i literally just need to send you this because i found you like a week or two ago and read pretty much every piece on your account. i’m a uni student for creative writing and i really REALLY enjoy the way that you write. i was never really into smut fics over like 2.5k at the most but i have really enjoyed reading every single one of your pieces and haven’t found it a chore at all. thank you for doing what you do
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omg stop ily this is so sweet, esp from someone who's clearly an expert like yourself
im very aware i sometimes get carried away with fics lol and the word count can be pain inducing (belive me i kick myself when i have to go back an edit -_- literally just posted a fic over 7k words like why do i do this to myself) but it means the world you guys put up with me anyways!!!
on that note tho i have been considering writing a couple shorter fics (just cuz i could get them out quicker), so when im super busy i can feed yall more content - and this only applies when im like RLLY busy - would you guys prefer shorter fics more often (like 1-3k) or that i spend longer on one and you get the classic over 5k fic (just that it could take ages when ive got it full on)
either way fics will be coming your way, ive just got banging summer plans coming up and know i wont have as much bed rot fic writing time :)
ALSO got some requests for Jeffrey Goins and Gerry Lane so who yall want first <<3
Aldo Raine x british!actress!reader - Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Summary: A world-famous actress and an American lieutenant walk into a Nazi party pretending to be together. Unfortunately, the act starts working.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, Enemies-to-lovers ish, war, fake dating, forced proximity, slow burn, alcohol, smoking, eventual smut, unprotected p in v, oral (fem rec), strong af accent, possessive/protective behaviour, mutual pining, Aldo Raine accidentally acquires a wife-shaped problem, (everyone totally thinks they're fucking)
A/N: just LOOK at this man's ARM i wanna bite it and/or use it as a pillow
CURRENT WIPs - MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 7.3k (its long im srry)
Rain follows you all the way up the hill.
Not the romantic sort of rain they put in films, either. It's cold, mean rain, the kind that turns dirt to sludge and seeps through wool.
By the time the truck finally rattles to a stop near the treeline, your shoes are ruined.
You stay seated for a moment anyway, gloved fingers still curled around the handle of your case while the driver hops out into the mud. Voices carry through the downpour outside, loud American accents, rough laughter, boots against wet ground.
“Miss?” the driver says, poking his head back in. “We’re here.”
“So I gathered.”
He gives you a strange look, somewhere between amused and nervous, before climbing back down. You exhale once through your nose, straighten your coat, and step out into the rain.
Mud immediately threatens your ankles.
Ahead, half-hidden among the trees, sits a miserable little cluster of military tents and dim lantern light. Men move through the camp carrying rifles and crates, broad shapes blurred by weather and smoke.
Several heads turn toward you at once.
You are used to being looked at. Crowds outside theatres, cameras flashing, journalists hanging onto your every expression like starving dogs. You know exactly what people see when they look at you.
But this is curiosity sharpened by boredom; a woman in a camp full of soldiers might as well be a meteor crashing through the trees.
One of the men lets out a low whistle. Another says, “Well, hell.”
You ignore both, instead starting toward the largest tent without waiting for instructions. Rain taps against your shoulders in a relentless hiss.
The flap opens before you can reach it, and the man standing there is taller than you expected.
Broad-shouldered. Uniform worn like he doesn’t particularly care what regulations say about it. A knife at his hip. Another tucked into his boot. There’s a scar along his neck disappearing beneath his collar, pale against sun-browned skin.
And the accent, when he speaks, is pure Appalachian drawl.
“Well now,” he says slowly, eyes dragging over you with open assessment. “Ain’t you a sight.”
So this must be Lieutenant Aldo Raine.
You had expected someone older, somehow. Or cleaner. Or at the very least less obviously dangerous. Instead he looks like a man who would bite someone during an argument.
Your gaze flicks once to the cigar between his fingers. “You’re smoking indoors.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re late.”
“You’re in a forest.”
Behind him, several men hover with all the subtlety of schoolboys eavesdropping through a doorway.
Aldo doesn’t look away from you.
“You always this friendly?”
“Only when I’m cold.”
Then, unexpectedly, his eyes drop briefly to the suitcase in your hand.
“You carried that yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You are not sure why that seems to interest him but rainwater slips down the back of your neck before you can think too hard about it.
“Are you going to invite me inside,” you ask, “or continue staring at me like you’re deciding whether I’m armed?”
Another twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Still decidin’.”
The rain does not let up for the next two days.
Everything smells faintly of damp wool, cigarette smoke, and mud. The camp itself exists in a permanent state of somewhat organised chaos; soldiers moving in and out of tents at all hours, voices carrying through the trees, bursts of laughter loud enough to make you suspicious of whatever terrible joke prompted them.
You are beginning to understand why military intelligence warned you about the Basterds in the same tone one might use for unstable explosives.
At the moment, most of them are crowded into the command tent around a scarred wooden table, arguing over cards.
You stand just outside the flap for a moment, listening.
“I’m tellin’ you that is not a real rule.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You made that up because you’re losin’.”
“I’m winnin’, actually.”
“You’re cheatin’, actually.”
“You are from Iowa. That means your opinion does not count.”
A chorus of overlapping insults follows; you push inside before it escalates into violence. The reaction is immediate. Conversations stumble, one man straightens abruptly in his chair, another nudges the soldier beside him hard enough to nearly knock him over.
You pretend not to notice.
Aldo sits at the head of the table with his boots propped on a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cigar balanced between two fingers. Unlike the others, he does not look surprised to see you.
His gaze lifts slowly from the map spread in front of him.
“Well,” he drawls, “look who decided to join civilization.”
“I was informed there would be coffee.”
“There was.”
You glance toward the empty tin mug near Donny's elbow. Aldo gestures lazily toward the empty seat beside him. “C’mere, sweetheart. Briefin’s startin’.”
The nickname catches you slightly off guard.
Not because of the word itself, men call you sweetheart constantly, but because of the ease with which he says it. Like he’s testing how it sounds directed at you specifically. You refuse to let that show on your face.
Instead, you remove your gloves and sit beside him, close enough to smell tobacco and rain on his uniform.
The room settles.
Aldo taps ash carelessly into a tray before speaking. “Alright, listen up. We got ourselves a party.”
Groans immediately break out around the table.
“Aw, hell.”
“I hate parties.”
“You hate bathin’ too, but sometimes sacrifices gotta be made.” A crumpled paper ball flies across the tent. Aldo ignores all of it.
“Three nights from now,” he continues, pointing toward the map, “Colonel Dietrich’s hostin’ a private reception at a château outside Paris. High-ranking officers, diplomats, industrialists. Real fancy evil sonsofbitches.”
You lean forward slightly despite yourself. The château is circled in pencil.
“The colonel’s been movin’ information through these gatherings,” Aldo says. “Names, schedules, supply routes. British intelligence wants copies before the bastard relocates.”
“And that,” another soldier mutters, “is where the movie star comes in.”
Several eyes slide toward you.
You lean back in your chair. “How thrilling.”
Aldo continues before anyone else can speak. “Colonel Dietrich’s wife is apparently a fan.”
You blink once. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah,” Aldo says, sounding entirely too entertained. “Turns out Nazis love the pictures.”
A few snorts circle the table.
“One of the ladies invited to the reception fell ill,” he goes on. “British intelligence intercepted the replacement request and slipped your name in.”
“So I attend the party,” you say slowly. “Smile politely. Charm fascists. Try not to get murdered.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“And you?”
Aldo’s grin is small and dangerous. “I’m your escort.”
The table goes suspiciously quiet. You turn toward him fully for the first time since sitting down. “My escort.”
“Mhm.”
“You?”
“Try not to sound too excited.”
You study him for a long moment.
“I’m British,” you say. “And you are the most American person I have ever met in my life.”
Around the table, several men immediately start grinning like they’ve just smelled blood in the water.
Aldo only raises an eyebrow. “That right?”
“You sound like you were raised entirely on whiskey and violence.”
“Now hold on-”
“And unless I’ve misunderstood the current geopolitical situation rather severely,” you continue, “how exactly are we meant to walk into a Nazi party together without someone noticing we’re standing on opposite sides of a world war?”
Aldo leans back slightly in his chair, entirely too relaxed under your scrutiny.
“That’s the beauty of it,” he says. “We ain’t.” He reaches over, flips open the file in front of you, and taps the forged papers inside.
“British actress travels through occupied territory under diplomatic protection for cultural relations work,” he says. “Public morale, artistic exchange, maintainin’ communication for the preservation of art or something similarly mushy."
Aldo is watching you now instead of the room, eyes narrowed slightly with that same unreadable amusement you noticed when you first arrived.
“We gotta look natural together,” he says. “Comfortable. Affectionate, even.”
“Affectionate.”
“Might need dancin’, too.”
You stare at him. “You dance, Lieutenant?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, low and easy, “I got all kinds’a hidden talents.”
The men around the table groan loudly enough to shake the tent.
The gramophone crackles somewhere near the back of the tent.
Not loudly. Just enough for the music to drift through the room in warm, wavering strings while someone adjusts the needle with visible skepticism. The space itself has been cleared as much as possible, crates shoved aside, chairs stacked crookedly near the walls, muddy bootprints still visible across the wooden floorboards.
A makeshift ballroom in the middle of a military camp.
Ridiculous.
You pause just outside the tent flap anyway, smoothing a hand unconsciously down the front of your dress before stepping inside.
Several heads turn at once and you have to resist the urge to sigh.
The dress itself is simple by your standards; dark silk, long sleeves, practical enough for wartime shortages, but compared to rough uniforms and muddy boots, it may as well be couture.
And these men have clearly not seen a woman in months.
Your gaze flicks across the room until it lands on Aldo.
He is standing near the center of the cleared floor in shirtsleeves, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, a cigarette caught between his fingers. For once, he has gone strangely still.
Something unreadable passes across his face before he takes the cigarette from his mouth.
“C’mere, sweetheart.”
The music skips softly as you cross the room.
Up close, you can smell tobacco and soap and the faint trace of whiskey on him. His hair is still damp from rain earlier, curling slightly at the edges.
“You actually know how to dance?” you ask.
He looks mildly offended. “Course I know how to dance.”
“Ballroom dance.”
A pause.
“I know enough.”
You hum knowingly. “That bad, then.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Careful. Hurt my pride in front’a my men.”
Behind you, someone mutters, “Too late.”
You ignore them and hold out your hand.
Aldo looks at it for a moment before taking it carefully, like he is uncertain whether this is a trick.
“Alright,” you say. “Show me. Lead.”
The first attempt is catastrophic. You barely avoid stepping on his boots.
“Lieutenant,” you say patiently, “if you shove me across the floor any harder I’m going through the wall.”
A few soldiers snort loudly.
Aldo shoots them a dark look before turning back to you. “You said lead.”
“Yes. Lead.” You reposition his hand lightly against your back. “Not manhandle.”
His hand stills.
So do you, briefly.
The warmth of his palm presses through the silk between your shoulder blades, broad and steady. Closer now, you become acutely aware of just how large he is. Not merely tall, but solid. Built with the kind of physical confidence that comes from years of surviving dangerous situations.
For the first time since arriving here, you understand very clearly why people follow him.
You step back before the thought can settle too deeply.
“The point,” you continue smoothly, “is to make me look comfortable with you. Safe and relaxed.”
Aldo raises an eyebrow. “Safe.”
“Yes.”
“That gonna be difficult?”
“Extremely so.”
That earns another laugh from the room. You ignore it and move his arm again, gentler this time.
“You’re thinking too much about where your feet go,” you say. “You should be thinking about me.”
His eyes flick up to yours. “That so?”
“Yes. If you lead properly, I’ll follow naturally.”
For once, he doesn’t make a joke.
You guide him through the first few steps again. Slowly this time. At first he still hesitates, movements slightly stiff beneath your hands. Waltzing requires control in a very specific way, not dominance through force, but confidence. The ability to guide someone without making the guidance visible.
Not a skill men like Aldo Raine are usually taught.
“You’re watching your feet again,” you say quietly.
“Well I don’t wanna break your damn ankle.”
“You won’t.”
“How you know?”
“Because I’m better at this than you are.”
A pause.
Then, begrudgingly, “Alright then.”
Gradually the tension leaves his shoulders. The rhythm settles into him piece by piece until the movement stops looking rehearsed and starts looking instinctive.
Aldo’s hand steadies at your back. His grip shifts from uncertain to assured. He turns you cleanly through the next step without needing instruction, guiding rather than pushing now.
You feel the difference immediately.
Something changes in his expression, the concentration sharpening into confidence as the dance finally clicks into place beneath his feet.
“Well, look at that,” he murmurs.
You look up at him.
He looks down at you.
For a brief moment, the rest of the room seems to fade strangely at the edges. The music crackles softly through the tent. Rain taps faintly overhead. His hand remains warm against your back, your fingers curled loosely in his, bodies moving together with an ease that feels unexpectedly natural.
You catch the exact second the others notice it too.
The shift in atmosphere is almost tangible. Someone mutters, “Oh, hell.” Donny is openly grinning now, leaning back against a crate with the smug expression of a man watching a prediction come true in real time.
Aldo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
He turns you once more across the floor, smoother this time, and when you settle back into place against him his gaze flicks briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes.
“You learn fast,” you say quietly.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough that only you hear it, “I got a real strong motivator right about now.”
By the following evening, the rumours had become a genuine problem. A loud, relentless, deeply embarrassing problem.
It starts small, like when you walk into the mess tent just as one of the Basterds says, “Nah, I’m tellin’ you, there ain’t no way they practice dancin’ that long without somethin’ happenin’ after.”
The second they notice you standing there, the entire table goes silent.
You narrow your eyes immediately.
“What.”
“Nope,” Donny says quickly, staring down into his drink. “Ain’t sayin’ a word.”
“Mm.” You glance between them. “That usually means someone absolutely should.”
Aldo, sitting near the end of the table, suddenly develops an intense interest in cleaning his knife. You point at him. “What did you tell them?”
His head lifts slowly. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I ain’t told ‘em nothin’.”
You feel suspicion beginning to crawl up your spine.
Unfortunately, before you can press further, someone asks, far too casually, “So who made the first move?”
The table erupts instantly. “Oh, definitely her.”
“No way.”
“She looked at him one time and this man forgot how feet work.”
Aldo's increasingly defensive voice joins in, “That ain’t true.”
“You walked into a chair.”
“It was a small chair.”
You stare at them in disbelief, then slowly turn toward Aldo. “You let them discuss me like this?”
Aldo finally looks up from his knife, not remotely apologetic. “Sweetheart, I ain’t got the authority to stop stupid.”
Another soldier leans forward onto his elbows, openly fascinated now that you are trapped here. “So what’s it like?”
You blink. “What.”
“You know.” He gestures vaguely between you and Aldo. “Him.”
Several men nod immediately.
“You all realise I’m sitting right here,” Aldo says.
Donny points at him without looking away from you. “That’s why we’re askin’.”
“So is he actually smooth with women or does he just stand there lookin’ dangerous until they decide that’s attractive?”
You choke slightly on your drink. Everyone starts talking over each other immediately after that.
“I bet he’s possessive.”
“No, no, he’s probably quiet.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You kidding? Look at him. Man probably talks through the whole thing.”
Aldo finally exhales sharply through his nose. “Jesus Christ.”
Donny turns to him, “You’re sittin’ over there actin’ mysterious while sleepin’ with a movie star. We deserve details.”
“I ain’t sleepin’ with nobody.” The denial comes too late and with far too little conviction. The table goes dead silent.
Then, “That’s a guilty voice.”
“Real weak defense there, Lieutenant.”
Aldo points his knife vaguely around the table. “Every single one’a you needs hobbies.”
He looks deeply unimpressed by the entire conversation, sprawled lazily in his chair with one boot hooked over the rung beneath him. But there is something dangerously close to amusement lingering around his mouth.
Another man points between you both. “See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. Y’all keep lookin’ at each other like you already know what the other one sounds like at three in the mornin’."
Aldo laughs this time, a low rough sound, head tipping back briefly before he drags a hand across his mouth. “Alright,” he says. “That’s enough.”
“No wonder the chemistry’s good.”
You set your cup down carefully. “There is no chemistry.”
Every single man at the table stares at you in open disbelief. Then one of them says, with complete sincerity, “Ma’am, we watched y’all dance.”
The mission is less than twenty-four hours away when the mood in camp finally changes.
Until now it's all felt strangely theatrical. Arguments over pronunciation and forged documents and whether Aldo is capable of wearing a tuxedo without looking like he’s about to threaten someone with a shovel.
But the night before the operation, the performance drops away.
You sit alone just outside your tent with a cigarette balanced between your fingers, watching fog drift through the trees.
The dress for tomorrow hangs inside behind you.
Black silk. Elegant enough for a Nazi officer’s reception. Carefully altered to conceal a small blade against your thigh.
You try not to think about that too much. The cigarette glows softly in the dark as you inhale.
“You smoke when you’re nervous.”
Aldo’s voice cuts through the quiet before you hear his footsteps.
You glance sideways as he approaches through the trees, jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. He looks tired tonight. Less sharp around the edges somehow.
“You’ve known me four days,” you say.
“Mm.” He stops beside you. “Still right, though.”
You exhale smoke slowly. “I wasn’t aware I’d become so easy to read.”
“That ain’t what I said.”
Aldo lowers himself into the chair beside yours with a quiet groan.
“You always this tense before missions?” he asks.
“I’m not usually included in missions involving Nazis.” You glance at him, “You?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t sleep much beforehand.”
“No?”
“Nah.”
His voice is lighter than the words themselves.
You study him quietly in the dim light. Without the constant presence of the others around him, Aldo feels different. Still dangerous, certainly. That never disappears. But quieter now. More watchful than loud.
It occurs to you suddenly that he probably carries responsibility in very lonely ways. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower.
“You’re better at that than most soldiers I know.”
Something in your chest tightens unexpectedly.
You look down at the cigarette instead of at him.
“You know,” you murmur after a moment, “when they recruited me for this, they told me you were unstable.”
That earns a genuine laugh. “Did they now?”
“They also implied you were difficult to control.”
“Now that,” he says, “is just hurtful.”
You smile despite yourself, and this time the silence that follows feels easier. Aldo leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Truth is,” he says after a while, “I hate operations like this.”
“Why?”
“Because soldiers know what they signed up for.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Civilians don’t.”
For all his roughness, there are moments when glimpses of something gentler appear beneath the surface so suddenly they catch you off guard. Not softness, because Aldo Raine is not a soft man. But care, maybe?
Care buried under violence and swagger and cigarettes and absolutely terrible flirting.
“Lieutenant!”
The moment snaps cleanly apart.
Aldo closes his eyes briefly like a man being tested by God himself. A second voice follows immediately after.
“You better not be romancin’ out there!”
You stare straight ahead.
Slowly, Aldo drags one hand down his face. “You know,” he says calmly, “I have considered shootin’ every single one’a them.”
The château glows like a jewel against the dark.
Golden light spills from towering windows across the gravel drive, catching against polished cars and damp stone and the glittering movement of people ascending the front steps in silk and military dress. Somewhere inside, an orchestra plays softly enough to drift through the open doors in fragments.
It is beautiful in the way dangerous things often are.
You step from the car and immediately feel Aldo’s hand settle against the small of your back. The touch sends a brief pulse of awareness through you before you can stop it.
“Easy,” he murmurs without moving his mouth much. “You look nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“Good.” His thumb shifts once lightly against your spine. “Means you ain’t stupid.”
You glance sideways at him as attendants move around the cars nearby and decide that he cleans up infuriatingly well. Dark jacket fitted cleanly across broad shoulders, hair combed back enough to expose the hard line of his jaw, bow tie slightly imperfect in a way that somehow makes him more attractive instead of less.
People are already looking at him.
Not because they recognise him, of course. Because he walks like a man entirely unafraid of any room he enters.
His hand presses lightly at your back again.
“C’mon, sweetheart.”
The front doors open before you reach them.
Warmth spills over you immediately along with music and conversation and the rich scent of champagne and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers gleam overhead. Marble floors reflect gold light beneath the movement of uniforms and gowns.
The room shifts the moment you enter.
Faces turn. Conversations falter. Someone says your name quietly near the staircase.
You soften your expression instinctively into something poised and effortless, the familiar social performance sliding into place like muscle memory.
Beside you, Aldo adjusts seamlessly.
The swagger remains, certainly, but refined now into something smoother. Controlled confidence instead of open menace. His hand remains steady against your back as he guides you naturally through the crowd like he belongs there.
Like he belongs beside you.
A German officer pauses near the entrance, visibly startled by your appearance.
“Fräulein,” he says immediately, bowing over your hand when you offer it. “What an unexpected honor.”
You smile politely.
“You’re very kind.”
His attention shifts toward Aldo. “And this is-?”
“American escort,” Aldo says smoothly before you can answer, his accent softened just enough to pass beneath the music and chatter around you.
The officer nods. “Ah, yes. Cultural relations.”
“Important work,” Aldo says solemnly.
The officer continues politely, “It is reassuring to see American and British interests maintaining such close communication despite… circumstances.”
Aldo’s fingers flex once against your back.
The officer's gaze returns to you. “And how are you finding Paris, Miss?”
“Complicated,” you answer lightly.
Aldo hums beside you. “She says that about every city.”
The familiarity in the interruption is so natural that the officer immediately smiles.
A couple.
Over the next half hour, the performance settles around you both effortlessly.
Aldo keeps close without hovering, always near enough for contact. A hand at your waist guiding you through crowded spaces. Fingers brushing your elbow when someone stops you too long in conversation. Leaning down slightly whenever you speak to him, as if your voice matters more than the dozens surrounding you.
At one point, a French diplomat laughs at something you say and lets his gaze linger too long down the line of your throat.
Aldo appears beside you almost immediately.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says pleasantly, though there is something dangerous beneath the smile now. “Need to steal her for a moment.”
The diplomat backs off instantly.
You glance sideways as Aldo guides you away through the crowd.
“That was unnecessary,” you murmur.
"Mm. If ya say so, darlin'."
The orchestra begins another waltz as you reach the edge of the ballroom. Without hesitation, Aldo sets down his drink and turns toward you.
He holds out his hand.
You give him yours.
And then he pulls you into him, hand settling at your waist, and suddenly the entire ballroom seems to sharpen around the edges.
Aldo guides you onto the floor with an ease that would have felt impossible three nights ago. Couples move around you beneath the chandeliers in a blur of silk and medals and candlelight, but the second he pulls you into step, attention follows.
Because the two of you look good together.
Alarmingly so, in fact,
“You’re starin’,” he murmurs.
You blink once before realising you are.
“I’m assessing.”
“Sure you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
The next turn brings you closer for half a second, your dress brushing lightly against his legs before he guides you back out again with practiced precision.
Too practiced.
“You’ve improved,” you say quietly.
“Mm.” His gaze remains on you rather than the dance floor. “Got a good teacher.”
The compliment lands lower in your stomach than it should and you glance briefly around the room before he can notice.
Colonel Dietrich stands near the far end of the ballroom speaking with two officers. The study lies beyond the western corridor exactly where intelligence suggested it would be.
And tucked neatly inside Aldo’s jacket, hidden beneath the clean lines of the tuxedo, rests a stolen key.
“You got it?” you murmur.
Aldo doesn’t look away from you. “Mhm.”
“How?”
“Colonel’s aide got distracted.”
You narrow your eyes. “Distracted by what.”
His thumb shifts once against your back.
“You.”
A passing officer smiles knowingly as he and his wife drift by. Aldo nods politely back.
“How are we lookin’?” he asks softly.
You force yourself to focus.
“No one suspects anything yet. The colonel’s wife adores you.”
“She should.”
“Your confidence is alarming.”
“Sweetheart, she watched you stare at me through dinner like you wanted me naked.”
Your step falters slightly, the bastard looks pleased with himself.
“That,” you say carefully, “was acting.”
“Uh huh.”
“You were the one touching my knee under the table.”
“Had t'sell it.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You ain’t?”
The orchestra carries you both through another sweeping turn. Candlelight catches against his eyes when you look up at him, warm amber beneath the chandeliers.
Your gaze flicks briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.
His hand tightens once at your waist.
When the music finally slows to a stop, applause ripples politely through the ballroom.
Neither of you lets go immediately.
For one suspended second, Aldo’s hand remains firm at your waist while you stand close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him through layers of silk and wool. Around you, couples begin drifting apart beneath the chandeliers, conversations resuming in low elegant murmurs.
But Aldo is still looking at you.
He smiles lazily and leans down toward your ear, close enough that his mouth nearly brushes your skin.
“Ready to scandalize some Nazis?”
The low scrape of his voice against your ear sends heat down your spine in a way that feels deeply inconvenient.
“Lead the way.”
