Brendon Park who is the most run of the mill Italian American pain in the ass. Who is a chip off the old block outside of his remarkable intellect. Loud, sassy, and opinionated.
Brendon who loves that exact same way. Loudly, dramatically, explicitly, unabashed.
Brendon who becomes a total moron when he’s with his brothers. Completely off the rails like a kid. You have to admit it’s charmingly sweet.
Brendon who’s a total mamas boy.
Brendon who hates his father.
Brendon who’s spent damn near 30 years begging his mother to leave that fucking lush.
Which made him a great husband. All he’s ever known is worshiping the most important woman in his life. And now he has 2.
You’ve never needed to ask him for a thing. He just provides. Physical, material, or emotional. He provides. He takes care of you. Your needs are met. To make you beg for what you should have without question is a disrespect.
He takes care of his mom, too. Large stacks of cash, home cooked means and reservations, helping out around the house.
He’s a good boy, your Brendon.
He didn’t learn how to be a good husband by his father. The idea is laughable- fucking insulting. The man is the lowest of the low. To call him a man is a fucking joke. There’s a destain in Brendon that’s hard to describe for the man. His brothers are all neutral about the situation. Swear he’s just soft. He could knock their teeth out.
Brendon’s favorite thing in the world is when you spend time with his mom when he’s working. It makes his heart fucking throb. When you’d text him that you were getting lunch with her. That you went shopping. That you came over to play cards. To help her with some gardening. To watch his brothers kids after school. It was the highlight of some of his days.
He wasn’t surprised when you called him one evening from his moms.
“Everything okay?”
“Of corse it is.” You replied silkily. “Just wanted to let you know we made dinner, so come here after work, don’t go home.”
He groaned. He could smell the red sauce from here. He wouldn’t ask what you made. He wanted to be surprised now.
“If I could married you again.” He swore.
You laughed.
And he heard the screen door to the backyard open, and close.
When you heard Brendon’s fancy SUV roll up the driveway, you met him outside.
And Brendon was a barely contained missile when you met him at the car door.
His jaw was set, face angry. “Hi honey.” You greeted, kissing his cheek.
He barely moved.
Brendon Park doesn’t like yelling at women.
“Honey” you whispered, rubbing your hands up and down his chest.
“You need to calm down, Brendon.” You reminded him.
And he nodded. Jaw set and pissed. You were right. “You don’t want to lash out on her.”
He doesn’t.
“What happened?”
You sighed.
“She’s got bruises. I asked her what happened, she said she fell. I freaked out and was like, we need to go to the hospital to check you out and then she changed the story and-“
You sighed.
“I don’t know-“
Brendon shook his head. “No, no baby. You’re probably right.” He soothed you. He took you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your head. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just frustrated.”
Brendon Park doesn’t like being a man who yells at women.
That’s Mr Parks job. And the reason he hates the label. It’s not an ego thing, insisting he’s addressed by Dr Park. It’s association with that scumbag fuck-
He breathes as he fallows you back into the house he grew up in, back into the kitchen, where you’re surprisingly alone.
He shrugs as you start making him a plate which you don’t have to do, you know.
He’s got a mouth full of spaghetti when his mom comes back in, and all intentions of not being a man who yells at women go out the window.
“What the fuck?”
He leaves the plate on the kitchen counter with a heavy slam, taking in the visual reasoning of your call.
“Brendon, it’s fine-“
“It’s not fucking fine! He did this?”
“He’s an old man, Brendon-“
“An old man who gave you a black fucking eye. I’m calling the cops. Fuck this.”
andrew cody who sneaks into the bathroom after staying over at your place to brush his teeth with his finger as usual and spots an unfamiliar green toothbrush in the little cup where your purple toothbrush has always sat. his throat immediately gets tight. he didn’t realize you were seeing other people. he certainly isn’t. and in a moment of hurt more than anger he grabs the green toothbrush and walks back out to your bedroom.
“what is this?” andrew says, holding up the toothbrush, as you rub your eyes and roll towards him with a groan.
“mm… good morning,” you hum, trying to wake up, “toothbrush,”
“whose toothbrush?” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you, trying not to sound desperate.
“yours,” you say, voice still scratchy with sleep.
“this isn’t mine,” andrew says.
“well, i guess technically not yet, yeah,” you sigh, sitting up and shifting closer to him, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, “you gotta use it first,”
andrew just sort of stares blankly at you and you finally wake up enough to catch on to what’s happening in that head of his.
“i got it for you,” you say, threading your fingers through his curls which have fluffed up with sleep, “for when you stay here,”
“you got this for me?” andrew blinks at you.
“well, i know it’s not the most romantic gift,” you smile, placing a kiss on his shoulder, exposed by his muscle tee, “but i thought it might be nice,” you mumble against his skin.
andrew drops the toothbrush on the bed next to him and takes your face in his hands, kissing you sweetly. you giggle against his lips, pulling yourself closer to him.
“thank you,” he says your name tenderly, forehead resting against yours.
“you’re so sweet,” you say, placing another quick kiss on his lips, “it’s just a toothbrush,”
“no- it’s-” andrew sighs trying to collect his thoughts, “it’s just nice that you thought of me,”
“well, i think about you a lot,” you smile.
“yeah?” he says, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
“mhm,” you nod before leaning forward, peppering kisses to his neck softly, “i like you,” you murmur between kisses.
andrew sighs, his eyes fluttering closed, god he likes you so much. in a little burst he grabs you by your hips, lifting you around his waist as you grab the back of his neck with a giggle. he stands, swiping his toothbrush from the bed, carrying you to the bathroom.
“andrew,” you squeal, “what are you doing!”
“i gotta try out my new toothbrush,” he says, placing you gently on the counter next to the sink. he stands between you legs as the two of you brush your teeth, giggling and exchanging minty kisses. you both rinse, smiling almost shyly at one another before he passes you a little hand towel to wipe your mouth with.
“so…?” you say, resting your hands on the edge of the counter, leaning towards him, “i’d like the review for your new toothbrush,”
andrew just smiles at you, pushing further between your legs, resting his hands on your waist. he places a soft kiss on your lips, your mouths moving together slowly. he pulls you closer with a sharp tug, slipping his tongue past your lips, the sharp sweetness of peppermint dancing in your mouths.
The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - discussions of abortion, she's literally sitting in planned parenthood before she decides to keep it, insinuating that jack will be a deadbeat, jack being stupid
fic recap so that you don't have to re-read to catch up :)
main masterlist // supercut of us masterlist
It takes Jack a while to find you on Instagram. With only a first-name to go by, and no mutual friends, he starts his search in the followers of Cornell’s law-school. Unfortunately, he can only see the first fifty, and you’re not one of them.
Shit.
He’s got to try another avenue - has to find you after the way he acted yesterday, and make some attempt at an apology.
The music society’s page has similar luck, and Jack’s wishing he could ask his mom for help. She’s never met a single person she couldn’t track down from just a vague description and a first name. With a college and some interests already, she’d find you in minutes. He’s sure of it.
Unfortunately, she cannot ever find out about this. A single mother for almost Jack’s entire life, one of the first lessons she ever instilled in him was respect. Especially for women.
Andrea Abbot would skin him alive for the way he treated you.
Instagram seems to be a bust, so he moves on.
Maybe Facebook.
That thought alone makes him feel about forty years old.
Still, he searches.
Then LinkedIn, because apparently this is what his life has become: conducting a full-scale digital investigation into the woman carrying his child. The thought still makes him feel a little nauseous. He can’t be a father at twenty-two. You can’t be a mother at… whatever age you are.
God, he doesn’t even know.
What if you’re freshly eighteen? You’d seemed pretty mature at the party, but when he racks his brain, he definitely doesn’t think you’re a senior. If you mentioned a year, he doesn’t remember it.
His mother would kill him, then figure out a way to resurrect him, and then kill him again if he knocked up a teenager.
LinkedIn also proves to be a bust, and he heads back to Instagram. He thinks about your expression - the face you pulled right before you spun on your heel, and stormed off. Your brow had been crinkled, lip pulled down in the right corner of your mouth as you frowned at him. Your words were angry, but your expression was pure sadness.
He's spent the entire last twenty-four hours replaying it, finding new ways to hate himself each time.
It had been cruel. You were probably terrified, and he had been cruel. Even if he didn’t mean to be.
Worse, it had been careless.
And Jack has never liked being careless with people. Especially not people who don't deserve it. Especially people he could imagine, in different circumstances, getting on really well with.
Tossing his phone onto the bed with a heavy sigh, Jack knows that he has to make a call.
*****
Emery Walsh has, on occasion, been described as a tech genius.
She’s also been described as a child prodigy, a tuba virtuoso (if such a thing even exists), and a massive bitch. Jack is mostly interested in the technological prowess today.
After meeting in their very first biology lecture in freshman year, they’ve been joined at the hip. Emery was one of the only pre-meds that didn’t make Jack want to gouge his eyes out - most of them had managed to make medicine their entire personality, almost half a decade before even beginning to study it properly.
Jack had been pretty sure that she could have walked into an OR on her first day of college, and done a decent job on a surgery. She’s assured in a way that he can only dream of, and is entirely unafraid to let him know it.
She can dissect an argument faster than Jack can make one, can fix practically anything with a screen, and once hacked into the university’s ancient scheduling system because she was annoyed by a timetable conflict.
Jack still isn't entirely sure how she did it.
He’s also fairly certain it wasn't legal.
Their friendship has never made much sense to anyone else.
They meet in biology because Jack drops his pen, Emery picks it up, and then spends the next forty minutes whispering increasingly vicious commentary about the professor's PowerPoint slides into his ear.
By the end of the lecture, Jack is trying not to laugh.
By the end of the week, they’re studying together.
By the end of the semester, everyone assumes they're dating.
It doesn't help that Emery has absolutely no concept of personal space.
She steals his food. She sits on his desk. She has fallen asleep on his shoulder more times than he can count, and is suddenly an honorary member of Sigma Chi. All the frat brothers are terrified of her.
She’s also as far from the jocks as humanly possible. She’s… well, Jack doesn’t really know how to describe her. She’s just Emery.
It’s the only non-familial female relationship he’s had in his adult life that hasn’t been in any way sexual.
After one immensely embarrassing night out, where Jack thought that she might had been sending him some signals, she had laughed in his face and told him she was a lesbian. She didn’t stop laughing for the next month, and still occasionally brings it up to this day.
She’s his only hope. A single text is sent, one that he knows will make her come running.
I fucked up.
Emery’s on his doorstep in ten minutes, and Jack immediately pushes his phone into her hand. “I need you to find someone,” she doesn't even look surprised.
She just takes a sip of her coffee, barely hiding a smirk.
“Who did you piss off?”
Jack grimaces.
“That obvious?”
“Good guess.” She sets the cup down. “Now who is it, and what am I working with?”
“I’ve gotta tell you something first. But you cannot tell anybody. I swear to god, Em - it’s serious.”
Her expression neutralises, and she cocks her head a little. “You kill somebody or something?”
“Worse. I got her pregnant.”
*****
Six minutes later, she’s found you. Jack spent said six minutes outlining exactly what’s happened between you both up until this moment. The party, the silence, the hockey confrontation.
He leaves out a few of the more embarrassing details, but Emery is smart enough to fill in the gaps. She listens with her chin propped in one hand, expression becoming progressively more horrified as he talks, scrolling through accounts to find you.
He’s expecting some kind of celebration from her - a snarky comment, or a dig at his social skills. Instead, her jaw drops. “Oh, you fucked up.”
Jack’s heart sinks, and he grabs at the phone. “Why? Who is she-”
Robinavitch.
Oh no.
Michael Robinavitch, Jack’s teammate on the hockey team in freshman year. Michael Robinavitch who helped Jack out with all his med school applications. Michael Robinavitch, whose little sister is pregnant.
And it’s all Jack’s fault.
He can’t even pray that it’s just a coincidence - one of your most recent posts is from your family vacation to Greece this summer, with Robby front and centre.
He scans your profile.
Pre-Law @ Cornell. He knew that.
Bassist for @TheGrapeVines. He’d known you played the bass, but hadn’t quite been able to remember the band name. He checks out the page, hands trembling slightly from the revelation. He doesn’t recognise either of the other two guys in the band, but Robby is one of the mutuals he has, with both you and the Grape Vines.
Jack feels something cold settle in his stomach. “Oh, fuck me.”
Emery says nothing for a moment, before speaking up. “Shouldn’t you have known what his sister looks like?”
“He never fucking posts on Instagram - how was I supposed to know?” Jack sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh, god - he’s probably on his way up from New York right now to kill me.”
“You’ll be missed,” she replies dryly. “I’ll be thinking of you when I get into Harvard medical school.”
Normally, Jack would snark back, but today all he can manage is a weak groan. He picks the phone back up, and continues to scroll through your photos - a pathetic attempt at understanding you.
He looks a gig photos, and digital camera dumps, and mirror selfies.
“You really like her,” Emery says quietly.
Jack looks up. “What?”
“You're doing the face.”
“What face?”
“Come on,” She sighs. “Don’t be such a man. You’ve got hearts in your eyes, Abbot. What are you gonna do about it?”
*****
jackrabbit followed you.
Instagram message request: [jackrabbit]: Hey can we talk??
[jackrabbit]: I said some stupid shit, and I’m sorry
[jackrabbit]: Caught me off-guard
[jackrabbit]: And you didn’t mention you were Robby’s little sis
You roll your eyes. Hard. Apparently being related to a hockey player is the only way you deserve to be treated like a human being.
There’s no point replying - if your mind wasn’t made up already, it certainly is now after Jack’s performance yesterday. He made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with it, and you’re trying to become a single mother before twenty-one.
You’ll head to Planned Parenthood, and this nightmare will be over.
Over the next few hours, a few more messages trickle through.
[jackrabbit]: Come on - you can’t ignore me forever
[jackrabbit]: Let me apologise in person
[jackrabbit]: Does Robby know?
His insistence on trying to get in contact does nothing to quell your anger. If anything, you’re even more resolved to ignore him.
You don’t need his help. By the end of the week, you’ll have no reason to ever speak to each other again.
Jesse offers to come with, but you turn him down. The only person you’d really want to be there with you for this is currently working twelve hours a day in a surgical department in New York. You refuse to derail your own life for this situation - you certainly aren’t going to de-rail Robby’s either.
You'd imagined something else when you’d envisioned the waiting room.
Something clinical and intimidating, perhaps. A room full of women avoiding eye contact, everyone staring determinedly at their phones while pretending not to notice why anyone else is there.
Instead, it's almost ordinary.
There are magazines on a low table.
A television mounted in the corner with the volume turned down.
A receptionist speaking softly on the phone.
Someone's toddler is playing with a plastic dinosaur near the window.
You sit with your hands folded in your lap and stare at the same page of a magazine for nearly ten minutes.
You’ve wanted to go to law school since you were fourteen. This is the way to achieve that. Even if the pregnant woman beside you is bringing a slight tear to your eye. Her husband is by her side, pressing his lips to her knuckles in a comforting kiss.
Jack certainly wouldn’t do that for you, you try and remind yourself.
But still, your mind wanders. You imagine yourself at twenty-one with a baby. You wonder if Robby would let you flat-share. If he’d be up for a sister and niece or nephew as a roommate.
You imagine yourself at thirty, looking back. Would you regret this? Or would you regret not doing this?
You imagine a little face.
A tiny hand.
A voice calling you Mommy.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
No.
You can't do this.
You can't make a decision about the rest of your life while sitting in a plastic chair with a number in your hand and your heart pounding so hard you can hear it.
Looking towards the door, you pull out your phone. Your appointment is in twelve minutes, and you don’t want to go.
Chest tightening, and mouth drying, you get to your feet as the chair clatters behind you. A few faces turn towards you, their glances curious, and it all becomes too much.
The moment the door closes behind you, you make it three steps before your face crumples. You press the heel of your hand against your mouth, trying desperately to hold it together, but the tears come anyway, hot and humiliating, spilling down your cheeks as your shoulders begin to shake.
You dial the only number that’ll bring any kind of comfort. Even if he’s going to be mad as hell.
*****
Robby hasn’t seen Noelle properly in weeks. With her new job, and his surgical rotation, their schedules are almost entirely opposite.
A very firm end to the honeymoon phase, he thinks mirthlessly.
