his heart beating frantically.
His eyes kept scanning the crowd, trying to find a specific pair of yellow orbs. The ones which he couldn't stop thinking about for the last two years. For a second he thought he was up for disappointment. But then his gaze finally landed on yours, as the world blurred around him.
You were trying to make your way to him, being pulled forward and pushed back at the same time. The crowd was eager and happy, swaying like the waves of the ocean.
And so were you. Eywa, were you happy. You had been up and running even before the horn fully sounded. In your heart you knew it was him. He was finally back.
Neteyam had been your first.
He had been your first friend. A friendship made on wobbly feet and with chubby hands. A friendship that had grown to hide and seek in the woods and playful fighting. Loud laughter and nonsense words that made sense only to the childish ears.
He had been your first hunting partner. When your father's had sent you both to train, you had been scared of the wilderness that lay beyond the safe perimeter of the village. But he had been a constant by your side. You had learnt to hold the bow together, learnt to hunt together, completed your iknimaya together. Stood by each other's sides' during failure and triumph.
He had been your first love. Somewhere between friendship and admiration, your heart had fallen for him. You had started noticing things which you hadn't before. How his smile broadened when you caught a bigger game than him. How his eyes sparkled in the glow of the evening fires. How his aim was so good that even older hunters praised him. It had all culminated into this sudden realisation. Something your fourteen year self couldn't quite comprehend.
He had been your first kiss. You had kept quiet , kept your feelings suppressed for months. Too afraid of losing a friendship that was more important to you than the possibility of a romance. You had watched as girls started approaching him. You had chased strength for so long, feelings were something you were scared to succumb to. You encouraged him to find someone he likes and follow his heart , all with a smile on your face. So one evening when you both were sitting in the glow of the nightime forest he followed his heart─he kissed you. It had been everything you ever imagined kissing him would feel like. Like magic and promises and a future.
He had been your first heartbreak. Almost a month had passed since that night. Stolen kisses and lingering touches had made your heart flutter. Secretive smiles were shared every time you caught each other's gazes. You were in bliss.
But it didn't last. The bud was nipped off before it could blossom. You had cried and begged him not to go. But it was a selfish thing to ask of him. Even you knew so. That it wasn't safe for them to stay here any longer when the RDA was hunting them. He had reassured you that him and his family would come back.
That he loves you.
So you had held into his words for two years. Imagined those words when tears had leaked out of your eyes during the dark nights. Thought about his face when your best friend's absence had felt too real.
When news had come that the eldest sully son had been seriously injured , you felt like you couldn't breathe. You had prayed until your voice had become hoarse. Prayed that Eywa returned him.
Soldiers had flown to Awa'atlu when Toruk Makto had called again. Battles had been fought. The people had grieved losses. All the while you held onto his promise of coming back home.
And now he was finally here, his legs swiftly covering the distance between you both. Your feet halted before him, as you met him halfway. He stood frozen before you as your eyes locked onto the wound on his chest. The wound which almost took him away.
Your eyes blurred with tears. You blinked, trying to see his face. The face which you had missed so much. Your hand's wiped at your eyes desperately, not wanting to make this reunion morose. But then strong hands pulled you into his chest. You fit in his arms perfectly , like two lost halves of the same soul finally joining together. You couldn't help yourself as you buried your nose into his skin, inhaling sharply.
"You came back home" the words were muffled and watery as they left you. His cheek rested against the crown of your head. "I promised".
Neteyam couldn't help the smirk that curved up his lips as he made a show of biting the fruit from between your fingers. He couldn't get enough of the shy smile that you were desperately trying to hide, but were failing immensely at.
"You are staring , Neteyam" you mumbled as you continued cutting up the fruit. Neteyam couldn't help that either. His eyes had become perpetually stuck on you it seemed.
You had changed.
You had grown stronger. Your gaze had become sharper. Youthful features had given way to distinct muscles and the prominent touch of adulthood. You carried yourself with surety now. Not prideful or arrogant , but someone who is at ease with themselves.
But you had also become softer. You showed your emotions more often now. Cried in his arms. Laughed in them too. You weren't afraid to be vulnerable with him. You embraced your emotions, no longer viewing them as weakness or running away from them. You gave your love freely now. Neteyam seized it .
He couldn't get enough of the way you felt in his hold, how soft your skin felt against his. He wanted to keep you in his arms forever . He had yearned for this. And damn him if he wasn't going to do just that.