That, apparently, is all the confirmation anyone nearby needs.
A woman standing beside the dance floor lets out a knowing little laugh as Aldo’s hand slides low against your back again. An officer across the room raises his brows toward another man with obvious amusement.
One of them actually smirks and mutters something in German about Americans.
“See?” he murmurs as he guides you toward the doors. “Told you they’d buy it.”
You stay tucked against his side while the crowd parts naturally around you. Every now and then his thumb brushes absently against your waist, subtle enough to look unconscious, intimate enough to turn heads.
A perfect picture of a couple slipping away early for reasons no one wants to explain.
The hallway beyond the ballroom is quieter, lit only by soft golden sconces along dark panelled walls. Music drifts faintly behind you now, muffled by distance.
Aldo’s posture changes almost immediately.
“The study’s through there,” he murmurs without looking at you, nodding almost imperceptibly toward the western corridor ahead.
You keep your expression relaxed as another couple passes nearby.
“And our room?”
“End of the hall.”
Your pulse kicks slightly faster.
The plan had sounded simple back at camp. Now, walking through a Nazi officer’s private residence while pretending you are on your way to sleep with Aldo Raine, it feels considerably more insane.
Footsteps echo somewhere nearby.
Without warning, Aldo catches your wrist gently and pulls you into a darkened alcove just off the corridor.
You collide lightly against his chest.
The movement is smooth enough to look intimate from a distance, but your breath still catches slightly from surprise. Aldo braces one hand against the wall beside your head while the other remains firm at your waist.
A pair of officers rounds the corner moments later, laughing quietly between themselves.
Neither pays you any real attention, and they continue past without even slowing.
Your heart pounds annoyingly hard against your ribs.
His face is inches from yours now, shadows cutting sharply across the lines of his jaw. Up close, you can smell whiskey faint beneath soap and smoke.
“You alright?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Ya sure?”
“No.”
He gives you a ghost of a smile, and then straightens, stepping back just enough to breathe properly again before offering you his arm like nothing happened at all.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says lightly. “Let’s go commit espionage.”
The study door unlocks in less than three seconds. Aldo opens the door immediately, one hand already moving to the small of your back to guide you inside.
Dark wood shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with books and polished military awards. A fire burns low in the hearth. On the desk near the window sits a half-finished drink beside stacks of neatly organised papers.
Aldo closes the door softly behind you.
“Three minutes,” he murmurs.
You nod once and move immediately.
You cross to the desk while Aldo moves toward the filing cabinet near the wall. Drawers slide open softly beneath practiced hands. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears while you scan documents, searching for shipment routes, coded schedules, names.
Outside, footsteps pass once down the hallway.
Both of you freeze instantly.
Silence.
The footsteps continue.
You exhale quietly and keep moving. “There,” Aldo says lowly a moment later. He holds up a thin folder stamped with German military markings.
You help quickly, replacing papers in precise order while Aldo wipes down the desk and cabinet handles with calm efficiency. Within another minute, the room looks untouched.
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Now comes the difficult part.”
You glance toward the door. “Leaving?”
His mouth twitches.
“Nah. The opposite.”
Realisation dawns slowly.
“Oh.”
Because, of course. People saw you leave the ballroom together. Saw the way he touched you, the way you danced. No one expects you to reappear after ten minutes looking perfectly composed.
Thankfully, the corridor remains empty.
Together, you walk toward the suite at the end of the hall with measured, unhurried steps. A couple disappearing for the night.
The room itself is elegant in the suffocatingly wealthy way the rest of the château is. Gold curtains, crystal decanters, a fireplace crackling softly near velvet chairs.
And one bed.
You stop short just inside the doorway.
Aldo closes the door behind you with a quiet click before noticing your expression. Then his eyes move toward the bed.
A pause.
“Well,” he says finally, voice rough with amusement, “reckon we committed a little too hard to the cover story.”
He loosens his bow tie slightly as he crosses the room, though you notice he keeps his movements careful now, measured in a way they usually aren't around you. Like he is aware of the tension too.
“You can take the bed,” he says after a moment. “I’ll manage somewhere else.”
Your gaze flicks toward the small velvet sofa against the wall.
“You absolutely will not.”
“I slept in worse places.”
“I’m sure you have. You’re still not sleeping folded in half like a traveling salesman.”
A grin tugs briefly at his mouth. “You got a better idea?” he says, glancing toward you again, slower this time.
The tuxedo jacket is gone now, sleeves rolled slightly, bow tie loosened at his throat.
"It's a big bed," you reply after a moment of silence.
He studies you, then seems to make up his mind. “We shared a dance floor in front of two hundred Nazis,” he says softly. “Maybe we can survive a mattress.”
Your eyes catch briefly on the line of his throat where he’s loosened the collar, and when you look back up, he notices.
Of course he notices.
“Well,” you say carefully, setting your gloves down beside the dresser, “try not to flirt with me too much, Lieutenant.”
The grin he gives you this time is slow and devastating.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “little late for that now.”
He crosses the room slowly enough for you to stop him if you want, but you don't, and by the time he reaches you, your breathing has already gone uneven.
“Darlin',” he says softly, gaze fixed on yours, “tell me to back off and I will.”
The fact that he asks nearly undoes you more than the flirting ever did.
You shake your head once, and it seems that’s all it takes.
Aldo’s hand slides carefully along your waist before settling at your back, pulling you toward him in one smooth motion. The kiss lands hot and immediate, all restrained tension finally snapping loose at once.
It is nothing like the polished fake intimacy from downstairs. This is rougher, hungrier.
You grip the front of his shirt instinctively as he kisses you deeper, one broad hand firm against your spine while the other catches briefly at your jaw.
Aldo kisses like he does everything else, intensely, thoroughly, and like he’s been thinking about it longer than he will ever admit.
His mouth drags from yours just long enough for both of you to breathe before he kisses you again immediately, slower this time but somehow worse for it. Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, loosening it from the careful styling of earlier.
A low sound escapes him at the feeling.
“Aldo,” you murmur against his mouth, half warning, half something else entirely.
“Yeah,” he says roughly, like he barely remembers language at the moment.
The back of your knees bump lightly against the edge of the mattress before you realise he’s been guiding you backwards across the room the entire time your mouth has been locked with his.
His hand moves lower to your hip as he kisses you again, slower now, almost disbelieving beneath the urgency.
He guides you down, and the mattress dips beneath you a second later as Aldo catches himself with one arm braced beside your head, careful despite the obvious strain in his composure.
You lean up to kiss him again, slow and deep. He draws the dress up your legs, slowly, taking his time. Eventually, he pulls it completely off, and his hand finds your waist, thumb stroking bare skin.
"We shouldn't," he murmurs against your mouth while his hands slowly drag each socking down, fingers smoothing along your calf as he goes.
"Uh huh." You nip at his bottom lip. "But I don't care."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's heat in his eyes but also something infinitely softer. "If we do this, we're doin' it slow, real slow. I won't rush this, not you. Understood?"
Your stomach flips. "Yes."
"And if anythin' hurts, like really hurts, you tell me immediately."
"I will."
He searches your face, then nods. "Scoot over then, sweetheart."
While he watches you move up the bed Aldo pulls the loosened bow tie free with one sharp tug and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder without looking. The shirt comes next, buttons abandoned halfway through, before he simply yanks the thing free and sends it to join the growing pile on the floor. His suspenders snap loose a second later.
Then he follows you up the bed, settling comfortably between your legs with careful precision. His mouth trails down your neck, pressing soft kisses all over.
A low sound emanates from his throat, and you feel him hardening against your thigh. But he doesn't rush. Just keeps kissing you, working his way down your body with a patience that makes you ache.
When he reaches your breasts, he's so careful. Tongue circling your nipple slowly, hand cupping the other with just enough pressure to make you arch into him.
"You're beautiful, sugar," he murmurs against your skin. "So fuckin' beautiful."
Your hands roam his back, tracing the scars there. He shivers under your touch, and you file that away, the knowledge that you affect him just as much as he affects you.
He kisses down your stomach, and you tense.
"Aldo wait, you don't have to-"
"I wanna." He looks up at you from between your legs. "Hell, baby, I've wanted to taste you since you walked into my camp, but only if you can handle it."
You're nervous, probably too sensitive to be with a man like him, but the way he's looking at you makes you nod. "Gentle?"
"So gentle," he promises, letting his lips press against your stomach, and you nod, letting your head fall back against the pillows.
When his mouth is finally on you, it's exactly that. Long, slow strokes of his tongue that build the heat in you. He's reading your body, adjusting to every hitch in your breath, every small movement.
It's not the intense, almost violent pleasure you'd imagined. This is something sweeter. He's making love to you with his mouth, and it's somehow more intimate than you could've imagined.
"Oh my god, Aldo," you breathe, hands fisting in his hair. "That's-"
"Good?"
"So good. Don't stop."
He doesn't. Just keeps that steady, gentle rhythm until you're trembling, pleasure building slowly and inevitably.
When you finally come, it's soft. A warm wave rather than a crash, rolling through you in pulses that make you gasp his name.
He works you through it, then kisses his way back up your body, finally finding his way back to your lips.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay." You wrap your legs around his hips carefully, feeling him hard and ready against you. "I want you inside me."
"Baby, we don't have to if you don't want to-"
"Aldo, shut up and fuck me already."
His eyebrows jump up, but he doesn't have time to be surprised before you're fumbling with his belt, pulling it off and moving to the zip on his trousers. He helps you, and soon he's gloriously and fully bare above you.
“This,” he whispers, a little breathless, “is probably a terrible idea.”
“Yeah,” you murmur against his mouth. “Probably. But like I said before, I don't care.”
A grin flickers briefly across his face before he leans down to kiss you again. "Alright, baby."
He reaches between you, positioning himself, and pushes in slowly. So slowly. Inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, to breathe through the stretch.
"Fuck," he grits out. "You're so damn tight."
"Hurts a little," but you're pulling him deeper with your legs.
"I know. I've got you." He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to yours. "Just breathe."
You do, and gradually the discomfort fades into something better.
"Move," you whisper. "Slow, but move."
He does. Long, slow strokes that make you feel every inch of him. It's deliberate and tender, each thrust measured and careful.
"Is this okay?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Yes. God, yes."
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling gently. The added stimulation makes you cry out, hips rolling to meet his careful thrusts.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Takin' me so damn well, darlin'."
You keep chasing the pleasure while he maintains that steady, gentle rhythm. He's perfect, the way he's holding himself back for you, making sure you're okay, taking care of you even now when you've stopped playing a role.
"You feel so good, Aldo," you tell him. "So good inside me."
He groans, his hips stuttering slightly before he regains his relative composure. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trynna to be gentle, and you're makin' it incredibly difficult."
He marks the statement with a particularly deep thrust, prompting a startled moan from you which he captures with his mouth. The kiss is deep and slow, his hips still moving in that careful rhythm, and the pleasure builds again gradually, a slow burn rather than a wildfire. You can feel it in your core, spreading through your limbs.
"I'm close," you breathe against his mouth.
"Yeah?" His fingers press a little harder, circle a little faster. "Come for me. C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme feel it"
It builds and builds, and then you're coming, clenching around him with a whine. The orgasm is long and rolling, deep.
He follows you over, thrusts becoming less controlled as he spills inside you with a groan. But even in his own pleasure, he's careful not to crush you, keeping his weight on his forearms.
For a long moment, you just breathe together. His forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling with aftershocks.
"You good, darlin'?" he finally asks.
You hum against him, nodding slightly while stroking his back gently. You both wince when he pulls out, then he collapses onto the bed next to you with a tired groan and draws you against his chest automatically, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You rest your cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat gradually slow beneath your ear.
For once in his life, Lieutenant Aldo Raine appears completely relaxed.
His fingers drift lazily up and down your spine beneath the sheets, slow enough to make your eyes heavier by the second.
“Are you alright?” you murmur after a while.
“Mm.” His voice comes rough and sleepy. “Better’n alright.”
The southern drawl slips thicker when he’s tired. Softer too, and you smile faintly against his skin. Then he shifts just enough to press a kiss against the top of your head.
The gesture is so unexpectedly tender it nearly undoes you.
“You should get some sleep,” he says quietly.
“What about you?”
“Thinkin’ I might stay like this awhile.”
You glance up at him again.
The firelight catches warm along the lines of his face now that all the sharpness has eased out of it. Hair messy. Mouth slightly swollen from kissing you. Eyes heavy-lidded and softer than you’ve ever seen them.
Dangerous men should not be allowed to look this gentle.
“Lieutenant,” you murmur softly.
“Mhm?”
“You’re staring again.”
A slow, lazy smile appears.
“Can’t really help it, darlin’.” His fingers brush lightly along your spine once more. “Got a real pretty thing in my arms.”
I've received a bunch of requests recently, so I wanted to show you guys what I'm planning to write soon. This list will stay up, and I'll keep updating it so you can always see what's coming soon. It'll be linked on my navigation page <3
It should also be in chronological order (mostly!! sometimes they might not be exact, or if I'm feeling particularly motivated I might bump one up hehe)
Summary: After you're captured during a raid, you expect slavery, brutality, perhaps death. Instead, your knowledge of healing earns you a place among the Myrmidons. Achilles is only supposed to be another patient. Unfortunately, Achilles rarely wants something only once.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, prisoner/captor dynamics, slow burn af, possessiveness, eventual unprotected p in v, power imbalance, war, violence, injury and blood, medical treatment/wound stitching, coercive undertones, Achilles being emotionally repressed and deeply unsubtle, local warlord develops attachment issues
A/N: ily Brad Pitt achilles pls manhandle me <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 5.8k
Smoke hangs low over the outskirts of Troy long after the fighting ends.
It rolls through the ruined streets in thick grey waves, stinging your eyes, settling into your throat with every breath. Somewhere behind you, something collapses with a splintering crash, followed by another burst of screaming. The sound barely turns heads anymore.
You keep your gaze lowered as you’re dragged downhill toward the shore.
The soldier gripping your arm is young, flushed with the ugly exhilaration of surviving battle. His fingers are locked so tightly around your wrist they’ve long since gone numb, but that seems to be the least of your problems.
You stumble once over broken stone and he jerks you upright hard enough to wrench your shoulder. “Keep moving.”
You nod quickly before he can do any worse.
Around you, other captives are being herded toward the ships in frightened clusters. Some cry openly. Others call desperately for husbands or brothers who will never answer them again.
The beach comes into view slowly through the smoke.
Ships line the shore in impossible numbers, dark against the water, their hulls towering over the sand. Greek soldiers move constantly between them carrying armour, weapons, sacks of grain and other supplies. They are nowhere near done fighting this war.
A wounded Greek soldier collapses several paces ahead of you with a rough cry of pain. The men around him curse in annoyance more than concern.
“He’s bleeding everywhere,” one snaps.
“Well, pick him up then.”
“I’m not carrying him back to camp like that.”
The injured man tries to push himself upright and fails immediately. Blood pours steadily through his fingers where he’s clutching his thigh.
Without thinking, you slow. The soldier holding you notices at once. “Don’t.”
But you’re already staring at the wound. Deep, but clean-edged. Dangerous mainly because no one is stopping the bleeding properly.
“He needs pressure,” you say quietly.
The soldier gives a short incredulous laugh. “He needs a priest.”
“He’ll die before he gets one.”
That earns a few glances. Nothing more at first. Just irritation from exhausted men who want the day finished. Before caution can stop you, you add, “I can help him.”
The soldier beside you snorts. “And why would we trust a Trojan?”
You swallow. “I know how.”
For a moment no one answers. The wounded man groans again, weaker this time, and one of the older soldiers finally looks properly at you. His gaze flicks over your clothes, your posture, your face, as if he's trying to place you.
“You’ve done it before?”
You nod once. He considers it, then must decide he's got nothing to lose and shrugs. “Let her try. If she kills him, we throw her in the sea.”
Your grip tightens briefly around your own shaking hands before you kneel beside the injured soldier. Up close, he can’t be much older than you. Sweat streaks through the dirt on his face and his breathing has gone shallow with pain.
When you press down on the wound, he sucks in a sharp breath and curses.
“Sorry,” you murmur automatically.
You tear a strip from the already ruined edge of your sleeve and bind it tightly around his thigh, trying to ignore the blood soaking warm across your palms. The soldier watches you with visible suspicion the entire time, as though expecting you to suddenly drive a knife into his throat.
Once your hands start moving, the rest becomes easier.
Your father used to complain that you asked too many questions when the physicians came to the house. You had followed them endlessly as a child, more interested in bandages and herbs than weaving or music. At the time it had seemed useless knowledge.
“He needs the wound cleaned properly,” you say, sitting back slightly. “And stitched, eventually. But he’ll live.”
The man guarding you lets out a low whistle. “Well. Look at that.”
“You sound surprised,” another voice says nearby.
The soldiers straighten almost immediately.
The man approaching is older than most of the warriors around him, though not old exactly. His armour is finely made but worn from years of use, and there’s something measured in the way he moves through the chaos of the beach.
Recognition lands slowly and unpleasantly in your stomach.
This is Odysseus.
His gaze settles first on the wounded soldier, then on the blood covering your hands. “You did this?”
You hesitate. “I treated him, yes.”
“And where did you learn?”
“My father employed physicians.”
He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “A noble family, then.”
You say nothing to that.
Around you, the surf crashes softly against the shore. Somewhere further down the beach, men are arguing over spoils loud enough for everyone to hear.
Finally Odysseus says, “Who was your father?”
You almost answer automatically before stopping yourself.
His expression shifts faintly, noticing the hesitation “You don’t have to look so alarmed,” he says, not unkindly. “I asked for your name, not for your loyalty.”
A few of the nearby soldiers chuckle under their breath.
Heat rises embarrassingly into your face. You lower your eyes for a moment before telling him.
Odysseus stays silent for a moment, then looks back at the wounded soldier. “She’s useful,” he says simply. “Send her to the Myrmidons.”
The soldier beside you blinks. “Achilles’ men?”
“Yes.”
Even before the war, stories about Achilles spread across Greece and Troy alike like something mythic. You’d seen what he did to Troy’s outer defences three days ago, and you know enough to understand men do not survive that kind of violence unchanged.
Odysseus notices your expression and smiles slightly, though there’s something tired in it.
“He's not as bad as everyone seems to think.”
Before you can think of any response to that, he turns away, already calling orders to someone else further down the beach.
The closer you get to the camp, the more unbearable the noise becomes.
The Greeks move with the exhausted confidence of victors. Some are still laughing. Others look half-dead where they walk, streaked with soot and blood, too tired even to speak. One soldier sits directly in the sand while another pours wine over a cut on his arm, both of them grinning at some joke you can’t hear.
It feels unreal suddenly, how ordinary they make it seem.
You wonder vaguely if your father is dead. The thought arrives strangely flat, too large for your mind to fully grasp yet.
The soldier leading you gives your arm another tug when you slow.
“Keep up.”
The Myrmidon encampment resembles a small city built entirely for war. Shields stacked in careful rows, spears planted upright in the ground, fires already burning despite the lingering heat of the day.
The soldier finally releases your arm near one of the larger tents. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t wander.”
As though you could.
Then he disappears back toward the shore without another glance.
A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly buckles your knees.
You steady yourself against the rough wooden support beside the tent, closing your eyes briefly. Your entire body feels heavy now that the fear has nowhere immediate to go. Smoke still clings to your hair and clothes while dried blood tightens across your fingers.
“Here.”
You start violently. One of the Myrmidons is standing nearby holding out a waterskin. He’s younger than the others, his nose visibly crooked from an old break.
You hesitate before taking it carefully. “Thank you.”
He shrugs. “You stopped Nikos from bleeding out. Figured that earned you water.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple kindness of it. You drink too quickly and immediately cough.
The soldier grins faintly. “Easy. It’s water, not treasure.”
Another voice cuts in from somewhere behind him. “Depends who you ask.”
You look up as a man steps around the tent entrance, and his gaze lands on you immediately.
“This her?”
“The healer,” the younger soldier confirms.
The man studies you for a long moment, eyes flicking briefly to the blood on your clothes. “You know how to stitch wounds?”
“Yes.”
“Set bones?”
“I’ve helped before.”
“You faint at blood?”
You blink. “No, of course not.”
“Good.” Then he jerks his head toward the inside of the tent. “Come on, then. Someone split his arm open an hour ago and he’s been complaining ever since.”
By the third day, you stop flinching every time someone shouts.
The Myrmidons work you relentlessly from sunrise to well past dark. Most injuries are minor, like deep cuts, split knuckles and bruised ribs, sometimes burns from overturned cooking fires. But there are enough serious wounds scattered between them to keep your hands constantly occupied.
You clean blood from skin until your fingers wrinkle from seawater and wine. You stitch flesh by firelight while men grit their teeth and pretend not to groan.
No one is cruel to you.
That surprises you most.
Some barely speak at all beyond telling you where it hurts. Others thank you awkwardly after, as though uncertain whether they’re supposed to. A few still look at you with open distrust, but even that has faded since the soldier you saved survived the night.
Nikos, the man in question, now grins whenever he sees you, which would almost be charming if he weren’t missing half a tooth.
The camp itself settles into rhythms quicker than you expect. Men training near the shore at dawn, armour repairs are done in the afternoon, and loud arguments over food are always held in the evening. At night, the sea wind carries the smell of salt and smoke through the tents while exhausted soldiers collapse wherever they can find space.
And through all of it, Achilles remains strangely absent.
You see him sometimes from a distanc, crossing the beach or training shirtless in the surf at sunrise, his bronze skin gleaming with seawater while younger soldiers watch him. Once, you see him returning from battle still streaked in blood that clearly does not belong to him.
No one speaks to him casually.
Even the other commanders seem to orbit rather than approach.
The first time he walks through camp near enough for you to hear his voice, conversation dies almost instantly around him.
You understand why before he even reaches you.
It is not simply that he is beautiful, though he is. The stories had not exaggerated that part. Achilles moves with the unbearable confidence of someone who has never doubted his own importance for even a moment in his life. Men look at him expecting greatness and he accepts it as naturally as breathing.
He doesn't glance at you once, which should not bother you.
It does anyway.
Later that evening, you are crouched beside one of the fires grinding dried herbs into powder with the flat end of a knife when familiar voices drift through the camp nearby.
“You should let her look at it.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“It’s bleeding through the bandage.”
“That sounds like a problem for the bandage.”
A few nearby Myrmidons snort laughter and you glance up before you can stop yourself.
Odysseus stands near the centre of camp with his arms folded loosely across his chest, looking profoundly unimpressed. Across from him, Achilles is in the process of removing one bracer with visible irritation.
Even from several paces away, you can see the blood darkening his forearm.
“It’s a scratch,” Achilles says.
Odysseus raises an eyebrow. “That's wonderful news. Then surviving treatment should be well within your abilities.”
“I don’t need treatment.”
“No,” Odysseus agrees mildly. “You need humility, but we work with what we have.”
More laughter this time, quickly stifled when Achilles shoots the surrounding men a look. You immediately lower your eyes back to the herbs, hoping neither of them noticed you watching.
Then, “You.”
Your stomach drops. Achilles is staring directly at you now.
The firelight catches against sharp cheekbones and sun-browned skin still damp from sweat and seawater. There’s dried blood streaked along one shoulder beneath the edge of his armour, and his hair curls loosely around his face from the humidity off the sea.
For one horrifying moment, you think he’s speaking to someone else.
Then Odysseus glances toward you too.
“The healer,” he says helpfully.
“Yes,” Achilles says, still looking at you. “I gathered that.”
Heat creeps instantly into your face. You rise to your feet, trying not to make your awe and nerves too obvious.
Several Myrmidons grin openly.
Then, after a beat, he holds out his injured arm toward you with the vague impatience of a man indulging something unnecessary.
“Well?” he says. “Apparently I’m dying.”
Your feet carry you forward before your mind fully catches up.
Every eye in the camp seems fixed on you as you cross the space between the fire and Achilles. You can feel the curiosity, the amusement, the expectation that this will go poorly somehow.
Your pulse pounds hard enough to make your hands feel unsteady.
Up close, the cut looks worse. Much worse.
The bleeding had seemed manageable from across the camp, but now that he’s holding his arm nearer the firelight, you can see how deep the blade went. The skin along the inside of his forearm is split open almost cleanly, blood still sliding steadily down toward his wrist despite the rough bandage tied around it.
You frown before you can stop yourself. Achilles notices immediately.
“What?” he asks.
You don’t answer right away. Nervousness slips strangely to the background as you lean closer, carefully taking hold of his wrist to turn the arm slightly toward the light.
“What happened?”
“Someone got lucky.”
Odysseus makes a quiet noise from nearby. “That’s one interpretation.”
Achilles ignores him.