Feels like whenever they do see each other, all they do is fight. Over money. Over the trip to Paris that Robby categorically cannot afford. Over the fact that her best friend got engaged this month, and they’ve been together for a year less than Noelle and Robby have.
Tonight is supposed to be a reset. A conscious effort to repair their relationship before they’re past the point of no return.
None of it matters when he answers the phones to your sobs.
All it takes is one word to tilt his entire world on its axis.
Pregnant.
He can barely make out the rest of it. You say something about Planned Parenthood, crying, and then maybe something about a cowboy?
All Robby can do is hop in his car, and begin the journey up with promises to be with you as soon as he can. He fires a quick text off to Noelle, and doesn’t look back.
Suddenly, his most recent visit becomes crystal clear. You must have known. Jesse too. That’s why you were both acting so strangely, the entire weekend.
Over the five-hour drive, he manages to go through all five stages of grief, and just be your brother when he arrives. He holds you tightly, strokes your head, and promises that it’s all going to be okay.
He declines three calls in a row from Noelle, and gets to cooking your childhood favourite dinner. You’ve calmed down enough to give him the details - you found out right before he arrived last time, and tried to visit Planned Parenthood today.
It hadn’t gone well, and as of now, your plan is to keep the baby, and overload your studies so you can graduate this year.
“Does the father know?”
You swallow back a hiccup, nodding slightly. “He doesn’t want to be involved.”
“Do I know him?”
You immediately change the subject. “Did you put the potatoes in yet?”
Robby pauses. He knows what you're doing. He’s not an idiot. Anybody would know what you’re doing right now. But today is not the day to push. As much as it kills him, Robby knows that this has to be on your terms.
“Not yet.”
“Okay. They need to go in soon.”
*****
Robby calls in sick, and stays for the rest of the week. Most of his time is spent with you - working out logistics of how this could work, and how you’re going to tell your mom and his dad. He brings up the issue of paternity once more, and is shut down again.
Finally, Sunday rolls around, and Robby decides to take a walk around campus to clear his head. You’re at band practice, and he’s been trying to catch up with some old friends that are still at Cornell. He’s tracked everyone down but Jack, who’s managed to invent excuse after excuse to avoid seeing him.
As if on cue, Robby steps out onto the quad, and catches sight of Jack. He calls his name, jogging a couple of dozen metres to catch up. “Hey man, you’ve been avoiding me - what’s that about? I’m back down to New York tonight - thought we could’ve done some interview prep or something.”
Jack stiffens just a little, and Robby’s eyes narrow. Jack Abbot has never once been startled, or sheepish, in his entire four years at Cornell. Something must be up. Something big.
“Just trying to make the most out of my last year - exactly what you told me to do,” He finally shrugs, an air of nonchalance returning to his demeanour. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got practice. See you round.”
With that, he’s gone again, and Robby pulls out his phone. Coach Adamson never used to schedule practices on Sundays - he thought it was bad luck. Better to give the team a day of rest on non-game days, and start fresh on Monday.
He checks the hockey team’s website, and his suspicions are confirmed. Sundays are for the figure skaters. No hockey allowed.
Jack’s lying to him.
What the hell is going on?
And suddenly, there’s this little itch at the back of his mind.
He thinks about you. The mysterious father of your child, who you still haven’t named.
At first, he thinks he’s going insane. Connecting dots that aren’t there. Because you and Jack? That would be insane.
Except…
You’re exactly his type. Not the Puck Bunnies Jack passes time with. He’s not sure that Jack would even be able to articulate his dream woman, but Robby sure can.
Into the same music, smart as a whip, and entirely unafraid to boss him around and keep him on his toes.
It’s you to a tee.
Robby’s eyes narrow, as he watches Jack throw a nervous glance back at him, before rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight.
The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - nothing really, just the obvious pregnancy
fic recap so that you don't have to re-read to catch up :)
main masterlist // supercut of us masterlist
You’ve barely stopped crying by the time Robby comes to visit. Mascara permanently clumped under your lashes, it’s potentially the worst possible time for your step-brother to plan an impromptu trip to Cornell’s main campus.
For whatever reason, the med students get to be in Manhattan, while every other degree stays in upstate New York. It’s a four-hour drive, give or take, meaning that Robby doesn’t do it very often.
He’s always called before coming up. When he’s crashing on the couch in yours apartment, he’s got to make sure that none of Jesse’s sisters are visiting for the weekend.
Of course he picks now to drop by unannounced. First a knock, and then his voice wafting through the door. Currently, you’re curled up watching Cheers re-runs, and trying not to think about what your body is currently doing. Creating.
You only just got over the trauma of telling Jesse. Nobody else knows yet - not even Jack. You can’t even consider telling anybody until he knows. Jesse Van Horn had been unavoidable, and entirely steadfast in his support since finding out.
Are you like… alive in there?”
You can barely quell the tears enough to hiccup a yes. Given your history and constant close proximity to Jesse, there’s no point in trying to hide it from him. He’s not an idiot. He knows what morning sickness looks like, even if he hasn’t quite put it together yet.
You’re not sure your lips are capable of forming the word ‘pregnant’ right at this very moment. Instead, you reach for the door handle, and let it creak open.
You’d hate to see yourself right now - shivering and sick and curled up on the bathroom floor.
“Shit,” He curses. “What the fuck happened? Do we need to go to the Emergency Room?”
You shake your head weakly, eyes flicking to the test on the counter.
If you were picking one word to describe your roommate, collected might be the one you’d go for. Currently, Jesse Van Horn looks anything but - a perfect reminder of just how big you’ve screwed up.
“Holy fucking shit.”
You practically whine a reply. “I’m so, so fucked.”
“Is it… is it Seth’s?”
Finally, something to snap you out of your stupor. You shoot Jesse with a glare, arms covering your torso protectively. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”
“You’ll excuse me if he’s the only guy I’ve known you’ve slept with this year.” Almost immediately, Jesse’s usual sass is back in his tone, and you want to cry tears of joy. Most things are going to change, but maybe not all. When you don’t reply, Jesse shoots you with his own look. “So? Whose is it? Or do you not know?”
You muster up a glare. “I do know. But you can’t laugh.”
“Oh god,” He groans. “Who the hell have you been sleeping with?”
You bite your lip, ready for the impact. “Jack Abbot.”
In all the reactions you’d envisioned from Jesse, laughter is not one of them. It bursts out of him, almost like a gasp of air. All you can do is look at him in surprise, and soon he’s hunched over beside you. “I cannot believe you fucked Jack Abbot. He’s so not your type.”
“That’s your takeaway from this?”
You wish you could be as single-minded as your roommate. Unfortunately, you’re pretty sure that your life is over.
“You like ‘em annoying and pretentious. Guys in bands who like pretentious New Wave French cinema and Yoko Ono’s solo career. Not jocks who think that EDM is like the pinnacle of music.”
You don’t know why an urge to defend Jack washes over you. “Jack likes Clapton.”
“Does he like Clapton, or did he tell you that he liked Clapton so that he could get into your pants?”
You think it over, as the tears dry on your cheeks. You like to think that you wouldn’t be so quick to fall for something like that, but you’re also not going to bullshit yourself about Jack’s past. He’s a self-proclaimed womaniser that’s rarely seen with the same girl more than once.
Lip between your teeth, you shake your head. “He wasn’t lying.”
Your first instinct is not to answer the knock.
Maybe if you stay perfectly still he’ll just give up-
Another knock. He calls your name. Then Jesse’s. Letting out a sigh, you scrub furiously at your face before catching your reflection in the microwave door.
Shit.
Your eyes are swollen. You look like you haven’t slept in days. You’re a mess. Splashing cold water over your face, you dab at the mascara smeared beneath your lashes with toilet paper, and try to make yourself look mildly presentable before you open the door.
Robby takes one look at you and immediately frowns. "...Jesus. You look rough."
Despite it all, a scoff falls from your lips. "Thanks."
"You sick?"
"No."
He steps inside without waiting to be invited, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like he owns the place, and presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re a little hot, but not feverish. Nausea?”
All day, every day. “Not really.”
“Diarrhoea?”
You make a face. “Gross. But also no.”
“Huh. Must just be a bug, then. Jess around?"
"Class."
He drops the bag beside the couch before turning back to you, an unreadable expression on his face. You suddenly remember that he’s just finished up a psych rotation.
Shit.
He’s spent the last six weeks analysing expressions and emotions.
You’re screwed.
"You been crying?" His voice is careful and composed, and you’d put money on it being a tone he uses with patients.
Your stomach twists. "What? No."
"Kid."
"I'm tired,” You insist. “Took ages to get over the food poisoning.”
His face says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You sure?"
"Mikey."
"What?"
"You literally just got here."
"I know."
"So maybe don't interrogate me before you've even taken your shoes off. Enough with the shrink bullshit, ‘kay?"
He studies you for another beat before sighing. "Fine. But something's up."
You busy yourself taking his jacket before he can keep looking at you.
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
*****
The afternoon is spent trailing Robby around all his old haunts. His favourite record store, just to check and see if they got that Doors record in. They didn’t.
You both grab coffee from the campus coffee shop, and then you have to talk him out of dragging you to whatever hockey practice is going on.
You argue that he can track down the guys tomorrow when you’re in class, because you want to hang with your brother tonight.
Also, one of them is the father of your niece or nephew.
That part stays in your head.
You haven’t even decided if there’s going to be a niece or nephew yet. You’ve always assumed that abortion would be the easy answer if you ever got pregnant before you were ready.
Now, despite the catastrophic consequences it could have for your life and career, you’re not sure you have it in you to go through with it.
But you also know you can’t rely on Jack. From experience, you know that Robby has little-to-no free time - how could Jack possibly be a father to a baby while pulling twelve-hour shifts?
Does Jack even want a baby?
Would he want one with you?
The answer to both is most likely no.
Finally, Robby manages to drag both you and Jesse to a local bar. It isn’t until the bartender asks for your order, and he rattles off your usual, that you realise your mistake.
You can’t drink.
You always drink with Robby.
Jesse clocks your face as the cider is pushed across the table to you, an identical one pressed into his hand. He cocks his head.
You okay?
You give the smallest shake of your head.
Not now.
His expression smooths over so quickly Robby doesn't notice.
"Didn't know you were coming up," Jesse says, an expert at changing the subject.
"Didn’t know I’d have the time off until this morning. Thought I’d surprise her - see how Sophomore year was going. Cheers."
You wrap your fingers around the cold glass, and try not to cry as you clink the glass against Robby’s.
When your lips wrap around the neck, you don’t allow any of it into your mouth.
A temporary solution, until Robby realises that your bottle isn’t getting any emptier. Jesse sips from his own, a larger gulp than you’d expect from him. Normally, he likes to nurse a drink over hours. Your brow furrows, until Robby’s head turns towards the door, and he casually takes yours instead.
"So," Jesse says loudly, taking an exaggerated sip from what had been your glass, leaving you both with half-filled bottles, "how's med school?"
Robby launches straight into a rant about anatomy labs.
You stare at Jesse.
He gives the tiniest shrug.
I've got you.
Halfway through Robby's story, he drains half his/your pint. Jesse quietly swaps your glasses back while Robby's chatting to an old friend who stopped by the pavement. The movement is so smooth you almost miss it, and before you even realise, your untouched drink disappears.
A half-empty one appears in its place.
Robby finally looks back. "Normally you’d be on your third by now."
You lift the glass and take the smallest sip imaginable. It barely wets your lips. "Nursing it."
"Lightweight."
*****
Robby stays until Monday, and you manage to avoid most further confrontations. As far as you know, he saw Jack while you were at your Friday afternoon Property Law class, and that was that. He’s tossed you a few more concerned glances, and asked about your ex-boyfriend Seth more than once, but he’s unable to get to the bottom of your sour mood.
While you love Robby, you’re more than a little relieved to see him head back down to NYC.
His presence makes everything feel so real. The baby, the hockey player father, your dwindling future.
You’ll tell him eventually. But not today.
Not when you know that Big Red are practising today, and that Jack is guaranteed to be at the rink at five. You just need to get through this goodbye with Robby, and then fight all urges to throw yourself in front of a bus before telling your one night stand that he got you pregnant.
“M’sorry I’ve been no fun this weekend,” You mumble, face pressed into Robby’s shoulder. “Just stressed. Promise I’ll be better next time I visit.”
Above you, Robby lets out a breath. "If some idiot's giving you grief..."
You’re very glad that he can’t see the tears pricking at your eyes as your arms tighten around him. "...I'll handle it."
After bidding Robby goodbye, you manage to make the fifteen-minute walk to the rink take forty. Spectators aren’t officially allowed during practice, but it doesn’t stop a group of girls from hanging around the stands.
Mostly Puck Bunnies, you note, as you take a seat a few rows back.
The term leaves a funny taste in your mouth. You can’t help but see the misogyny behind it, and yet half of these girls wear it like a badge of honour.
These are the girls Jack normally goes for, a voice in your head interrupts. Not you.
You have no idea which number Jack is, leaving you in the dark for ten minutes before you manage to find it online.
#33.
Your eyes follow him across the rink.
From what you can tell, he plays excellently. Not that you’d know. You’ve always been more of a basketball gal, even with Robby’s infatuation with hockey.
A nausea you’re becoming incredibly familiar with settles low in your belly, and you can’t discern whether it’s the nerves or the Abbot baby. Maybe it senses it’s father is near, somehow.
Maybe you’re just going crazy.
After what seems like hours, the team skate off the ice and head for the locker room. You figure the group of girls are going to congregate right outside the lockers, and decide you’d rather not have an audience for this.
Your chosen spot is by the lobby door, and you suddenly hope that there isn’t a back entrance out of this place that he might take.
When Jack finally appears, your breath hitches a little. Sweat dripping along his hairline, and t-shirt straining tight against his biceps, you hate yourself for the thoughts that pop into your head.
The memories of six weeks ago.
You’re trying to formulate your opening line when his gaze lands on you, eyes widening. There’s a girl by his side - a pretty blonde - but he shrugs her off, something murmured in her direction before she frowns and turns her attention to one of the guys leaving after him.
“Star… hey,” the nickname catches you off-guard, and for a second you think he might have mistaken you for someone else.
Great.
That’s just what you need.
The father of your baby doesn’t even remember conceiving said child.
“Uh, no,” You frown. “I’m not Star.”
“No, right, yeah,” He replies, voice almost a stammer. If you weren’t a bundle of nerves yourself, you’d be able to give it more thought. At the idea that you might make Jack Abbot nervous. “I have a shit memory when I’m drunk - couldn’t remember your name-”
Boy, do you know how to pick them.
“-so Star was kind of like a place-holder. You said you liked music, and played in a band, so… rockstar…” He trails off, cheeks tinging pink. “Whatever, it’s stupid.”
Maybe if you weren't having the worst week of your life, you'd find it endearing.
Part of you doesn’t even want to remind him of your name. You’re not sure he deserves it. Even if he is even more attractive without the haze of the alcohol.
It takes gargantuan effort to remind yourself that you’re carrying his baby. Unfortunately, a name exchange is necessary, and grit it out.
Jack smiles, grin crooked as he takes you in. “Suits you. But I still think somethin’ about you screams Star.” Just like that, the jock persona is back, and he looks totally at ease. You wish you could say the same. “Was wondering if I was gonna hear from you. When you didn’t text me, figured you weren’t interested,” He shrugs, a level of candour you don’t expect from a hockey player.
“How the hell would I text you? I didn’t have your number. I didn’t even know your last name until-”
You cut off, suddenly unwilling to share your connection to Robby. This is already awkward enough as it is - letting Jack know that he knocked up one of his best friend’s sisters would complicate it far more than necessary.
You’re simply two strangers, who made a mistake, and need to fix it.
Nothing more.
Jack’s eyes narrow a little. “I left a note. Beside the bed. With my number.”
“What? No you didn’t.”
His arms are crossed as he leans against the doorway. “Cross my heart, honey. You were the one who left me hangin’. But it’s alright - I’m not a vindictive man. I’m happy to forgive and forget.”
The urge to roll your eyes overtakes you. You don’t have time for this. “I’m not here to fuck. I… god, I don’t even remember most of what we did.”
A complete lie. You’ve replayed it almost every night since it happened.