You gave a surprised yelp when he pulled you into his chest. Neteyam's heart clenched painfully when he saw the darkening of your cheeks. So beautiful that nothing else mattered , except for the beautiful girl in his arms.
You relaxed in his hold when you saw he had absolutely no intention of letting you go. "I love you" his words made your breath hitch. He had said it a few hundred times in the past month, and said it at any chance he got. But it still felt so surreal to hear it out loud and not imagine his voice when he had said it the night before leaving.
"I love you too" you whispered. Your heart seemed to stitch back together with his every word. He had started presenting little gifts to you. Courting gifts, he said. Said he wanted to do things properly
It made your stomach flip. It was a dream long forgotten, buried within mounds of longing and worry. So when he presented his first big present, your throat had closed up. He wanted you to design your kelku. It was a bold request, a mating request. And you had nodded fervently.
Afterall you had waited too long. Yearned too long.
For Neteyam, so many things were just the same. The way you smelt , the way you laughed, the way you looked at him. Neteyam knew his own eyes reflected the same emotions. The first week, you both had spoken until your jaw hurt . There were so many things to say, so much time lost. He had shared every little thing about his adventures in Awa'atlu. Shared stories about his new friends there. Shared the stories about war and his injury, on your insistence.
He didn't want to make you unhappy or dampen the mood but you wanted to know everything about him. From his happiness to his pain. You wanted to share the burden. And Neteyam couldn't have been more grateful.
So when the stories ran out, the ensuing silence wasn't suffocating. So much had changed, but at the same time so much was still the same. You and him and your hearts were still the same. You were still his best friend, just as he was yours.
"I was scared. I was scared that you wouldn't come back. Scared that you wouldn't love me anymore." Neteyam kissed your forehead, the raw emotions in your voice made his gut twist. You both had had this conversation many times too. The fears still persisted in the corners, when the kelku got too dark. Sometimes it was him who was taken with disbelief and in need of reassurance. And sometimes it was you.
But one thing was the same, the promise to be there for eachother. No more leaving. Not without the other half.
"I will always come back home to you, because I still love you."
SYNOPSIS— your mother marries maekar targaryen and you move to london. There you meet your step brother aerion who pulls you into his world.
TAGS— lowkey inspired by My Fault(london) , criminal world baby, aerion smokes and it's hot, aerion is obsessed, stalking, galas and drinking, dub-con(?) , step-sibling relationship, violence, baby trapping, 3k
The Targaryen's. The words had a certain appeal, a certain way they tasted on the tongue—and apparent influence in london, but which was lost on your little american understanding. All you knew was that your mom had married a hotshot widowed man with the last name Targaryen. And that she was forcing you to move to London.
You wanted to laugh at destiny. Fate was a cruel bitch.
You didn't have much anyway, only twelve when your mother packed up and left you to deal with your drunkard father. She had decided to reconnect again, though you had no idea how she had come to know of your father's passing last year. But you knew the why. Guilt. And you couldn't give two fucks about her guilt. You were still three months away from your eighteenth birthday and the government was forcing you to be under a legal guardian because they believed you were incapable of handling yourself. Even though you had been doing just that for years. School, odd jobs, cleaning up puke, taking care of a house falling apart.
You had only one carry on, your passport and visa and your old cracked phone when you boarded the business class. The ripped jeans and mcr tshirt definitely made quite the statement. The food was something that you couldn't help but applaud. Highend dishes and expensive meat that you hadn't eaten for years? Truly a blessing. So imagine your shock when you finally stepped out of the cab and stared up at the literal mansion before you. You expected the queen to step out of something. But instead it was your mom. And her husband. He was quite the striking man , even at his age.
Your mom reached out for a hug. "thanks for taking me in." you replied as you avoided her embrace. She pressed her painted and plumped up lips into a fine line but complied. The valet took charge from there. "Let me show you to your room, Miss." On the way, He informed you of your new homeschooling schedule which your mom had planned without your intel. Typical. The room was as extravagant as the halls, which were decorated with paintings of dragons and fire. The luxury of it all was baffling you. And just when you thought you didn't mind it all that much, everything came crashing down. Because then you met him.