You barely hear either of them now. Your focus narrows entirely onto the wound beneath your hands. The bleeding isn’t pulsing heavily anymore, which means whatever vessel was hit has likely slowed on its own. You look up sharply.
“Can you move your fingers?”
His brow furrows faintly. “What?”
“Move them.”
For the first time since you approached him, Achilles looks mildly uncertain instead of irritated. He flexes his hand experimentally.
His fingers move.
“Again,” you say, reaching for his hand before thinking too hard about it. “Grip mine.”
A few nearby soldiers go suspiciously quiet. Achilles stares at you for half a second, then curls his blood-slick fingers around your hand.
Gods, he's strong.
You test each finger carefully, watching the movement of the tendons beneath the skin of his wrist. “Can you feel?” you ask, pressing lightly near the edge of the wound.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes.”
“And this?” You lightly trace the inside of his palm.
“...Less.”
You release his hand abruptly and turn toward the supplies near the fire.
“I need clean water,” you say. Someone passes it over immediately.
You kneel beside Achilles on the packed sand, soaking a cloth before carefully washing blood away from the wound. The water turns pink almost instantly beneath your hands.
Achilles hisses quietly when you clean deeper into the cut.
“That bad?” Odysseus asks from somewhere behind you.
“Yes.”
The camp stills slightly at that. You glance up briefly. “Not fatal,” you add quickly. “It's only his arm after all, he'll be fine.”
Achilles leans back against a wooden post with his injured arm braced on one knee, watching you work. You rinse the wound again, and the deeper you clean it, the less you like it.
“Gods,” you murmur under your breath.
“What?” Achilles asks immediately.
You hesitate, then reach for the small clay bottle tucked among the medical supplies. Strong distilled alcohol. You’ve only used it twice since arriving in camp because most soldiers would rather bite through leather than endure it.
When Achilles sees what you’ve picked up, one corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “That seems dramatic.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“I’ve been stabbed before.”
“Yes,” you say distractedly, uncorking the bottle. “And apparently learned nothing from it.”
A few nearby Myrmidons laugh outright. Achilles exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh himself, but then you pour the alcohol directly into the wound. His entire body goes rigid instantly.
You continue cleaning the cut carefully while the alcohol evaporates sharp and bitter into the night air. Achilles doesn’t complain, though his breathing stays slightly uneven beneath the silence.
Once the wound is finally clean enough to examine properly, you thread the needle with steadier hands than you feel.
“You’re lucky,” you murmur.
“Odysseus said I was dying.”
Odysseus immediately protests from behind you. “I implied no such thing.”
“You implied it with enthusiasm.”
You shake your head slightly, concentrating on the stitching. “No. You weren’t dying.” Achilles hums softly, smug already.
Then you add, “But you were very close to losing full use of your sword hand.”
The smugness disappears.
Around you, several Myrmidons straighten visibly and Achilles goes still beneath your hands.
You tie off one stitch before continuing carefully. “The blade nearly cut through the tendon. Another inch and you may never have held a sword properly again.”
For the first time all evening, he says nothing.
The next morning passes much the same as every other morning in camp. Wounded soldiers line up outside the medical tent before sunrise. Someone arrives with a split lip from a drunken fight. Another with a shoulder dislocated during training
You work steadily through all of it.
Still, by midday, you realise people are looking at you differently.
Achilles spoke to you.
Which apparently means something here.
You notice it most among the younger Myrmidons first. Men who barely acknowledged your existence three days ago now step aside to let you pass through camp. One even offers you the better seat beside the fire before seeming embarrassed by his own politeness afterwards.
Later, you’re carrying fresh bandages toward the larger supply tent when two soldiers pass nearby speaking in low voices.
“…nearly took the tendon clean through, I heard.”
“He let her stitch it herself?”
“Well obviously someone stitched it, you idiot.”
“That’s not what I mean...”
Inside the supply tent, the air smells thickly of oil, linen, and dried herbs. You crouch near one of the storage chests, sorting through bundles of clean cloth by lantern light while outside the camp slowly settles into night around you.
The distant sound of waves rolls steadily against the shore. You exhale slowly and rub tired fingers against your eyes.
“You look exhausted.”
You nearly drop the bandages. Odysseus stands near the tent entrance, half-shadowed by the lantern hanging outside. He looks mildly amused by your reaction.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“So I gathered.” Odysseus steps fully into the tent, glancing briefly over the organised piles of supplies surrounding you.
“You’ve made improvements.”
You blink. “What?”
“The medical tent.” He gestures vaguely. “It was chaos before you arrived. Men digging through bandages with bloody hands. Wine spilled over half the supplies. One fool used boiled seawater for cleaning wounds.”
You grimace instinctively.
“Exactly,” Odysseus says.
Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you.
His expression softens faintly at the sound, though only for a moment. “How is Achilles’ arm?”
The question catches you off guard. “He shouldn’t be training with it yet,” you say automatically. “If the stitches tear, it’ll reopen.”
Odysseus hums, unsurprised. “And will he listen to that advice?”
“…No.”
He's watching you carefully. “You frightened him,” he says.
You stare at him in disbelief. “Achilles?”
“Yes.”
“That seems unlikely.”
A smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Not for his life. Achilles values that less than he should.” He pauses. “But his sword hand? That’s another matter.”
Outside, voices drift through camp accompanied by bursts of laughter and the crackle of firewood. Somewhere further off, metal rings sharply against metal from men still training in the dark.
Odysseus leans one shoulder against the tent post. “He’s called for you twice today.”
Your head lifts sharply. “What?”
“You were with other injured soldiers both times.” Mild amusement flickers across his face. “He seemed irritated by this inconvenience.”
“Why would he call for me?”
Odysseus gives you a look that suggests he already knows the answer and finds it entertaining. “You stitched his arm,” he says simply.
Before you can press further, footsteps approach outside the tent. Heavy and familiar. Odysseus hears them too.
Then Achilles ducks through the entrance.
He’s changed out of his armour, though the sight of him somehow remains equally distracting. Loose dark fabric hangs open slightly over his chest, exposing sun-browned skin still damp from seawater. His hair is wet, strands plastered to his neck and forehead.
And despite your instructions, there’s a fresh split in one of the stitches across his forearm. “I tore it,” he says simply.
“Of course you did.”
Odysseus makes a quiet sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
Achilles ignores him completely, his gaze fixed on you. “So... it started bleeding again.”
You can only stare at him, then at the sword hanging comfortably at his side, and then back at him. “You trained with it.”
A beat of silence.
“I got bored.”
Over the next several days, Achilles acquires an astonishing number of injuries.
At first, they are legitimate.
A reopened stitch after training too soon. A bruise spreading dark beneath his ribs from a sparring match that apparently became too enthusiastic. A shallow cut across his shoulder from battle that still bleeds enough to justify attention.
Achilles fights constantly. Of course he gets hurt, so there's nothing strange about it. Still, certain patterns begin to emerge.
For one thing, he never sends anyone else for you. The summons always come directly from him, usually delivered by some deeply unenthusiastic Myrmidon appearing at the entrance of the medical tent.
“Achilles wants you.”
The first few times you go immediately, but by the sixth, irritation begins creeping in. Especially because Achilles himself never appears particularly concerned.
You arrive at his tent one afternoon expecting something serious from the urgency of the message, only to find him sitting shirtless beside the table inside, sharpening a dagger while a thin scrape crosses one knuckle.
You stop in the entrance. “…That’s it?”
Achilles glances up. “It’s bleeding.”
“It’s barely skin-deep.”
“It could become infected.”
You walk forward slowly. “You interrupted the stitching of an actual wound for this.”
“You finished eventually.”
You clean the scrape anyway. His gaze never leaves your face the entire time. Afterwards, as you’re packing away the supplies, Achilles says casually, “Your hands are steadier now.”
You look up.
“When you arrived, you shook every time someone spoke to you.”
Heat rises instantly into your face. “I did not.”
“You did. But you’re less frightened now,” he says. The words should sound mocking, and yet somehow they don’t.
You focus aggressively on tying off the bandages. “Maybe I’m simply getting used to arrogant Greeks demanding treatment for papercuts.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Then, from outside the tent, “Is the arm being amputated or are you two finished?”
Achilles’ entire face hardens instantly back into annoyance.
You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself smiling.
The injuries continue.
A split lip after training. A shallow burn across his palm from grabbing overheated bronze. A cut on his jaw that looks suspiciously like someone else barely managed to touch him during sparring and he’s still offended about it.
Each time, he sends for you. Each time, the injury grows less convincing.
This cut on Achilles’ shoulder is three days old and healing perfectly, which makes it deeply irritating that he insists on having it redressed again.
“You do realise,” you say, trying not to sound annoyed as you unwind the linen from around his upper arm, “that wounds cannot improve out of spite alone.”
Achilles lounges beside the fire like a man with absolutely no intention of taking you seriously. One knee bent, forearm resting lazily across it, bronze skin flickering gold in the firelight. Around him, half a dozen Myrmidons sit scattered through the tent cleaning weapons, drinking watered wine, or arguing over some training dispute.
“It reopened this morning,” Achilles says.
“You trained with it again.”
“Yes.”
“Then it did not reopen mysteriously.”
A few of the men nearby laugh.
Achilles glances toward them briefly, unimpressed. “I liked you better when you were frightened of me.”
You laugh softly before you can stop yourself and the tent goes quiet for exactly one second, because you laughed at Achilles. You realise your error immediately and freeze with the fresh bandage halfway around his arm.
Then, thankfully, Achilles laughs.
The tension breaks instantly around the fire. “Well,” one of the older Myrmidons mutters. “That’s new.”
Heat crawls up your neck as you focus aggressively on tying off the bandage.
Achilles, unfortunately, continues watching you.
“You’re staring again,” Odysseus remarks mildly.
Achilles doesn’t even glance at him. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she’s pleasant to look at.”
Someone makes a strangled sound into their wine cup and you nearly stab yourself with a needle. Odysseus watches the entire exchange with the expression of a man observing a slow-moving disaster he predicted long ago.
“You could attempt subtlety,” he suggests.
Achilles finally looks over at him then, visibly puzzled by the idea.
“Why?”
The simplicity of the answer sends another ripple of laughter around the fire. You keep your eyes firmly on the bandages in your lap, willing your face to cool.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, like this is an obvious fact no one intelligent would dispute. “I’m not sure what subtlety has to do with it.”
Someone near the back mutters, “Gods help the poor girl.”
You stand quickly, gathering the used cloth before anyone can say anything worse. Achilles' gaze lifts immediately, following you with the same steady focus that’s begun to make your stomach feel strange at unpredictable moments.
“I’ll bring fresh supplies tomorrow,” you say, mostly to the room in general.
“You won’t need to.”
You pause.
“You'll stay,” he says, reaching for his wine, calm as ever.
The words settle over the tent without immediate reaction, almost too casual at first to register.
Then several heads lift at once.
You stare at him. “What?”
“With me, in my tent,” Achilles clarifies, as though you’re the one being slow. “You spend half your time there already.”
A few of the Myrmidons exchange looks but no one seems particularly surprised. Your pulse begins beating unevenly.
“I still work in the medical tent.”
“Someone else can handle scraped knees and drunken knife accidents.”
“That is not all I handle.”
“No,” Achilles agrees easily. “You handle me.”
Odysseus closes his eyes briefly like a man asking the gods for strength.
Achilles barely seems aware of the reaction around him. His attention remains fixed entirely on you.
“You’ll have more space here,” he continues. “And I prefer having my healer where I can find her.”
There’s something underneath the words now. Not hidden particularly well. The implication hangs thickly in the air.
You become suddenly, horribly aware that every man in the tent understands exactly what Achilles wants. And because he is Achilles, no one thinks it strange that he should simply… decide.
Your mouth goes dry.
“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
Achilles only tilts his head slightly, studying you.
“No,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t.”
That evening you're in his tent, and he's told you of one last injury he wants you to look at before he retires. The fire near the centre has burned low, filling the tent with soft gold light and long shadows that shift across the walls whenever the sea wind stirs outside.
Achilles sits on the edge of the cot while you kneel in front of him with fresh linen draped across your lap.
The cut along his ribs is, like always, very shallow.
“Hold still,” you murmur as you clean away the blood around it.
“I am holding still.”
"Then you're not doing it well enough."
It's bizarre. A few weeks ago you could barely look at him without feeling afraid. Now the fear has changed shape into something far more dangerous. You notice too much; the warmth radiating from his skin this close, the scrape of his breathing every time your fingers brush near his ribs.
You focus harder on the bandage.
“Does that hurt?” you ask quietly, pressing near the edge of the cut.
“A little.”
You pause.
“A little?”
“For most men, perhaps more.”
You snort softly despite yourself. “Of course.” Achilles’ mouth curves faintly at one corner.
Trying to ignore it, you reach for the clean linen and begin wrapping it carefully around his torso. The position forces you closer, one hand braced lightly against his side while the other pulls the bandage tight.
His skin is warm beneath your palm.
When you finish tying it off, you start pulling back immediately, suddenly desperate for distance before he notices how flustered you’ve become.
But Achilles moves first.
One large hand closes around your wrist, and your breath catches.
"Are you done?" His voice rumbles low.
You nod, not daring to meet his gaze fully, and his grip turns to iron, completely unyielding. He tugs you closer, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the cot as if you weigh nothing.
"Achilles-" you start, but you stop short when you feel his free hand trace the line of your jaw, rough calluses scraping gently over skin.
"I meant it. That I want you here. That you're beautiful."
His voice has dropped an octave, more of a whisper than his usual commanding cadence.
You try to pull back, instinct screaming caution, but he doesn't let go.
Instead, he manoeuvres you with ease, positioning you astride his lap, your knees sinking into the furs beside his hips. You're enveloped by him. His arms encircle your waist, hands splaying across your back, holding you in place.
"Stay here," he orders, and it's not a request.
Your breath catches as his lips brush your neck, a deliberate graze that sends sparks racing down your spine.
You know you should protest, should remind him of your role, your boundaries, but the words dissolve on your tongue when he nips at the sensitive skin there, just hard enough to mark.
His hands roam now, bold and possessive, sliding under the hem of your tunic to grip your hips. He lifts you slightly, adjusting you against the hard planes of his body, and you gasp at the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you.
He manhandles you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, the furs cushioning your fall as his weight looms over you. Not crushing, but enveloping, his thighs bracketing yours, keeping you pinned without effort.
You stare up at him, breath shallow, as he peels away the last barriers between you. His fingers hook into the ties of your clothing, pulling with a rip that echoes in the tent.
Cool air kisses your exposed skin, but his touch is fire, trailing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, thumb circling a peak until it hardens under his attention, drawing a whimper from your lips.
"Don't act so surprised", he growls, voice thick with need, "You knew this would happen."
Before you can process, his mouth descends, claiming yours in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger.
The world narrows to sensations.
The scrape of his stubble, the salt of his skin, the way his huge frame dwarfs yours completely. He moves you again, rolling you to your side, one arm hooked under your knees to draw them up, opening and exposing you to him as he slots his body behind yours.
There is no gentleness in his conquest, only raw, unfiltered desire that mirrors the warlord he is.
In the midst of it, you risk a glance over your shoulder, and his eyes lock on yours, showing a flicker of something deeper. There's possession, yes, but it's laced with a fierce protectiveness.
"Are you scared of me, little healer?" He asks; you can feel his breath stir your hair. You shake your head quickly, then slow, deciding to nod instead.
His grip gentles a bit.
"You need not be. I like you too much to break you, I'll be gentle," he murmurs in response.
You hear the rustle of clothing, faintly registering his own clothes being ripped off. Then his skin meets yours, a shock of heat and muscle.
His hand leaves your body to position himself at your entrance. You feel the rub of his cock through your folds, silken smooth against your gathering wetness.
When he finally enters you, it's unhurried, letting your body accommodate the difference. The stretch itself is overwhelming, a burn that blooms slowly into pleasure.
His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm that increases steadily in pace, unrelenting. You cling to his arms, nails digging into hard muscle, head thrown back against his shoulder.
The tent fades, the war outside ceases to exist. There's only Achilles, taking you, binding you to him in this most primal way.
The only kind of claim that matters in times of war.
When he's confident you've grown accustomed to him, he speeds up his pace, cock hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars.
The sound of skin against skin echoes around the tent. His arms draw you further into the cradle of his body, lifting your leg higher so he can hit a spot inside you that you didn't know existed.
You feel his body start to tense, as does your own, the knot in you tightening and tightening with every thrust. His breathing becomes more laboured, the drags of air becoming harsher against the nape of your neck when he leans further into you.
When release crashes over him, it's with a groan so deep it could be considered a roar.
Yet, even as his body shudders against yours, he keeps grinding his hips into you, chasing your pleasure as much as his own. His arm snakes its way around your waist, finding the bundle of nerves that sends lightning rushing through your body.
That, in combination with the deep rolling sensation of him still inside you, finally pushes you over the edge.
You go slack, sagging against his body, whimpering as the aftershocks course through you.
He doesn't withdraw; instead gathers you closer, if that's even possible. His massive arms caging you in and pulling you so you're sprawled over his chest.
"You'll stay right here," he whispers into your hair, the words a vow sealed in sweat and sighs.
And as exhaustion claims you, nestled against Achilles' chest, you accept you've been utterly conquered.
Summary: He doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again. So when they finally bring him back, half-conscious and bleeding, you don’t let go.
Warnings: 16+ hurt/comfort, post-captivity, injury detail, blood mention, semi-graphic medical care, mention of torture/beating, unconsciousness, near-death experience, established relationship, exhaustion, trauma aftermath, repetitive dialogue lmao (dw tho happy ending)
A/N: i rewatched Spy Game and all i wanted to do was hug him at the end so this is literally just self-indulgent :)
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.6k
You climb into the helicopter before anyone tells you to.
You half expect a hand on your shoulder, some last-minute correction, someone reminding you that this isn’t your role today. But the crew barely glances up. There’s too much movement, too much noise, too much that matters more than where exactly you’re sitting or why you’re here.
You duck your head under the frame, step over a coil of cable, and take the first open space you can find along the side bench, fingers already curling around the edge like you need something solid before the rotors even start to spin.
It smells like fuel and metal and something faintly antiseptic.
You adjust the headset they hand you without really looking at the guy who gives it to you, fitting it over your ears, pressing it down until the world dulls into a low, controlled hum.
It doesn’t quiet your thoughts. It just makes everything else more distant.
Across from you, someone checks a weapon with quick, practiced movements. Another leans in to say something you don’t quite catch, their voice swallowed by the growing thrum of the blades overhead.
The whole interior feels too tight, bodies and gear packed in close, every inch accounted for.
You keep your hands busy because you know that if you don't, they’ll start to shake.
A strap. A buckle. The edge of your sleeve. You keep adjust things that don’t need adjusting, check pockets that are already checked.
Technically speaking, you know what you’re doing.
You’ve done extractions before, sat in briefings, watched missions unfold in clean lines across screens. You know how this works.
It’s just never been your boyfriend they were pulling out.
The engine noise builds, low at first and then rising until it presses against your ribs, until you can feel it in your teeth. The helicopter lifts with a jolt that’s more felt than seen, the ground slipping away beneath you in a way you refuse to look at.
It’s easier if you treat it like any other deployment but the thought keeps circling back, no matter how many times you push it away. It sits there, heavy and insistent, in the space between each breath.
Tom's out there, alone.
You close your eyes for a second, just long enough to steady yourself, remembering that first briefing.
The office had been too quiet.
Not empty, but quiet in that controlled, deliberate way that meant something was already happening. Muir hadn’t bothered with small talk.
He never did when it mattered.
“He’s in Lujiazui,” he’d said, like he was reciting a line from a report instead of telling you where your boyfriend was being held prisoner. “Public Security Bureau black site. Off the books.”
You remember the way you stood there, hands at your sides, forcing yourself not to interrupt. You’d learned that much, at least.
“And what's the plan?” you’d asked.
He’d watched you for a second longer than necessary, like he was measuring something you couldn’t see.
“We get him out,” he said finally. “We get him airborne. We stabilise.”
“I’m going.”
Muir doesn’t even blink. “No.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t a negotiation.”
You step closer. “It is now.”
His eyes flicker—just once. “You’re not operational on this.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s the problem.”
A beat. The room feels smaller. “You think you can separate yourself from it,” he says. “You can’t.”
“I’m not separating myself.”
“You’re attaching yourself to a liability.”
Your voice drops. “He’s not a liability. He's my boyfriend, and I've thought he was dead.”
Muir exhales through his nose, like he’s already tired of this fight but knows it’s not ending. “Fine,” he says eventually. “But you do not improvise. You do not freelance. And you do not become part of the problem.”
The helicopter dips slightly, pulling you back into the present with a shift in your stomach.
You open your eyes, reorienting, the interior snapping back into focus around you. Someone across the way is talking into their mic, voice clipped and precise, and you catch fragments; coordinates, timing, confirmations.
You press your thumb against the inside of your wrist, grounding yourself in something small and physical.
Outside, the world is dark in that washed-out way it gets from altitude and distance. You don’t look for the building. You wouldn’t recognise it anyway.
You shift slightly closer to the open side, the rush of air cutting through the enclosed heat of the cabin. It’s colder here, keeps you alert.
Then, the voices in your headset start to sharpen, overlap, separate again into something more urgent. A change in tone, subtle but unmistakable.
You’ve heard it before, sitting safely behind glass, watching feeds instead of living inside them.
“We’re close.”
The helicopter begins to descend, slow at first, then with more intent, the angle shifting just enough that you can feel it in your spine.
Across from you, the team is already moving; final checks, quick nods, everything efficient and unspoken. You swallow, the dryness in your throat catching for a second.
He’s down there.
You don’t let yourself think past that.
The helicopter hovers, then dips lower, close enough now that the rush of air shifts, bouncing back up from the ground below. Someone slides the door wider, the night rushing in with it, loud and immediate.
“Stand by,” a voice says over comms.
Your heart kicks, hard enough that you feel it in your chest, in your throat, everywhere at once.
The team moves toward the door, one after the other, fast and focused, disappearing out into the dark without looking back.
You stay where you are.
Finally, the last one vanishes into the night.
The door stays open. The wind keeps rushing in.
You exhale slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop, and then you push yourself up from the bench anyway, stopping just short of the opening, one hand braced against the frame as the wind rushes in hard enough to tug at your clothes, your hair, anything not secured.
The ground below is mostly shadow, broken shapes you can’t quite piece together into anything useful. It doesn’t matter. You’re not going to see them.
“Stay clear,” someone says behind you, not unkindly.
You nod without turning, shifting just enough to not be in the way while still staying exactly where you are.
Close enough that if they come back fast, if they need something, you’ll already be here.
Your hand tightens slightly on the edge of the door.
The comms crackle.
At first it’s just static, a low hiss under the constant noise of the helicopter, and then a voice cuts through.
“- we're in position-”
Another voice overlaps it, clearer. “Copy.”
Every part of your attention narrows down to that one channel, the sound pressing straight through the headset and into your skull.
“Move.”
You can't hear a lot, it's too muffled to make out clearly, but just enough to paint a picture your brain latches onto anyway. Hallways, doors, bodies moving fast.
“Clear.”
A beat.
“Left.”
Your fingers press harder into the metal frame, the cold biting into your skin even through the gloves.
You catch yourself glancing down at your watch, the motion automatic, and then immediately regret it.
Barely any time has passed.
It feels like you’ve been standing here forever, every second dragging, and yet the numbers don’t match that at all. You look away, jaw tightening, and fix your gaze back out into the dark like you can force it to move faster.
Another burst of static.
“Contact-”
The word cuts off.
Your stomach drops so fast it feels like the helicopter itself dipped, like something just shifted under your feet. You straighten instinctively, every muscle locking up.
Then, voices again, sharper now, overlapping just enough that you can’t quite separate them.
“-handled-”
“Move, move-”
The comms crackle again, a burst of noise that almost drowns out the next line.
“-target secured-”
For some reason, the words don't loosen the knot in your chest.
Because secured doesn’t mean safe.
“En route.”
Movement behind you picks up again. Someone brushing past, another voice calling out something you don’t catch. The helicopter adjusts slightly, position shifting, readying.
The dark below shifts, just movement where there wasn’t any before, shapes separating from the shadows. Your eyes strain, trying to make sense of it, heart kicking harder with every second that passes.
There are too many of them, too much motion, and your eyes skip over everything that doesn’t matter until they land on Tom.
For a second, you don’t move.
He’s worse than you thought he'd be.
You knew he wouldn’t be okay. You told yourself that over and over, tried to prepare for it, but nothing in your head quite matches the reality of him being half-carried between two men, his weight not fully his own, head tipped forward like it’s too heavy to hold up.
There’s blood, too much of it, smeared dark against his skin, his clothes, and there's something about the way he moves, or doesn’t, that makes your stomach drop hard.