"You've really got a way of making a guy feel memorable, you know that?"
Again with the amused expression. Like he’s in on a joke that you didn’t even know existed.
"I wasn't trying to make you feel anything."
"No?"
"No."
His grin fades just enough for something more thoughtful to settle in its place. "I thought maybe I'd said something."
"You didn't."
"Or did something."
"You didn't."
“Well then, Star,” he replies, “to what do I owe the pleasure? If you aren’t here for round two?”
No time like the present.
Glancing around to make sure that nobody else is within earshot, you prepare to break it to him gently. Maybe give him a recap on exactly how babies are made, just so he can’t try and blame you entirely. Instead, all that comes out is, “I’m pregnant.”
All amusement vanishes from his face. His expression empties so completely that, for one awful heartbeat, you wonder if he’s having some kind of stroke.
He just stares.
At you.
Not your face, exactly - his gaze flicks downward for the briefest instant before snapping back, as though the words have suddenly given your body a shape he can't quite reconcile with the one standing in front of him.
His mouth opens.
Closes.
When he finally draws a breath, it's shallow. “Well - you’re obviously getting rid of it, right?”
While you hadn’t been expecting him to jump for joy, he still manages to disappoint. You know that the answer should be an easy yes. It is a yes. You’re planning on hitting up Planned Parenthood next week, even with your lingering doubts.
But there’s something about his tone that makes you bristle.
The most illogical part of your brain is annoyed. At Robby, for making this all so much more complicated than it needed to be. At yourself, for letting it happen in the first place. At Jack, for acting like this is just some minor inconvenience, when it’s your whole life at stake.
The last thing you want is to let him think he’s got one-up on you.
“I wanted to talk to you about it, first,” You grit out. “Didn’t feel right not telling you. It is half-you, after all.”
“Is it definitely mine?”
The question stops you in your tracks, and if looks could kill, Jack Abbot would be a dead man. “Of course it’s yours. Do you really think I would lie about something like that? You’re the only person I’ve slept with in the past six months, so if it isn’t yours then this is some kind of fucking Jesus situation, okay?”
"I didn't mean-"
"No?" You cut in, your laugh sharp. "Because it sounded an awful lot like you were asking if I'd been sleeping around. Like you’re some sort of fucking saint?"
"I wasn't saying that."
"You literally just asked if it was yours."
"I just-" He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, frustrated. "People panic and they say stupid things."
"Clearly."
His jaw tightens. "I said I'm sorry."
"No," You reply evenly. "You said you didn't mean it. That's not the same thing."
“Well, I am sorry,” he concedes, gaze dropping to his shoes. “Fuck… you just - that’s not what I thought you were going to say.”
You give him a little bit of space to process, lip between your teeth while you wait for him to speak again. When he does, your mind is made up. Any sliver of you that had considered keeping the baby dies away, at the idea of having to co-parent with this man for the rest of your life.
“I can’t have a baby. We’re in the championships. I-I’m going to med school.”
“You think I don’t know that? It’s not like I don’t have plans too. Shit. I don't even know why I'm here. This was a fucking mistake."
"You’re here because you wanted me to know."
"Yeah." You nod once. "And now you do. Guess we’re done here.”
“Oh come on,” He sighs, reaching for your arm. You tug it out of reach just before he can make contact. “Don’t be like that. Do you want me to like… come, or anything? Or pay for… fuck, I don’t know.”
You snort humourlessly. “After today, I’m not sure I ever want to see you again.”
His expression morphs into one of incredulity, and you realise you’d really like to smack him right now. “You’re mad at me?”
Your jaw drops. “You just cited hockey as a reason you can’t have a baby.”
Jack lets out a sharp breath through his nose, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "That's not what I-"
"No?" Your laugh is thin and brittle. "Because that's sure as hell what it sounded like."
"Will you stop trying to put words in my mouth? I fucked up. I’m sorry. Can you blame me for being shocked? I know it's inconvenient."
"For you."
"For both of us."
You think you might scream if you have to look at him any longer. “Whatever. I have to go. I have work.”
You turn on your heel, but Jack reaches for you, hand wrapping around your wrist. You can feel each callous on his fingers, the warmth radiating from him despite the chill of the rink. "Will you... let me know you're okay?"
You sling your backpack over your shoulders, and roll your eyes. "I'll be fine. You can pretend this never happened and go back to your picture-perfect life."
You don’t give him the satisfaction of glancing back as you storm off, and yet you get the impression that his eyes don’t leave you until you’re out of sight.
The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - nothing really, just the obvious pregnancy
main masterlist // supercut of us masterlist
The bed is well and truly cold by the time you come to.
It takes a second to orient yourself - for last night to come crashing back to you. Jack, his hands, that stupid cowboy hat, the way it felt when he-
You cut yourself off.
This isn’t the start of something. Absolutely not. You were looking for a quick fling to get over Seth, and you found one. Jack made it very clear he wasn’t looking for anything either, and you’re not about to beg him for more.
If your paths cross again organically, then that would be another thing entirely.
You reach for your dress, and take a second to look around his room as you try and gather your bearings. It’s a lot cleaner than some of the frat rooms you’ve spent time in.
There are textbooks stacked on the desk instead of empty beer cans. A chemistry textbook sits open beneath a notebook full of cramped handwriting and highlighted diagrams. Another book - something biology-related - has so many sticky notes poking out of the pages it looks like it's growing feathers.
You hadn’t thought Jack was lying last night when he told you he was pre-med, but you certainly hadn’t thought he was serious about it. You figured he was probably some trust-fund kid who was going to get daddy to buy his way into medical school.
Jack apparently doesn’t fit into Cornell’s usual stereotypes.
He’s not a selfish prick the way most of the hockey team is. He’s also not a moron either - not by a long-shot. You know his music taste is pretty refined - on one date, after telling a guy that The Doors were your favourite band, he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.
Needless to say, there hadn’t been a second date.
And he’s funny. You’d laughed more last night than the entirety of summer. You think potentially more than your entire relationship with Seth.
God, you need to get a grip. You look around the room, almost praying to find something that’ll ruin the spark for you. Maybe a list of all the girls he’s slept with, or some Playboys under the bed. Some mouldy food perhaps?
Anything to get him off your mind.
You pull your dress over your head and glance around again.
The walls are covered in hockey.
Photos pinned to a corkboard. Team pictures from what looks like every stage of his life. A tiny kid missing his front teeth. A gangly teenager holding a trophy. A more recent photo where he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of teammates, grinning like an idiot.
There's a shelf lined with medals and a couple of plaques.
Your gaze lingers on a more recent picture - a slightly younger Jack’s first year on the Cornell hockey team. It looks familiar, and suddenly you realise why, heart sinking. Your step-brother Michael stands right by his side, smiles wide as the team poses for the camera.
Fuck.
You’d thought that the hockey team would be safe from Michael’s claws given that he’s been at medical school for the past three years. The last thing you want is to have slept with one of his friends.
While technically a step-brother, your mom met his dad while she was still pregnant with you. With your biological father out of the picture, the Robinavitch family very quickly became your own. Michael’s father is the only father you’ve ever known.
In all ways but blood, he’s your brother.
He’s the entire reason you’d ended up at Cornell. You’ve always wanted to grow up to be like Michael. Even if he’s grown a stupid beard, and goes by Robby these days.
His single piece of advice to you when you’d started college was to run a mile from anybody on the college’s sports teams.
Basketball? Bad.
Football? The worst, if Robby is to be believed.
Hockey? Good guys, but not boyfriend material. Steer clear at all costs.
Maybe they were just teammates. You have lots of group photos with people you don’t even like, much less consider a friend.
Jack seems like the kind of guy who would be friendly to just about everyone. But it could have just felt that way because he was trying to get into your pants. He could have a playbook of flattery, and you’re simply the most recent sucker to fall for it.
You realise with a snort that you don’t know much about Jack at all.
Which, to be fair, was intentional.
The whole point had been not getting to know each other. He could be
No strings. No personal questions. No expectations.
For all you know, he's seeing someone back home. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who never stays single for long. Maybe there are half a dozen girls on campus who'd roll their eyes if they heard you were thinking this much about him.
You wouldn't know.
All you know is that his name is Jack.
He plays hockey.
He's pre-med.
He’s a fan of classic rock - particularly Led Zeppelin and the Eagles, but he’s also partial to some eighties punk.
You don't know if he has siblings, or if he's close with his parents.
You move toward the desk, spotting a framed picture tucked beside a lamp.
Jack stands with a woman who shares the exact same smile. Must be a mother, though she looks pretty young. Upon further inspection, his mom is in a lot of the photos. For someone who spent half of last night pretending he didn't care about anything except having a good time, Jack seems surprisingly sentimental.
Maybe because you'd spent all of last night mentally filing Jack under Fun-Mistake. Good-Lay-Who’s-Definitely-A-Bit-Of-A-Whore.
Not Son-Who-Keeps-Pictures-Of-His-Mom-On-His-Desk.
You force yourself to look away.
This is ridiculous. You have to get out of here. At the desk, a notepad sits beside a cup full of pens, and your eyes catch on it just for a second.
You could leave your number.
Not for a date. Just to say ‘hey, that was good sex and we should do it again sometime. I’m not clingy, nor am I looking for a boyfriend, but you’re hot and I have a pushy ex.’
As soon as your brain catches up with your thoughts, you realise how pathetic you sound.
You’ve spent your entire college career avoiding becoming a stereotype. You’re not a stuck-up teacher’s pet because you get good grades, you’re not a stoner because you’re in a rock band, and you’re certainly not a Puck Bunny because you want to fuck a hockey player.
You grab your boots, and try to get the hell out of there. The frat house is mostly empty this early. For that, you’re grateful. A couple of people linger in the kitchen, nursing coffees and hangovers, but thankfully, nobody pays much attention as you head for the front door.
You slip outside.
The morning air is cool against your skin. A welcome change from the heat of Jack’s bedroom.
You don’t have a class until lunchtime, but band practice starts in forty-five minutes, and you’d like the shower before braving the heat of the Cornell Music Building.
The campus is dead at this hour, just empty brick paths and ivy before the mid-morning rush. Your boots click on the concrete, locking into the tempo of the bassline you keep looping in your head. It’s a new composition, one that you’re pretty sure goes with Jesse’s latest favourite drum-fill.
You hadn’t really meant to join a band, but when Jesse Van Horn is your next-door neighbour in freshman year, it’s hard to avoid the music.
Half the floor hated him, because he had an acoustic drum-kit set up in his room, and had no qualms about practicing at seven in the morning before his classes.
You didn’t ever mind.
Alarm clocks didn’t do the trick for you, but Immigrant Song sure did. Eventually, Jesse’s roommate had packed it in, found somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, you and he were becoming closer every day. You’d pass records back and forth, and roll your eyes over student housing politics.
When your roommate started allowing her boyfriend to practically live with you both, it had been a natural decision. One box at a time, over a week, you moved into Jesse’s spare room.
Despite the rumours, it’s never been sexual - you’re both walking proof that men and women can, in fact, just be friends.
You started jamming together, before he’d finally proposed that a band could earn you some extra cash. Outside of tutoring, you didn’t have any other income, so money got tight fast.
The only issue was that you absolutely refused to sing in front of a crowd. It’s not that you couldn’t - you’ve always had quite a nice voice, especially for folk, but the idea of singing solo in front of crowds made you want to cry.
Besides, you’d argued, you needed a guitarist anyway. You’d just find someone who could sing and play.
Jesse had placed a couple of ads across campus, and you got a lot more interest than you were expecting. Your answer came in the form of Nick Bradley - a biology major who could shred like Slash.
He agreed to sing too, as long as you’d do harmonies and take lead occasionally.
Like Fleetwood Mac, except none of you were sleeping together.
Now, a year on, you’re pretty successful. Good enough to get booked for a lot of the parties around campus, and a Saturday night slot at the local bar.
You’re still living with Jesse this year, in an apartment just off-campus, while Nick lives two streets over with his girlfriend Princess.
Were it not for Seth, you’d be having the time of your life.
Your first college relationship, you’d met Seth at a party in your first month of being at Cornell. He was a freshman too, but a business major, and loved the sound of his own voice.
Of course, at the time, he was hot, and paying you considerable amounts of attention. You were hooked.
Your entire relationship was cyclical - you’d date for a few months, and then have a huge blowout fight, and break up. You’d both sleep with other people out of pettiness, before he’d come crawling back a month later.
Much to all your friends’ chagrin, you always took him back.
This is the longest you’ve ever been separated since you first met.
It had happened over summer - an incident in New York City which had resulted in you sobbing down the phone, and Robby driving three hours in the middle of the night to come to your rescue.
You’re determined the break is sticking this time.
The cold walk back to your apartment finally wakes you up. You drop your keys on the counter, shed yesterday's clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water cuts through the smell of Jack's cedarwood cologne and the leftover stuffiness of his bedroom.
Ten minutes later, you're out and dressed in fresh black jeans and a beat-up band tee. Cream. You tell yourself it’s a total coincidence, and not because it’s a Clapton band. Your hair is still wet, but with five minutes until your practice starts, Jesse is ushering you into his car without pause.
*****
You think about Jack at random intervals throughout the day over the next few weeks.
When you're walking to class.
When you see someone wearing a hockey sweatshirt.
When a cowboy hat appears in the background of a TikTok, embarrassingly.
But thinking isn't the same thing as doing. And you've managed not to do anything.
No Instagram searches. No asking around. No stalking fraternity pages. No investigating.
Which means you're doing great.
Objectively.
You haven’t seen him around campus, but you figure that’s to be expected, given he’s pre-med and on the hockey team. You wouldn’t wish either on your worst enemy, much less both. Thankfully, Seth has been a complete non-entity too.
Maybe you’ll be able to live your entire Junior year in peace.
You're walking back from class with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear while Robby complains about med school.
Again.
Apparently today's crisis is pathology.
Yesterday's crisis was anatomy.
Tomorrow's will probably be something equally horrifying - he’s no longer allowed to tell you any stories that involve burns, toe-nails, or eye stuff, but you're sure he'll find something else that makes you feel sick just hearing about it.
"I haven't slept in two days."
You snort. "That's healthy."
"I hate you."
You hadn’t realised that Robby going to med school would somehow be your problem too. When your parents are sick of him whinging, they send his calls your way.
"Do you know how many pathways there are for clotting?" He asks.
"No. Why would I know that? I’m pre-law."
"There are too many."
"Okay."
He groans. "I'm serious."
"Congratulations? I don't know what you want me to say to that, to be honest."
There’s a pause, and you can just imagine him rubbing his neck, regretting calling you entirely. "You don't care."
"I care deeply about many things. Clotting factors? Unfortunately not one of them. Why aren’t you moaning to Noelle?"
"She’s sick of it," He replies, sounding so miserable that you almost want to laugh.
“Just think about all the money you’ll be making.”
“Yeah, in like fifteen years.” Without taking a breath, Robby launches into another story about one of his professors, and you half-listen as you weave through campus.
Then he mentions hockey. "Honestly, sometimes I miss the team."
Your stomach does an immediate, traitorous flip. It’s been approximately two hours since you last thought about Jack, and the reminder is not a welcome one. It’s a battle to keep your voice neutral. "Yeah?"
"Not the practices,” He clarifies immediately.
"Obviously."
"Or the conditioning."
"Also obviously."
"But the guys."
You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t care about Jack. You shouldn’t ask anything else. Change the subject, and…. "Do you still talk to any of them?"
You immediately regret it, but it’s too late.
Fortunately, Robby doesn't seem to notice the odd cadence in your tone.
"Some of them."
You hum. "Who?"
He pauses. “Most of us are scattered now, but I talk to some of the guys on the current team. You know, one of them's applying to med school right now.”
"So?"
Robby laughs. "So?"
"Yeah."
You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, wondering if you should just fake bad service and hang up.
"Lots of people apply to med school."
"Not while playing a college sport."
"Oh."
"He asked me to look over his application."
Your grip tightens on your phone. "That's nice."
"I know. I’m a nice guy." Robby sounds genuinely pleased. Which is odd. He's usually much stingier with compliments. "Actually, his application's pretty solid."
You stare straight ahead.
Heart beating a little faster. “Must be smart, then.”
“Everything okay?”
Curse Robby and his insane perception skills. “Uh, yeah - just thought I saw Seth.”