Homeschooling was easy and quick. So you had taken to exploring the mansion during the afternoons. That day you had wandered off to the farthest wing and as curious as you were ,you took the stairs which led to you standing infront of a door. The door was carved beautifully and you couldn't help opening it. Then you heard the faint sounds. Screams. You followed the sounds , your feet moving on autopilot. Your eyes widened when you came face to face with a man tied to a chair, blood both dried and fresh caked on him and pooling in the stone floors. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen almost shut. Your gaze slowly slid from the tattered man to the one standing before him.
White blonde hair, exactly as your mother's husband's. Tall and broad frame, the white undershirt stained with blood, scars littering his arms, knuckles bloody and bruised. Your gaze slowly moved up toward his face, and as if on cue, his neck twisted as his lilac eyes met yours. You weren't someone who was easily scared. You had seen too much of life . But never had you seen a gaze as his. Those weren't eyes, they were a vortex, macabre , manic. You flinched back as if he had raised his hand against you although he hadn't moved a muscle. The fear on your face made him twist his neck like a snakes—no dragons. Like the tattoo on his back peeking out from the undershirt. The injured man gurgled out something, but only more blood spilled from between his lips. He watched you watch the injured man. Your gaze met his eerie ones again.
You didn't think twice as you ran.
But that was stupid. In a city you had never been to, without your phone you were lost within an hour. But your brain didn't quite register as you staggered around. At some point you realised you had walked downtown, if the smell of alcohol and rotting food wasn't telling enough the plethora of pubs lining the streets with their neon signs was. You leaned against a wall as your fingers tangled in your hair. "fuck. fuck. fuck" you whispered as you dug into your pockets for some cash . Maybe you had enough for a cab or something.
"Sure darling."
Your head snapped up. "Get away from me!" You yelled at him, walking backwards. You didn't even have your knife on you. But he kept moving towards you anyway. "I said, stay back psycho."
"it's Aerion Targaryen." He said as if it was a casual greeting between strangers. As if you wanted to know. That stunned you for a second. It was a blur of movements from there. He had your back pressed against his chest, his arm firm against your windpipe. Not choking, just im-mobalising because the fear of choking from one wrong movement was enough to still you. He was trained. His voice was deep as it vibrates against your ear. "Now darling. I can take you back home and you will be safely tucked under your warm blankets within half an hour. Or I can leave you here where I assure you, you won't survive the night. Your choice".
And you were a fool. Because you followed him right back to his expensive car, and right into his lair.
The Targaryen's weren't ordinary rich people. They were , in layman terms, criminals. The elitists of society. Your mom was part of their world. And she had dragged you in too. You had screamed at her until your voice had gone hoarse. But she kept assuring you that you would not have to witness any of the dirty business. But to you all this money—the mansion and everything in it—was dirt. But she didn't understand that. She was happy to dress up and attend the different galas and events on her husband's arm.
You were required to attend as well. A show of loyalty to the Targaryen's . Your new family. When the fear of having a bullet put through your head for one wrong move, there was very little autonomy one could have. So put on the expensive gowns and jewellery and followed right along with your new family. All the while your step brothers gaze followed you. The talks ranged from business, to felony to murder. Sometimes the weather. The women laughed with eachother, the epitome of hapiness and luxury. Perhaps this was hapiness for them, they were born into it. You were an outcast. And they didn't hesitate to make you feel just like that. It was suffocating.
You kept your gaze downwards as you walked towards the restroom. Strong arms pulled you into a hallway, your heels making you lose your footing as your back slammed into the wall. You recognised the scent immediately, though his usual cologne was now masked under expensive cigarette smoke. You struggled against him as you gritted your teeth, "let me go."
But the sudden force on your lips made you lose your breath. He tasted like he smelt , cologne and expensive cigarette. Bitter champagne.
It was addicting. You wanted more. You kissed him. You reeled back. You slapped him. Your eyes tracked the small split on his lip, the blood lining the cut.
And just like you always did. You ran.
Not very far though. Because he kissed you again next month. Then two weeks later. Then next week. Then after four days.
Then everyday.
You were a depraved little whore. You liked the thrill of the chase.
On your 18th birthday he fucked you.
He said he loved you.
You booked your plane tickets the next morning while he was still asleep. Your fingers shook as your thighs ached. You kept glancing at the bathroom door every few seconds, praying for the payments to go faster. Your gaze involuntarily went to the large mirror. Purple bruises lined your milky skin, your eyes rimmed red. Your nails had blood under them. His blood.