Someone grabs onto the frame, hauling themselves up first, and then they’re lifting him in, guiding him through the opening.
“Careful.”
They lower him quickly, controlled but fast, onto the floor space just inside the door, and you drop with him without thinking, knees hitting hard, one hand already at the side of his face, the other bracing his shoulder as they let go.
“Hi baby,” you say, the words coming out before you’ve even decided on them, breath uneven but voice trying to stay steady. “I’ve got you, sweetheart-”
His skin is warm under your hand, too warm, and there’s a smear of blood along his jaw that your thumb brushes without thinking. His eyes are closed at first, lashes dark against skin that looks wrong, too pale under the streaks of dirt and red.
“Tom-” your voice catches.
You swallow it down, force your voice to hold. “Hey, baby, c’mon, open your eyes for me.”
His brow tightens, just a fraction, and then his eyes open, slow and heavy, like it costs him something to do it. They don’t focus right away, sliding past you like he’s not quite seeing what’s in front of him.
Your hand moves, automatically, cupping the side of his face more firmly, thumb brushing under his eye, grounding him.
“Tom, it’s me,” you murmur, softer now, leaning closer without realising it. “Right here, I’m right here-”
His eyes find yours and stop, and for a moment there’s just that. A quiet, stunned stillness where he’s looking at you like he doesn’t trust it.
Like you’re not supposed to be here.
Your chest tightens, sharp enough it almost breaks through everything else.
“Yeah,” you breathe, a small, shaky exhale slipping out before you can stop it. “Yeah, it’s me-”
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t say anything at first.
He just… looks at you.
“Easy,” you murmur, sliding one arm more securely under his head as the helicopter shifts, lifting him just enough to settle him against you. You shift back, bracing yourself, and his head ends up in your lap without you planning it, your hand automatically moving into his hair, fingers threading through gently to keep him steady.
No one stops you.
Someone’s talking behind you, a medic probably. They work around you instead, hands moving in and out of your peripheral, checking, pressing, doing what needs to be done.
All you can focus on is him.
“Hey,” you say again, softer this time, bending over him slightly so he doesn’t have to look far. “They got you out. You're out, ok?”
His gaze slips for a second, unfocusing, and your hand tightens in his hair just slightly, thumb brushing his temple.
“Don’t do that,” you whisper, the edge of something desperate creeping in despite you trying to hold it back. "Please, sweetheart."
His hand moves.
It’s slow and uncoordinated, fingers catching weakly at your sleeve before sliding down to your wrist. The grip isn’t strong, but it doesn’t need to be.
You cover his hand with yours immediately and his eyes find you again, more focused this time, even if it’s faint.
His lips part.
For a second, nothing comes out, then, rough and low, “you-”
It trails off, breath catching, like the rest of it won’t form. Your throat tightens, and you lean closer, your free hand brushing back the hair stuck to his forehead.
“Yeah, it's me,” you say, voice soft but steady, filling in the space he can’t. “I’m right here, baby.”
His grip tightens, just a fraction.
You don't want to think about how weak he seems, how hurt, so you just press a quick, careful kiss to his forehead, avoiding the worst of the bruising, the blood.
The helicopter climbs, banking away from the building until the lights below smear into something distant and unreal. The door is pulled in partway, not fully closed, and the rush of air settles into a steadier, lower roar.
Everything narrows down to the space between your hands.
The medic returns, and suddenly there’s more structure to the chaos. Gloves snapping on, a case opening, the quick inventory of what’s needed first. You don’t look up when they start talking. You don’t take your eyes off him.
“He’s responsive?” the medic asks.
“Barely,” you answer, already adjusting your grip as his head shifts slightly in your lap. Your hand slides more securely into his hair, steadying him. “In and out.”
The medic doesn’t comment, just nods, already moving in. “Alright. We’ll start with the obvious. I need access-”
“I'm not moving,” you say quickly, before they can try to reposition him. “Just tell me what you need.”
There’s a pause and then a short nod. “Keep his head steady. If he tries to move, don’t let him.”
"I don't think he's going anywhere," but you still adjust, one hand firm at the base of his skull, fingers spread carefully to support him without pressing too hard. The other stays wrapped around his, anchoring him, even as the medic starts working.
They move fast. Cutting fabric where they need to, exposing injuries in quick, practised motions. You don’t let your eyes linger too long on any of it, but you see enough, the dark bruising spreading under his ribs, blood matted along his side, smaller cuts that don’t matter until they all do together.
“Hey,” you murmur, softer now, bending slightly over him as his breathing hitches. “I know, sweetheart, I know-”
His eyes flicker open again, unfocused at first, then catching on your face like it’s the only thing in the cabin that makes sense. His brow tightens, a faint crease forming as something pulls him back toward awareness.
“BP’s low,” the medic mutters, more to themselves than to you. “No surprise.”
Something presses briefly against his arm, a cuff you realise, and then it’s gone again, replaced by other hands, other movements. You track it all in pieces, staying just aware enough to follow instructions when they come.
“Press here,” the medic says, guiding your free hand to his side, over a spot that makes his whole body tense even in this state. “Firm. Don’t let up.”
He reacts immediately, breath catching, head shifting weakly in your lap. Your heart lurches.
“I know, I know-” you murmur quickly, your voice dropping, softer, more instinct than thought. “I’m sorry, I know, baby, just- just a second.”
Your hand in his hair tightens just enough to steady him, fingers threading gently, grounding. You lean closer, your forehead almost brushing his for a second before you pull back just enough to see him.
His eyes open again, slower this time, like it’s harder to get there. There’s pain there. Confusion.
“…hurts,” he manages, the word slurred, barely formed.
You swallow, hard, and nod immediately, even though he probably can’t process it fully.
“I know,” you say, voice steady despite the way your chest tightens. “I know it does. They’re helping you, alright? Just- hang on a little longer.”
Your thumb moves again, small, repetitive, brushing against his temple, his cheek, whatever part of him you can reach without getting in the way. It’s automatic, something you don’t even think about anymore.
He exhales shakily, eyes slipping half-closed, and for a second you think he’s gone again.
“Hey- no, no,” you murmur, sharper now, leaning closer. “Tom, c’mon-”
His name seems to catch him, and his gaze flickers, drags itself back up to you with visible effort.
“That’s it,” you breathe, relief threading through the words before you can stop it. “That’s it, right there-”
The medic shifts beside you, hands still moving, voice low and steady as they work. “He’s going to want to sleep. Try to keep him with you as much as you can.”
“I am,” you say immediately.
The helicopter rocks slightly, turbulence or just the motion of flight, and you instinctively tighten your hold, adjusting to keep his head stable in your lap. He shifts with it, a faint sound catching in his throat, and your hand smooths through his hair again, slower this time.
“You’re okay,” you murmur, softer now, the words almost lost under the steady thrum around you.
Then you start the deceent.
You feel it, the angle shifting, engine tone deepening, the helicopter pulling down out of the air.
The medic is still working beside you, voice low and steady, but even that starts to blur at the edges as motion takes over the cabin.
“Base in sight,” someone calls.
The words barely land because Tom starts to slip.
You notice it in the smallest ways first. The way his fingers, still loosely wrapped around your wrist, lose tension. The way his breathing evens out, not in a good way; in that thin, drifting way that means he’s not fighting to stay awake anymore.
“Hey,” you say immediately, sharper than before, your hand tightening in his hair. “Hey- no, don’t you do that.”
His eyes flicker once.
“Tom,” you try again, quieter this time, leaning closer, your thumb brushing his cheek. “We're so close, just a little longer.”
But his grip slackens.
“No,” you breathe, almost to yourself, panic cracking through the edges now despite everything you’ve been trying to hold together. “No, no, no- hey, baby, stay here-”
His eyes close.
Not peacefully.
“Tom please-”
Your hand tightens in his hair, the other still locked around his wrist, like that can physically keep him here. Your breath stutters hard in your chest, something sharp and ugly pushing up your throat.
The helicopter jolts.
Lands.
Harder than you expect.
And suddenly everything is moving.
The doors open, voices shout, and hands start reaching in from everywhere at once. The cabin that felt so small in the air is chaos the second it touches ground.
But you don’t move.
For half a second, you just stay there with him still in your lap, his head heavy, unconscious, blood and bruises and everything you were trying not to fully see finally real in the harsh base lights.
Then someone says your name.
You blink hard, once, like it might reset something, and then your hands finally loosen enough for them to take over.
He’s lifted carefully, moved onto a stretcher, stabilised, gone from your hands.
“Where is he going?” you ask, voice rougher than you meant it to be.
You take one step to follow, and then another, but you’re not really thinking anymore, just moving on instinct, because stopping feels impossible right now.
No one stops you.
You follow the stretcher until it disappears through a set of doors, and then you’re left outside them, breathing too fast.
A medic steps out a few minutes later.
Looks at you, “You can come in. He’s stable. We’re just finishing up.”
Your throat tightens.
You don’t answer right away. You just nod, once, and follow.
The room is too bright when you step in. Clean and controlled. Everything is in its place except him.
He’s on the bed, already changed out of the worst of it. They've draped a gown over him, loose and awkward, not bothering to tie it or even cover him decently, relying instead on a blanket pulled up to his waist. Monitors beep quietly beside him, steady in a way that doesn’t feel real yet.
He looks smaller like this.
Someone is checking lines, adjusting something at the side of the bed. You don’t really see them anymore. You just move closer, slowly, like the space itself might break if you rush it.
You nod again, because that seems to be all you can manage right now.
Then you’re at his side.
Your hand hovers for a second before you touch him, just his fingers first, careful like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again if you’re too fast.
He doesn’t wake.
“Hey,” you whisper anyway, leaning in slightly, voice breaking just at the edges now that you don’t have to be controlled anymore. “You scared me…”
Your thumb brushes his knuckles.
Then you notice the blanket shift slightly, the way it’s not quite right over his hip.
Without thinking, you fix it.
Pull it up a little higher, smoothing it down. Make sure he’s not cold, or exposed, or alone.
You sit down carefully in the chair beside him, still holding his hand, still watching his face like if you look away even for a second he might slip again.
You must sit there just looking at him for hours; the room is quieter now.
Not silent, the machines make that impossible, but the kind of quiet that settles once the urgent work is done.
The beeping is steadier. The movement around him has slowed to occasional checks, small adjustments.
Stable.
You still don’t like the word.
Your hand is still in his, fingers loosely curled around his like you’re afraid of what happens if you let go first. The blanket has slipped again at his hip, half-dragged down by a negligent nurse, and the untied gown underneath is… not doing much to hide anything.
It makes something sharp and irritated flare in your chest.
Of all the things for them to be sloppy about.
Your hands are already moving, pulling the blanket back up carefully, smoothing it over him so it actually covers something, so he’s not just left there uncovered.
It slips again the second you let go.
You exhale quietly through your nose.
Your attention shifts to the gown.
Up close, it’s worse than it looked from the chair. The fabric is twisted slightly under him, one side barely holding, the ties at the back completely undone. When you lift the edge to fix it, your hands slow.
Its the clearest you've seen it so far, the bruising, dark and spreading along his ribs, deeper than you realised. Cuts, some cleaned and dressed, some smaller ones left as they are.
You keep going, gentler now.
You shift slightly out of your chair, careful not to jostle him, one hand braced lightly against his side as you pull the gown back into place. The fabric is cool under your fingers, sliding over skin that’s too warm, too still.
You lift him just enough to get the fabric straight underneath and his breathing hitches faintly at the shift. You freeze for a second, eyes snapping to his face.
He doesn’t wake.
“Sorry,” you whisper anyway.
You reach behind him, fingers finding the loose ties at the back. They’re twisted together, half-knotted from being pulled on and off too quickly. You work them free, smoothing them out before tying them properly.
Then you fix the blanket again.
Higher this time. Tucked more securely at his side, drawn up over his waist so it stays where you put it.
“Honestly,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, fingers tugging the fabric into place. “At least pretend you have basic decency-”
His hand moves.
Fast and not very strong, but it catches you, his fingers closing around your wrist mid-motion.
For half a second, your brain doesn’t catch up. Just registers the warm contact, and then the rest of him shifts.
His eyes are open.
Not fully, but open.
He looks wrecked. In a deep kind of pain, breathing uneven and shallow like it hurts to take it in fully.
But he’s looking at you.
“…hey,” he rasps.
It’s barely a word. Frayed at the edges. Like it had to fight its way out.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, and it’s not polished or controlled or anything you’ve been trying to be. “You’re awake.”
His grip tightens slightly, like he’s making sure you don’t disappear.
“You absolute idiot,” you say, but it breaks halfway through into something else entirely, your free hand pressing briefly to his chest like you need to feel him there to believe it. “Do you have any idea-”
Your voice cracks. You hate that it does.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the pressure worse.
He shifts slightly like it costs him, wincing faintly, but he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he pulls you closer with what little strength he has.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.
Like he’s testing it.
You shake your head, blinking fast, trying to hold it together.
“I thought-” you start, and then stop because your voice gives out completely.
The waiting.
The helicopter.
The comms.
The way his hand went slack in yours. The way you kept telling yourself stable like it meant something. The way you weren’t sure if you’d ever actually see his eyes again.
It hits all at once.
Your hand comes up to your mouth, like you can physically hold it back, but it doesn’t work. Your breath shakes instead, uneven and sharp, and you look away for half a second like that might help you reset.
It doesn’t.
He watches you do it.
“…baby,” he murmurs, rougher now, and his thumb moves against your wrist, small and grounding even like this. “Don’t-”
You laugh once, but it’s broken immediately.
“I didn’t know,” you say, and now it’s there, all of it bleeding through. “I didn’t know if I was going to... if I’d even get you back-”
Your voice breaks completely on the last word.
You hate that it’s happening in front of him.
He exhales slowly, like it hurts, like everything hurts, and then he pulls again.
You go without thinking.
Your hand releases the blanket without meaning to, and suddenly you’re leaning over him, half-standing, half-falling into the edge of the bed, and he meets you there as best he can.
It’s clumsy. Unsteady.
But it’s real.
His arm shifts, drags you into him until your forehead ends up against his shoulder, careful around everything that’s still hurting him. You feel his hand at your back now, weak but there, holding you like it’s the only thing he’s decided he still trusts.
“I’ve got you,” you manage, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s just honest. “I’ve got you, okay? You're okay now-”
His grip tightens slightly again.
Not much.
But enough to answer.
guys i nearly started bawling while writing this i'm so sorry
Cliff Booth x Dalton!Reader - Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019)
Summary: There are rules you’re supposed to follow, but none of them seem to survive long once you get to Los Angeles. Especially not the ones involving your brother’s stunt double, Cliff.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ forbidden relationship, slow burn, eventual smut, p in v, oral (fem rec), angsty with a happy ending, absolute filth, alcohol, age gap, emotional tension, morally complicated dynamics, one round unprotected, protectiveness, reader is rick's sister
A/N: i realised i've written zero fics abt Cliff Booth... and that upset me a lot. if you're horny skip to the second half (although subjecting yourself to the slow burn is worth it) because this one got FILTHY
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.9k
The sun is still out when you pull up to Rick’s place, but it’s starting to dip. Everything is washed in golden light, like the whole street’s been dipped in honey.
Rick’s voice hits you before the engine even cuts. “Jesus, you made it! Hey, watch the driveway, it’s a little- no, yeah, you got it.”
You barely have time to grab your bag before he’s pulling you into a hug, all energy and movement and half-finished sentences. He smells like aftershave, cigarettes and whiskey.
“C’mon, c’mon, I wanna show you the place. I've been fixing it up, y’know, bit by bit-”
He takes your suitcase like it weighs nothing, already halfway up the path, and you follow, eyes dragging over the house. Inside, it’s cooler, thank god, the curtains half-drawn against the heat.
Rick’s still talking.
“You hungry? I bet you've been eating crap in college, I think I got stuff in the fridge, or we could go out, there’s this place down the-”
“You plannin' to let her breathe first?” The new voice comes from somewhere behind you, lower and slower than Rick's.
You turn.
He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time. Like he belongs there more than anyone else in the room, you know who he is before Rick even says it.
“This is Cliff. You've met, I think, years ago.”
Cliff doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a second, eyes dragging over you in a way that isn’t exactly rude, but definitely isn’t polite either. Like he’s sizing you up.
Then he pushes off the doorframe, steps closer. “Rick’s sister, huh. You've grown up.”
It’s not really an observation as much as a statement.
“Forgot he had one,” he adds, like he’s talking more to himself than to you.
“Yeah, well,” Rick cuts in, dropping your bag with a soft thud, “she still exists, believe it or not.”
He sticks his hand out.
His grip is firm, warm, lingering just a second too long before he lets go. Not enough for anyone to call it out but just enough for you to notice.
“Cliff,” he says, like you didn’t already hear. You give your name back, and he nods once, like he’s filing it away somewhere.
“Long drive?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Mm.”
That’s it. Conversation over, apparently. But you don't have time to dwell on it because Rick’s already moving again, pulling you toward the living room, pointing things out you’re not really listening to.
“-and the pool, you gotta see the pool, it’s the best part you'll love it-”
The next morning comes quieter than you expect. The sunlight slips through unfamiliar curtains, and the air is already warm. For a second you forget where you are.
Then you hear movement somewhere in the house.
Voices. One of them is unmistakably Rick, half-loud even when he’s trying not to be. The other is slower. You throw on something easy and follow the sound down the hall, bare feet soft against the floor.
The kitchen is already occupied.
Rick’s at the counter, mid-story, gesturing with a piece of toast like it’s all a part of the performance.
“-and I’m telling you, the guy didn’t even look at me, just kept-”
Cliff’s leaning against the sink, coffee in hand, like he’s not really listening but you can guarantee he's catching everything anyway.
He glances up when you walk in. “There she is,” Rick says, turning when he sees Cliff's attention drifting away from him. “Sleep okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, good, you want coffee? Cliff made it, so, y’know, no promises, but-”
“It’s damn fine coffee, thank you very much,” Cliff mutters.
You move toward the counter, reaching for a mug, aware of him without looking directly. You pour the coffee.
“Careful,” he says, voice low, just beside you now. “It’s hot.”
You glance up and find him closer than you expected. “I can handle it,” you say. His mouth twitches, like he almost smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
Days fold into each other, warm and slow and sun-heavy, and somehow he’s always there.
Always just around.
You start noticing things, like the way Cliff moves through Rick’s house like it’s second nature; fixing things without being asked, leaning in doorways, taking up space without trying to.
You sit with Rick on the couch, running lines for some upcoming project. You can feel it before you even look. Cliff, somewhere behind you watching.
“C’mon, more emotion, he’s leaving you, you gotta sell it-”
"Rick, I'm not the one in the movie. Why do I have to have emotion?" You protest, already getting frustrated.
"For me, please, I need to feel in the zone." So you try again, louder this time, more force behind it.
Rick nods, satisfied. “Yeah, that’s it-”
“Too much.”
You turn.
Cliff’s in the doorway, arms crossed. Rick frowns. “What?”
“She’s pushing it,” Cliff says, eyes on you, not Rick. “Doesn’t feel real.”
There’s a beat, then Rick sighs, already conceding. “Alright, fine, what would you do, Mr Expert?”
Cliff shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Less.”
The next day you decide to use the pool Rick keeps gushing about.
He's inside, on the phone, voice carrying through the open door, you can hear him where you’re stretched out on a chair, sunglasses low on your nose, heat pressing into your skin.
You hear the gate open, and then Cliff walks in, nodding once when he sees you. He grabs a beer from the cooler without asking, twists it open, and leans back against the fence.
Silence settles.
“You always this quiet?” you ask after a minute.
He glances over. “Only when I don’t got anything to say.”
“And right now?”
Another sip. A small shrug. “I dunno. Still deciding.”
You huff a laugh, turning your head toward him. “About what?”
His gaze lingers this time.
“You.”
That night, Rick is half-asleep on the couch, TV flickering low. You’re at the other end, legs tucked under you, not really watching.
Cliff sits in a chair across from you, boots kicked out, arm draped over the side. Every time you glance up, his eyes are already on you.
Like he knew you were going to look.
It's impossible to point to one exact moment where it changes, but it does.
He starts keeping his distance.
Not always, but enough for you to notice. He sits a little farther away, leaves the room a little earlier, cuts conversations short, like he’s correcting something.
So you sit closer again one afternoon, your shoulder almost brushing his.
He stills and you can feel the tension in his body, tight and controlled. “Somethin’ you need?” he asks, not looking at you.
“No.”
“Then you might wanna give me a little space.”
You lean back anyway just to see what happens. His jaw tightens, just slightly. “Or not,” he adds, huffing.
Rick doesn’t notice anything, he never does.
He just keeps talking, moving, existing in his own orbit, pulling you both along with him without realising what’s building underneath.
One evening the house feels abnormally quiet. Earlier, it had been filled with Rick’s voice; loud, restless, spilling from room to room in half-finished thoughts and half-formed plans. Something about drinks. Something about a meeting. You hadn’t really been listening.
You only remembered nodding, at some point, as he grabbed his keys and disappeared out into the night like he always did.
You sit in the living room with the lights low, the television on but muted, more for presence than your attention. A glow washes over the space in soft, unfocused colours.
The sound of the door clicks through the house before you see him.
Heavy boots on the floorboards. A familiar rhythm now, one your body has started recognising before your mind does.
Cliff.
Keys land on the table with a quiet clink. His jacket comes off in one smooth motion, shrugged from his shoulders. Everything about him feels unhurried.
You glance over as he moves further inside.
“Thought you were with Rick,” you say.
“I was,” he answers simply, nothing else follows it.
He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the fridge open, the soft clink of glass. When he returns, there’s a beer in his hand, condensation already forming along the bottle.
He doesn’t sit immediately, instead, he stays standing for a moment longer than necessary, eyes on you. “Why’re you still up?” he asks.
You shift slightly on the couch, pulling one leg in beneath you. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A quiet hum leaves him, almost dismissive, like he doesn’t fully buy it but isn’t interested in challenging you on it. He takes a sip, slow, before finally lowering himself onto the couch beside you.
The silence stretches out again, filled only by the faint hum of the television and the distant sound of the city beyond the windows.
He takes another drink. You don’t look at him.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then he exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite anything. “No, I haven’t.”
You turn your head slightly. “Yeah. You have.”
His jaw tightens in the smallest way, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But you’re close enough now that you do.
“Kid-”
“Don’t call me that Cliff,” you cut in immediately.
A beat passes.
Then, quieter, more controlled, he corrects himself. He says your name instead, low and deliberate, “You’re reading into things.”
“Am I really?”
You shift toward him now, no longer pretending to stay still. His grip tightens faintly around the bottle.
“You pull away every time I get too close,” you continue, voice steadier now. “You won’t even look at me half the time anymore.”
“That’s not-”
“It is.”
Another silence settles between you, thicker than the last. Eventually, he sets the bottle down on the table in front of him.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“Then tell me.”
He doesn’t answer.
For a brief moment, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath around the two of you. “You really want to have this conversation?” he asks finally.
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in you.
He leans back a fraction, studying you now instead of avoiding you. “You’re Rick’s baby sister. I mean, you're in college for Christ's sake,” he says at last, flatly.
“So?”
“So…” He exhales quietly, the sound carrying more weight than his words. “That should be enough for you to understand why... whatever this is, needs to stop.”
“It’s not.” Your voice softens without losing its certainty.
His eyes flicker down to your lips for the briefest moment, too quick to be anything obvious, then return to yours.
“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “That’s the problem.”
You move slightly, and your knee brushes his. It could be accidental, there's no reason for it not to be, but you both know it isn’t.
He goes still immediately.
“Don’t do that,” he says. Not angry, but firm.
You don’t move away.
“Why not?”
His hand drags once across his face, slow, like he’s trying to steady something in himself rather than change the situation around him.
“Because it’s not a good idea.”
“That’s not a very good answer.”
“It is, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “If you listen to it.”
You tilt your head, watching him more closely now, and the air between you seems to get heavier, charged in a way that makes everything else seem distant. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breaks eye contact.
“You gonna stop me?” you ask.
You see it happen, not dramatically, but unmistakably. The smallest fracture in his otherwise impeccable control.
He leans in, just enough that everything shifts. Close enough that you can feel him; his heat, presence, the tension stretched tight between your bodies, but he stops before anything resolves. Suspended in that space where restraint and impulse collide.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher now. “I am.”
Then he pulls back, rising from the sofa before the moment can stretch any further, running a hand through his hair.
“This isn’t happening,” he says, almost under his breath.
The distance returns all at once, sharp and cold, filling the space between you like it had never been gone. You stay seated as he reaches for his keys again, watching him move toward the door.
He pauses there for a second.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
And then he's gone.