Immediately, Robby’s in dad mode. “Don’t go near him.”
“I’m not! Jesus, Mikey - what do you take me for?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
You want to be offended, but you’re mostly just glad the conversation isn’t on Jack anymore. “Screw you.”
“Love you too!”
*****
The bathroom tile is freezing against your forehead.You trace the grout lines with your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the rhythmic, violent heaving in your stomach. It’s 4:00 AM, six weeks since term started, and you’re currently paying the price for the sketchy food truck tacos you ate after last night's gig.
Your throat burns, tasting like stomach acid and cheap tequila.
This cannot be the rockstar life everybody is so desperate for.
You groan, pulling yourself up onto your knees to lean over the toilet bowl again. Your body shakes, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck and back. Every muscle in your core is tightly knotted, exhausted from the last two hours of purging.
You reach up and flush, the loud roar of the water echoing painfully in the quiet apartment. Jesse’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met - there’s no way he’s waking up from a couple of retches.
You wake up on Friday morning convinced you're finally over the worst of it. The constant, violent nausea has faded into a dull, low-grade ache, and you manage to keep down half a bagel and some black coffee. Robby informs you that sometimes food poisoning takes it’s sweet time clearing up.
By Sunday, you can't lie to yourself anymore.
You’re still exhausted. The smell of the deli on the corner makes your stomach violently drop, and you spent twenty minutes this morning dizzy on the bathroom floor just from standing up too fast. It’s not a stomach bug.
You decide eventually that you can manage a trip to the grocery store for some crackers and ginger ale, in the hopes of filling your stomach a little.
Standing in the chip aisle, you glance over at the bakery counter. A woman is standing there, waiting for a loaf of bread. She’s wearing a soft knit sweater, and one of her hands rests naturally over a very obvious, rounded baby bump.
Your heart stops.
You can’t be.
You’re on the pill, and Jack used a condom. Statistically, there’s got to be no chance of that happening.
Panic floods your chest, hot and sharp.
You drop the crackers and sprint two aisles over to the pharmacy section. Your eyes scan the shelves frantically until you spot the boxes. You grab a digital two-pack, not even looking at the price, and tuck it flat against your stomach beneath your denim jacket.
You keep your head down, eyes darting left and right. The campus grocery store is a minefield; the last thing you need is a classmate, or Seth, or even Jack himself seeing you.
Running the three blocks back, the plastic bag crinkles loudly against your thigh. Your hands shake so badly that you drop your keys on the concrete before finally forcing the lock.
Jesse is on the couch, a laptop open on his knees and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He blinks up at you, surprised. "Hey, did you get the-"
"Bathroom," you choke out, barging straight past the couch. You don’t look at him, keeping the plastic bag bunched tight against your side.
"Whoa, okay. All yours," he mutters, turning back to his screen.
You throw yourself into the bathroom, slam the door, and click the lock. In the sudden quiet, your breathing sounds deafening. You rip the box open, tearing the cardboard with your fingernails until the two plastic sticks tumble onto the counter.
You’re on the pill. Jack used a condom.
You repeat it in your head like a mantra, trying to block out the terror pressing down on your chest. You read the instructions on the crumpled paper, the tiny text blurring. Wash hands. Remove cap. Hold the tip in the stream for five seconds.
You go through the motions on pure autopilot, your fingers icy cold.
When it's done, you lay the stick flat on the edge of the sink, turning the digital screen face-down against the white porcelain. You step back, gripping the edges of the counter until your knuckles turn white. On the side of the plastic casing, the tiny hourglass icon starts blinking, counting down the three longest minutes of your life.
You can’t be pregnant. You still have two more years of college, and then law school. How the hell would you do that with a baby?
Especially when the father is someone you don’t even know?
When you finally build the courage to turn the test over, you think you might cry.
“Shit,” You curse. “Shit, shit, shit!”
No amount of staring makes the line disappear, and you can feel tears start to prick at your periphery when a knock sounds at the door. “Everything okay? You’ve been gone forever.”
You swallow heavily. “Fine, Jess.” Looking back at the very positive test, and the words that flash on the screen.
Simon’s giving the dog his last walk of the evening. He’s on the last third of a cigarette when the dog stops to sniff around the trunk of a tree.
He exhales into the sky then glances down the gap between the houses, and the sightline runs clear across two dark gardens, straight to the back of his house — the kitchen window, blinds up, overhead lights blazing, and you crossing the kitchen right in front of it—
completely nude.
Five seconds, maybe, and you’re gone from the frame, but he’s already doing the recon — the angle of the gap, height of the fence, the pub that turns out people all night — and the information is saying that every pissed bloke stumbling home gets the full exhibition, compliments of his wife.
He sucks down the last of his cigarette as he picks up the pace home, the dog jogging alongside him. He flicks the butt into the street and turns down the path. The back door bangs behind him. You’re still at the counter, and you’re still naked, spooning peanut butter out of the jar. You smile up at him and the dog runs down the hall with the leash dragging.
“Good walk?”
“The blinds,” he points at the window.
“What about them?”
“They’re open.”
You look at the window and furrow your brows. “It’s dark out.”
“It’s dark out there.” He crosses the kitchen and yanks the cord, the slats fall down with a clatter. “I saw ya from the road. If I can see ya, so can every sod stumblin’ home from The Fox.”
“You saw me from the road?”
“Yes!” He points back with his thumb through the wall, in the vague direction of the gap.
“Huh,” you shrug. You dig the spoon back into the jar, unalarmed. “That’s actually kinda impressive.”
He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “There’s a pub at the end of that road, love,” he reiterates.
You lick the spoon clean and talk around the mouthful. “Simon, I really don’t care. It’s hot, nothing fits me anymore, and your son sat on my bladder all damn day.” You gesture at yourself with the spoon — the growing swell of your belly. “Did I mention nothing fits me?”
His eyes drop to your stomach and the scolding dies, the way it always does these days.
“Nothin’ fits?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got my shirts.”
“Your shirts fit you.” You let him pull you in, his hand finding the curve of belly, splaying across the side. “We outgrew them weeks ago.”
He’s quite a second, thumb rubbing over the spot the baby kicked this morning. “New rule. Clothes off means blinds down.”
“And if I break it?” you tease.
“You won’t,” he grumbles. “And I’m buyin’ bigger shirts.”
SUMMARY You and Garrett go on your first date and come back to an unexpected surprise.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, use of Y/N (I think only once), somewhat suggestive, making out, reader has a wardrobe malfunction, Garrett picks reader up, Garrett is implied to be taller than reader, Garrett being a little possessive you know the drill, more Garrett Graham is an ass man propaganda, fluff, barely edited
WC 3.2k
A/N for the anon who asked about reader and Garrett matching their clothes, here you go! it's kinda small here, but they'll definitely do it a lot more later too. also we hit 1k followers recently!! feel free to check out my 1k celebration if it tickles your fancy :) anyway please enjoy!
love island masterlist
A familiar chime sounds from the spot next to you and you look up from your sudoku book with an excited gasp.
“Guys! I got a text!”
You scramble for your phone, opening it quickly as the other Islanders rush over to hear the message. Your eyes scan over the words and you read them quickly, your excitement doubling—nay, quadrupling. You let out a happy shriek, your feet moving in a giddy half-dance half-jumping routine that has Garrett chuckling fondly.
“Girl, read the damn text!” Allie laughs, though the suspense is obviously getting to her.
You quell your excitement enough to clear your throat dramatically.
“‘Y/N & Garrett, Today you’ll be going on your first date together! Please get ready to leave the Villa #OneOnOne #SeasTheDay’”
As soon as you finish reading the text, the girls crowd you with overlapping squeals and demands that they have to help you get ready, while the guys hype Garrett up like he just won a championship. You barely have time to look at him before the girls are dragging you away to the dressing room.
“Girl!” Hannah grabs you by the shoulders as soon as you enter the room.
You match her enthusiasm. “I know!”
“Okay!” Allie stands up on one of the chairs to demand your attention, wobbling slightly. Dionne immediately rushes to her side to stabilize it with an exasperated look. “The time for celebrating is over! Now is the time that we must come together and focus on what’s important—Making sure you look so hot that Garrett malfunctions.”
You laugh along as the girls cheer in excitement, though Allie’s demeanor hasn’t dropped. She commands you all like a general, pointing at each of the girls as she barks out orders. “Dionne, you’re on bikini duty, preferably something that holds up the girls, but prioritize bottoms that make her ass look insane.”
You snort, though heat rises to your cheeks when all the girls just look at you knowingly.
“Kendall, you’re makeup. I want it minimal, waterproof, and sexy.” Kendall salutes teasingly. “Hannah, you’re on hair and perfume. She needs to smell like the most fuckable piña colada Garrett’s ever had the honor of smelling—And for the love of God, someone plug in a curling iron!”
Hannah moves to do just that as Allie climbs down from her chair.
Kendall crosses her arms in amusement. “And what exactly will you be doing, Captain?”
“The pièce de résistance.” Allie rummages through her suitcase before pulling out a bottle of shimmery body oil and holding it up triumphantly. “They shall see you sparkle from Mars.”
Four bikinis, three different perfumes, and an entire bottle of body oil later, you’re finally ready for your date with Garrett. You and the girls dance around excitedly—loud enough that the boys can hear you from downstairs—as you show off your chosen bikini.
“We definitely did it,” Hannah says with a satisfied smile as the girls high five.
Allie pretends to wipe a tear from her cheek. “I feel like a proud mother.”
Before you can say anything back, there’s a loud knock on the door.
“Can I come in now?” Garrett’s voice sounds muffled, but the grumpiness in his tone travels just fine.
Perhaps you and the girls had gone a bit overboard, which left Garrett waiting right outside the door for you for 25 minutes because Allie refused to let him in until you were done.
“One second!” Allie shouts back, rolling her eyes teasingly.
The girls all pull you into a group hug and you thank them—for probably the 50th time—for all their help as you squeeze your arms around them. Hannah fixes a bit of your hair and Kendall does a quick pull up of your bikini top and then they’re all heading to the exit.
“Have fun!”
Allie finally opens the door and Garrett takes them in with a tired expression that they all fully ignore.
Dionne glances back at you and then looks him up and down. “You don’t deserve her.”
The girls leave the dressing room and you suddenly feel nervous, turning to the mirror to fix your perfectly fine lip gloss as Garrett enters the room.
“Hey—Holy…”
You turn to face him and Garrett’s lips remain parted as he takes you in. He blinks. And then blinks again. And then blinks for a third time.
You light up with a bright smile when you see his outfit. “We’re matching!”
He’s wearing a pair of purple swim trunks that match pretty closely the violet color of your bikini and a fully unbuttoned linen shirt that you’re sure will be left behind as soon as you get to your destination.
“Yeah… I, um…” His mouth moves weakly, but no words come out.
You reach for the short wrap around skirt that came with your swimsuit and tie it around your waist. When you finish and look back at him, Garrett still hasn’t found his voice.
You raise your brows slightly. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—Holy shit.” He looks up in an attempt to collect himself. “I asked Dionne what color you were wearing.”
“...Why are you saying that to the ceiling?”
“I need a minute.”
A slow smile of realization grows on your face as you take a step closer. The tantalizing scent of pineapple, coconut, sea salt, and fresh vanilla that Hannah layered onto your pulse points follows you.
“You know, you haven’t even complimented me yet,” you pout playfully. “Do you not think I look pretty, Garrett?”
“You’re not playing fair right now.” Garrett’s voice comes out strained.
You let out a flirty giggle and take another step, cocking your head and batting your lashes with feigned innocence. “I’m just asking if you think I look pretty or not. Me and the girls spent a long time getting—,”
A yelp slips past your lips when Garrett’s hands dart out suddenly and grip onto your hips. He pulls you into him so quickly that you stumble, connecting your lips in a heated kiss before you even have time to find your footing. Any teasing you have left gets swallowed by him as he slips his tongue into your mouth and you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer.
His hands feel up your ass before dropping down to your thighs, gripping them as he lifts you up and makes you wrap your legs around his waist. Without breaking your kiss, he lets go of you with one hand, using it to clear off whatever is on the vanity, and sets you down on the table.
You pull away when you hear the clatter and look down at the objects that have fallen to the floor. “My moisturizer…”
“I’ll get you a new one,” Garrett waves off, cupping your face with both of his hands as he tries to bring your lips back to his.
“How? We’re in a secluded villa in Fiji—,”
He cuts you off with another deep kiss, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he slots himself farther between your legs. Your moisturizer is quickly forgotten as you tangle your fingers into his hair, the heels of your feet digging into his back as you try to get him closer. His lips pull away from you suddenly and you heave a breath as he attaches them to your neck, his hands falling to the spot just above your hips as he sucks and bites against your skin.
You look down at him, as much as you can, when you hear a small noise. “Are you sniffing me?”
“Yes,” Garrett states unapologetically, taking another deep breath of you as he goes back to pressing rushed, open-mouthed kisses along your skin.
Your legs tighten around him when his mouth reaches the tops of your breasts, shivering when his teeth sink into them gently, before he traces over the shallow mark with his tongue. It’s only when his fingers move to pull your top farther down that you grab his face with your hands and pull him away from you.
You squish his cheeks together, giggling when his lips pucker. “We’re gonna be late for our date.”
“You’re kidding!”
When the SUV finally arrives at your date location, you’re practically racing out of the car.
“Garrett, it’s a waterpark!”
“I can see that.” Garrett smiles in amusement, following after you—though not quite with your same level of urgency.
“We get a whole waterpark to ourselves,” you gush, taking in all the water slides excitedly. “This is so awesome!”
You untie your wrap skirt and Garrett discards his shirt and then you’re grabbing him by the hand and dragging him to the nearest slide.
The two of you start by going down the tube slides together, your shrieks of joy mixing with Garrett’s laughter as you both slide down in the inner tube. Then you challenge Garrett to a race down the two straight slides—where the two of you stay for the next half hour because you both can’t agree on who actually won.
(On one of your runs, Garrett gets a five second penalty because he jumped the start on the last race and then you also get a five second penalty because you do the same thing on the next one—this back and forth continues quite frequently. At one point, Garrett gives you a 10 second penalty for having a “bad attitude”. He’d already reached the bottom of the slide before you even finished serving it.)
“Just admit that I won,” Garrett’s slightly out of breath as you both exit the water.
You are much more out of breath. “Admit? I think you mean lie. Because you definitely did not win.”
“What are you talking about?” He laughs. “I literally finished a foot ahead of you!”
“Yeah, because you have gross, Bigfoot sized feet.”
Garrett’s jaw drops in disbelief, but he can’t stifle his amusement. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” You lift your chin up defiantly.
“That’s it—,”
“Garrett—!”
You scream when Garrett grabs you suddenly, lifting you up and holding you out over the pool. He pretends to drop you and the slight jerk makes you let out another scream and cling to his arms.
“Put me down!” You demand, struggling in his grip.
“I won. Say it.”
“No, you’re taller. Which we agreed we’d account for–for fairness–and I accounted for it. I won.”
“You sure?” Garrett gives you one more chance.
You stick your tongue out. “Positive, Bigfoot.”
“Fine.” He shrugs. And then he drops you into the pool.
Your screech gets swallowed by the water and you kick your feet to bring yourself back up to the surface, wiping water from your eyes before they suddenly widen in panic.
“Garrett,” you say much more seriously.
He’s still chuckling at you from the pool deck.
“Garrett, my top came off.”
Your treading water quickly becomes you kicking your feet rapidly to keep your head up as you wrap your arms to cover your bare chest. You turn your head to see the offending fabric floating next to you. You can tell the exact moment Garrett spots it too because he starts chuckling harder.
“Stop laughing!” You shout at him—though it loses a lot of its intimidation when you’re barely treading water in a pool without a top on.
“Okay, okay.” He’s still laughing, but Garrett jumps into the water too.
When he comes back up, he pushes his wet curls back against his head and grabs your bikini top. “C’mere.”
It’s a bit more difficult to move through the water without using your arms so as soon as you’re close enough, he grabs your bent elbow and pulls you to him faster. He bends a leg so that you can rest on his thigh and angles himself wordlessly so that his body is shielding yours as much as he can. He looks at the strapless top in slight confusion, before deciding to just stretch it with both hands and pull it over your head.