When he slammed open the door and carried you back to bed for another round you didn't refuse. And when he said he loved you, you said you loved him too. And when your nails dug into his back reopening the cuts, you believed yourself for a moment. You imagined a lover—your step brother, and you imagined your life in college. And you imagined him picking you up from said college and then taking you on a date. Maybe one of those cafes you worked at back at home. And then maybe a family of your own one day.
Then the next day, when your lover was gone to manage the family business , you boarded your flight. Words couldn't describe the anxiety that threatened to choke you counted the seconds until you landed. You retrieved the small amount of money you had saved up over the years you had been living with your dad and checked into a hotel. There were bigger things to worry about. Like a phone , which you had decided to leave behind in London. And a job to feed you and cover rent. Maybe college. But at that moment, when your back touched the mattress, your eyes shut as your brain blacked out without a second thought. Safe. Away.
Things started to look up for you for a few months. You found some more odd jobs and a small studio apartment—a showbox really. You even signed up for a community college. You were over the moon. But you were cursed to eternal darkness.
Your eyes blurred with tears as you stared at the two red lines, so stark against the white. You threw up all over the floor.
The pills in your palms weighed no more than a few grams. But they seemed like the weight of the world. Your fingers trembled as you slowly brought them to your lips. You could. You couldn't. You couldn't. You hurled them against the mirror as small cracks bloomed on its surface, distorting your reflection.
Blood filled in your mouth as you bit into your tongue to hold in your sobs. Tears streamed down your face.
You didn't know what you were crying for. Or perhaps , you knew exactly what you were crying for. That was the problem . You knew. You wished you didn't. You wished he didn't.
A week later, when you came back from work your wishes came true. He was casually seated in a chair, cigarette between his lips. His fingers toyed with the pregnancy test as he looked up at you. You stood frozen. You couldn't help the tears that started gathering in your eyes. He approached you then , as if approaching a scared animal that could flee any second.
You both knew you couldn't flee anywhere.
"Darling..." He cooed as his thumb swiped against the apple of your cheek, wiping away a stray tear.
And when his lips touched yours, you couldn't help but press closer.
You had missed his warmth. You wanted to push him away.
You had dreamt of his touch, his taste. You wanted to run.
Your frantic heartbeat matched the rhythm of his. The outline of the gun on his belt dug into your belly.
You sighed against his lips as his hands firmly held onto your waist. Bitter alcohol. Expensive cigarette smoke. The underlying hint of his cologne. You wanted. You wanted so much. You craved so blindly.
He took you home.
You married your step brother. But no one dared question the young Targaryen prince. The next in line to the Targaryen fortune. No one who valued their life would stand up to the elite. In this world if you have the misfortune of not being the god , you either have to do it out of your own volition, or they break your neck—but they will make you bow either way.
He stopped smoking near you as your pregnancy progressed. Registered you for online college courses of your choice. In return you stopped trying into his business. You didn't want to. You liked the peace, the bubble you created for yourself. This illusion of your life, of him.
But when your son was born, you spiraled. Reality crashed into you. You screamed at him. You became hysterical. You didn't want your son involved in this business. You will not allow him to have blood on his hands like his father does.
So you tried to do the only thing you knew. You tried to run.
But you didn't go far. He found you like he always did. Like the red string of fate that you both were bound with. He carried you both back to your room , your son clutched to your chest. Your son, feeling his father's warmth stopped crying immediately. Fate really was cruel. You cried into your husband's chest, guilt clawing at you every time you looked at your sleeping son's face. You had tried to take him away from his father. It wasn't in your right to decide.
He never said anything. Because he knew he would find you every time.
You could run to the end of the world. And he would still find you.
It was fate after all.
a/n : Literally just a self indulgent smoker aerion fic 😭 he is way too hot and I miss my man so much :(
The gravity of the situation was indeed questionable, considering this was the third time the maester had started over with his diligent report—with several throat clearings preceding it of course.
The obnoxious crunching sound of teeth jaggedly sinking into the crisp skin of an apple cut through the ongoing conversations this time, destroying any and all pretense of the seriousness of it.
The voices faltered, numerous wrinkled foreheads gleamed with moisture—their eyes widening ever so slightly as their fingers gripped to the fresh parchments just a little tighter. Your fondness for books made you want to snatch them away from the said sweaty palms which must surely be blotting the ink.
But you ought to applaud the Maester's courage as they continued the list of the names of the potential suitors. A detailed report of elaborate set of fortunes followed the initial announcement of house and title, then came the descriptions of their personal achievements.