The next time you see him its not the same.
He's standing there like normal, leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, exactly where he was yesterday.
Except it's definitely not normal.
Because this time, when you walk in, he doesn’t look at you.
No one else would notice, but you do. His attention stays fixed somewhere else; on Rick, on the counter, on nothing in particular.
Anywhere but you.
You move around the kitchen, reaching for a mug, opening the fancy cabinets you’re still not used to, but you’re aware of him the entire time. Of the space he’s not taking up. Of the way he’s choosing not to acknowledge you.
Suddenly, Rick launches into one of his monologues, already halfway out the door, grabbing his keys, his sunglasses, talking as he moves. “Alright, I gotta run, I’ll be back before- actually, no, maybe not, depends how long this thing goes. But you’ll be fine yeah? Cliff’s here, so nothing bad will happen.”
There’s something in the way he says it so casually, like it means nothing.
Cliff’s here.
Rick’s gone just as quickly as he started, the door shutting behind him, his voice fading out into the driveway.
And suddenly it’s quiet again.
Just you and Cliff.
The same as last night, except now there’s no point pretending it’s normal.
“You should eat something,” he says, tone even.
“I’m not hungry.”
A pause.
Then, finally, he looks at you. It’s brief. “Suit yourself.”
But there’s something underneath it now; he's less steady than before You lean back against the counter, arms crossing. “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”
His jaw sets.
“It didn't,” he says, quieter this time.
“That’s not what it felt like.”
“What you think it felt like doesn't change what actually happened, honey.”
You watch him for a second, taking that in. “Right,” you say.
He nods once, like that settles it.
You wait for a bit, then push off the counter and move past him, close enough that your arm almost brushes his, and move to the living room.
He goes rigid.
Cliff lingers near the doorway for a second, like he’s deciding something, then follows you in.
He doesn’t sit right away. “You got somewhere to be today?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay.”
A beat.
“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”
You don’t answer immediately. Just watch him, really watch him, in a way you haven’t been able to when Rick’s around.
“Like what?”
He huffs, not quite amused.
“You know.”
You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering that. “Like you almost kissed me last night?”
“That’s not what happened, and you know it.”
“No?” you ask, softer now.
“No.” He shakes his head, voice low.
You lean back slightly into the sofa.
“Then why won’t you look at me?” you ask.
“I am lookin’ at you.”
“Not like you did before.”
He finally moves, stepping closer. “You want me to?” he asks. The question is low and controlled, but there’s something under it now. A strain that wasn’t there before.
“You’re the one who said it’s a bad idea,” you say.
“Yeah.” His answer comes without hesitation, like he’s already decided how this conversation is supposed to go.
You watch him for a second. “And you always avoid bad ideas?”
That pulls something loose at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. “No,” he says.
It hangs there after he says it. Doesn’t get cleaned up or softened.
He doesn’t look away, and neither do you.
“Probably should,” he says, sighing as he finally sits down next to you.
The couch creaks softly under you as you turn toward him more fully, the distance between you narrowing without either of you naming it. Your knee brushes his.
His eyes flick to where you’re touching him.
Then back to your face.
He starts to lean in, just a bit, but you've run out of patience. You meet him halfway.
Your hand catches at his shirt as you close the space, and when your mouth meets his, it isn’t careful or uncertain anymore.
He responds just as fast.
One hand sliding into your hair, steadying you without hesitation, pulling you in like there was never really a question about whether he would.
He pulls you in closer, not rough, just certain now, like whatever line was holding him back finally gave up. Your hand fists his shirt harder without thinking, fist curling into the fabric as the distance disappears completely.
He's warm and solid, real in a way that makes everything else feel a little far away. His mouth moves against yours with increasing intensity. When you don’t pull away, when you don’t do anything except stay right there, he exhales against you, something in him settling.
His thumb shifts slightly in your hair and you lean into it without thinking.
The sofa behind you shifts as you move further into his lap, bodies adjusting without breaking the contact. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and you feel him start to harden again against your thigh.
"Jesus," he mutters against your mouth. "What are you doing to me?"
"Same thing you're doing to me." You shift, pressing closer, and he groans.
His other hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you more firmly against him. "We should stop."
"Should we?" You rock your hips.
"Fuck." His grip tightens. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that right?"
"Good." You kiss along his jaw, down his neck. "Die happy."
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. Then he's rolling you onto your back, settling between your thighs. "You're a menace."
"You like it."
"I do." He kisses you hard, possessive. "Too fucking much."
One second you’re pressed into the couch beneath him, and the next his hands are everywhere at once, urgent, searching.
Your fingers catch at his shirt, tugging it loose, and he pulls back just enough to drag it over his head, barely breaking contact before he’s back on you again. Fabric gets in the way after that, yours, his, it doesn’t matter. It’s all just something to push past, to get rid of.
Your breath catches when his hands finally find your bare skin, when yours do the same. Before you can properly process anything, you're left with nothing between you but heat and the press of him against you.
You can really feel him now, hard and ready against you.
"Wait." He pulls back, breathing hard. "Gotta grab a condom, sweetheart, gimme a second."
"Stay here," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before climbing off you.
You watch him walk to where his wallet sits on the sideboard, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness. He's beautiful, all lean muscle and controlled power.
Even now, after everything, he moves with that same careful precision.
He returns with the small foil packet. "Spread your legs for me."
The command in his voice makes you shiver, but you obey. He kneels between your thighs on the couch, and his expression softens as he looks at you.
"Gotta get you ready for me first, baby," he says quietly, lowering himself onto his stomach.
"Cliff, cmon don't make me wait-" you whine, voice coming out breathy.
His jaw tightens, and you see heat flash in his eyes. "You keep saying things like that, and you won't be walking tomorrow."
"Promise?"
He makes a sound low in his throat, and suddenly his mouth is on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair as his tongue drags through your folds.
"Fuck," you gasp, but you're not pushing him away.
"You can take it." His voice is muffled against you. "You're going to take everything I give you."
He's meticulous, working you slowly despite. His tongue circles your clit in lazy strokes, never quite enough pressure to push you over, but enough to make you squirm.
"Please," you whimper.
"Please what?"
"More. I need-"
"I know what you need." He slides two fingers into you, and you're so embarrassingly wet that they go in easily despite the stretch. "You need me to fuck you again. Need me to fill this pretty pussy up."
"Yes." You're trembling, caught between too much and not nearly enough.
He works you with his fingers and mouth until you're writhing, until you're begging, and only then does he pull back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger.
"Turn over," he says. "Hands and knees."
You scramble to obey, positioning yourself on cushions. You feel exposed like this, vulnerable, and it makes your pulse race.
His hands smooth over your ass, squeezing. "Look at you. So fucking perfect."
You hear the tear of foil, feel him fumble behind you for a second. Then he's pushing into you from behind. The angle is deep, shocking, and you drop to your forearms with a moan as he bottoms out.
"That's it." His hands grip your hips. "Take all of me."
He sets a harsh, relentless pace, a far cry from his usual controlled self. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his rough breathing.
One hand slides up your spine to grip the back of your neck, holding you down.
"You feel so good," he grits out. "So fucking tight."
You can't form words anymore, can only moan and push back against him. The pleasure builds fast, your body already primed from before. When he reaches around to rub your clit, you come with a sharp cry, clenching around him.
"Fuck, yes." He doesn't slow down, fucking you through it. "Give me another one."
"I can't-"
"You can." His fingers work your clit in tight circles. "Come on. One more."
The second orgasm crashes into you before you've recovered from the first, and you sob into the mattress. He follows you over, groaning your name as he spills into the condom.
You collapse forward, and he comes down with you, careful not to crush you with his weight. You're both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling.
"Okay?" he murmurs against your shoulder.
"Mmhmm." It's all you can manage.
He pulls out slowly, and you look down to see the mess on the sofa beneath you.
"Christ. We really did make a mess."
You laugh weakly. "Your fault."
"My fault?" He nips at your shoulder. "You're the one who can't keep your hands off me."
"You're the one who just fucked me."
He rolls off you, and you expect him to get up and grab his clothes. Instead, he disposes of the condom and then pulls you back against his chest, seemingly content to lie in the aftermath.
"We should clean up," you mumble.
"In a minute."
But a minute turns into five, turns into ten, and neither of you moves. His hand strokes lazy patterns on your skin, and you trace the lines of muscle on his chest.
"This is insane," you say quietly.
"What is?"
"This. Us. I only just met you again like five days ago."
"Six," he corrects. "But who's counting?"
You tilt your head back to look at him. "Doesn't this feel weird to you?"
His expression is serious. "Nothing about this situation is normal. Normal rules don't even apply."
"Is that your way of saying you don't regret it?"
"I don't think I could ever regret you." He cups your face. "I just don't want you to regret it. When this is over, when you're thinking straight and back to your normal life in college-"
You kiss him to shut him up. "Stop thinking about later. I want now."
He kisses you back, deep and thorough, and you feel him starting to harden again against your hip. You reach down to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly.
"Again? Really, honey? You sure you're ready again?" he asks, but he's already responding to your touch.
"Shut up."
This time you push him onto his back and climb on top of him. You're sore, definitely going to feel this tomorrow, but you don't care. You want him again. Want to feel him inside you, want to watch his face as you ride him.
You sink down onto him slowly, and his hands come up to grip your hips. "Fuck. You're going to kill me."
"You keep saying that." You start to move, rolling your hips. "But you're still here."
"Can't seem to help myself." His eyes are locked on where you're joined. "You're addictive."
You ride him slowly at first, finding a rhythm. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into the touch.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need, sweetheart."
You do, chasing your pleasure, using him. He lets you set the pace, content to watch and touch and murmur filthy praise. When you start to tire, he takes over, gripping your hips and fucking up into you.
"Come on," he urges. "Another. Give me another one."
"I can't-" But your body is already responding, tightening around him.
"You can. You will." His thumb finds your clit, and that's all it takes.
You come with a broken cry, and he follows immediately after, pulling you down hard onto him as he empties himself inside you, each pulse sending more shockwaves of pleasure through you.
You collapse onto his chest, completely spent. Your thighs are shaking, you're not sure you could move if you wanted to.
For a moment, there’s nothing except breathing.
His hand moves back to your hair, but slower now. Less intent, more instinct, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it now that everything’s already happened. His other arm shifts around you anyway, steadying you without thinking about it.
Protective, almost automatically.
Like it’s easier for him to do that than anything else.
The room feels different now. Real in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.
You can feel him under you, warm and solid, his chest rising and falling at a pace that’s still not fully even. Like he’s trying to catch up to something his body already decided for him.
Neither of you speaks. There is no clean way back into language from this.
Eventually, he exhales, but it doesn’t sound as steady as he probably wants it to.
“You alright?” he asks, quiet, still rough around the edges.
You nod against him before you can really think about it.
“Yeah.”
Then it hits you, cutting through the daze, your hand tightens slightly against his chest.
He notices immediately.
His arm shifts around you, “What?” he murmurs, voice lower now.
You hesitate, just for a second. “We didn’t- Cliff we forgot the condom the second time, what if-” You don’t finish it, but you don’t need to.
There’s a pause.
He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s choosing calm on purpose. His hand moves up into your hair, steady, reassuring, fingers threading through it in a way that feels more deliberate now.
“Hey,” he says quietly, dipping his head a little closer. “S’alright.”
His thumb brushes lightly along your arm, slow and grounding, like he’s pulling you out of your head before you can spiral too far into it.
“We’ll figure it out,” he adds, softer now, voice right against your hair.
His hand smooths down your back once, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to bring you both back into your bodies again instead of wherever you just were.
Reality starts creeping in around the edges after that.
The shift of fabric, the unfamiliar quiet, the awareness of space that used to be filled. Your hand tightens slightly against his chest without meaning to, a defence mechanism, perhaps.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His arm around you shifts again, not tighter, but firmer. Like he’s anchoring you on purpose now instead of instinct.
“You don’t gotta bolt,” he says after a beat.
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I’m not bolting.”
He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out what that actually means, then he gives a quiet huff through his nose. It's not quite a laugh, but close enough.
“Good,” he says.
His thumb brushes lightly once near your shoulder, absent-minded again. “This is… not complicated yet,” he adds.
There’s a hint of warning in it. Or maybe honesty, it's hard to tell. You let out a small breath of laughter against his chest.
“Give it time,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he says after a second.
Neither of you moves to fix anything, because there’s nothing clean to fix yet. Just the two of you, tangled up in the aftermath of a decision that already exists, whether you’re ready for it or not, and a brother who will come home eventually.
this is so much more filthy than i first intended it to be, so i apologise if anyone's been scandalised more than they expected to be
Summary: Sonny has a very expensive and bratty girlfriend - you. So naturally, when he decides to celebrate his podium but dragging you somewhere you don't want to go you complain, obviously, but of course you still go.
Warnings: Suggestive 16+ established relationship, bratty reader, so much sexual tension, making out, implied sex, morning after, shitty diners and motels, very light angst, fluff, slight possessiveness, alcohol.
A/N: so ik ive been gone for a very long time, brutal exam season going on atm. anyways this request has been a long time coming, i love me bratty princess x grumpy old man, and this is in (late) honour of f1 winning an oscar :) it was written in 200 word instalment over a number of weeks so if its shit i apologise
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 2.5k
The paddock club is humming with leftover adrenaline.
Champagne flutes crowd every surface, half-finished and sweating under soft golden light. Someone is laughing too loudly near the bar. Someone else is already posting highlights before the night is even over. You stand in the middle of it all like you belong here, because you do.
Silk skims over your skin, diamonds press cool against your collarbone. The floor-to-ceiling windows turn the circuit outside into a glittering afterthought.
You are supposed to be celebrating, which you are.
Technically.
You swirl what remains of your drink and watch a cluster of sponsors orbit the man who just climbed onto a podium a few hours ago like he hasn’t spent half his life doing exactly that.
The cameras love him, the team loves him, and the crowd definitely loves him.
And yet, he looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Your phone buzzes against your palm.
Where’d you disappear to?
You don’t turn around immediately. You let yourself finish the sip first, let the familiar burn of expensive champagne settle low in your chest.
Only then do you glance over your shoulder.
Sonny's moved away from the crowd, now leaning in the doorway like he accidentally wandered into the wrong party and decided to stay out of spite.
His hair is still damp from a rushed shower but somehow there’s a faint smear of something dark along his jaw, grease, you suspect. A glass dangles loose from his fingers, untouched.
You sigh, long and theatrical, and cross the room anyway.
“You smell like petrol,” you inform him by way of greeting.
His mouth tips at one corner. “You smell expensive.”
“That’s because I am.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “I know.” You fold your arms, eyeing the crowd pressing closer, the flash of another camera. Someone is already trying to pull him back into the noise.
Someone else is asking you a question you don’t bother answering.
“You should enjoy yourself.” you say. “There's more champagne to spray. More interviews to charm your way through.”
“I've done my part.” His gaze drifts over your shoulder to the glass walls, to the dark stretch of track beyond them. “Was actually thinking of getting out.”
A beat.
“And go where exactly?” you say.
He shrugs. Like the answer genuinely doesn’t matter. “I dunno sweetheart, somewhere that isn’t this.”
Your laugh slips out before you can stop it, soft and disbelieving. “You just finished on the podium.”
“Yeah.”
“And you want to leave the party.”
“Yeah.”
You study him then. The stubborn set of his shoulders. The way he’s already half-turned toward the exit like he expects you to come with him without needing to ask.
It’s infuriating.
“You’re unbelievable,” you decide.
He lifts his glass in a lazy toast. “You're still dating me, sweetheart.”
Across the room, someone calls your name but you don’t look back. The man standing in front of you is far more interesting.
“Five minutes,” you tell him, trying for authority and landing somewhere closer to a challenge. “If I get murdered in a car park, I’m haunting you.”
He grins, a quick crook of his mouth that is dangerous in a way the podium cameras never quite capture.
“C’mon then, princess.”
The air outside is cooler than you expect.
The noise from the party fades the further you walk, heels clicking against the concrete in a constant sharp, expensive protest. You wrap your arms loosely around yourself, already scanning the line of black cars waiting under soft floodlights.
Drivers. Secure cars with tinted windows and quiet engines.
Normal.
You glance sideways at him. “You did actually call a car, right?”
He doesn’t answer. That’s your first warning.
“Sonny.”
He keeps walking, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s got nowhere urgent to be. Like you’re not standing here in heels that cost more than whatever questionable footwear he’s currently wearing.
“Don’t tell me,” you say slowly, already suspicious, “you’re about to make me walk.”
“Relax, darlin'.”
You narrow your eyes. “I am relaxed.”
“You’re glaring.”
“I always glare.”
He huffs something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You pass the last of the waiting cars. The lights thin out. The concrete gives way to darker stretches of the paddock lot, quieter, emptier. You slow slightly, hesitation tugging at your steps despite yourself.
“Sonny,” you say again, softer now. “Where are we going?”
He stops suddenly.
You nearly walk straight into him.
Before you can recover, his hand closes around your wrist. It's warm, firm, casual in a way that sends something sharp down your spine, and then he tugs you sideways.
You don’t even get time to protest before a van door slides open.
You blink.
Once.
“…absolutely fucking not.”
He’s already guiding you up, hand steady at your waist like he expects resistance and doesn’t particularly care. The interior smells faintly of petrol and something warm, lived-in. A blanket is tossed over the back. A duffel bag half-unzipped.
You stare at him, scandalised. “You brought me to a van.”
“You say that like it’s a crime.”
“You just finished on the podium.”
“Yeah.”
“And this-” you gesture vaguely, “-this is your grand exit plan?”
His mouth tilts, amused. “You were expecting an Uber?”
“I was expecting a nice car, Sonny, Uber Black minimum.”
He leans back slightly, watching you take in the space, eyes flicking over your dress, your heels, the way you’re very carefully not touching anything.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, softer now. “You’ve survived worse.”
“I actually don’t think I have.”
You step further inside, cautious, like the van might suddenly reject you. Your heel catches slightly on the metal floor and his hand is there again, steadying your hip without comment.
You glance at him and settle onto the edge of what you assume passes for seating, smoothing your dress beneath you like muscle memory.
He shuts the door and the world outside muffles instantly. You shift, glancing toward the front. “You’re actually driving this?”
“That’s usually how it works.”
You exhale, long and dramatic. “If we break down somewhere in a van after you get a podium, I’m going to be extremely annoyed.”
He slides into the driver’s seat, glancing back at you over his shoulder, eyes softer than his tone.
“I’ll try not to let that happen, darlin’.” Your stomach does something deeply unhelpful.
“Sonny, where are we actually going?” you ask again, quieter this time.
He starts the engine. It rumbles low, steady, familiar to him in a way you can’t quite understand yet.
“Nowhere special.”
The drive ends up being quieter than you expect.
The circuit lights disappear behind you, replaced by dark stretches of road and the occasional blur of passing headlights. You shift slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, then adjusting it again when the fabric refuses to cooperate with the van’s very un-luxurious seating situation.
You can feel him glancing back at you every so often.
You pretend not to notice.
After a few minutes, your phone buzzes again. The messages start piling in. Various congratulations, invitations, someone asking why you left.
You silence it.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m assessing the choices I made tonight.”
That earns you a low chuckle.
“Regretting them already, princess?”
“Ask me again when I know where we’re going.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just drums his fingers lightly against the wheel.
Then, after a moment, “You hungry?”
You blink. “Am I-” You pause, thrown off by the question. “I mean. I assumed we were going somewhere.”
“We are.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He hums, turning the wheel smoothly as the van exits onto a quieter road. Then, a few minutes later, neon appears ahead, flckering slightly in the dark.
You lean forward, squinting.
The sign buzzes faintly.
DINER OPEN 24 HOURS
You can only stare as he slows, pulling into the mostly empty lot like this is completely reasonable.
You stare harder.
“No you’re actually joking Sonny, there's no way.”
He parks, shifts the van into neutral, and glances back at you, expression dangerously calm. “What?”
“This,” you gesture at the glowing, slightly questionable building, “is where you’re taking me?”
“You said you were hungry.”
“I did not.”
“You didn’t say you weren’t.”
You sit back. “Why would you choose… roadside diner food?”
“Baby, this is the best kind of food.”
You look at him like he’s personally offended you.
“Stop kidding around Sonny-”
He kills the engine. “C’mon,” he says, interrupting you, already reaching for the door handle.
You don’t move.
“Sonny.”
“Yeah, honey?”
“I’m wearing silk.”
He glances at your dress. Then at the diner. Then back at you.
“You’ll survive.”
You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face before pushing the door open with far more force than necessary. The cool air hits your legs immediately, heels clicking loudly across cracked asphalt as you follow him.
You glance down at your shoes.
You’re going to die here.
"Sonny, wait-"
He turns, offers you his hand, and tugs you closer to his body, walking you to the door.
Inside, the diner smells like coffee and frying oil and something sweet you can’t quite place. A few truckers sit in the corner. A couple in a booth share fries.
You stop just inside the doorway.
“This is… aggressively casual.”
He slides into a booth like he’s done this a thousand times. “You coming, princess?”
You hesitate.
Then you cross the room, carefully, sliding into the seat opposite him like you’re lowering yourself into unfamiliar territory. The vinyl sticks faintly to your legs and you pretend desperately not to notice.
A waitress drops menus in front of you with a tired smile and looks at Sonny, “Coffee?”
He nods once. “Yeah.” Then she looks at you.
“…Do you have wine?”
There’s a pause.
Sonny’s mouth twitches.
The waitress blinks. “Uh… we’ve probably got red.”
You sigh, resigned. “I’ll take it.”
She nods, walking away.
You fold the menu open, scanning it like you’re searching for something salvageable. Your brow furrows deeper with each passing second.
“No starters,” you mutter.
He leans back, watching you with a quiet amusement. “How shocking.”
You glance up. “And I assume there’s no three-course option.”
“If there is I'm pretty sure the third course is pie.”
You huff softly, but you can’t quite hide the hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. Glancing at him over the edge of the menu, you catch the warm look he’s trying not to make obvious.
Your stomach flips again.
The waitress returns, setting down your very questionable glass of red wine, and you take a sip.
It’s terrible.
You try not to show it but Sonny definitely notices.
“Good?” he asks, far too casually.
You lift your chin. “It’s… fine.”
The next morning you wake up before him.
It all slowly comes back in pieces.
The room first; unfamiliar ceiling, streaks of light cutting through the curtains. Then the sheets, twisted low around your legs
Then everything else.
You don’t move right away.
You can feel the weight of his arm slung around your waist, like it never left. The air is cool where it meets your bare skin, and you're sensitive in places you’re not thinking about too closely. When you shift even slightly, you feel the quiet, lingering echo of last night in the way your body reacts before your brain can catch up.
You still.
Breathe out slowly.
Behind you, he stirs, like he’s registering your movement even half-asleep, his hand tightening just slightly where it rests against you.
You let yourself relax back into it.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at nothing in particular. Your phone sits on the bedside table face down.
When you finally turn onto your back, it’s slow, the sheet dragging with you. His arm slips, then settles again across your stomach. He makes a low sound, something caught between a breath and a word, brows pulling together as he wakes.
“Stop moving so much,” he mutters.
“You’re the one attached to me.”
A pause.
His eyes open, unfocused at first, then landing on you. He squints slightly at the light, then at you, like he’s piecing things together.
“…what time is it.”
“No idea.”
“You check?”
“No.”
His gaze flicks to the phone on the table.
Still untouched.
He looks back at you, something quieter in his expression now. You don’t comment on it. Instead, you reach up, brushing his hair back where it’s fallen into his eyes, lingering for a while.
His gaze drops, not to your face, but lower, then back again, like he’s catching himself.
“Coffee?” he asks, voice rougher now.
You hum. “Probably bad.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moves to get it.
There’s a beat where nothing happens. Just the low hum of the room, the faint light, the space between you.
Then his hand shifts.
It slides along your side, slow, like he’s checking something, or remembering. Your breath catches before you can stop it, and that’s all it takes.
His eyes flick back to yours.
“Still tired?” he asks, but there’s something else under it.
You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “You?”
“I could be convinced to stay.”
You huff a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That sounds lazy.”
“Yeah, it is.”
But he doesn’t look away.
And neither do you.
You shift closer first this time, your hand finding his arm, fingers curling over his bicep like they did last night.
His hand comes up to your jaw, not forcing, just guiding enough that when he leans in, you meet him halfway.
The kiss is slow. Warm, familiar, a little messy in a way that feels like you’re both still waking up inside it. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and your mouth parts against his without thinking, breath catching when he deepens it just slightly, like he’s testing the line.
Your grip tightens.
He exhales softly against your mouth, and it sounds almost like a quiet laugh. Then he shifts closer, pressing you back into the mattress without any real force behind it.