“If I just flashed my tits to all of America, I will kill you,” you grumble, keeping your arms wrapped tightly around your boobs as Garrett shimmies the top down your shoulders.
He grins. “I just can’t believe it came off now and not all the times we went down the slides.”
“Shut up.”
Once Garrett gets the top over your breasts, you pull each arm out slowly as he keeps it in place, until you’re finally wearing it properly again.
“There.” He presses a short kiss to your lips. “Modesty preserved.”
You glare at him. “I hate you.”
“Yeah… You’re still gonna kiss me though,” Garrett teases.
Not even your pride can stop you from wrapping your legs around his waist and kissing him again as he holds you both up in the water.
The two of you stay in the pool for a bit longer before you’re led to a poolside set up of drinks and towels that acts as the final part of your date. Garrett offers you one of the towels to dry off with, but you, somewhat shyly, ask if you can share his instead, and you end up resting against his chest as he wraps a towel around the both of you.
You’re tired in the best way, drained from a day in the water and sleepy from the sun warming your skin. You snuggle deeper into Garrett’s arms.
“This was so fun,” you say quietly.
“Yeah?” Garrett takes a sip of his drink before passing one to you.
You take a small sip before setting it down and looking up at him with a drowsy smile. “Yeah. Like, top ten days of all time.”
“Damn, of all time?” Garrett smiles teasingly, though it’s too soft around the edges to actually have that effect. “That’s a pretty great day.”
“Mhm.” You nod against his chest.
Garrett takes another sip of his drink. “I had a great day too... I’m glad it was with you.”
You smile, reaching for his hand and interlocking your fingers together.
“What do you think our first date on the outside would look like?” You wonder aloud.
“Will,” Garrett corrects.
“Hm?”
“You should ask what it will look like, because it’s definitely happening,” he gently brushes a small fleck of mascara from under your eye. “And it’ll look like whatever you want it to look like.”
You let out a small yawn. “That’s a cop out.”
“Nah, it’s me giving my girl whatever she wants,” Garrett grins.
You twist slightly to look at him and you're close enough that some of the water dripping from his wet curls lands on your shoulder.
“Even a private waterpark?”
“Mm.” He hums in agreement, dipping his head to peck your lips. He lets his lips linger against yours for a moment longer and you feel his smile grow against your mouth. “I’ll even pretend like you won every slide race.”
You lift a hand to caress his cheek, affection sparkling in your eyes. “I’ll let you win some too.”
“Oh yeah?” Garrett turns slightly to kiss your palm. “Careful, or I might think you really like me.”
You reach your hand around to the back of his head to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, and kiss him again, letting your lips move against his lazily.
“That’s okay. I do.”
By the time you and Garrett make it back to the Villa, you’re almost entirely dry and you feel like you’re glowing—thanks to Allie’s body oil, both inside and out.
You both look at each other in mild confusion when the other Islanders don’t immediately come out to greet you. But a loud laugh from the fire pit and an unfamiliar head of blond hair quickly gives you a possible answer.
You cock your head. “Wait, did a bombshell come in while we were gone?”
“I guess so,” Garrett shrugs.
Hannah finally spots you, leaping up from the fire pit and rushing over and you catch the attention of the other Islanders as the rest of the girls follow her.
“You’re back! How was it?”
You lean against Garrett with a smitten smile as the girls crowd around you. “It was really fun.”
The girls let out small ‘aw’s when Garrett nods in agreement, his expression just as soft.
“I’d say you missed out on what happened in the Villa today, but something tells me you would’ve preferred this anyway,” Kendall teases.
“I noticed.” You glance at the guys still by the fire pit. “Did we get a new bombshell?”
The girls all nod, pulling you from Garrett’s embrace and telling you snippets about him excitedly as they lead you over to the rest of the group, Garrett trailing slightly behind.
Once you get to the fire pit, you’re able to see the new bombshell more clearly. He’s tall, with blond hair and striking green eyes. In a different villa, you might have been interested, but after the day you just had, it wouldn’t matter how cute he is, he doesn’t stand a chance.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you. I’m Dean.” He introduces.
“Hi,” you give him a friendly smile. You don’t miss the way Allie is looking at him like he’s either the best or worst thing to enter the Villa. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Dean lets his eyes travel down your body, taking in your bikini and appearance with a cocky grin. “The pleasure’s all mine. You’re very… sparkly.”
An arm suddenly wraps around your shoulder and you’re pulled into Garrett’s chest.
“So am I,” he deadpans.
Behind Dean, Allie stifles a giggle.
From your various activities throughout the day, much of your shimmery body oil had transferred onto Garrett—notably on his chest, neck, and hands and, most visibly, around his mouth.
Dean holds up his hands placatingly. “Just makin’ an observation.”
“Mhm.”
When Garrett doesn’t offer anything else, you pinch his side teasingly.
“This is Garrett.” You make the introduction for him. “I promise he’s usually nicer.”
Dionne lets out a disbelieving laugh and the other Islanders just glance at each other, knowing you’re either being funny or totally oblivious. And, but the look on your face, it’s definitely the latter.
Dean chuckles. “I don’t know. From what I’ve seen, I think he’s only nice to hot girls in purple bikinis.”
Your cheeks heat at the implication and even more so when everyone else seems to agree with him.
“Just this one actually.” Garrett says it so casually your stomach flutters, before tilting his head so he’s only looking at you. “Can we go now?”
“Garrett, don’t be rude.”
He pulls you closer into his side. “What? We’re still in our swimsuits from the waterpark. I don’t want the chlorine to irritate your skin...”
You snort. “Yeah right.”
Garrett grins at you and his fingers trace over the waistband of your bikini bottoms.
“Chlorine’s no joke,” Dean ruins the moment when he suddenly chimes in, nodding solemnly before his lips pull into a flirty smirk. “If you need any help taking your suit off, I’d be more than happy—,”
Garrett’s smile drops instantly and his grip tightens around your waist. “We’re leaving now.”
You laugh as he herds you away from the group and towards the bedroom, throwing a happy wave over your shoulder.
“See you guys later! And welcome to the Villa, Dean!”
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
Includes: Duncan the tall, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, and Valarr Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: How they would be with a crybaby!reader
Warnings: A little dirty on Aerion's, but that's it.
A/N: This one's a little shorter, I'm getting busier with school starting so uploads might be slower but I will get to every request at some point. Sorry to the Aerion lovers...
Dunk is not the sharpest sword on the rack. He notices things about you, like your favorite book to read, the knights you root for in the tourney and the ones you find dishonorable (Aerion), when one of your dresses gets a tear so he can fix it, etc. He cares. More than you know. Yet he can't for the life of him find out why you're crying. At first, he thought someone else had said or done something to you, and was ready to go to war for you. Your quiet mumble of, "You're the one that made me cry, you lunk," will shake him. Dunk talks a lot. Sometimes nonsense, mostly nonsense, but he is serious about things from time to time. He'd made an offhanded comment about how the way you'd worn your hair that morning had been on the more unflattering side, assuming he was helping, but you'd excused yourself politely a few minutes later and avoided him the rest of the day. Even Egg felt the tension. He's going to feel like shit, even if you half-heartedly accept his apology and ask him to leave. He'll be all but on top of you the following days. "Can I help with that? Do you need someone to go with you to the market? Would you like a hand? Your hair looks nice. Is that a new cloak? I like it. It's not? Oh. Can I carry those for you?" Dunk wasn't the type to talk about his feelings, it's what he'd been taught for the last few years by Ser Arlan. He doesn't know how to say he fucked it all up and he's awfully apologetic about the whole thing, so he shows you instead with acts of service. Until you tell him you forgive him, and you're honest about it and not just trying to make him feel better, he'll become your personal servant, do anything you asked of him. Do with this information what you will. After you've forgiven him, he's a lot more careful with his words.
Daeron sees it immediately. You're a good actor when it comes to these things, even if you've been a poor little crybaby your whole life. The way your eyebrows momentarily furrow, the way your smile fades, the way your eyes divert from him to anything else in the room. He'd seen that look of disappointment in everyone he met since he'd...since before he could properly remember. The pitiful, hot tears streaming down your cheeks were something he didn't see every day. "Forget what I said. It was foolish of me. I believe you're nothing less than perfection, you know. Banish the thought of anything else." He's such a reassuring lover because if he can't receive the reassurance he so desperately needed and still needs, the least he can do is give it to others. He doesn't want you of all people feeling a fraction of the self-hatred he feels on the daily. He'll spend the rest of the day with you if he can, just to ensure you know he doesn't think ill of you. He'll show you all the secret nooks and crannies of the Red Keep or Summerhall, depending on where you want to be. Perhaps he gives you a risky quickie in one of the dimly-lit servant's corridors while you tug at his hair and look to your left and right, worried someone will catch you. That's a fic for another day. Daeron isn't extra careful with his words from then on, mostly when he's drunk, but he'll notice when he's upset you, apologizing profusely and not letting you go until you promise to forgive him.
Aerion doesn't care. He might find you hot when you cry, or even go out of his way to make you cry from then on because he gets off on it, but he won't comfort you or apologize. If it's someone else making you cry, it might be a different story.
Valarr is the sweetest Targaryen prince who ever was because I say so. He's also the busiest prince ever, so he's not going to be looking at you when he says, "Change out of that dress, try the one sent from the Starks. It's better," he's looking at charters and letters from neighboring kingdoms. You do as he says and when he's ready to look up at you, all he sees is the door shutting. You must have something important to do. You're actually quite proud of yourself. You don't cry at his comment the whole day. You suck it up and sit through breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a smile, making small talk and helping the queen consort, Aelinor, run the household. It was that night before bed that you feel apart at your vanity. Your face was in your hands as your shoulders shook, sobbing softly. You figured Valarr would be busy late into the night, assisting his uncle the king, but he came back to your chambers earlier than you'd planned, finding you a mess. You brushed him off, but he pushed and prodded and begged and pleaded and even pulled your seat to face him, so you told him what he said bothered you. "It's silly. I don't know what's wrong with me." He pulled your hands away from your face, sitting on his knees in front of your chair, mismatched eyes wide and regretful. "I shall never think such a thing again, or you will be permitted to cut my eyes out. Granted, I may scream a little, but you have my consent." It makes you laugh, lightening the mood, but he is truly serious.
you're... something with frank. you're not dating him, he doesn't take you out. you're not just fucking him, you've practically moved in. there's just not a word for you two, you pivot between hate and love every day.
today, in particular, leans closer to hate.
it's only because you've been talking to your friend- in your defense, it's so hard to coordinate a phone call with her, and in his defense, frank has so little time to relax that he likes to spend it in bed with you. he'll take no for an answer, of course, but he doesn't like taking busy for an answer, so when your call with your friend starts bordering on five hours long while you're lounging around his apartment in his shirt and your panties he's got blue balls and he starts getting pissed off.
you're just trying to talk to your friend on the phone and he's in a pissy mood, throwing shit around, slamming cabinet doors and muttering obscene curses under his breath every time you say something particularly vapid that could probably be a text or at least a phone call after he's gotten to blow his load in you. the noise is so disruptive that you snap at him to stop, 'jesus, frank, could you throw your temper tantrum a little quieter? I'm on the phone.'
you've struck a very sensitive chord here; you've made him feel like he's less important than your phone call. and the last thing he'd ever do was admit that, but you can't give him a nice long look at your ass in a thong beneath the hem of his shirt and expect him to sit quietly and wait for his turn- especially when your guys' conversation stopped being important hours ago and has turned into a useless rehashing of past drama. just the look he gives you, before he says anything at all, makes you realize that you might be in trouble.
'are you kidding me?' he asks, his voice a grating drawl, 'you're gonna lounge around my fuckin' place and tell me to shut up? If you don't like it, sweetheart, you can get out.'
You try cutting him off with a hasty 'Frank!' but he doesn't care, hands wildly waving as he gestures while he talks
'You two aren't even saying anything important anyways. You've been talking about old college drama for hours- you don't have anything better to talk about? You're gonna tell me to shut up- weren't saying that last night, were you? How 'bout you tell her about the way I made you fuckin' cream, huh? The way I grabbed you and tossed you on the couch before you could even turn the lights on. You wanna admit to her how loud you screamed? how the whole fuckin' block knows I was poundin' your pussy last night- you wanna talk about that?'
It doesn't matter how many times you try to stop him once he starts shouting, he's not going to. he's so loud the neighbors can probably hear it, but he's not wrong about them being able to hear you last night, too- they probably do know almost everything that goes on in frank's apartment.
all you can manage is mortified silence and he scoffs, that stupid smirk on his face, 'yeah, that's what i thought, princess'
he means it in a prissy way, and maybe he's right that you eat his food and lay on his couch in his shirt but won't look his way. but maybe he's mean too, and you should be able to talk to someone else for a few hours without him getting jealous and throwing a fit. and you two really don't work well together and you just get so angry at each other, but that's where you really thrive with frank. he gets on your nerves and you get on his and you guys fuck it out like animals. he definitely leaves bite marks on you that night, on your ass, on your shoulder, his hands rough and bruising as he manhandles you, murmuring against your mouth that you've gotta 'start behaving otherwise i'm kicking you out, baby'
Includes: Duncan the tall, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, and Valarr Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: AKOTSK men trying to be respectful during your first time but they're so needy
Warnings: 18+ for smut (duh)
A/N: my headcanons are becoming mini fics i'm sorry for the yap i think i like this format better...request for the super sweet @sharpndivine. sub!aerion was whispering in my ear i don't know what happened.
Dunk has never tried so hard to not look at a woman's breasts. Your breasts aren't even visible yet, either. He's just been staring at the noticeable peaks of your nipples through your dress for the past five minutes. Somewhat staring. He's striving to be kind with you, he knows you're a virgin. You're hiding it from him, surprisingly. Most ladies would want to appear "pure" or "untouched," but you're insisting this is nothing new to you.
It's endearing.
You've been kissing one another silly for the better part of an hour, and as satisfied as he would be if that's all you wanted from him tonight, he couldn't say no to more if you offered. It would be rude, right? He talks a considerable amount in between each press of your lips against his.
"Seven hells, you've got to be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You taste like heaven, fuck me, don't get me started on your body. Can't help but feel offended you stashed all this away from me for so bloody long."
His hands are shaking on your hips, his lips are quivering where they brush your jaw, and his words become fumbled stammers. You know he's half-mad with lust.
"Do you...desire—" You started to question, thankfully interrupted long before you could embarrass yourself any further.
"Yes. Sorry, I cut you off. Yes. I do. Yes," he said in what you could only describe as a hushed whine, his instantaneous agreements high-pitched and wispy.
"I deceived you. I may not know everything I claimed to." You preened at the admittance, expecting to be shamefully scolded or hear that heartbreakingly disappointed sigh of his. When you meet his eyes, he's smiling like the big dolt he is.
"D'ya reckon? I had no idea, really. I'm stunned. My timbers...shivered, m'lady. Absolutely shivered." Dunk pretended to guffaw, a tiny smirk at the corner of his wide-open mouth, a tease. In this moment, of all moments! A tease!
"Right, fuck you, then. You can run on back home," you groaned, hands flying to cover your face. He'd cover your hands with his infuriatingly large ones and pull them back down.
"My home is with you." His pupils were dilated as far as they would go, hormones in a state of mutiny against him. He clenched his trunk-sized thighs together as if to disguise the undisguisable hard-on in his (now he realized) quite thin trousers.
You kissed him again, harder this time, your fingertips sliding down his shoulders in a swift glide. "Off?" His heart leaped out of his chest with a confusing mixture of worry, yearning, fretfulness, and an unnamed hunger.
"Gods be good, yes, yes, of course." You take less than a minute to completely undress yourselves, and you try your damndest to get his pretty pink mouth back on yours, however, he's too focused on gawking at you. He'd feel you up everywhere he could until you're as soaked and gushing between your legs as Tumbler's Falls. You'll need to tug on his hair to get him to focus, grumbling underneath him for attention.
He also wouldn't give you his cock like you asked for, you have to work your way up to that. He'll spread you on his fingers and tongue and if you really, truly, want to, you can get him off with your hand, coached by his to guide it. Provided you spend days convincing him, he might let you ride him by the end of the week.