It was only when the ministers started giving their own counsel on the prospects did your husband's patience truly reach its breaking point.
The thump of the fine edged knife embedding itself into the extravagant oak table. All conversation seized immediately.
You chanced a look at your husband then. His fingers were white knuckled from where they were tightly gripping the knife.
"Return them all." His voice gave the fallacy of calmness but the small jagged hole that stayed behind when he pulled the knife back into his sheath gave away his ever present temper that still ran hot and white.
The most courageous one, the kings right hand Ser, spoke out. "But my lord, the last prospect has amassed huge wealth and—"
"Did I hesitate?" Your husband laughed. The well known cruel and harsh tone was enough to ensure no more remark on the subject. He did not wait for an answer as he swept out of the council room, no doubt heading to the training grounds.
Leaving you to deal with wounded prides and tattered dignities. And the half eaten apple .
You sat there for a minute—or two, staring at your fingers as they fiddled with your wedding band. You loved it very much, the red ruby was just as fiery as your husband and daughter.
When you glanced up though, the smile that had graced your lips at the thought of your lover and child had to be suppressed—unwillingly ofcourse.
"Ah..yes." Expectant eyes bore into yours , though they should know by now that you were not going to go against your husband's wishes . You were quite in agreement with him actually. "Do be gentle in the refusal correspondences." You swiped your hands against the soft silk of your gown, smoothening the creases that had appeared after hours of sitting stagnantly. As a last resort to avoid unnecessary altercations you bowed before the council "I bid you farewell, learned Sers"
You were greeted with the sight of your husband and your daughter. One would expect the picture to be peaceful —a daughter stitching and father sitting nearby engaging in polite conversation befitting their status.
But no.
Your daughter was fitted in a knights practice apparel, dirtied and sweaty from hours under the tiring sun with a sword gripped in her palms as if a mere plaything. Her hair was unbound, the white blonde strand catching the rays of the sun as they gleamed—the only indication that she was a girl at all. And her father was right there, his own sword pushing ruthlessly against hers . He disarmed her easily enough, pressing the sharp edge against the milky skin of her throat.
Your feet carried you swiftly to the particular spot where all these ridiculous events were transpiring. Though after years of witnessing them together at each other's throats , you were quite used to the madness of it all.
"Stop. You will hurt her." You put force into your words. Though you were quite sure your husband was physically incapable of doing anything that could ever hurt his little darling princess. But the word 'you' and 'hurt' in the same sentence were enough to make him flinch—very slight, almost unnoticeable— but he removed his sword from her throat.
But it wouldn't be your husband if he didn't get his last word in. Didn't leave his mark.
"Still weak." he shook his head as he turned to leave. You winced at that, watching him drop his sword on the hard training ground.
Your daughter was anything but. Not even the most skilled knights could stand before your husband for more than a few minutes. And ladies? unimaginable. Your girl though, she was a beast with the sword defeating almost all the royal knights. She was a force to be reckoned with.
But it wasn't easy to defeat the very person who had taught her how to hold a sword in those small palms. Who had picked her up when she had fallen down from the force of the blows. Her mentor whom she had learnt all that she knew about swordfight.
Your daughter glared after his retreating back. Her purple irises sparkling with rage as her whole body remained taut with tension. With that same clenched jaw and squared shoulder, she was the spitting image of her father. Down to that fiery temper that glowed white, hot just like the signature Targaryen hair.
In that moment, there was not any doubt that she was Aerion Targaryen's.
You immediately went to calm that wild temper, not wishing to be on the receiving end.
" He rejected all the offers, you know." She looked at you then, teeth digging into the soft flesh of her lips. But you caught the way her eyes softened slightly. Imperceptible, as is customary of Targaryen features to always be vague about their feelings—it is just that you had years of training in the art of discerning them.
You sighed when she nodded once. A win in your books.
The room was illuminated with the soft yellowish glow of the candles and the sweet fragrance of the perfume you always had to force your daughter to apply. It was not becoming of a lady to smell of lingering sweat and training grounds and leather.
A wide smile graced your lips , cheeks bunching up slightly as you fiddled with the ring on your ring finger.
Your daughter was asleep in her bed. And at the foot of it , seated, was your husband—his fingers massaging the sole of her foot as it stuck out of her blanchet. One could never associate the cruel, apathetic man with the one now before you, whose fingers were reverent as they tried to relieve the knots and pains in his only daughter's feet, despite the callouses that marred his own fingers.