When you finally break it, it’s not clean. Just a small pull back, your forehead brushing his, your breath still uneven in a way you don’t comment on.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
Then you glance, briefly, toward the room again; the cheap furniture, the thin curtains, everything that would’ve bothered you before.
“…let's stay a bit,” you say, like it’s nothing.
He stills.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
You shrug, arms snaking around his neck to play with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s fine.”
He watches you for a second, hand pressing lightly at your side, grounding, like he’s making sure you’re actually here.
You tuck yourself even closer, your head settling against his chest, leg slotting between his without thinking.
His arm comes around you easily.
A minute passes.
“You’re not complaining,” he says eventually.
Your eyes stay closed. “Don’t ruin it.”
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh while he presses a soft kiss to your temple.
I've just posted a fic (Sonny Hayes x reader) for the first time in like forever, im sorry it took so long but im now in the last couple weeks of a crazy exam season (which means ill probably be slow for a lil while longer but afterwards we are so back gang trust)
I wanted to thank yall SO much for 1.5k followers (??!!) I never really pay attention to it but like holy shit guys that's genuinely crazy and it means the world <3333
Ive reopened requests, this doesn't mean ill answer all or that im gonna be much quicker, but i figured that when im back to normal writing pace again, it'll be more fun for everyone if i have lots of fun reqs to write :)
anyways thats all, love yall and hope you're having a great time.
ok so rn im working on two fics, a sonny hayes x reader (probably not smut) and an Achilles x reader (very much will be smut). Now, i wanna know what people want after that :)
what yall prefer??
Cliff Booth x reader - smut
Cliff booth x reader - not smut
Tom Bishop x reader (brad's character in Spy Game) - smut
Tom Bishop x reader (brad's character in Spy Game) - not smut
heyy gang so ik ive been mia for a while and i apologise, lifes been kinda crazy recently and still is, but gonna try to write some more.
first of all i owe a ton of brad fics to yall so thats my priority, i wrote a couple fics for akotsk obv but im gonna put a pin in that for now (sorry ik its boring but i finished the show and i don't really have any new motivations or ideas x)
anyways it might still be slow for a bit but bear with me, im on it lol
Aerion Targaryen x courtesan!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion keeps his word and moves you into the Red Keep, and now, whether he wants to or not, he's getting attached. There's something about you that offers him peace when no one else does.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ basically like 3k words of smut, p in v, prostitution but with feelings, unprotected sex, oral (m rec), somno if you squint (she wakes up and consents), nightmares, possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, he's so dom but def also a softie ik it.
A/N: [part one] I have never got so many requests for a sequel before in my life gang so here you go, had to prioritise (next im gonna write whatever fic won in the poll, so stay tuned).
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.3k
The Red Keep is different.
You understood this the moment the servants led you through the corridors, not the public halls where courtiers gather, but the private ways, the passages reserved for family. For those who belong.
They brought you to chambers that connect to his through a single door, rooms that are far too fine for what should be considered possible. There are silk hangings, a proper bed with four carved posts and windows that overlook the blackwater bay.
You’ve been here three hours, and you haven’t seen him yet.
The servants who unpacked your things won’t meet your eyes. They must know what you are. What you have to be, to be housed here, in these rooms, with a door between you and a prince of the seven kingdoms.
Since then you’ve bathed, changed into a dressing gown of deep crimson silk that was laid out for you, probably chosen by him. You’ve tried to eat the food they brought, but your stomach is too tight.
Everything feels precarious. Back at the pleasure house you knew all the rules, you were at the top of the food chain. Here, in the heart of Targaryen power, you are utterly exposed.
You drift through the room as though it might dissolve beneath your feet if you move too quickly. Your fingers brush the edge of an old oak table carved intricately with dragons, the scales cool beneath your touch.
Then you turn your attention back to the door separating your room and his.
It's solid, unadorned. You find yourself staring at it more than you mean to, as though it might open of its own accord if you watch it long enough.
The knowledge of his proximity to you presses against your ribs like an invisible weight. He is there, somewhere beyond that threshold, close enough to reach you in moments, distant enough that the silence stretches and stretches and stretches.
The Keep hums around you. You can hear distant footsteps and the murmur of voices you cannot quite make out. Somewhere far below, the people of the city live their small, unimportant lives. You are suspended between worlds, no longer where you were, but definitely not yet settled into whatever this is meant to be.
When the connecting door finally opens, you’re standing by the window, watching the last light fade over the horizon. The sky is a kind of bruised violet, the water below catching the last fragments of daylight.
You turn.
He stands in the doorway, still dressed from whatever duties occupied his day, leather and fine wool, the lines of his doublet sharp. A short sword hangs at his hip, an unnecessary thing in the safety of his own chambers, but he wears it anyway. Habit, maybe? Or a statement, like a reminder of what he is, even in here.
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
He only looks at you, like really looks, as if committing the sight to memory, measuring the reality of you standing here against whatever expectation he carried with him through the corridors.
Something shifts across his face. Not softness, but something unsettled, as though he is taking in the consequence of a decision he has already made and cannot undo.
“You settled in.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, my prince.”
Your voice sounds small in the high-ceilinged room and the words echo far more than they should.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The sound is quiet, final. His gaze drifts over the chamber before coming back to you. You can see him arranging the image in his mind, of you, dressed in colours he chose, standing in rooms he claimed, placed at the heart of his home where he has such power.
Possession made architectural.
“Do you know what it means that you’re here?” he asks. He crosses the room with unhurried steps, “In these chambers?”
“I’m honoured by-”
“Don’t.”
His hand comes up, fingers catching your chin.
“Don’t give me the practised lines,” he says. “Not here. This isn’t the brothel.”
Your breath tightens in your chest. The truth of the place you came from sits between you like something fragile and sharp.
“No, my prince.”
“Here,” he continues, voice lowering, “you’re mine in a way that’s… official.” His thumb brushes the edge of your lower lip, a fleeting, proprietary touch. “My family will know. The court will know. Everyone will know that I’ve claimed you, that I keep you here, in the royal apartments.”
His eyes search yours, sharp, as though gauging how deeply the knowledge cuts. “Does that frighten you?”
“Yes.” The word leaves you before you can soften it.
“Good. It should.”
He's still touching you gently, and there is something unsettled in his expression, a flicker of something almost uncertain, as though he is not entirely sure why this was necessary.
“You’ll stay in these rooms,” he says. “You won’t wander the Keep without my permission. You’ll see no one unless I allow it.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
He steps closer. The scent of smoke clings faintly to him, hinting at the long stretch of the day he’s had. The court, the councils, the endless performance of being what the world expects of him.
“I could have kept visiting you,” he says quietly. “It would have been simpler, much cleaner.” His hand slides from your face to your throat, resting there in that familiar, claiming way. “But I found I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to wonder what you were doing when I wasn’t there. Who else might be looking at you. Touching you.”
Your pulse beats hard against his palm.
This is as close to a confession as he will ever offer, that he knows this possessiveness has outgrown convenience, that the thought of you existing beyond his reach has become something he won't tolerate.
He has brought you here not only to keep you, but to quiet something in himself.
“I’m here now,” you say softly. “Only yours.”
Something sharp and hungry flashes in his eyes. “Yes,” he murmurs. “You are.”
He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice dropping low enough to feel like a secret meant only for you. “And tonight, I’m going to fuck you in my bed, in my chambers, in the Red Keep itself, and I’m going to make you scream so loud that the guards outside hear it and know exactly what I’m doing to you.”
Heat floods through you, the anticipation tangling in your chest. He is different here, you realise. Far more certain, more possessive, as though the stone and steel of the Red Keep have settled into his very bones.
He doesn’t wait for a response.
His mouth finds yours in a kiss that is more claiming than affection, his tongue pressing past your lips as if to remind you how easily you yield to him.
The contact steals the breath from your lungs, unbalances you, and you make a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes as he backs you against the door leading to his room.
Then, with a shift of his grip, the ground leaves you.
One moment your feet are finding the floor and the next, his hands are at your thighs, lifting you as if your weight no more than an inconvenience to him. You gasp against his mouth, startled by the ease of it, by the way he carries you as though you are something he has always known how to hold.
Your legs wrap around his hips without quite meaning to, clinging instinctively to the solid heat of him.
He walks you across the threshold, still kissing you, the room beyond opening up in fragments. You catch glimpses of dark wood, rich fabrics, the low glow of candlelight reflecting off polished stone. The massive bed dominates the far wall, all carved posts and shadowed drapery. It is more austere than you imagined, almost martial in its restraint, but softened by small, telling luxuries, like a decanter of fine wine left uncorked on a table or books scattered across a desk as though abandoned mid-thought.
He turns with you in his arms, carrying you deeper into the room, as though crossing some final, private boundary. The door shuts behind you with a dull, distant sound that seems to belong to another world entirely.
He lowers you only when he reaches the bed, setting you down with deliberate care.
He breaks the kiss long enough to strip off his sword belt, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Then his hands are on you, untying the dressing gown, pushing it off your shoulders. You're naked beneath it, clearly you'd guessed correctly that he'd want easy access, and the cool air makes your skin pebble.
"Perfect," he murmurs, his hands skimming over your body with proprietary satisfaction. "I chose well with that colour. You should only wear my colours now."
He's still fully dressed, the contrast makes you feel more exposed, but he seems to enjoy it, his eyes dark as they travel over every inch of you.
He towers over you, and you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. His hand tangles in your hair, gripping firmly.
"I've thought about this all day," he says, his voice low. "Through every tedious council meeting, every insipid conversation with my brothers. I thought about coming back here and having you in my bed." He guides your head forward, toward the laces of his breeches. "Open them."
Your fingers work the laces with practised ease, and when you free him, he's already hard. He guides himself to your lips, and you open your mouth, taking him in. He groans, the sound rough and unguarded, and his grip in your hair tightens.
"That's it," he breathes. "Show me what that pretty mouth can do."
You work him with lips and tongue, taking him deeper, and he's not gentle. His hips rock forward, pushing deeper, testing your limits, but you've learned to take it, to breathe through it. Your eyes water, but you don't pull away.
"Fuck," he hisses. "You're so good at this. So perfect." His voice is strained, and you can tell he's close already, wound tight from thinking about this all day. But he pulls back abruptly, his cock slipping from your mouth.
"No. Not yet. I want to be inside you when I come."
He strips quickly, efficiently, and then he's pushing you back onto the bed, following you down. The mattress is softer than yours, the sheets finer, and you sink into them as his weight settles over you. He doesn't bother with preparation; he knows you're already wet, your body is trained at this point to respond to him, and he pushes inside in one long thrust that makes you gasp.
"Mine," he growls against your throat. "Here, in my bed. Mine."
He sets a punishing pace immediately, fucking you hard and deep, each thrust driving you up the bed. You wrap your legs around him, your hands clutching and tearing at his back, the sounds you make raw.
He's right, the guards will hear this. Everyone will know.
"Let them hear," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "Let everyone know who you belong to." His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me. I want to feel it."
Your body obeys before your mind can catch up, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cry out, and he captures the sound with his mouth, kissing you through it. His rhythm falters, becomes erratic, and then he's groaning into your mouth as he finds his own release, spilling deep inside you.
He collapses onto you for a moment, breathing hard, his face buried in your neck. You feel the rapid beat of his heart, the faint tremor in his muscles. Then he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest.
The silence stretches, but it's not the uncomfortable you remember from encounters with previous clients. His fingers trace idle patterns on your shoulder, and you let yourself relax into his warmth.
"I had them prepare your rooms myself," he says finally, his voice quieter than before. "Chose the fabrics, the furnishings. I wanted them to be... suitable, for you."
He'll never say it out loud, but he wanted you to be comfortable, and he thought about what you might like. You press a kiss to his chest, just over his heart.
"They're beautiful. Thank you."
His arm tightens around you. "You'll stay there when I'm occupied. But your nights are mine. Every single one of them."
"Yes."
"And if I want you during the day, you'll come when I send for you."
"Of course."
He's quiet for a moment, and then, "Do you hate this? Being here, being kept like this?"
The question surprises you. He's never asked before, never even seemed to care. You consider lying, giving him the answer he might want, but he already told you not to perform, not in here.
"I don't hate it," you mumble against his skin. "It's frightening, but I think I trust you. I know what it is you want from me, and that's more than I've ever had before."
He makes a sound that might be satisfaction or something else before sliding his hand down your body, cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. You feel him stirring against your hip, already recovering.
"Again," he says, and it's not a question. "I want you again."
Your body is already tender, but you nod. He shifts, moving to sit with his back against the headboard, the carved dragon looming above him.
"Come here." He pats his thighs. "I want to watch you ride me."
You move to straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His hands come to your waist, steadying you, and you reach between your bodies to guide him inside. You're still slick with his seed from before; he slides in easily despite the stretch.
You both groan at the sensation. From this angle he's so much deeper; you've never felt so full before. His hands tighten on your waist, and he looks up at you with dark, hungry eyes.
"Move," he commands. "Show me how well you can please me."
You start to roll your hips, finding a rhythm. His hands guide you, controlling the pace even though you're on top. You brace your hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to lift and sink back down. Your thighs burn, but you don't stop, how could you?
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on where your bodies join, watching himself disappear inside you with each movement. "You look so good taking my cock. Like you were made for it."
You lean down, lips brushing his, "Maybe I was."
You increase the pace, and his head falls back against the headboard, his eyes closing. For a moment, he looks almost peaceful, lost in the sensation. It feels like a rare privilege to see him like this, so unguarded.
"Touch yourself," he says without opening his eyes. "I want to feel you come around me."
You slide one hand down your body, finding your clit. You're sensitive from before so it doesn't take much, just a few circles of your fingers and you're clenching around him, a smaller orgasm rippling through you.
His eyes snap open, and he watches your face as you fall apart. "Don't stop."
You keep moving, keep touching yourself, and the pleasure builds again, sharper this time, almost painful in its intensity. Your thighs are shaking with effort, and he must notice because his hands tighten on your waist, helping you move, taking some of the burden.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice rough. "Take what you need. Use me."
The permission, the command, pushes you over the edge. You come with a broken cry, your body clamping down on him. He groans, his hips bucking up to meet you, and then he's pulling you down hard, holding you in place as he pulses inside you.
You collapse against his chest, boneless and trembling. His arms come around you, holding you close, and you feel his lips press against your temple.
"Good," he murmurs. "So good for me."
You stay like that for a long moment, still joined, your breathing gradually slowing. When you finally gather the strength to lift your head, you find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"You're exhausted," he observes.
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
He lifts you carefully, and you both hiss as he slips free. He settles you beside him on the bed, and you expect him to dismiss you, to send you back to your own chambers now that he's satisfied.
But instead, he pulls the covers over both of you and draws you back against his chest.
The bed is warm, and the air is thick. You feel his arm come around your waist with a possessive familiarity, it feels different now that the room has gone so quiet. The prince who commanded, who took, recedes into something looser, something heavy with exhaustion.
You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, the heat of him seeping into you until the chill you didn’t realise you were holding onto begins to fade.
“Stay,” he says quietly. “Sleep here tonight.”
It is not an order.
That, so much more than the words themselves, startles you.
You don’t argue because you’re too tired, and truthfully, you don’t want to leave. The thought of returning to your own rooms, of crossing that connecting door alone and lying awake in unfamiliar silk feels unbearable.
So you close your eyes.
For a while, you only listen to his breathing. It’s uneven at first, as though his thoughts refuse to quiet. You wonder what fills the silence of a prince’s mind when there is no one left to perform for.
No court or enemies. The weight of being watched every waking hour is lifted off his shoulders. You wonder, dimly, if this is why he brought you here, because you are not watching him the way the rest of the world does.
You are almost asleep when he speaks again.
“I haven't been sleeping well. It's got worse since I last saw you.”
His voice is low, rougher than before, the admission dragged from somewhere he doesn’t often look.
“Nightmares,” he continues after a moment. “I wake up angry, apparently. Sometimes violent. The servants know to stay away.”
The words sit heavy between you.
You understand what he’s telling you; that this closeness has edges, that there is a version of him in sleep that can not and will not recognise you.
It is not a confession. It is a warning.
“I’ll stay anyway,” you say.
His arm tightens around you, instinctive, as though the idea unsettles him more than he expected. “Why?"
The answer is too complicated to say aloud.
Because I am never truly safe.
Because at least with you, the danger is honest.
Because somehow, impossibly, you feel like the most solid thing in this shifting, gilded prison.
“Because you want me to,” you decide on eventually.
He is quiet for so long you think he might have decided to let the moment pass. Then, softly, almost grudgingly,
“Yes. I do.”
Sleep takes you in fragments.
You drift in and out of it, half-aware of the way the room breathes around you, of the distant hush of the Keep beyond the walls.
At some point in the dark, his body tenses beneath your back. His breathing changes; it's sharp and uneven.
Then a sound escapes him, low and ugly, nothing like the measured voice he wears during the day.
You stir, not fully awake.
His arm tightens, not around you this time but against the sheets, fingers curling as though grasping for something that isn’t there. His breath stutters. He says a name you don’t recognise, a curse in Valyrian that sounds old and bitter on his tongue.
There's a moment where his body jerks, as though he is fighting something unseen.
“Aerion,” you murmur, barely daring to move.
For a heartbeat, you think you’ve made a terrible mistake.
Then his eyes snap open.
You see the room comes rushing back to him in stages; the candlelight, the bed, the weight of you against him.
His gaze is wild for an instant, unfocused, still caught between whatever dream he has dragged with him into waking and the reality of the room around him.
His hand lifts as though to strike, to shove, to defend against a threat that no longer exists.
It stills inches from you.
The moment stretches, thin as a blade’s edge. You don’t dare move. Your breath lodges somewhere in your chest, every instinct screaming at you to be small, to be still, to not become whatever his dream has made you.
The recognition flickers in his eyes.
Then control follows, seemingly dragged back into place with visible effort. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping as he forces his hand to drop back to the mattress.
“Go back to sleep,” he says, too quickly, too harshly, as though the words might banish the remnants of the dream. “It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing, Aerion.”
It slips from you before you can soften it into something safer. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, fast and unsteady, the rhythm of someone who has woken already halfway into violence and had to claw himself back from it.
The bed is warm around you, but his body holds a cold, coiled tension, as if the dream has left him braced for another blow.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer.
You feel him draw a breath and hold it, and when he exhales, it sounds like he is forcing something down. The silence stretches, heavy with all the things he has not said to you and never will.
You turn slightly in his arms, just enough to see his face in the low light. He looks away from you at once, as though caught in something he did not intend to reveal. His expression is closed now, guarded, but the remnants of the nightmare still cling to him in the tightness of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.
You hesitate, then lift your hand.
The movement is small, careful. Your fingers brush his forearm first, a tentative touch meant to test whether you will be pushed away. When he doesn’t stop you, you let your hand rest there, grounding yourself in the reality of him.
“It was just a dream,” you say quietly, unsure whether you are trying to convince him or yourself.
His lips curve faintly, humourless. “Dreams don’t come from nothing.”
The admission sits between you, heavy and unadorned.
You don’t press him for more. You know better than to ask a dragon to name the fire that lives in his chest. Instead, you let your hand trace a slow, steady line along his arm, not soothing him so much as reminding him where he is.
That he is here.
That you are here.
Then you feel him shift, the evidence of his arousal pressing against you.
A sound of frustration leaves his throat. “Let me," he mutters, more to himself than to you, and there is something raw in it. “Again. I need-”
He doesn't finish the sentence, but you understand. He needs this, needs you, needs the comfort of your body and the oblivion it provides. You arch back against him in answer, and his hand slides between your thighs, finding you still slick from before.
You're still too tired to fully answer, humming your approval instead.
He pushes inside from behind. You're sore now, truly sore, but the stretch is good in a way you can't explain. He moves slowly this time, almost gently, his arm wrapped around your waist to hold you close.
"I dreamed," he says against your shoulder, his voice rough with sleep and something else. "I dreamed you were gone. That you'd left, and I couldn't find you."
Your heart clenches. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise me." His thrusts are slow, deliberate, almost tender. "Promise you'll stay."
"I promise."
He makes a sound that might be relief or pain, and his hand slides up to cup your breast, holding you like something precious. The intimacy is such a stark difference from before, less about dominance and more about need, about him seeking comfort in your body.
"You're the only one," he whispers, and you don't know if he means to say it aloud. "The only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster."
"I know you are a monster," you say softly, honestly. "But you're not a monster to me."
"I'm your monster?"
"Mhm, you're my monster."
He shudders against you, and his rhythm falters. "Say it again."
"You're mine."
"Again."
"Mine."
He comes with a groan, his face buried in your hair, his body shaking. You feel the warmth of him spilling inside you, and you reach back to touch his face, offering what comfort you can.
He stays inside you as he softens, unwilling to break the connection. His breathing gradually evens out, and you think he might fall asleep like this, still joined with you.
"I don't know what you've done to me," he murmurs finally. "I don't know why I need this. Need you."
"Does it matter why?"
"No. I suppose it doesn't." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake."
It's a promise and a threat and a comfort all at once. You close your eyes and let yourself sink into sleep, still held firmly in his arms, still filled with him.
It's more than you ever expected to have.
And somehow, it's enough.
i feel like this became cuter than i originally intended for it to be, but at least its a sweet ending <3
so... in the last week lol i have received so many requests for various sequels and new fic ideas and i just want to start with saying how much i appreciate it! Genuinely it means the world that so many of you care enough to comment at all, let alone want more lol.
However, there is like no plausible way i can get all these fics out. A lot of them double up, like at least 15 reqs in my inbox are for Marked by Gold pt 2 (which for the record should be up in the next couple days), so i think im gonna combine requests, which means hopefully everyone gets something they want and i dont spend literally every hour of the day writing (unfortunatly i cant spend all day gushing over Aerion Targaryen because i have this kinda irritating thing called uni to attend).
i just wanted to say that im so so so grateful for all the love but also just like manage your expectations lol because i dont want someone to be like waiting and waiting for a request only for me not to write it :( also for these reasons ive closed my requests for now so i can catch up a bit BUT don't worry im gonna keep writing lmao, like there will be no shortage of Aerion fics fret not <3
edit: in order to pick what fics im gonna write first i might post polls so i appeal to what the majority want, starting with this one (ill write both this is more to decide which one comes out first)
what do you lovely people want more
fluffy/smutty fic where hes kinda a bitch to everyone BUT his darling wife
lil darker smut sequel to either 'after the vows' or a similar stand alone
Aerion Targaryen x reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, coercion, unprotected sex, fingering, loss of virginity, she's like incredibly innocent and inexperienced, corruption (!), dub-con/non-con vibes, this is DARK so reader discretion
A/N: i apologise i got very carried away with this fic, its like dark af. ive been sat watching the olympics marinating in my Aerion obsession, so yeah theres been plenty of time for writing <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 6.0k
The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.
You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.
This is familiar ground.
You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.
Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.
You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.
Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.
The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.
It snags on you by accident.
Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.
It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another man’s duty.
He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerion’s mind with a peculiar weight.
You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.
Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.
He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.
He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.
You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.
Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly.
He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.
That night, you think you are alone.
The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.
You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.
Not a sound or movement.
Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.
He stands just inside the door.
Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.
You do not remember hearing it open.
For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.
You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.
“My prince,” you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.
His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.
“So this is where they keep you,” he says mildly.
The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.
“I- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-”
He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.
“No,” Aerion says softly. “You won’t do that.”
Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.
He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.
“You don’t look like you expected a visitor,” he remarks.
You swallow. “I didn't.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You will learn.”
His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.
The shape of how easily you might bend.
You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someone’s niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.
“You don’t even look at me,” he notes.
You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.
He notices that too.
“So sheltered,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “They keep you all soft and unknowing, don’t they?”
Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.
He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.
“I noticed you tonight,” he says, simply.
Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.
“You stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t even realise I was looking at you.” His mouth curves. “That is either very wise or very foolish.”
"I meant no disrespect, my prince"
His hand lifts.
For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.
The touch is light, but the effect is not.
“You will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.”
“You belong,” Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, “to me now.”
The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.
His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.
When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.
"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."
You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.
"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"
"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.
He's a Targaryen prince.
Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?
"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"
The honest answer catches in your throat.
Yes, I'm terrified.
But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.
"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.
His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.
"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."
"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."
He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.
"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?
"Yes, what?"
Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."
"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."
"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.
"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"
The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."
"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."
"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"
"My prince, please-"
"Answer the question."
Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."
"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."
Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"
"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.
You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"
"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"
"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"
"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."
The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.
"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."
His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."
"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.
"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."
His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.
"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.
"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"
"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."
The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.
"Look at me."
You don't want to, you do not know how.
"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.
"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."
The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.
You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.
"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."
He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"
"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.
"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.
He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.
"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."
Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.
When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.