Daeron is not a man of the court. He's grown up in it, witnessed it, been around lords and ladies more than his own mother and father, but no, he's a mongrel of a man. No shame when it comes to...mostly anything, to be honest. So why was he forcing himself to be a man of honor during the first night you shared together?
His palms were sweating where they squeezed at your thighs, his knees starting to ache where they were settled on the floorboards of your marital chambers. He's seemed so...aristocratic with you insofar. The marriage was arranged to preserve his image as the firstborn son of the second-born prince, it was a tedious affair. He would know. He has had many affairs.
Daeron was trying to be leisurely with his pace, so as not to overwhelm you, though the effort it takes is equivalent to the effort he required to avoid drinking tonight. He did that for you, too. He lapped up all your dripping cunt had to offer, and for a woman who seemed so...virtuous, it was quite a lot.
When you move your hips around for more friction, he holds them down with one hand, the other trailing down to palm himself through the silk of his breeches. He mumbled unintelligible praises into your folds, the vibrations of his words stimulating your clit and making you whimper pitifully.
"I need more," you pleaded, eyes squeezed shut in bliss, and it tore him to pieces. For once in his life, he was being the man his father had strived for him to be, yet you didn't fancy this version of him?
"You don't mean...are you...really?" Daeron faltered, strands of his hair falling in his uncertain eyes, concern warring with longing. You have to keep eye contact to get him up on the bed and on top of you to reassure him. On no occasion other than this in his somewhat pathetic life has he ever deemed to take this much caution in the bedroom.
He takes ages to get his clothes off, giving you time to back out or rescind your statement, and his breathing gets more and more labored when you stay silent, gaze dragging down every crevice of his abdomen, lashes fluttering.
Daeron can't decide if it was better to be sober for this or not.
The moment he's inside you, it's like a link has been formed. King Arthur himself could not pull him out.
Since he's no beginner to sex, as you both know, you'd anticipated he would take the lead, what you didn't anticipate was how slow he would be. Fast enough you were too overcome to speak, but slow enough you were scratching at his shoulders for him to fucking move.
He has the gall to laugh at your clawing, eyes crinkling near the corners and maybe you would have it in you to be fuming with him if he wasn't looking at you with total adoration. He will be addicted to your pussy for the foreseeable future, and you are not leaving the bed for that night and the next day. All of the uncertainty evaporates when he feels you cum around him for the first time.
Aerion isn't civil. He can put on a believable show for the nobility when he's asked, but there's no need to feign courteousness in the comfort, or discomfort, of the marital chamber.
Nevertheless, he didn't ravish you as he bragged to his brothers he would. He actually didn't touch you at all. He cleared his throat when the wide double doors shut behind you and shed a few layers of clothing, getting into bed and turning his back to you.
"Blow out the candles when you're done changing."
He did this for your sake and his. He could wrestle with the sudden greed he felt over you, and you were freed from having to consummate with the cruelest of the young Targaryen princes. You should've been relieved! Instead, he heard the thump of your slippers against the floor, a stamp of indignation followed by an outraged scoff.
"Is there a problem?" Your arms were crossed against your chest, face pulled tightly in a vexed frown, awash with irritation.
"...beg pardon?" Aerion sat up, the blankets pooled around his waist, his sharp features accentuated by the dim candlelight rather than dimmed by them. "There is no problem. Come to bed."
"There is more to be done, Aerion." You chided, a plain reproach. A prince of the blood. "Do not tell me you shirk all of your duties like this. I understand you can be...rebellious from what I've heard, but this is downright treachery."
He was visibly shaken by your decree. Very few people had admonished him as of late and lived to tell the tale, or kept all their fingers. His mouth opened to argue, then closed, then opened, then shut again with an audible snap of his teeth. He looked anywhere in the room but at you, still in your wedding garb, pulse racing.
"D-Duties?" He managed weakly. Weakly. He said something weakly to his wife.
"The bedding."
Aerion steeled himself. He had provided you an exit. Practically handed you the key. Anything that happened now was caused of your own volition. He intended to be rough, to teach you a lesson, to fuck you like he would a courtesan or a whore.
How he ended up sniveling into your shoulder while you rode him, he'll never quite know. His pale, nimble fingers were tangled in the fabric of your dress, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer to him. The mighty have certainly fallen.
"Gods...if you keep...right there...I'm going to....yes..." He wheezed, gasping for air. He won't let go after he's cum, a mixture of wanting you near and not being able to face you if you drew back.
"Stay like this. Fuck," he mumbles against your jaw. "For me."
Valarr is useless. He doesn't know where to put his hands, or his legs, or his lips, or his cock. It's not wholly because he wants to be respectful of you, but more he's just clueless.
He conceals it the best out of all of them.
He's composed, reminding himself to relax his body, and he's a good enough performer you might believe he knows what he's doing if his jaw wasn't clenched to oblivion. You almost feel bad for him.
He hasn't kissed you yet. You've talked for hours through the night in your now shared bed, the candles melting down to the wick. If the glances down to your lips weren't a clear indication of the passion he buried beneath his veneer of chivalry, the frustrated, horny huffs he snuck in between sentences was.
You would have to take matters into your own hands.
"It's late."
"It is. Forgive me, I did not take into account you must be exhausted after today," he whispered with a self-deprecating edge. "I didn't mean to keep you."
"Valarr." You place your hand on the side of his head to tilt his mismatched stare in your direction, fingers stroking his white streak. He hums softly in acknowledgment, not trusting his voice to stay level if he spoke. "We don't have to."
He knew what you meant.
He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, giving you time to both stress that you've said something wrong and admire the slope of his nose, how his eyelashes harmonize with the smattering of freckles dusting his cheeks.
Right as you retreat from him, he catches you by the back of your neck and tentatively met your lips with his. He backs away after only a few seconds, lips still pursed and ready. You gape at him briefly before initiating another kiss, a longer one.
There's a half-second pause where he's startled by your vigor, knees going weak, and he's thankful he's sitting, or else he'd have swooned. His thumb brushes your jaw and the other hand slides up the sheets to rest on your waist. His frame curves desperately into yours, and he breaks the kiss to crush his lips to your throat.
You're whining by the end of this fervent session, and he isn't any less debauched, warm puffs of air the only sound in the heated room. Your breaths mingle and his nose skims your cheek, a question evident in the action.
Do you want more?
Your answer comes in another kiss.
By the time the sun has risen in the sky, he can't recall what he'd been so anxious about, but he had no time to think on it, too satiated to obsess over anything save for the woman asleep in his arms.
feel like this took longer than it should’ve and also my longest fic so far so pls pls ignore any mistakes… go easy on me
aerion being mean┊ reader being mean ┊ heavy kissing ┊pinv ┊ sub!aerion ┊ sub!reader ┊ unprotected sex┊ creampie┊
aerion x hateful!wife!reader
aerion and his wife who hate each other yet tremble when they kiss
It is known the prince Aerion and his wife were not particularly fond of each other.
The servants, the cooks, the washermen, your families, any poor soul who had the misfortune of spending even the slightest amount of time in your presence were well aware of the fact that it was a loud marriage. It had become common knowledge that you were always, always arguing.
Some despised it so much, they not only found peace in the farthest possible place away from you both by fleeing at the sight of you together, but they also found solitude in their faith. People who had not spoken to their gods in what felt like years, some who doubted their existence to begin with, all genuinely, hopefully prayed at the mercy of the seven. Bowing and kneeling, pleading and begging for the constant fighting to stop.
It didn’t stop. It never stopped. Especially not now, when he was eating like that.
Crunch.
The sound made you flinch slightly, the anger flashing through your stiff limbs, the involuntary jolt of this red hot boiling rage. You tried to ignore it, tried not to cause a scene while stilling every muscle in your body in a weak attempt to do so. Your breath was slightly shaky, your chest rising and falling in that controlled way that was very clearly a manual action instead of the natural rhythm of someone calm. Someone whose teeth were not tightly clamped together to the point of pain.
He sat to your right. Relaxed.
You turned your gaze to him slightly, tracking his movements from the corner of your eye, almost predatory like as you observed every small movement of his mouth.
Crunch.
You flinched again, this time your composure cracking and the anger shone through. Eyebrows furrowed, lips curled in disgust. Every mean thing you were feeling breaking through onto your face, painting your features in a mean light.
All while he sat there, ever the perfect picture of tranquility. His elbow digging into the wood of the table, dagger in one hand and nut in the other. And his eyes were— you were staring. His eyes were on yours, waiting for them to meet his.
With a raise of his brow, the fingers around his dagger spread to the rest of the room, head nodding slightly to encourage you to speak, looking like he had no idea why you were so angry.
You huffed out a breath. Your muscles loosen along with it, like the exhale of air expelled the stiffness within you.
Your body turned slightly to him, the sight of him now taking up the entirety of your vision. You stared coldly at his face, his mouth, that smug smile decorating it, his dagger, the pile of nuts on the table, and then returned to look at your own meal placed in front of you.
And then it was quiet finally. For a moment, completely silent.
Crunch.
Your hands were on the table before you could even fully register the sound. Just that you had heard it and you were angry. The basic animal instincts of drawing a line in your territory and something crossing over, again and again and again.
Palms pushed flat on the wood, silverware clattering loudly, accompanied by the screech of your chair against the floor.
He tutted.
Now you stood next to him, still slightly hunched over the table, nails digging carvings into the wood.
“Husband,” the title spoken like a slur on your tongue, “I implore you to use the manners that I am sure such a privileged life has encouraged and relent your incessant chewing.”
He popped another nut into his mouth, "I implore you, wife, to mind your tongue. It would sadden me to remove it for your plain appearance already displeases me."
You scoffed, nails gripping tighter, looking over your shoulder to meet his eyes. "I was not aware you valued appearances so dearly, husband, considering your table manners that is."
He huffed out a laugh, judging eyes raking down your form.
"And you do? Doubtful considering the dress you have chosen to wear this morning." A pause. "And the way you have styled your hair." He trailed off with a smug laugh. "Besides I could not imagine someone like you to understand the image someone like me must uphold, as a prince, that is."
Your back straightened, spine now straight as you turned to him fully. Your voice was biting and harsh as you spoke.
"Lest someone should hear or see you in such a state and worry a pig has escaped from its den, instead of their prince eating at breakfast."
You heard the crack of his jaw as it clenched. The relaxed posture of his body now a fleeting thing as he stilled, then stood slowly, narrowed eyes never leaving your own. His head tilted, the entirety of him completely still.
“Pardon me?” He sneered. “Would my wife wish to repeat herself?”
“Yes I would,” you retorted, “or rather, we should hope they don’t send for a butcher to take you away.”
His hand was on your jaw.
The force beneath his fingertips sends a jolt of pain through your face. Your eyes narrow. His tone drops.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
He practically growled.
“Do not think of yourself so untouchable simply because you have taken my name.”
Your hand reached up to his arm, your nails gripping harshly into his wrist, covered in fabric but painful nonetheless. He gripped your face tighter in response. Your chests were heaving, faces flushed red with anger.
“And you, husband, should not think yourself completely exempt from table etiquette simply because you are of royal blood.” Your voice was mean, and he felt the vibrations under his palm as you spoke.
He scowled, his eyes moving between your own before flickering down to your lips which were framed by his pale fingers squeezing your face.
For a moment there was just the heavy breathing of two people who were much more angry than was necessarily required for such a situation.
Then he tore his hand away from you, a look of disgust in his eyes as he readjusted his sleeve. Your hand shot up to your jaw, soothing the muscle there, your eyes narrowed as he took a moment to look you up and down. He rolled his eyes like a child.
You wanted to kill him, you were about to, but he suddenly stormed away, his boots loud against the floor.
He hated you, actually hated you. And not the standard resentment he felt towards anyone and everything he deemed lesser than himself, but this cold, icy feeling only someone as cruel as him was capable of.
You most definitely reciprocated the feeling and despised him back in all of his spoiled, princely self, neither of you any better at hiding it than the other.
And that was the routine. Everyday. Constantly. No matter what it was about (normally something completely trivial), or who started it, who stormed off first, you would argue.
It is known.
So it surprises you and the serving boy he sends every night greatly when he calls on you. That he still calls on you. Every single night, without fail, he calls you to his chambers, and every single night you’re both tense, as you’ve already argued countless times throughout the day.
He calls even when the days are bad.
He calls on you the days when it’s just the screaming, the loud, angry, usual routine. When the arguing is centred more around your annoyance instead of the hatred.
But he also calls on you the days it’s worse, when you're quiet, when your voice has been low and steady and everything your emotions weren’t. Perhaps to the servants you just seemed agitated at more of your husband's antics, but Aerion always knew it was something more. That it was pure malice. He knew because it mirrored his own.
And despite all this, he still calls, despite all this you still come.
The walk to his chambers is almost humiliating. You arrive and you’re tense, he waits and he’s tense. You push the wooden door open, and you’re tense.
The creak is loud against the quiet of the room, alerting your presence to Aerion. He was sitting near the fire, staring at it intensely.
It seemed to be the only light source in his chambers, considering how dark it was, and how there was a slight chill as you entered.
The tension in his dimly lit room is so thick you feel it in your stomach.
“You certainly do not prioritise your station.” He spoke lowly from his chair. “Any longer and I would think something tragic had happened to you.”
You rolled your eyes as you closed the door behind you, resting your back against the frame. “Do not sound so eager at the prospect.” You spat.
He huffed out a laugh, "I'm sure you are aware why I have called on you. Yet you take your time nevertheless.”
You were about to retort something, when he stood from his seat, the action sending a shiver down your spine. Not from fear, you both knew why you were here, and perhaps it was that shared knowledge that made the tension in the room feel different. Not exactly the kind during the day where it made your breathing heavy with blinding rage, but one that made your stomach feel hot, one that made breathing hard.
He walked to you, the sound of his shoes against the floor the only sound in his chambers, and he stood close enough now that the fabric of his shirt and the embroidery of your gown were kissing softly.
You kept your face calm beneath his gaze, a brittle mask you feared would splinter if he kept staring. Being this close in proximity you should really be arguing, your hands should be clenched into fists at this stuck up bastard just being in the same room as you, yet they were slightly damp with sweat, slightly shaky.
You shouldn’t be cowering in front of the door. You shouldn’t have been melting into the wood, retreating into silence.
His hand rose from his side, then faltered and froze in the air. Unlike before at breakfast when he had lunged it forward before you had time to recoil from it, he was hesitant this time, his fingers without the intent to harm, but instead to hold.
You noticed the movement and looked at him, your brow raised in question. His hand was still in the air, hanging in the space between you.
You tilted your head as you watched him.
He hated you.
He moved faster, and he grasped your chin, but not hard really, just a quicker, more confident movement of his hand.
It landed on your jaw. Warm.
Your fingers flickered at the contact, rustling against the fabric of your gown, and there was a small reaction on your face as he touched you, your expression less taunting and more expecting now, both noticed by Aerion. And it should have been funny, he should have mocked you for it, but the only thing that left his mouth was a shaky breath and a small gulp.
You clasped your hands behind your back in an attempt to ground yourself, chin lifting slightly to try and hide your own expression.
Neither of you knew why you were breathing so hard.
Aerion tilted his head slightly, a small flicker, and your lips parted in anticipation. His eyes found them, then he looked back up to your eyes. He lent down. Slowly. His fingers on your jaw quivering while your fingers behind your back were squeezing and shaking.
It was just a kiss.
Both of you were still. The only movement was the careful descent of his head towards yours. His lips stopped just a breath away.
You blamed the chill in his room when you shivered.
He closed the gap.
His eyes fluttered shut at the contact and yours soon followed. You could feel the shaky exhale leave him when you leaned closer, rising yourself on to your tiptoes to press further into him. His hand on your jaw squeezed lightly, then moved with his other hand to your hips, as your own removed themselves from your back and found his shoulders, gripping at the fabric as you pulled each other impossibly close.
Aerion's hands were shaky against you, the small, shy movements soft through your dress. The whole of his hands were trembling, accompanied by the occasional flinch of his fingers from his mind and his body being in a complete panic, yet he was unable to stop. Also the fact he was trying to make sure he wasn’t flinching or shaking, very clearly a futile attempt.
The kiss broke and he moved back to look at your face, blushing and lips swollen. A proud smile reached his lips, he looked smug at your current state, smug like he wasn't also trembling against you.