"You need not be so harsh with her. She is ahead of her age." And ahead of almost any woman . But it wasn't the end goal. You clearly understood that.
"No. Not until her sword is pressed against the throat of her father." A beat of silence passes. Then he gets up.
There's humour in his voice . "Not long though. I felt it." Then pride. "She is mine after all. My dragon".
His arm comes around your waist as he guides you out towards your own bed chambers. You glance back over your shoulders once before the grand doors to your daughters room shut.
And as keen as your eyes have become after years of dealing with the Targaryen's and their inherent trait of suppressing their emotions—you do catch the way your apparently 'sleeping' daughter's lips curl up, almost imperceptibly, just a bit.
genuinely sorry for the horrid mess this is. I wrote it under an hour because I was procrastinating my hw. But girl dad-aerion nation WE STAY WINNING!
that aerion having a daughter that’s exactly like him is soo soooo good !!!! can i request a pt.2 to his reaction for when his daughter is of age and has already a line of suitors 🤣
Thank you so much babe!!!
Now that you have made the idea take root, I'll definitely be working on the pt.2 ;)
The striking white blonde hair that compelled heads to turn and purple irises that sparkled under the sun , made any quips about that fact die before they could ever surface in one's mind.
It was not a question of your fidelity—your mad husband would have the head of anyone who dared to make such an accusation against you.
But the realisation that she was Aerion Targaryen incarnate as a young girl? that arrived much earlier than you expected ,considering your daughter's young age of only five. But you should have known of course just the way an inferno could never be quelled— blood could never be suppressed.
The council had only started to retreat and the way the loose strands of hair that had escaped from the bun were sticking to your sweaty neck was not doing much to relieve you of the summer heat.
That was when the royal guard had come, uncharacteristically out of breath.
"My lord and lady. The young princess has been mixed up in a brawl with the young boys of the commanders. Please come."
Confusion overcame you. Your daughter had never been embroiled in a fight before, never been the type to initiate one either. She was as prim and proper as they came.
So you imagined the worst, imagined her hurt and crying. Your heart had twisted as worries clouded your mind.
But your husband's rage was palpable from the way his jaw clenched.
From the moment she was born, screaming and tiny and red, he had been taken by the little being—wholly and infinitely. No one could have predicted that the harsh, cruel, ruthless Targaryen prince would sit his daughter on his knees as she slept against his chest . How His fingers would always linger in her hair just the way they did on your belly when she had still been in your womb. Or the way he would shift almost imperceptibly before her—shielding her whenever someone came too close.
He was gentle with her, unused to being a father much less to a girl. And he was protective. Mad protective.
He wouldn't let even a single strand of that soft hair on her little head be touched, much less let her be injured. No one dared to hurt Aerion Targaryen's little girl.
And there was no one more dangerous than a father who was convinced his darling girl was hurt.
You rushed behind him as he almost sprinted to the gardens where the guard had disclosed the information about the scrabble.
But the sight that greeted you made both you and your husband stop dead in your tracks. There were three young boys about her age. One was still lying flat on the grass. The other two were so badly beaten and bruised , eyes swollen and lips split that their features were barely noticeable. Their father, respected generals of the Targaryen army, stood behind their sons with their heads bowed.
And your little girl.
She stood there as if the world owed her—jaw set and shoulders squared, a single bruise colouring her cheek ,one braid undone, the cream silks of her dress dirtied—a clear indication of involvement in a fight.
But there was little left to assumption as to who the winner of the fight was. As to who her father was , as there was no mistaking that haughty stance and narrowed eyes.
Your daughter's eyes widened though, when she saw her father and you, demeanor softening. You glanced at your husband beside you then , wanting to gauge his reaction to this surprising turn of events.
His eyes were narrowed exactly the way your daughter's were just mere seconds ago, taking in the injuries on her face and her disheveled appearance. Then his gaze moved on to the boys.
You didn't miss the way the corners of his lips twitched as his eyes assessed their injuries as well .
"Take her with you to our chambers. I will speak to the generals." His gaze never left the boys'. You nodded anyway, beckoning your daughter to follow with a dip of your chin.
She kept her eyes downcast as you applied the salve to her bruised cheek slowly, the silence lingering.