"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"
You shake your head mutely, face burning.
"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."
When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.
"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."
You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.
When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.
"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."
So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.
"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."
His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.
"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."
Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.
One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."
"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."
His smile is cruel. "We'll see."
He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.
"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."
His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
"That's it," he encourages darkly.
You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.
"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."
His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.
The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.
"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."
The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.
"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."
He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.
Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.
"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.
"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."
You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."
Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"
He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."
You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.
"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"
"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."
He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.
"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."
But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.
"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."
When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.
"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.
"Again."
"I'm yours, my prince."
"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."
His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.
It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.
"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."
"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.
"Yes," he counters.
One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.
"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."
Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.
"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."
His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.
He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.
After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.
"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."
You turn your face away, but he's insistent.
"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."
Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.
"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.
He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.
"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"
You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.
And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.
Wanted it.
Wants him still.
"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."
You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.
And there's nothing you can do about it.
It becomes a pattern.
Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.
Aerion comes to you at night.
Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.
You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.
Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.
The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.
He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.
The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.
You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.
Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.
“They would thank me,” he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. “You are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.”
It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.
“You don’t want them to know,” he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. “The court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.”
You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.
Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.
And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.
There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.
In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.
“It suits you,” Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. “This waiting. This quiet obedience.”
You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like being kept,” he adds. “I see the way you look when you hear my steps.”
It is humiliating, how true that is.
“You should be grateful,” he tells you, not unkindly. “I could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.”
You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.
“You are mine,” Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”
The arrangement settles into something that feels almost… stable.
It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.
A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.
Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.
It does not work tonight.
You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.
Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.
His eyes find you immediately.
The look is not subtle.
Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.
When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.
The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.
“You’re hiding,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “That no longer suits you.”
The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.
Too intimate to be mistaken.
Your heart is hammering. “People are watching.”
“Good,” Aerion says lightly.
He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.
The taboo hums in the air between you.
It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.
There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.
They can only watch.
Aerion’s thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.
“You feel them staring,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You always do.”
You swallow. “This isn’t discreet.”
He laughs quietly. “I’m tired of discreet.”
The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.
You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.
You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.
Aerion does not care.
He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.
Let them see, the look says.
Let them understand what cannot be undone.
The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.
Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.
“You’re done being hidden,” he tells you. “Anyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.”
The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.
The court has already heard it.
idk what happened here i like blanked lol, im working on like 2 fics atm, one is a part 2 to 'marked by gold' which seems to be in high demand <3
Aerion Targaryen x sister!wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: You have been promised to Aerion since you were a child, so it is no surprise the morning after your marriage you wake to the lingering evidence of the night before, and the unsettling truth that you are bound to a man whose devotion is as consuming as it is dangerous.
Warnings: SUGGESTIVE 16+ toxic dynamics, targcest, huge ass power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, obsession, morning after, physical discomfort, talk of heirs, fade to black smut at the end if you squint
A/N: short and sweet for once (except its rlly not very sweet at all), and probably doesn’t make sense because i wrote it in 30 mins at 2 am so don’t come for me lol
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 2.2k
The light comes in thin and pale, the kind that does not warm the stone so much as reveal it. It lies across the floor first, then the edge of the bed, a narrow blade of dawn cutting the dark in two.
You do not stir.
Your breathing is slow, heavy with the kind of sleep that pulls you under rather than letting you drift.
Aerion, on the other hand, does, and he wakes to stillness.
For a long moment, he does not move. He lies on his back, one arm crooked beneath his head, the other resting where your body had pressed into him hours before. The chamber is quiet; no footfalls in the corridors yet, no murmured orders, no clang of distant steel.
You are turned on your side, facing him. Your hair is loose across the pillow, flared against pale linen, your mouth parted slightly as you breathe. The sheet has slipped low on your body in the night. He takes in the shape of you with the same unhurried attention he gives to any possession newly acquired. Measuring, noting, fixing the image in his mind.
Your sleep is too deep.
It is not the gentle rise and fall of rest he notices first, but the weight of it, the way you do not stir when he shifts beside you, the way your lashes do not flutter even when the light reaches your face. You lie as though the night has taken something from you and not yet given it back.
Aerion exhales through his nose, slow.
He turns onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he can see you better. In the half-light, the marks stand out more clearly than they had in the dark, faint bruising that will darken before it fades. He studies them with the same attention he once gave to the sigils painted on shields in the training yard, a visible sign of something claimed.
He notes that you're spent past the point of usefulness. He had not meant to render you so utterly insensible. Not because he had meant to be gentle, but because excess is a waste of strength.
What is his should be preserved.
He reaches out, two fingers brushing your shoulder, light enough not to wake you. Your breath catches, a small, involuntary hitch, and then settles again. The sound is soft. It pleases him deeply that your body still answers him, even in sleep.
You had looked smaller than he remembered you at the altar.
The thought comes to him without warning, unbidden. The image overlays the one before him now, you in white and red, standing beneath banners heavy with dragonfire, your hands folded too neatly before you.
He remembers thinking, distantly, that you had been a child when your names were first spoken together in the great hall. He remembers you with sleeves too long for your arms, solemn in your courtesy, taught to resect him before you were taught to look him in the eye.
You had grown into this place beside him, as all promised things must. He has always believed that. Time does not change what is fated, it only carries it forward.
The night had closed behind you like a door finally shut. He remembers the sound of it, the soft finality of wood against stone, the way it had sealed the world outside. You had stood there for a heartbeat too long, as if waiting for instruction, for some sign that this threshold was not as heavy as it felt.
He had not offered one. He had waited long enough.
Now, in the grey hush of dawn, he watches the proof of that waiting lie spent beside him. There is a faint satisfaction in it; fulfilment has a shape, and this is one of them.
Your brow furrows slightly in sleep. You shift, a small, unconscious movement, and the sheet slips further. Aerion’s gaze follows the motion. He tells himself, distantly, that you will learn to bear this more easily. Bodies adjust, and yours will adjust to his, you are made of the same blood after all.
He will be more measured next time. Not for your sake, precisely, but for the sake of what is his. A dragon does not scorch his own hoard to ash.
The thought settles comfortably in him as the light creeps higher up the wall, and you remain asleep, caught in the aftermath of a night he has waited years to make real.
You wake slowly, as if surfacing through water.
At first there is only the weight of your own body, the strange heaviness in your limbs. Then the ache arrives, blooming in places you are not used to feeling such pain. You draw in a breath too quickly and regret it at once. The room tilts, unfamiliar in its quiet. The bed beneath you feels too large, too soft, as though it is not meant for sleep at all.
Your eyes open to pale light on stone. The marriage bed, in a chamber prepared for you both. Your chest tightens at the thought.
You do not move right away. Moving costs something you are not sure you have.
You turn your head instead.
He is there.
Aerion lies on his side, watching you with an attention that feels almost physical. He does not pretend he has just woken, and there is no gentleness in the way his gaze moves over you, taking in the confusion on your face, the careful way you hold yourself still.
Your mouth opens, then closes again. You are not sure what you mean to say. You try to draw the sheet higher, an instinct more than a decision.
His hand comes down on your wrist, stopping you.
“Good morning, sister,” he says.
Your breath stutters. The sound embarrasses you more than the fear does. You nod, because nodding feels safer than speaking. The movement sends another flare of soreness through you and you wince before you can stop yourself.
He notices.
A flicker of something crosses his face, not concern, precisely, but assessment. He shifts closer, the bed dipping with his weight. The proximity is overwhelming; the warmth of him presses into the cool air between you.
“It will pass,” he says, as if naming a certainty. “You were… unaccustomed. That will change.”
You swallow. Unaccustomed. As though this is a skill to be learned, a posture to be practised. You decide to look at him, you do not know where else to put your eyes.
“I didn’t think it would be like that, Aerion.”
His thumb traces a slow, idle line along the inside of your wrist, where your pulse jumps against his skin. “You’re safe,” he tells you, and the word does not mean what it should. “No one will touch you now but me.”
Safe because owned.
Protected because claimed.
The room seems to draw closer around the shape of his certainty.
You nod again, smaller this time. The ache in your body grounds you in the present, in the reality of where you are and who you belong to now. The future you were told about for years has arrived all at once, and it's far heavier than you imagined.
Aerion leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your temple.
“You’ve known this day was coming,” he says quietly. “You were raised for it.”
He releases your wrist at last, as though the matter is settled, and settles back against the pillows, watching you with the calm of someone who believes the world has fallen into its proper shape.
But he does not give you much time to collect yourself.
Aerion’s arm comes around your waist and draws you toward him in a single, decisive motion, until you are half over him, your weight awkward and uncertain against his chest. It places you where he can feel you, where you are close enough to be reminded of the size of him, the heat of him, the reality of this arrangement.
You stiffen at first, then slowly, cautiously, allow yourself to rest there. His hand settles at your back, fingers splayed. He adores the way you fit against him, smaller, still learning where to put your limbs.
“You’re trembling,” he notes, not unkindly. “There’s no need."
You do not quite know how to explain that need has very little to do with it. You are tired in a way that goes deeper than sleep. Your body still aches and your thoughts feel slow.
“I don’t know what I’m meant to… do,” you admit quietly. The words feel childish as soon as they leave you, but they are true. No one ever explained the shape of this role to you beyond the ceremony, the vows, the vague assurances that you would understand when the time came.
Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly. He tilts your chin up so you have to look at him. “Darling,” he says. “Don’t pretend this is a surprise. You have known this would happen since you could walk.”
You flush, heat creeping up your throat. You are aware of your own smallness against him, it feels as though he has been waiting for you to catch up to a life he has already begun living.
“Doesn’t mean anyone ever told me how to actually do it.”
“You will learn. What is imporant is that there will be heirs,” he continues, as if explaining a matter of logistics. “That is the point of this. Dragons do not wed for ceremony alone. You will give me sons and daughters. The rest will arrange itself around that fact."
You still struggle to comprehend it, the future, spoken of as something you are meant to produce, not yet fully understanding how. The idea feels distant and immediate all at once, like being told to step into water you cannot see the bottom of.
Your fingers curl into the pillow behind him. There is a strange comfort in the certainty of his tone. He speaks as though the world is simple, as though there are rules you only need to follow to be safe.
And safe, you realise with a quiet, unsettling clarity, you likely are.
There are few people in the Seven Kingdoms more protected than the Targaryen wife of a Targaryen prince. No one will harm you without answering for it in blood. The thought steadies you, even as it makes your stomach twist.
He shifts beneath you, the movement deliberate, and guides you with him until you are turned, half on your side, half beneath the weight of him.
It is not quite being pinned, but it is close enough that you are acutely aware of how easily he could choose that instead. One hand comes up to brush your hair back from your face, fingers tangling briefly in the strands as if testing their texture.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he says. “This is not meant to be complicated.”
You look at him, uncertain. “What is it you actually expect of me… now.”
His brow lifts, faintly amused. “You know what a marriage is for.”
You feel your face warm as the gap in your understanding becomes painfully obvious.
Aerion exhales, a soft sound that might almost be a laugh. “What we did last night,” he says, unhurried, “is not a singular event. It is the foundation. There will be heirs. That does not happen by accident.”
He studies your reaction with interest, then reaches out and draws his thumb along one of the darkened marks at your shoulder, not pressing, just tracing the edge of it. “These,” he says, almost thoughtfully, “will fade. I have no interest in breaking what I intend to use.”
You flinch at the phrasing before you can stop yourself. He notices and clicks his tongue softly in disapproval, though his touch remains careful as he brushes your hair back again, fingers skimming your temple.
“You’ll learn what I expect,” he adds. “Do not worry."
He watches the way your breath stutters, the way your eyes drop from his. The moment stretches, quiet and heavy with all the things neither of you has the language to soften.
“You think this is only roughness,” he murmurs, close to your mouth. “You mistake the shape of power for its limits.”
His mouth finds yours, and the kiss is not gentle, but it is unhurried. Possessive in its own way. He takes his time with it, as though proving a point, as though demonstrating that even this softness belongs to him.
“See?” he says quietly against your lips. “It can be… easier than you imagine.”
The promise in his voice is not comfort so much as inevitability.
He guides you back against the pillows, the dawn light now bright enough to catch in the gold of his hair, in the shadows at the edges of the room. The world outside the chamber has begun to wake, distant and irrelevant.
And you let your eyes fall shut, because there is no other direction left to look.
Aerion Targaryen x courtesan!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion Targaryen does not love. He claims. When his attention turns toward you, an exclusive coutesan favoured by lords and princes alike, survival begins to look like surrender, and the cage is gilded enough to almost feel like safety.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, obsession, exclusivity, canon-typical aerion, morally grey everything, unhealthy attachment, reader is basically a high-end prostitute
A/N: [part 2] this was a random concept that came to me, so like idk guys, anyways hope you enjoy.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.2k
The silk screens in your chambers do little to keep out the noise of King’s Landing. Even this high on the hill, the city breathes laughter, curses, the distant clang of armour, the low murmur of men who believe the night belongs to them.
It usually does.
You sit at your vanity with practised ease, letting another girl brush kohl along your lower lash line. She chatters to fill the quiet. You let her. Silence is heavier when it’s shared.
When she’s done, she curtsies too deeply and slips out, leaving you alone with the soft glow of candlelight and the familiar, hollow steadiness in your chest.
You tend to be careful with your face. Careful with your voice. Careful with the way you smile. You have learned how to be wanted without being known; it keeps you alive.
Your reputation does the rest. Discreet and expensive.
Worth the wait.
Men come to your door already convinced they deserve something from you. Some are gentle in the way men are gentle when they are afraid of being seen as cruel, which means they usually want to be. Some are careless. Some are much worse.
You have learned to read them in the first three breaths, the way their eyes linger, the way their hands hesitate, or don’t.
Tonight, you expect another lord of some high birth or relative significance.
Instead, there is a knock that does not wait for permission.
It is neither loud nor polite. It's the sound of someone who assumes the door will open because the door always opens for him.
Your handler stiffens beside the threshold. You see it in the way his shoulders draw tight, in the way his eyes flick toward you before he moves. He opens the door with the careful deference reserved for men who could easily have him killed for looking the wrong way.
Aerion Targaryen is younger than the stories make him and harder in the flesh. His hair is pale as a blade in candlelight, his mouth set in a line. He does not smile. He does not glance around your room with curiosity or hunger.
He looks at you as though you are already his.
“Leave,” he says to your handler, without turning his head.
The door closes. The sound is final in a way that makes your pulse tick louder in your ears.
You incline your head, because that is the shape respect takes in this room.
You do not curtsy.
“My prince,” you say, voice steady, warm.
He studies you in silence. You hold his gaze because flinching invites cruelty. You let your expression soften into something neutral, something that can be read as deference or invitation, depending on what he wants to see.
When he steps closer, it is unhurried. He stops an arm’s length away. Close enough that you can smell smoke and spice on him, close enough that the heat of his presence feels deliberate.
He studies you in silence. The quiet stretches. You hold his gaze because flinching invites cruelty.
You let your expression soften into something neutral, something that can be read as deference or invitation, depending on what he wants to see.
When he steps closer, it is unhurried.
"They say you're the best in the city." His voice is softer than you expected, almost conversational. "That lords pay fortunes just to sit across from you at dinner."
"You flatter me, my prince."
"I don't." He reaches out, and you hold still as his fingers trace the line of your jaw.
His touch is surprisingly gentle. It's the gentleness that frightens you most, because you know what men like him do with gentle things. "I'm told you're educated. That you can discuss philosophy and poetry. That you play the high harp like a lady born."
"I have been fortunate in my training."
"Fortunate." He tastes the word, and something flickers in his eyes, amusement or contempt, you can't tell. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, my prince."
"Then you know what I am."
You do.
Aerion Targaryen. The Bright Prince. The mad prince, although never that to his face. He's the one his own family watches with wary eyes. You've heard the stories: the servant girl he burned, the knight he crippled in a drunken rage, the casual cruelties that punctuate his days like commas in a sentence.
"I know you are a prince of House Targaryen," you say carefully.
He laughs, and the sound is sharp enough to cut. "Diplomatic. They trained you well." His hand slides from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling your pulse.
"I'm going to fuck you tonight. You understand that, don't you? Not because I paid, though I did, an obscene amount, but because I want to. Because I saw you across that hall three nights ago and decided you were mine."
Your heart hammers against his palm. You wonder if he can feel it, if he's counting the beats like coins. "I am honoured by your attention, my prince."
"Are you?" He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Or are you terrified?"
Both, you think. Always both with men like him. But you've learned that honesty, in careful doses, can be its own kind of armour. "I would be a fool not to fear a dragon."
He pulls back to look at you, and for a moment something almost like approval crosses his face.
"At least you're not stupid." His hand tightens fractionally on your throat, not enough to restrict air, just enough to remind you it's there. "I hate stupid women. They bore me, and when I'm bored, I get... creative."
You think of the servant girl and the burns. You keep your breathing steady.
"Take off your dress."
Your fingers go to the clasps at your shoulder, muscle memory taking over. You've undressed for men a thousand times, made an art of it, slow and deliberate. But something in his eyes stops you from performing.
He doesn't want a show. He wants compliance.
You undress efficiently, letting the silk pool at your feet. The air is cool against your skin. You're bare beneath, you'd prepared for this, for him, though you hadn't known it would be tonight.
You stand before him without artifice, without the practised poses that usually shield you.
He circles you slowly, and you feel his gaze like a physical thing, cataloging every curve and hollow. When he completes the circuit, he's closer than before.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and it doesn't sound like a compliment. It sounds like an accusation. "Do you know how many beautiful things I've destroyed?"
"No, my prince."
"Neither do I. I've stopped counting." He reaches out and cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple with clinical precision. Your body responds despite your fear, or perhaps because of it, some animal instinct that can't distinguish between terror and arousal. "But you... I think I'll keep you intact. For now."
The statement hangs in the air like a blade.
He undresses himself without ceremony, and you watch because not watching would be noticed. His body is lean and strong, marked with the occasional scar, evidence that even princes bleed. When he's naked, he doesn't give you time to prepare. He backs you toward the bed with deliberate steps until your legs hit the edge and you sit abruptly.
He towers over you, and you tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. His hand tangles in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Controlling.
"Open your mouth."
You part your lips, and he slides his thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue. You taste salt and smoke. He watches your face with an intensity that makes you feel dissected, studied.
After a moment, he withdraws his thumb and replaces it with two fingers, pushing deeper, testing your limits. Your eyes water but you don't gag; you learned to control that reflex years ago.
"Good," he says softly, and the praise shouldn't warm you, but it does. Some desperate part of you that wants to please, to survive, to find solid ground in this encounter.
He withdraws his fingers and wipes them on your cheek, so casual it makes your stomach clench.
Then he's pushing you back onto the bed, following you down. His weight settles over you, and the heat of him is overwhelming. He doesn't kiss you, you're somewhat grateful for that, strangely.
Kissing would feel more intimate than what's about to happen, more like a lie.
His hand slides between your thighs, and you open for him automatically. He touches you with surprising patience, fingers exploring your folds, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with maddening precision.
Your body responds despite everything, growing slick under his ministrations. You hate that he can do this, that your flesh betrays you so easily.
"You're wet," he observes, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Does fear make you wet? Or is it something else?"
You don't answer because there is no safe answer; thankfully, he doesn't seem to expect one. He pushes two fingers inside you, and your body accepts the intrusion, clenching around him. He works you methodically, his thumb finding your clit while his fingers curl and stroke. It's skilled and practised, he knows what he's doing, and that somehow makes it worse.
Pleasure builds despite your resistance, a slow tide that you can't hold back. Your breathing quickens, and you see him smile, sharp and triumphant. He's going to make you come, you realise.
He's going to make your body surrender before he even fucks you.
"That's it," he murmurs, increasing the pressure, the pace. "I want to feel you fall apart."
You try to hold back, but your body has its own logic. The orgasm crashes through you with humiliating intensity, and you arch beneath him, a broken sound escaping your throat. He watches every second of it, his eyes bright with something that might be pleasure or might be cruelty, with him they're probably the same thing.
Before you've fully recovered, he's positioning himself between your thighs.
You feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance, and then he's pushing inside, one long slow thrust that fills you completely. You gasp at the intrusion, at the stretch and burn of it. He's not gentle, but he's not brutal either; he takes you with deliberate possession, claiming every inch.
When he's fully seated, he pauses, and you feel the tremor that runs through him. For a moment, he's almost vulnerable, lost in the sensation. Then his eyes focus on yours, and the vulnerability vanishes.
"You feel perfect," he says, and it sounds like a curse.
He starts to move, and you wrap your legs around his waist because it's expected, because it gives you some illusion of participation. His rhythm is steady at first, almost measured, but you can feel the violence coiled beneath his control. Each thrust pushes you deeper into the mattress, and you brace your hands against his shoulders, feeling the flex and shift of muscle beneath skin.
The sounds of your coupling fill the room, the slap of flesh against flesh, your ragged breathing, his low grunts of effort and pleasure.
You make the soft noises you've learned men like, but they feel hollow in your throat. He notices.
"Don't," he says sharply, his hand suddenly around your throat again. "Don't perform for me. I want to hear what you really sound like."
So you fall silent except for the involuntary gasps he drives from you with each thrust. It's more honest this way, more raw. He seems to be satisfied with that, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled. The hand on your throat tightens incrementally, and you feel your pulse pounding against his palm, feel the slight restriction of air that makes everything sharper, more intense.
He's rough now, fucking you with an abandon that borders on violence. The bed frame creaks beneath you, and you think distantly that everyone in the house will hear this, will know exactly what's happening.
But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the man above you, inside you, around you.
Your second orgasm builds without permission, sparked by the friction and the pressure and the terrible intimacy of his gaze locked on yours. You try to fight it, but he feels the flutter of your muscles around him and drives harder, chasing it.
"Come for me," he demands, and it's not a request. "Let me feel it."
You shatter, and this time it's worse because it's real, because your body has given up pretending.
You cry out, and the sound is broken and genuine, and he groans in response, his rhythm faltering. His hand tightens on your throat, too tight, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision, and then releases as he buries himself deep and finds his own release.
You feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth of his seed, and some primitive part of your brain catalogs it: evidence, claim, consequence.
He collapses onto you for a moment, his weight crushing, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath hot against your skin, feel the rapid beat of his heart against your breast. For these few seconds, he's just a man, sated and vulnerable.
Then he rolls off you, and the moment breaks.
You lie beside him, your body aching in a dozen places, your throat tender where his fingers pressed. You should get up, clean yourself, perform your usual rituals.
But you don't move. Neither does he.
The silence stretches, different from before.
"You'll be here tomorrow night," he says finally. It's not a question.
"Yes, my prince."
"And the night after that."
"Yes."
He turns his head to look at you, and his expression is unreadable. "Good," he says softly. "I think I'll keep you."
And the terrible thing, the thing you don't want to examine too closely, is the relief that floods through you at those words.
It's the closest you've come to safety in longer than you can remember.
He reaches out and pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy across your waist. It's almost tender, this gesture, almost like affection. You know it's possession instead, but you let yourself pretend, just for a moment.
His breath evens out behind you, and you realise he's falling asleep. Just like that, as if he trusts you not to slit his throat while he's vulnerable.
As if he knows you won't, because where would you go? What would you do?
He's right, of course. He's trapped you more thoroughly than chains ever could.
You fall asleep in the arms of a monster and dream of dragons.
He comes back three nights later.
You know it before the knock because the air changes in the room. Your handler grows stiff again, all his easy lechery gone. By the time Aerion steps inside, you’ve already arranged your face into something calm and open.
This time, he does not hesitate at the threshold.
He moves through your chambers as if they are a space he has already claimed in his mind. He does not speak much. He expects you to know what he wants before he names it. You learn quickly that he dislikes being guided, dislikes questions, dislikes the suggestion that this is anything but his choosing.
When he leaves, there is no tenderness to soften the absence. Only the certainty that he will return.
He does.
Sometimes he arrives late, smelling of wine and smoke, his temper worn thin by the court. On those nights, you learn to keep your voice low and your eyes lowered. You learn that he does not want to be soothed, only obeyed. You learn which small gestures irritate him; the wrong word, the wrong pause, and which ones calm the restless edge beneath his skin.
There is a rhythm to his moods, if you are attentive enough to catch it.
Other nights, he is almost quiet. He sits at the edge of your bed and watches the candle flame gutter, as if measuring himself against it.
On those nights, he talks not to you, exactly, but near you.
About bloodlines. About what it means to be born to fire. You listen without challenging him. You nod when nodding is required. You let his words pass over you like heat, careful not to be scorched.
Your other patrons dwindle.
At first, it is subtle. Appointments are rescheduled, then declined, then quietly removed from your ledger altogether. Your handler stops pretending it’s a coincidence.