“It’s not like you to be so quiet, wife.” He taunted, and in this light, taunting you like this, he seemed like a young boy with his childlike teasing.
“I am just astonished with how bad you kiss, husband. It has rendered me speechless is all.”
He scowled. You raised your brows. Both of your lips tingling.
His eyes glanced at one of your hands on his shoulders, and he quickly grasped it. He held it firmly before spinning around and moving to the bed. Being behind him like this, you could see the blush on the back of his neck, the pink tips of his ears. His steps were slightly stiff, only slightly however and rather unnoticeable if you weren’t so close behind him.
You stopped abruptly at the side of his bed, his feet coming to a complete halt in front of you, and before you could even register the movement his hands were on you, they moved to your waist, and shoved you backwards.
Landing on the soft sheets, you gasped in shock. “Gods, do you have to be such a brute?”
Your eyes looked up to where he was supposed to be standing but instead found him closer than you thought. His body caged you into the bed, and he stared down at you, breathing unevenly.
“You should be reminded that I do not like to be insulted.”
You looked up, meeting his gaze. He was glaring at you.
“You say that as if you did not insult my style of hair and dress only this morning.”
"I remember you saying I resembled a pig, wife."
A small smile reached your face as you recalled the earlier insult, quiet as you replayed the moment in your head, feeling victorious at the shock in his face.
He clenched his jaw, looking at your expression. His fingers dug into the sheets beside your head, the sound of scrunching snapping you out of your memory. Your eyes locked.
He huffed.
“I hate you.”
Then he kissed you again. Hungrier. Faster. His tongue finding the inside of your mouth and you letting it, enjoying as the kiss deepened.
It was filthy. Dirty and wet. Spit smearing across your lips and chin and plunging into each other's mouths. Neither of you pulled away for even a second, not for breath or to speak, instead just ceaselessly licking and sucking and biting one another’s lips.
Your mouth was tingling. You could feel the wetness coating it, but mainly you felt this warm, charged sensation that began finding its way throughout the rest of your body.
It felt good to kiss one another, so good it was almost scary.
Your back lifted ever so slightly off the bed, seeking his touch, and your hands hesitated before finding his waist. Then they did, and you dragged his hips down from hovering above you to meet yours, to the space between your own, the action spreading your thighs around his hips. Aerion gasped into you, the kiss breaking as he glanced down between you, at the lack of space, then back up to your eyes. His eyes were wide, blown, yours were flickering between his, looking as one would only describe as unsure.
He was blinking dumbly at you. You’re sure you were blinking dumbly back. And while breathing the same air for a short moment, Aerion heard the smallest whine leave you.
His hands were moving. He searched frantically for the opening of his trousers, leaning back on his ankles to gain a better view of his clothes. The sight of it sent heat through you.
You hated him. You practically ripped at the laces of your dress.
Both of you desperately removed the layers of clothes, and once he was done, once he was fully nude, he spared no time in reaching for your skirts. Your dress was more difficult than his shirt and trousers, tight with laces and embroidery.
Aerion grunted, “I hate this dress.”
“Shut up.” You growled.
After the sound of stitches ripping had filled the room, and both of you had most likely tore a few holes into your clothes in an attempt to remove them, he was above you again. He still sat back, leaving the view of his chest, his stomach, his cock all in your view, and he was hard, unnecessarily hard for considering you had only kissed, yet as you lay there beneath him, you were basically dripping onto the sheets already.
He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as he stared at you. Instead of his mocking gaze, or the intense one, the look in his eyes was unsteady, fluttering slightly at the sight of you, like they couldn’t focus properly. They moved from your face, to every feature, to your chest, your stomach, your legs, thighs, everything.
Under his watchful eye, your hands found themselves resting against the center of your ribs, fiddling with your nails, picking at the skin. This was nothing, yet you couldn’t even maintain eye contact.
Instead you looked at how Aerion held his length in his hand, stroking it once, then twice, then watched as he positioned it at your entrance.
The tip of him caught in your hole as he rubbed himself up and down your folds. You gasped.
He pushed in. Slow. Very slow. Your hands instinctively grip the sheets. Because it always started like this. When your minds were still intact, and you weren’t overcome with pleasure yet, there was no softness. He didn’t use his fingers or his mouth first, he didn’t kiss down your neck and kneed the soft flesh of your thighs.
It starts with your hands in the sheets. His joining them. The desperate clawing at fabric. Nails gripping into anything except each other, because you hate each other, you can't stand the thought of holding each other in such a vulnerable state, just the idea of it makes your jaw clench.
That's how it starts.
It is, if the indents and the scratches and the bruises at the end of the night are any indication, very clearly never how it ends.
It starts with his body away from yours, whether you're on your back or your stomach or you’re on top, the only part of you that’s touching is your hips. Because he doesn’t want to touch you, he doesn’t, he tries not to.
It’s a futile effort, which is clear now as he pushes inside you, and as soon as he feels your warmth around him, his whole body gives in. Like this involuntary surrender to your touch.
His hands landed on your thighs, a quiet whimper leaving his lips as he bottomed out inside of you. You were so wet, so slick with arousal.
His body hunched over yours slightly, head facing downwards, eyes locked on where you were connected. He pulled out again, then pushed back in, watching closely at the way you gripped around him. The sight of it pushed a whine out of his throat, the feeling of it causing his hands to drop to each side of your head.
Your thighs were squeezing him, legs locked at his lower back as he thrusted inside you. He wanted to go fast, to be rough, to hurt you. He couldn’t.
The feeling of him inside you clouded your vision, the stretch of him making your eyes go blurry. It felt so full. Even though he was slow, maybe even gentle, for some reason it felt like he was reaching into your ribs and trying to fuck the air out of you.
You didn’t let him. You were gasping hard enough for it to hurt. Sharp intakes of air through your throat every time he pushed into you because you had to swallow it. You couldn’t let the air out, because if you did it would come out as just strings of whines and moans and something sweet.
But then he moved the angle of his hips, just slightly, as he lowered himself on his forearms, and he pushed in again, looking down at you with flushed cheeks from the heat of it all and a furrow in his brow from trying ever so hard to keep his own sounds down.
He moved again, and it was too much, you let out a choked sob as he thrusted, like this new position had made his thrust force it out of you, along with all the other sounds, the cries.
He hated your voice. He tensed his stomach to stop himself from finishing at the mere sound of you.
The lewd sounds you were really trying not to let out, and horribly failing at, seemed to push him over slightly, enough so that he stopped biting the inside of his lip and breathed.
Then he was making the same sounds you were. He was whining and whimpering above you, his hips moving slowly, dragging his wet cock out of you to push back in slower. The sensation of it caused his arms to give out again, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, and you could feel every flutter of his eyelashes against your skin. His eyes were wet, as were yours, and you swear you felt him throb inside you as your hands reached to his back, ripping his skin and leaving a trail of red marks at his shoulders. You were squeezing him so hard it hurt. Your nails and your cunt.
Aerions own hands found his way around you, one wrapping under your waist and the other bracketing under your neck. There were wet gasps in your ear, the dirty, vulnerable sounds leaving his mouth uncontrollable as he rutted into you.
You could barely breathe.
“I hate you.” He choked.
“Fuck you.” You sobbed.
His head lifted. You locked gazes as his forehead dropped to yours. He pushed harder, and tears rolled down your cheeks as you tried to squirm your hips away from the ceaseless movement of his length scraping against your soft insides.
And for the first time that day, it was relatively quiet. Perhaps there were whines and whimpers filling his chambers, but it was much quieter than your usual arguing, and somewhere across the stone walls, the servants were glad their prince had such an appetite for his wife. For it was only at night, when he called on her, they weren’t plagued with the echoes of your screams.
He continued to fuck you like that, shuddering and shaking and embracing each other, a few stray tears leaving your eyes and his.
There was nothing you could say, nothing left to say, except for his name. It was spoken desperately to him, a whisper, a gasp, a moan, but his name nonetheless.
Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably around him. He throbbed inside you at the sound of his name on your tongue, and he kissed you once more. Desperate and wet.
You were both so close. The heat spread down your backs and into your stomachs, and he pushed inside you again, then again, then again and you shuddered and you cried and you came. Both of you together, feeling how he pulsed in you and you clenched around him with the pleasure you were giving each other. Feeling how the warmth of his seed coated your insides, then spilled out around the base of his cock, dripping onto the bed.
His body eventually gave in, dropping fully into you, as his head found your shoulder again.
You were both breathing heavily. Spent. Tired. Insults were nowhere to be found or heard because the pleasure was just too much, too overwhelming.
Your arms were sore, your hands dropping to the bed from his back, and he instinctively grabbed one. His arm uncurled from your waist at the sound of your wrists hitting the sheets and he found your warm hand. His fingers finding your palm, then the crevices between each of your own fingers, then they locked together. Interlacing into one.
You stayed like that, your mind blank, and you let sleep take you. As did he.
Your eyes fluttered open, eyelashes grazing against the soft skin of your cheeks as you adjusted to the morning light. It was warm beneath you. Your soft cheek pressed against something hard and you stirred slightly, the haze of sleep still making your mind fuzzy.
Aerion lay beneath you. Your head was on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck, leg thrown up across his waist. He held you firmly, even in sleep, with his hands wrapped around your hips. His breath was even, a slow and steady rhythm of someone in a deep slumber.
It was comfy. You hated that it was comfy. You hated the fact you woke up with bruises on your hips from where he was holding you, sore lips from when he was kissing you, red marks on your neck from when he was biting and sucking you. You hated how the thought of it sent heat straight through you.
The soft feeling you awoke with now fading away into annoyance as you watched him be so serene.
Slowly you got up, removing your limbs from him in a careful manner to not wake him. You walked to a table, to the leftover wine in a gold cup he was probably nursing last night before your arrival. You wrapped your fingers around the cool metal. Your feet soft against the floor as you tiptoed back to the bed, goblet in hand.
You hated him.
You threw the wine onto his peaceful face, the red liquid splashing and immediately staining the sheets. Aerion shot up, his face panicked for a moment as he looked around, then his eyes found you and he stilled, harsh gaze locked onto you. The cup in your hand, the smile on your face.
He was too angry to even speak, and in the morning light, with the red wine coating his white hair, it almost looked pink.
“What.” Was all he managed.
“Aerion,” you gasped, “Your brother, I tried to stop him but..” You trailed off as your hands gestured to him.
He stared.
“I’ll kill you.”
A pause.
He shot out of bed and you ran for the door with a laugh escaping you.
Requested part two to: The Knight & the Dragon Fair
⤷ Summary: The prince had trapped you in an oath, and you’re sworn to stand by his side, protect him, and give up your life for him should he need it. But his attachment to you is far from that of a knight and her charge. This “affection" is becoming a concern to his father. In an attempt to divert his son’s interest, Aerion finds himself engaged to a Tyrell girl.
You expect him to lash out and do everything in his power to break the engagement. Instead, he dotes upon her, becomes the prince of her dreams as he turns against you.
And when you find a way to keep your honor and escape the prince… he finds himself lost and stuck in an engagement he wants no part of. He must stop the wedding and find his knight once more.
(happy ending- where she keeps her independence- don’t worry)
Reader is described as taller than Aerion, implied to be buff/large, and is given a false last name for the use of the Ser adressment. (No other physical descriptors; I just need a six-foot-something woman to beat him up) anyone tagged requsted a part two
⤷ MDNI 18+ violent makeout, heavy petting, fingering, allusions to p in v sex, mention of aggressive fem!dom dynamics— Aerion is a switch, and I’m so sure she’d peg him if that was a thing in Westeros
WC: 21k
⤷ a/n: okay, so I was really firm I wouldn’t be doing another part for this fic. But then Ashe’s Stop the Wedding came out, and I was REALLY pissed off by a male this week. So, I’m back with my strong!bitch!reader and writing her tormenting our bratty prince once more.
The prince is covetous; he hoards and skulks as a dragon guarding its gold would. Even in sleep, you have no reprieve from his greedy nature. His arm remains tight around your waist, face pressed against your side as he keeps you pinned to the mattress.
Your head rolls as you take in the rising sun- just out of reach beyond the iron-wrought windows. You had agreed to meet Crakehall at dawn for a spar. The captain will understand why you're late, and he will not utter a complaint. But that teasing glint in his eyes always burns at you.
There are a handful of guards and servants alike who see you as nothing more than the prince's latest plaything. A porcelain creature he will break and leave abandoned on a shelf when he grows bored of you.
But you know yourself far better than they ever could. You will be damned before it is a prince that breaks you.
Especially one as spoiled as him.
There are a few others, like Crakehall and your fellow knights, who have garnered respect for you. Both for besting the prince at the Ashford tournament and holding your own against each of them every dawn that you train.
Aside from them, Aerion's father is the most displeased at your consistent presence at Summerhall. To the barest extent of your talents, you have tried to calm the dragon prince. But your skills only get you so far. You could never fully quell that raging inferno which burns so violently within him. Maekar fails to see the benefits in breaking long-standing traditions by allowing a woman to guard his son when you cannot even calm him.
Still, as Aerion's hold tightens around your leash, even Maekar has given up his relentless pursuit to rid his household of your presence.
With a sigh, you peel the prince’s arm off of you and rise from the bed. You make your way throughout his chambers, collecting the clothes that had been thrown about last night. You’re pulling on your shirt when he lets out a low groan, slowly rising on his elbows.
You lace the front of your tunic closed and spare him a look over your shoulder. It is no surprise that he is scowling back at you, clearly perturbed by the lack of warmth beside him.
“Good morrow, my prince,” you greet, tugging on your trousers.
“What are you doing?” he demands, bypassing any attempt at civility.
You let out a low laugh as you reach for your sword by the door and tie it around your waist. “I’ve promised Crakehall a spar today. Lest he be disappointed by those green boys your father has acquired.”
Aerion rolls his eyes at the reminder of the guests now residing in Summerhall. A pair of brothers from some fledgling lord that their father hoped to toughen up in the presence of Targaryens. They could barely hold a wooden sword, let alone a steel one. It was difficult enough watching them try to mount their horses a day past, as their legs flailed all about.
“The title of Knight is beginning to mean less and less these days,” Aerion complains, a sneer on his lips. “But I do not care for Crakehall’s disappointment. Stay. I’ll have one of the maids send up some fruit and wine.”
“A bit early in the day for wine,” you note, brow raising. Perhaps his brother is beginning to wear off on him.
“Are you questioning your prince?” Aerion shifts closer, the sheets falling low on his hips. His body is lithe in a way that always reminds you of a serpent. Pale muscles coiled tight, eager to strike.
Your eyes narrow before you offer him a lax look. “Of course not, my prince. Merely making an observation.”
“Well… cease that,” he demands with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Undress and join me in bed.”
You purse your lips, holding back a smirk as you shake your head, edging toward the door. “I am afraid duty compels me to join Crakehall. I must keep up my training if I’m to defend you.”
Aerion lets out a low noise, leaning back against the pillows with all the ease of a man who has never been told no. “Your duty compels you to do as I bid…” he says nothing else, but the threat of his power lingers in the air.
For a moment, you consider pushing, walking out the door, and doing as you wish. But he’s been relatively docile the past week or so. No need to punish everyone else in Summerhall by waking the dragon once more.
“As you wish,” you sigh, unlacing your sword and resting it by the door. He gives you a satisfied curl of his lips, lounging back and watching as you strip off your tunic and trousers. You stalk toward him, and he holds up a hand, eyes darting down to your undergarments.
“Oh…” you let out a low huff and shoot him a sharp glare that only has his interest piqued. “It is perverted, what you demand of me, my prince.”
“And yet, duty bids you comply.” You scowl, but heat burns under your skin as you strip bare before him. And the flames only burn hotter when you reach the mattress, throwing your legs over his lap, pushing him down into the pillows.
“I see you did not make it to training this morning,” Crakehall taunts as he strides up beside you. Aerion is only a few paces ahead, scowling as his father chides him for something. Perhaps it’s because he had those squire’s horses buck them earlier that day. You care little for Maekers ' ever-thinning patience.
“Our prince is a demanding one,” you muse. Crakehall lets out a low chuckle; his eyes dip to your collarbone, the indents in the shape of the prince’s sharp teeth.
“Clearly,” he mutters.
You finally pull your eyes away from Aerion and look over at your friend– your captain, now. “I will make sure to be there tomorrow– dawn,” you swear.