The doors to the chamber flung open soon after, as your husband walked in. You got up from your knelt position as your girl climbed off the settee hastily.
"Papa..." She started hesitantly but he cut her off as he gestured for her to sit down again. With a timid glance at you , she sat back down again as your husband knelt down before her the way you were before.
"Do you enjoy stitching and needle work?" Your daughter's blond eyebrow's twisted in confusion, clearly taken aback by her father's stray inquiry. You knew he was not going to be too harsh with her—she was his world. But you couldn't understand the relevance of the question to the current situation.
"I.."
Your husband's tone softened a little at her hesitance. "Don't be afraid. Be honest."
This was the tone your daughter was used to hearing from her father. Confidence returned in her voice as she answered steadily, "No."
Taking her little fingers in his palms, he continued on with his erratic questions "—and do you like swords?"
She nodded slowly, colour rising in her pale cheeks at the admission. It was a scandalous thing for ladies to admit to. But it was him, who hung the stars and the moon in the night sky for her. Surely , it was alright to make the confession?
Your husband stood up abruptly then. You tried to step in, wanting to mitigate any potential damage and calm down his temper.
But when he turned back to look at you, the manic glint in his eyes and his wide smile made your heart flutter. He looked like a child who had just discovered a hidden treasure trove.
He addressed his daughter, though his gaze remained locked on yours as if sharing a secret, "No more stitching and etiquette lessons from tomorrow. We will play with the sword"
You laid on your side, one arm bent under your head as you took in the sight of your daughter curled on top of your husband's chest, uninjured cheek pressed against his skin. He was leaned back against the mahogany head rest, fingers curled into her downy hair as his other hand stroked the bruise on her cheek.
The smile that had curled his lips that afternoon was still present.
You sighed worriedly, "My dearest, she is a girl after all. How will we find suitors for her-"
"She is mine. My heir—my little dragon. Suitors will line up for her, not the other way round."
The pride in his gaze made all the protests die in your throat. With a strong grip, he pulled you against his chest as well , pressing his nose against your forehead. A silent gesture, but one as loud to you as spoken words would be.
A request, willing you to understand. And understanding was all you have ever had for him.
No one knew his tells better than you. No one knew the way he loved better than you. Not when you have been in the receiving end of said love for years.
He surely looked a fierce sight in that moment. With his whole world tucked in his arms, he looked every bit the dragon he descended from.
A father, proud of his girl. A father, willing to defy the norms and give his daughter the autonomy that many girls will only ever dream about.
You smiled despite yourself—despite the utter madness your husband was suggesting.
You had been aware who you were marrying, had been known when he had taught you how to fight. His stubbornness, his will, his craze. And you knew there was no stopping him now, not when his daughter was exactly like him. Not when he saw himself everytime he looked her.
His blood was running through her veins.
His madness. His skills. His temper.
And who were you to stand in the way of greatness?
someone stop me. i'm going crazy for this man. Likes, comments and reblogs make my kidneys flutter 🙂↕️🫶
Those were the words they associated your betrothed with.
And at the mere age of ten, you had been inclined to believe them , swayed by empty utterances because you had no other basis of picturing this enigma that was going to be your husband.
But when you had the privilege of attending a tourney at the Ashford Meadow seated between your father and your intended's sire—it wasn't fear that washed over you when you watched him ruthlessly disarm his opponents. No. It was something that ran far deeper than the mere 'awe' that you later labelled it as and dismissed it swiftly with. After all it wasn't proper of a lady of six and ten to have such thoughts, was it?
When you came of age, you were taken to the beautiful sprawling grounds of Summerhall to be formally introduced to your betrothed. His father asked him to accompany you on a stroll through the gardens, to help you get acquainted with the summer residence.
Your fingers had twisted into the silks of the extravagant dress you had been made to wear in hopes of making a good first impression. Though he has seen you many times before this—at the tourneys, at a few luncheons, at the bigger parties and social gatherings that were in your standing to attend—hardly making this a first impression. But you suppose somewhere in that romantic heart of yours you had wanted to look good. Look good for him.
The walk had been excruciatingly silent and perspiration had bloomed on your brows though you couldn't be sure if it was from the long walk under the blazing sun, your heavy garments that dragged behind you , or from the imposing man that walked just a few steps ahead of you .
You must have been too busy checking your footing and regathering your skirts as they kept slipping from your sweaty grasp, because you entirely missed him glance back at you and take note of your exhaustion.