The guards at the door change.
The whispers in the hallways shift shape.
You hear your own name paired with his in half-muttered rumours. You become less a woman of the night and more a fixture of the dragon prince’s habits.
Then comes a night when the exhaustion finally sinks into your bones.
It is well past midnight. The candles have burned low. You lie draped over him, the warmth of his body pressed to yours, your limbs heavy with a tiredness that has nothing to do with sleep. The world has narrowed to the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You let your eyes close because you are too tired to hold them open any longer.
For a moment, you forget to be careful.
His hand shifts in your hair, possessive rather than gentle. You feel the way his fingers tighten, as if confirming that you are still there.
“You won’t be seeing anyone else,” he says into the quiet, voice low, certain. It's a statement of fact, delivered the way men speak about property they intend to keep.
Your breath catches. The words settle over you with the weight of a new rule being written into your life. You do not answer right away. Silence is safer than refusal.
When you finally murmur assent, the sound feels like something given up rather than offered.
He hums, satisfied, and the hand in your hair stills. You lie very still against him, aware of the steady strength of the body beneath yours, aware, too, of how easily that strength could become a cage.
After that night, the pattern hardens.
He grows more open in his possessiveness. A glance at a man who lingers too long in the hall. A word to a guard. Small, precise acts that ripple outward into consequence. You notice the change in how people look at you. It's no longer with desire, but with a wary calculation, as if you are now a dangerous thing to covet.
He comes later than usual.
You are already prepared for the familiar rhythm of it, the practised calm, the careful openness of your body and how your mind braces for whatever he is planning to give you, or take from you.
Tonight, when Aerion steps inside, he does not look at you the way he usually does.
His gaze passes over you as if you are already arranged to his liking, as if the question of your body has been settled before he’s bothered to consider it. He closes the door himself. The latch sounds louder than it should.
“Leave that on,” he says, nodding toward the thin robe clinging to your shoulders. The fabric is almost nothing, transparent, meant to be an invitation. His mouth tilts at the way you look, standing there for him.
“Come here.”
You do.
He sheds his outer layers without ceremony. His finery ends in a careless heap by the chair, leaving him bare-chested in the low candlelight, all sharp lines and pale skin, heat lingering where metal and silk had been. He sits back against the pillows and draws you in with a hand at your waist, not rough, but firm.
For a moment, you wait for the familiar progression. It does not come.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, a thin, irritated sound, and stares at the ceiling. “They prattle,” he says. “All of them. As if noise were the same thing as worth.”
You settle against him because that is what you do. Your cheek rests near his shoulder. The steady thud of his heartbeat surprises you, every time, with its ordinariness. You trace the line of muscle beneath your fingers, he doesn't stop you; if anything he leans into the touch.
“They look at me and think they see a prince,” he continues, voice low, edged with contempt. “They do not understand what I am owed.”
You hum softly, a sound that can be agreement if he wants it to be. Your fingers drift to his hair, pale strands warm from his skin. You comb through it in slow, careful motions, mindful of the fact that you are touching a Targaryen as though he were only a man. The fact that he permits it makes something unfamiliar twist in your chest.
He talks at you for a long while.
About slights that might be imagined. About blood, and birthright, and how the court watches him with eyes too small for the truth of him. You do not interrupt. You have learned that he does not want counsel, he wants witness. Someone to be there when the performance of certainty slips and he needs to hear his own voice fill the space.
It occurs to you, quietly, that he probably does not get this anywhere else.
The thought is too dangerous, so you keep your face composed, your touch light, your presence offered but never pressing. Still, the room feels different tonight.
At some point, his hand finds your thigh, not to claim, but to anchor. He does not look at you when he speaks, but you feel the weight of being included in the moment all the same.
“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the dim chamber, “is quieter than the Red Keep.”
You shift closer, careful not to startle him, and rest your head against his shoulder. Your robe slips, revealing more than it hides.
He notices.
Of course he does.
The corner of his mouth lifts, smug and proprietary, even as he lets you remain there, tracing the lines of him as he unspools his grievances into the low light.
It is the closest he comes to letting go.
And as you lie there, half-draped over the prince who has claimed you from the world, you realise that whatever this is becoming, it is no longer only about your body. You are something else to him now. A place he returns to when the weight of himself grows too heavy to carry alone.
The next night he arrives with the same quiet authority he always does. You greet him with the familiar calm, let him draw you closer, let him undo the ties of your robe with practised hands. The fabric slips from your shoulders. Candlelight warms your skin.
But he does not touch you the way he normally does.
Instead, he steps back.
You feel his gaze on you, slow and lingering. There is something almost worshipful in the way he studies you now, as though you are not a woman standing in a borrowed room but an object he has decided to admire.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the bed.
You obey. The mattress dips beneath your weight.
“Close your eyes.”
You hesitate only long enough for him to notice. The corner of his mouth lifts, faintly amused, faintly possessive. You close them.
For a moment, there is only the quiet of the room and the soft sound of his movement behind you. You hear the faint clink of metal. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
Something cool brushes your collarbone. His fingers are careful in a way they are not often careful, fastening a clasp at the nape of your neck. The weight settles against your skin, unfamiliar and unmistakably precious.
“Open them,” he murmurs.
You turn toward the mirror without being told.
The gold gleams against your throat. A dragon wrought in fine detail curls just below your collarbone, its wings spread as if mid-flight, mouth set in a permanent snarl.
The craftsmanship is exquisite. The implication is not.
He stands behind you in the reflection, bare-chested, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. He looks pleased with himself, with the effect of the thing he has chosen. You look smaller in front of him in the glass, framed by him.
“It suits you,” he says. “I had it made.”
His grip tightens, just enough to remind you that this is not a gift freely given. He leans closer, his breath warm near your ear. In the mirror, your eyes meet his. You can see the satisfaction there. The quiet certainty of a man who believes he has named something into being.
“You'll be moving into the Red Keep tomorrow. People will see it, see you,” he continues, tone idle, as if discussing fashion rather than consequence. “They’ll understand.”
The dragon at your collarbone is cool against your skin, a brand that gleams instead of burns.
Aerion Targaryen x Wife!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Chosen for your name, your look, and your blood, you become Aerion's wife by design. When an heir does not come quickly, his fixation turns sharper and far more obesssive.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, targcest (cousins), reader has typical targaryen features, obsessive behaviour, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, breeding, crazy stamina
A/N: i warn already this is FILTHY, and he's maybe a lil ooc in this (dont kill me pls). many people are writing him as being mean and harsh with his wife but i don't think he would be if he chose her (hes not like overrly nice lol but he doesn't hurt her yk) i don't think he even considers the possibility he could have chosen wrong.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.5k
The fire has burned low, reduced to a bed of embers that glow like a watchful eye. His chambers smell of heat and smoke and something sharper; wine, maybe, or the faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the Red Keep.
Night presses against the windows, black and endless, but inside the room it’s too warm.
Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the light. He hasn’t turned since you entered. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are.
He always does.
“How long has it been?” he asks, casually. Almost idly. As though he’s commenting on the weather.
You don’t answer fast enough.
He tilts his head, just slightly. “Since your last bleeding,” he clarifies, voice smooth, patient in the way that makes your shoulders tense. “I keep asking and you keep hesitating. It’s an odd habit for a wife to develop.”
You swallow. “Two weeks.”
He hums, low in his throat, finally turning to face you.
His eyes flick over you with open ownership, your hair, your hands, the shape of you beneath the thin layers of silk. There is no shyness in it. There never has been. You were married before you had time to learn it.
“Months,” he says. “Married for months. Bedded properly. Regularly.” His mouth curves, faintly. “Faithfully.”
You feel the word settle on you like a hand at your throat.
“You were chosen carefully,” Aerion continues, stepping closer. Each measured stride eats the space between you. “Do you know that? I didn’t take just any cousin offered to me. I insisted.” His gaze lifts to your face, sharp and assessing. “Pure blood. The look of Old Valyria is written all over you. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes. No dilution.”
He reaches out, catches a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Twirls it once.
“You were supposed to take quickly.”
Your breath stutters despite yourself.
Aerion notices, of course. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look frightened. This is not an accusation.” A beat. “Yet.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up whether you want it or not. His touch is warm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.
“I’ve done my part,” he says quietly. “Night after night. I have not spared you effort. I have not spared myself.” His eyes darken, intent sharpening into something hungrier. “So we must ask why nothing has come of it.”
You stiffen. “These things can take time.”
He laughs. Soft and disbelieving.
“Time,” he repeats. “That is what men say when they fear the truth. That is what septons say when they have no answers.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you who he is.
“Dragons do not wait.”
He releases you abruptly and turns away again, pacing now. You track him without meaning to, the restless energy rolling off him like heat.
“My father sired heirs without difficulty,” he says. “So did his father before him. It is not in our blood to struggle.” He stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless something is wrong.”
The word hangs there. You feel it settle in your chest, cold and heavy.
Aerion studies your reaction with unnerving focus. As if he’s already learned something just by saying it.
“Have you done anything,” he asks, voice low, “to interfere?”
Your heart jumps. “No.”
“No teas?” he presses. “No foolish advice from handmaids who think they know better than centuries of Valyrian truth?”
“No,” you repeat, firmer now.
Good, his expression seems to say. Because there would be consequences.
He returns to you, close again, crowding your space. His hand slides to your waist, possessive, grounding.
“You understand what you are meant to give me,” he says. “An heir. A living, breathing proof that the blood remains strong.” His gaze drops, lingering. “I did not marry you for only companionship.”
You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence is safer than the wrong words.
Aerion leans in, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping into something quieter and far more dangerous.
“Every night I lie beside you and think about it,” he admits. “About what should already be growing inside you. About how it will bear my name. My fire.” His breath ghosts your skin. “I won’t be denied that. Not by fate. Not by gods. And certainly not by a body that forgets its purpose.”
His hand flexes at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow.
For a moment, that is all there is.
Then his grip loosens.
Aerion exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if reining himself back from the edge of something sharp. His forehead comes to rest briefly against your temple.
“You were always my favourite,” he says quietly, like it’s a fact he’s just remembered. “Did you know that?”
You still. He hasn’t said anything like that before.
“When you were three and ten, and I came home from battle,” he continues, voice lower now, less performative. “You listened. You didn’t fawn, didn’t flinch. You looked at me like you understood what I was meant to be.” His fingers trace the seam of your sleeve, grounding himself as much as you. “That is why I chose you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His eyes search it, not for fear this time, but for alignment.
“I want this to work,” Aerion says. The words sound strange on him, unfamiliar, but no less intense. “With you.” A pause. “Not because I doubt myself. Never that.” His mouth tightens. “But because I will not have the realm whisper that I chose wrongly.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, almost reverent now, as though convincing himself of something.
“We are of the same fire,” he murmurs. “It will take. It must.”
Then the moment closes. The mask settles back into place, seamless.
“We will try again tonight,” he says, not as a question but as a decree. “And tomorrow. And the night after that, if we must.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with conviction. “Until the realm has its proof.”
He straightens, already done with the conversation, already certain of the outcome.
“Go,” Aerion orders softly.
The summons comes at midnight, delivered by a servant who won't meet your eyes. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in his chambers, Princess."
You dismiss your handmaid with a wave, rising from your seat by the window where you've been pretending to read.
Your stomach tightens with the familiar mixture of anticipation and resignation that's become your constant companion these past months.
The walk to his chambers feels longer than usual. Your hair, unbound as he prefers it, cascades down your back. You're wearing a simple silk robe; there's no point in anything more elaborate.
He'll have it off you within moments anyway.
His door is already open when you get there. You step inside to find him standing by the window, backlit by the dying sun. He's removed his doublet already, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and when he turns to face you, his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Close the door."
You obey, and the soft click of the latch feels final, sealing you in with him and his purpose.
"Come here."
You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. When you're close enough, he reaches out and catches your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb traces your cheekbone, then your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly.
You hold still under his examination.
You've learned that he likes to look at you like this, cataloguing your features as if reassuring himself of your worthiness. He releases your chin and begins unlacing your robe with deft, impatient fingers.
"Tonight we do this properly."
The silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes rake over you with undisguised hunger, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your belly. Despite everything, heat blooms low in your belly.
"On the bed. On your back."
You move to obey, climbing onto the massive four-poster bed that dominates his chamber. The sheets are cool against your skin as you settle against the pillows, and you watch as Aerion strips off his remaining clothes with efficient movements. His body is lean and strong, all taut muscle and pale skin, and when he's naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed.
He joins you on the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel yourself flush under the scrutiny, but you don't look away.
His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers reach your centre they stroke through your folds without preamble. This is preparation, nothing more, making sure you're ready to take him. But your body responds anyway, growing slick under his touch.
He pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with methodical efficiency. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, and a soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Aerion's eyes snap to your face, a slight smirk gracing his features.
He withdraws his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, tasting your arousal on them. His eyes never leave yours as his tongue slides along his fingers, and the sight makes something clench deep in your belly.
Then he's positioning himself over you, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you completely open, vulnerable, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.
"Dragons breed dragons," he says, his voice rough. "Our children will be worthy of our blood."
And then he's pushing inside you in one long, brutal thrust that fills you completely. The angle is so deep it borders on painful, and you can't stop the sharp cry that tears from your throat.
Your hands clutch at the sheets as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to go as deep as possible, and you can feel him everywhere; the thick length of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock hitting something deep inside that makes sparks shoot up your spine.
His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you. The wet sounds of him fucking into you fill the room, obscene and unmistakable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body opening for him despite the intensity, despite the way he's taking you like you're nothing more than a vessel for his seed.
"You'll take it," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours. "All of it. You'll give me an heir worthy of our name."
The words wash over you as he continues to drive into you, relentless.
Your body responds despite yourself, or maybe because of yourself, because some part of you has learned to find pleasure in this, in being wanted so intensely, even if it's only for what you can give him.
The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. You bite your lip to keep from making more noise, but small whimpers escape anyway as he fucks into you harder, faster.
One of his hands releases your thigh, sliding between your bodies to find your most sensitive spot. He circles it with his thumb, rough and insistent, and the added stimulation makes your back arch off the bed.
"Come," he commands. "Now."
It's not a request, and your body obeys.
The pressure explodes and you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically around his cock. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as waves of pleasure crash over you.
Aerion hisses, and his thrusts become harder, more erratic. He buries himself as deep as he can go and stills, and you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding you. His cock jerks inside you as he empties himself, filling you with himself. His head drops forward and for a moment the only sound is both of you breathing hard.
But he doesn't pull out. Instead, he carefully lowers your legs, then shifts his weight, rolling you both so that you're on your side, still joined. His hand slides to your hip, holding you against him, keeping everything inside you.
"Don't move. Don't let any spill."
You obey, feeling the warm fullness of him inside you, his seed deep in your womb. His hand splays possessively over your lower belly, and you can feel his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, still half-hard.
His hand moves from your belly to your face, turning you so he can look at you. His violet eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see something beyond the obsession, something almost like satisfaction.
"We'll keep trying. As many times as it takes."
You feel him beginning to harden again inside you, his cock swelling and lengthening. Your eyes widen slightly, and he sees your reaction.
A small, satisfied smile curves his lips.
"Did you really think once would be enough?"
He begins to move again, slow shallow thrusts that make you gasp. You're oversensitive from your first release, and every movement sends sparks of almost-painful pleasure through you. But he doesn't care, doesn't stop. He pulls out only to push you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and hauling them up.
"This way. Deeper."
He enters you from behind in one smooth thrust, and the angle is entirely different. You cry out into the pillows as he fills you again, his cock hitting new places that make your toes curl. His hands grip your hips bruisingly tight as he begins to move, fucking into you with renewed purpose.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. One of his hands slides up your spine, then tangles in your silver hair, gripping it tight and pulling your head back.
"You'll swell with my child," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "Everyone will see. Everyone will know you carry the dragon's heir."
His words are filthy, possessive, and yet they make you clench around him, make fresh wetness gather between your thighs.
"Touch yourself."
You slide one hand beneath your body, finding your sensitive clit. You're so swollen, so oversensitized, that even your own touch makes you whimper. But you obey, circling the bundle of nerves in time with his brutal thrusts.
His grip on your hair tightens, and he uses it to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust. The pleasure builds again, impossibly, and you can feel yourself climbing toward another release.
"That's it," he growls. "Come on my cock again. Your body knows what it needs."
Your second release crashes over you without warning, somehow even more intense than the first. You muffle your cries in the pillow as your body convulses around him, your inner walls clamping down on his length. You feel him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming again with a guttural groan, flooding you with more of his seed.
This time when he pulls out, you feel the warm trickle of his spend beginning to leak from you. But before more than a drop can escape, his fingers are there, pushing it back inside roughly.
"Can't waste it. Every drop stays inside you."
He manoeuvres you onto your back again, then reaches for one of the pillows. "Lift your hips."
You obey, and he slides the pillow underneath, elevating your lower body. Then he presses his palm against your entrance, as if he can physically keep his seed inside you. You can feel it—the warm, wet fullness of his release deep inside you, more than you've ever felt before.
"Stay like this. Don't move."
You nod, your body limp and trembling, and watch as he rises from the bed. He pours wine from a carafe on the side table, drinking deeply. His cock is still semi-hard, glistening with your combined pleasure, and you can't help but stare at it, at the evidence of what he's done to you.
He brings a cup to you, helping you drink without letting you lower your hips. The wine is cool and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your body.
He sets the cup aside and returns to the bed, stretching out beside you. His hand returns to your belly, splaying possessively over the flat plane.
"Not much longer now, I can feel it," he says quietly.
There's something almost desperate in his voice now, beneath the command. As if his entire sense of self, his entire purpose, rests on seeing you pregnant with his child.
"Sons," he says. "Strong sons with the blood of the dragon in their veins." His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making it harden. "Though daughters would be acceptable. If they have the proper features. If they look like you."
He's hardening again against your thigh; you can feel it.
The man's stamina is almost inhuman, driven by his obsession. His hand trails back down your body, fingers dipping between your legs to feel where you're swollen and wet with his seed.
"Still so much inside you. Good."
He strokes gently, almost idly, his fingers sliding through the mess he's made of you. Not trying to bring you pleasure, just touching.
Reminding you both of what you are to him.
The hour passes slowly. He doesn't let you move, keeping you positioned with your hips elevated, his seed deep inside you. Sometimes he talks about the children you'll have, about their dragon blood, about the legacy you'll build together. Other times, he's silent, simply watching you with those intense violet eyes, his hand possessive on your belly.
When he finally deems enough time has passed, he removes the pillow and immediately moves over you again.
"Once more."
You're sore now, tired and oversensitive, but your body still responds to him. Still opens for him as he pushes inside, filling you once again with his thick length. You can feel how swollen you are, how tender, but he doesn't care.
He needs this.
This time he's slower, more controlled. He fucks you with deep, measured strokes that seem designed to reach as far into you as possible. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every reaction.
"Pure and perfect. You were made for this. Made to carry my children," he murmurs, voice low and hypnotic.
His words should horrify you, should make you feel like nothing more than a broodmare. But you're too far gone, too lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and despite your soreness, despite everything, you find yourself meeting his thrusts.
His hand slides between your bodies again, and you whimper at the touch, but he's insistent, circling with his fingers.
"One more time. Come for me one more time."
You're not sure you can; you're wrung out, exhausted, overwhelmed. But his fingers are relentless, and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, and somehow, impossibly, you feel the pressure building again.
You arch beneath him when you peak again, a broken cry tearing from your throat, and you feel him follow you over the edge, his seed pulsing into you once more. There's so much of it now, so much that you can feel it leaking out around his cock even as he's still buried inside you.
He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot against your neck. His cock is still inside you, still twitching occasionally, and you can feel the warm wetness of his seed pooling beneath you.
"It will take this time," he murmurs against your skin. "It must."
He rolls off you but immediately pulls you against his side, arranging you so that you're still on your back, still keeping his seed inside you. His hand returns to your belly, possessive and protective.
"Sleep. But don't move. Stay just like this."
You're too exhausted to do anything but obey. Your eyes drift closed, your body heavy and sated despite the soreness, despite the ache between your thighs. His hand remains on your belly, and the last thing you're aware of before sleep claims you is his voice, quiet and determined:
"You're mine. You'll give me heirs worthy of our blood. Worthy of dragons."
And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can almost see them; the silver-haired children you'll bear him, the legacy you'll create together.
Morning comes slowly, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome.
You surface to awareness in fragments, heat first, then weight, then the dull, echoing ache threaded through your hips and thighs. The bed smells like smoke and skin, and your body feels heavy, overused, tender in places you don’t want to think too closely about yet.
You try to move and hiss quietly instead.
Aerion stirs beside you.
You’re naked. So is he, stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly above his head. The sheet is tangled around your legs, useless. There are marks on you. You can feel them without looking.
Dark bruises blooming along your inner thighs, your waist, the soft underside of your arm where his hand lingered too long.
His eyes open.
They’re already focused.
“Don’t,” he says immediately, voice rough with sleep. Not angry. Not gentle. Just certain. His hand comes down, firm on your hip, holding you still. “You’ll make it worse.”
You freeze, breath caught.
He looks you over openly, assessing. There’s no embarrassment in his gaze, no softness, but there is satisfaction.
“You pushed yourself,” Aerion murmurs, almost to himself. “I told you not to tense like that.”
You swallow. “You didn’t stop.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“No, you are right, cousin,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”
He shifts then, carefully, rising onto one elbow. The movement makes you more aware of your own body, how sore you are, how every small motion pulls.
Aerion notices your wince immediately.
“Hmh.” His thumb presses into your hip, not unkindly, testing. “You’re not injured.”
It isn’t reassurance. It’s a verdict.
Still, he reaches for the bell without asking, gives it a single sharp ring. When the servants come later, he dismisses them just as quickly, taking the basin himself. You watch from the bed, dazed, as he wets the cloth and returns.
“If I ruin you, you’ll be no use to me.”
The cloth is warm. He cleans you with deliberate care, efficient, thorough, avoiding nothing.
His touch lingers where it doesn’t need to, thumb brushing bruised skin as if cataloguing it. You feel him pause once, just long enough for his breath to change.
“Good,” he murmurs. “They suit you.”
Your stomach flips.
When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside and smooths the sheet back over you, palm resting briefly on your abdomen. Possessive. Thoughtful. As though imagining something beneath his hand that isn’t there yet.
“You’ll rest today,” Aerion says. “No walking the galleries. No visits to court. You stay here.” He looks at you, eyes bright with quiet certainty.
He lies back beside you, close enough that you can feel his heat again, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just Aerion Targaryen, ensuring that what is his remains intact and ready.
By the time you realise it, Aerion already has.
It’s in the way his questions change, less accusatory, more precise. The way he watches you when you think he isn’t. The way his hand lingers at your wrist when you grow light-headed, his thumb pressing there as if counting something only he can feel.
“How many days?” he asks one evening, voice deceptively calm.
You hesitate. He looks up from where he’s seated, expression sharpening instantly.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Aerion says. “You know what I’m asking.”
“…Nearly three weeks,” you admit.
The room goes very still.
Aerion leans back slowly, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to you, already doing the math. You can see it happen behind his eyes, neat and ruthless. When he stands, he closes the distance between you in three strides.
“You’ve been nauseous,” he says. Not a question. “In the mornings. You haven’t touched wine. And you’ve been tired.” His fingers tilt your chin up, possessive but controlled.
“You should have told me.”
“I wasn’t sure,” you say quietly.
His grip tightens.
"I am"
The maester is summoned the next morning. You sit on the edge of the bed while Aerion paces like a caged animal, every movement coiled with tension.
The old man finally clears his throat, "It is without doubt, my Prince. The Princess is with child."
For a heartbeat, you think he hasn’t heard.
Then he laughs.
It’s low and incredulous, like something has finally aligned in the world. He turns to you, eyes bright.
“You see?” he says, almost triumphant. He crosses the room and takes your face in both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I told them. I told them all.”
The maester is dismissed with a wave and the door shuts. Silence falls, thick and charged.
Aerion doesn’t let go of you.
“My heir,” he murmurs, then corrects himself, “Our child.”
He studies you like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, pride written openly across his face. His hand slides to your abdomen, reverent now, protective in a way that feels startling on him.
“You did well,” he says. Praise, bare and unguarded.
You look up at him. “Was it ever in doubt?”
Something flickers in his expression, something almost like fondness.
His forehead rests briefly against yours. When he kisses you, it’s not hungry. Not demanding. It’s slow, claiming, deliberate, like a seal pressed into hot wax.
When he pulls back, his hand never leaves you.
“No one touches you now,” he says softly. “No one questions you. You are carrying fire.”
And for the first time since you became his wife, Aerion Targaryen looks at you not just as a means, but as something precious he intends to guard.