So when he abruptly sat down under the shade of one large tree , you mistook it as him suffering similarly under the sun and hot weather. You were grateful to follow his cue nonetheless, settling beside him with a careful distance between him and your skirts.
"You are not mute"
his abrupt words startled you as turned to him hastily, "My prince?"
He hummed as he gazed off into the distance, eyes squinted from the contrasting brightness from under shade and the scorching rays just beyond.
"Tell me about yourself, so that I know it isn't silence that will accompany me for the rest of my life." Your cheeks had flushed from the nakedness of his speech and your first words had stuttered, but when he continued to stare at the gardens before you both, your sentences had flowed more freely.
First you told him about your hobbies—the responses taught to you since you could conjured sentences, answers deemed appropriate for friends and suitors alike. Then you spoke of your interests that were truly yours , not the ones that were expected of a lady—reading. That was when he glanced at you for the first time with something other than disinterest.
And the next time you both were made to cross paths, he hadn't greeted you empty handed. You had stayed up all night that night, as you read every line twice of the 'art of disarming your opponent'. And sure enough, he had successfully managed to disarm you.
Your courtship wasn't labelled nor was it grand. It flowed like a river—naturally, at its own pace and without any external influence. But it wasn't cool to the touch.
He was merciless , arrogant about his skills to a fault. But you couldn't bring yourself to deny him the praise that was due to him. He truly was magnificent when he had the twin swords in his strong grip, feet steady as he swayed to the melody of the clanging of steel and heavy thumps of bodies hitting the ground. The haunting melody that you grew more fond of day by day.
He was fiery, a Targaryen. And this realisation dawned on you the more you watched him train. He breathed fire, true to the blood of the dragon that flowed in his veins.
And that fire consumed you. Yet it never burned you. Because, you realised, his fire always mellowed out when he was with you.
It wasn't hardness that greeted you when his lips met yours. It wasn't bruises that painted your skin when his fingers found your waist.
And it wasn't shame that you felt when he took your innocence on your wedding night.
What overcame you was love and pride. Happiness to belong to someone whose sharp edges never dug into you.
He was mad though—you could attest to it. Absolutely mental .
Because it is only a madman who trains a lady in the art of swords and knives. Not just any lady, his wife.
But Aerion Targaryen personally taught you how to grab the hilt, how to twist the blades just right so that it doesn't face resistance against bone, and which parts of the body to strike so that it pierces right through the flesh and sinew.
He was unforgiving in his training, dressing you up in his own trousers and shirts which hung off your frame. He insisted that the dragon's wife , should be a dragon in her own right. You would curse him in your head , when your muscles protested and sweat made the cotton cling to your back.
But when his sword would clang to the stone floor and his fingers would sneak around your waist pulling you flush against him, you would forget all about your anger and fire. He didn't mind the sweat and the dust and grime. He would bury his nose against your neck and inhale as if he would suffocate without you and your scent was the only air his body would accept.
In those moments he wouldn't be the cruel general or the ruthless prince that the court whispered of , he was just your husband. Your protector and your guide. Your mentor too.
And you were his anchor. Or perhaps the sandstone—smoothening his edges and holding him down so that he didn't lose himself.
He wasn't inhumane. He was angry. Angry at the world that belittled him and looked down on him at every turn. Thought him undeserving of his name and refused to acknowledge his efforts. So he learnt to desensitise himself. He learnt to be secure in himself and his abilities. And you couldn't find fault with a man who was the epitome of confidence and regality.
He wasn't religious, but he would accompany you to your prayers.
He wasn't soft, but he would never hesitate to stop when your body betrayed you, no matter if it was in training or in the bedchamber.
He wasn't romantic , but he would stay seated with his arms wrapped around your waist, nose buried in your neck as you would read to him.
And when you looked at him in the nights—when the candlelight softened the sharper lines of his face and his long hair framed his features in waves of spun gold— you only saw your husband. The man who wasn't afraid to defy norms. The man who knew loyalty. The man who wasn't afraid that his woman might betray him and had willingly put a sword in her hands. The man who had given you his heart.
There was much too many things he wasn't .
But he was yours— bound to you in body, mind and heart. So you accepted him in his entirety.
His cruelty, his madness and his ruthlessness.
Another short blurb that I'm not proud of but had to get outta my system cuz I'm so in love with soft aerion likes , comments and reblogs make me come alive 🙂↕️
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