Crakehall’s eyes soften slightly, and he lets out a bemused sound. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
You nearly object until you feel that burning intensity on the side of your head. Turning, you see Aerion watching you over his shoulder as his father prattles on.
Those cold eyes dart to the mark he’d left on your flesh, and something content rolls across his expression. He spares Crakehall a warning glare before reluctantly turning back to his father.
“Aren’t all dragons?” you offer, shooting him a knowing look as the Targaryens turn into the dining hall.
The table is already set: roasted goose, honeyed fruit, delicacies from Essos you would never have laid eyes on, let alone tasted, before Aerion found you. But he has fed you plenty of them from the comfort of his bed.
You and Crakehall fall silent as you drift toward your respective corners of the room. He falls behind Baelor, who is already seated. His son, Valarr, sits beside him.
It’s been made clear to both you and Aerion’s cousin that you are, in no uncertain terms, not to converse. He is quite disturbed at the idea of having to share anything that belongs to him with Valarr. No matter how many times you remind him that you are bound to his blood, to the dragons, not Aerion alone.
You stand a few paces behind Aerion, hands tucked in front of you, eyes drifting over the room. The usual servants flit about, filling goblets with Arbor Gold and pulling out chairs. Daeron is already slumped against the table, eyes heavy as his hand loosely rests around his drink.
As dinners often go with the Targaryens– you will stand behind Aerion, you will suffer through the bickering and tense silences. And when he inevitably is infuriated by his father or uncle, he will storm off, and you will follow. Most often, that ends with a rough match between his sheets.
As with any help, the Targaryens do not acknowledge your presence as anything other than a piece of furniture. Tonight, however, you shift uncomfortably as you feel a strange, unfamiliar gaze boring into you.
Turning your head just so, you find it is Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne, sparing you far more than a fleeting glance. His mismatched eyes narrow before he lets out a sharp sigh, turning away from you. Your gut twists, something close to worry curdling in you.
Baelor shares a look with his brother and your shoulders stiffen. Oh… this will not be going well for anyone involved. You can already see it, the unspoken conversation, the agreement to band together against a stubborn, immovable force.
Aerion.
Whatever will happen tonight, your dragon will not like it.
They remain quiet long enough for Aerion to begin eating the main course. His mouth is full of roast goose when Baelor clears his throat, beginning to speak. “Aerion, there is something your father and I must discuss with you.”
Aerion’s lips pause around the roasted leg, eyes narrowing as his gaze darts between the pair of them. “What?” he mutters around a mouthful of food.
Baelor shifts, hands flexing on the oaken table. This time, it is Maekar who shoots you the wary glare.
What in the hells are they about to do?
It’s as if they’re trying to tell you something. Are you meant to subdue Aerion? Take him from the room?
You shake your head minutely, and the fourth prince lets out an aggrieved sigh and casts his eyes heavenward. You will never understand royals.
Baelor opens his mouth and then stops, seemingly rethinking his approach. It is of no surprise when Maekar’s patience snaps first. “Fucks sake,” he hisses under his breath. “A Tyrell girl; her father is chaperoning her here. They’ll arrive in a day's time.”
Aerion’s food drops back to his plate as he narrows his eyes, slowly leaning back in his chair. He is the picture of easy confidence. But you can see the way his nails drum against the arms of his chair, the taut pull of his shoulders.
“Why does this matter to me?” he demands, lowly, voice cool.
Ah, you understand, now, you’ll have to subdue him.
Quietly, taking care not to rattle your armor, you take a small step forward. In the corner of your eye, you see Baelor hold up a hand at his side. Not yet.
“She is Lord Tyrell’s second-born daughter, and he has offered her hand in marriage.” Your body freezes, stomach sinking as you take the words in.
It is not jealousy that burns in your throat– it is fear. Fear for yourself. For your position should he acquire a wife. And, quite honestly, a slight fear for the poor girl who will have to marry him.
You are hard, cut from rough stone and a beginning risen from mud and dirt. You have trained extensively throughout your life to defend yourself both physically and mentally against men like Aerion. Those who take with no regard to others' pain.
This girl will be soft, a lady trained to please her husband. Perhaps you’ll have to warn her that he prefers prey that fights back.
Aerion scoffs, nose wrinkling. “A second-born–” he begins, pompous as always.
Maekar cuts him a sharp glare, but it is Baelor that speaks. “You are the secondborn of a fourth son,” he says calmly, meaning no insult to his brother. But you can see the way Maekar bristles slightly. “A second-born Tyrell girl will be the most generous offer I can give you.”
Aerion considers a moment, hand rising to twirl the knife beside his plate. Valarr watches this, hands twitching toward the blade on his belt. “I refuse,” he finally concludes.
Maekar scoffs, “You can’t refuse. You’ll marry the girl. That is an order.”
“I get no say in who I am to wed?” He snaps.
Maekar leans forward and shakes his head slowly. “No.”
“And if I have already chosen my own bride?” Aerion demands quietly. By this point, all eyes in the room are burning into you, and you roll your shoulders back uncomfortably. It’s not as if you want to marry him. There’s very little you can do to argue against a prince, however. Second-born or not.
“I knew this was a horrible idea,” Maekar mutters, falling back in his seat.
“I’m glad we agree–”
“Not about the girl,” Maekar snaps. “About letting you have that fucking woman-knight.” You grimace slightly as Aerion shifts in his seat to survey you, carefully observing your reaction. You keep your face neutral and can see just how much it angers him.
Gods above, now you’ll have to answer for that tonight.
“Your attachment is concerning,” Baelor agrees.
Daeron, seemingly roused from his drunken stupor, sits up. “You can fuck the serving girls, brother. But you mustn’t marry them.” He holds up a lax finger in scolding before laughing and falling back to the table.
“That’s quite enough,” Baelor chides, refusing to look at you this time. “Your brother, as crude as he is, is correct. You cannot marry a sworn knight.”
“I never said I would,” Aerion sneers. That catches everyone off guard, you included. Such a violent dismissal might have stung were you not so aware of the prince’s quick temper and inability to think before he took action.
Maekar steepled his fingers, face weary as Daeron laughed once more at his brother. “Then who would you marry?”
Aerion stutters for a second before shaking his head. “It does not matter. Why should I not get a choice in who I wed?”
“Enough!” Maekar shouts, getting to his feet; the chair rocks violently behind him. “The Tyrell girl will be here soon enough. And you will treat her with the respect her name deserves.”
Aerion stands slowly, a snake uncurling as he steps around his chair. His face is carefully impassive, lips drawn tight. “We shall see,” he utters, his tone a low warning. Aerion does not spare you a fleeting glance as he storms from the dining room.
You do not linger where you are not wanted, so you hasten after your prince, his family’s eyes burning into your back. You push through the hall doors; they slam behind you as your armor clatters while you stalk after him.
His stride is swift, hands flexing at his sides as he mutters to himself. You catch up with him fast enough. But he says nothing, spares no word or look as he storms up the stairs to his chambers. You expect the door to slam in your face as he goes inside, but it remains open, and you take that as an invitation.
He lingers before his hearth, eyes tracking the flames in a way that has always made you uncomfortable. “The gall,” he scoffs. “To command me to marry some second-born rose,” he spits out.
You bite your tongue, refusing to remind him that he is a second-born. “To assume I would marry you,” he spits out, gesturing vaguely toward you.
You bristle, eyes narrowing as you struggle not to take offence at the vitriol in his voice. “How dare they,” you draw flatly.
His head lifts, anger settling enough for him to realize what he’s just said. How he’s insulted you. But it is not remorse that flickers across his expression; rather, it is something painfully close to eagerness.
“Do not tell me you are jealous.”
You let out a short scoff, sending him a bemused smirk. “I know my place, my prince. Do you?”
He goes completely still at that, eyes sharpening, any humor within them icing over. His nostrils flare as he slowly straightens. “Leave,” he demands. You bow your head, ducking from his room and hearing a flagon of wine smash against where you had just been standing.
You’ll leave it to the maids to clean up his tantrum on the morrow. For once, the night is your own.
You have kept your promise to Crakehall, though he seems more disturbed by that than if you hadn’t shown up at all.
“The prince did not demand your presence?” he wonders, glancing over your shoulder as if Aerion will appear.
You twirl the handle of your sword in your hand, shaking your head as you plant your blade in the dirt, leaning on it casually. “You were there. You heard his father. Do you think he is eager for any company but his own?”
Crakehall pauses, gaze raking down your body. But it is not with lecherous intent. Rather, the worry of a captain protecting one of his men. “His anger has always managed to find its way to others,” he says softly.
You offer a small quirk of your lips, despite the weight settling in your gut. “I can handle his anger and his vitriol. It is his ‘affection’ that is intolerable.” You use the word affection loosely, thinking only of how often he yanks on the leash he has tied around your neck.
Crakehall lifts his sword, and you follow suit. “I would be wary of how brazenly you say such things,” he warns. He nods toward the balcony above the training yard. Valarr and Baelor both stand there, eyes intent on the guards. But you know that neither of them would be cruel enough to bring your confession back to Aerion.
They know how he would react. Knight or not, they are too honorable to inflict such a fate on a woman. Well– as long as you’re not the woman they’re going to marry him to.
“I worry for the Tyrell girl,” you confess, ducking under the swing Crakehall cuts toward you.
“These things are better spoken about in the barracks,” he tells you, eyes once again darting toward the royals.
The two of you meet in the middle, swords clashing together. “Here,” you tell him, pushing him back. “The mice in the walls cannot hear our treason over the sounds of our swords.”
Crakehall pauses, considering your words; you take advantage, attempting to sweep your leg behind his. He dodges easily, scolding you with a swat of the flat of his blade to your back. “Fair enough,” he finally concedes.
You aim your sword low, going for his ribs, but he easily parries, his blade knocking yours aside. No matter how long you train, you doubt you will ever best him. “Why are you worried for the girl?”
You scoff, jumping back as his blade arches toward your stomach. “Why do you think? They are roses. Aerion will pluck at her petals until nothing remains of her. And–” you’re cut off with a grunt as you narrowly dodge one of his blows.
“And,” you continue, exasperated as you knock his blade aside. He offers a wry grin that you ignore. “I am worried for myself. It is clear enough his father dislikes my position here. He will be rid of me soon enough; I just don’t know how he’ll go about it.”
Crakehall pauses, and you could easily disarm him, but that would feel too much like cheating. Instead, you plant your blade in the dirt, a momentary truce. His eyes dart toward the balcony before flitting back to you. You quirk your brow, shrugging despite the worry that has burned in your throat since they announced the marriage.
“He might be brusque and have a terribly short temper. But I can assure you, he would not get rid of you through any dishonorable means.”
You tilt your head. “You never truly know who you’re serving until they’re forced to make difficult decisions. If it comes to it, Maekar will do anything to cut my ties to his son. He knows I am a distraction and a crutch. A way for Aerion to slip around the prospect of marriage.”
Crakehall seems quite disturbed by your words, as if he had not once considered how truly desperate Maekar is to be rid of you. He pauses, shaking his head. His mouth opens to protest, but a cold voice cuts him off.
“Ser Wyght!” Aerion calls from above. He needn't say anything else for you to understand you’re being summoned.
As you pass by Crakehall, you lay a calloused hand on his shoulder. “Try not to mourn me yet,” you tease, eyeing that concerned tilt to his expression.
He forces out an amused scoff and swats your hand away. “Off with you,” he orders, but his voice lacks any bite.
You pass your training sword off to one of the squires as you walk by and have to bite back a laugh at the way they stumble under the weight. You slip into the barracks, quickly changing into your armor and strapping your true sword to your hip.
You’re walking up the stairs, running a rag down your sweaty neck when Aerion appears before you. His expression gives away nothing, tongue stubbornly tucked into his cheek as he waits for you to stand beside him.
“You did not return to my chambers,” he says icily.
Your brows furrow as you glance down at him. “I was not aware I had to. I thought my prince might prefer to be alone with his thoughts.”
“Yes, well, don’t presume. It’s not for you to assume what I want. It is for you to do what I want.”
“And how am I meant to know what that is when you say nothing?”
Aerion stops short, a humorless laugh escaping him. “I thought by now you would have learned better.”
You suck your teeth. “I am a knight, my prince. Not a prophet. You are a prince; if you want something, say it, and it is yours. Otherwise, expect nothing more from me than what you demand.”
Aerion pauses as the implications lie heavy between you. You are his only under his own orders. His own careful scheming to keep you leashed beside him.
For a moment there is genuine surprise in his eyes, and then he’s glaring, turning back around without a word and stalking off.
“Brat,” you mutter, following behind him. Some day soon, you will be free from these bonds. You can feel the change coming in the air. Can see it in the rumbling clouds that grow ever closer to Summerhall.
The peace that had been residing in your prince is gone. And now, the dragon walks before you.
The Tyrell girl will be here any moment. Aerion has been unusually docile the last few days. His family has not seen much of him; he’s preferred to hole up in his chambers. Each night he invites you back to them, but you have not lain together since the night they’d told you he’d be married.
For a moment, you had wondered if he was truly respecting the sanctity of his future marriage, but the thought had only made you laugh.
Each night, he has you sit on his chaise while he reads, lounges, or drinks himself to sleep. Your purpose there is confusing, and you truly cannot get an understanding of what his intentions are. You understand that his family knows him well enough to be more disturbed by the silence than his outbursts.
Silence means planning, plotting, and only the Gods know what he has in store for this poor girl.
Summerhall’s gates open and a finely ornamented carriage rolls in. Brambles and roses are carved from gold, twining around the curves of the carriage. You can certainly understand why Baelor would want his family tied to such wealth. Although you’ve always been of the mind that those who keep their riches quiet keep them longest.
Aerion steps forward, and his family holds their collective breath. Maekar tenses, Baelor inches forward, and Valarr’s hand has not left the handle of his blade since you came out here. You stay a respectable distance away. Your job is to protect him, not to stop him from acting a fool.
No one can stop that.
A handful of Tyrell guards ride in behind their masters, and Crakehall steps forward to welcome them. Slowly, the carriage door opens. A large, booted foot makes its way out first, quickly followed by a belly that can only grow from the rich indulgence of too many tarts.
The Tyrell man who steps out is a jolly looking fellow, with long brown whiskers and thinning hair. His fingers are decorated with large, golden rings, one of them the Tyrell house crest.
“My prince,” he greets, bowing lowly toward Baelor. Baelor inclines his head respectfully. He greets each royalty in order of importance (inheritance) before landing on Aerion. He pauses at him, shrinking back slightly at whatever look Aerion has in his eyes.
“My lord,” he greets, tone amicable. Your eyes narrow in suspicion as the Tyrell man hastily nods back.
“And my daughter, Adora,” he offers, holding his palm out toward the carriage. Slowly, a dainty hand finds its way into his, nails manicured and clean. You’re almost tempted to glance down at your own, chipped, neglected nails. But there’s no point.
The girl who greets you all is a beauty to be sure. Long brown hair to her waist that curls softly. Sweet, wide brown eyes that remind you very much of a doe. Her painted lips tilt up into a beautifully polite smile.
Your stomach drops when you hear her melodic voice as she greets them all.
Gods above, Aerion is going to eat her alive.
Aerion steps forward, and you brace yourself as he reaches out. Slowly, she places her hand in his. He leans down, pressing his lips to the back of her hand and offering her a charming smile as he leans back.
“Oh,” she stutters, pressing a hand to her chest. “My prince.”
“My lady,” he greets in turn. Maekar is shooting him a look that you’re sure you’re sharing. A sort of confused horror as you wait for the sword to drop, Adora’s head to come tumbling down. But today, he seems to have-for once-found himself in a princely mood.
As her gaze moves across the small gathering, they finally land on you. She lets out a sharp gasp that alarms her father and has him following her gaze. You stare down at both of them, face impassive as they marvel at you like some sort of giantess.
“Oh my,” she whispers. “A woman knight?” she wonders aloud.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” her father observes, a slightly aggrieved bite to his tone. It takes every effort not to roll your eyes at the pair of them.
“Yes, Ser Wyght.” Surprisingly, it is Valarr who begins to come to your defense.
But Aerion cuts him off. “A prize I won during a tourney.” Your eyes sharpen, shoulders going taut as you turn your glare on him. It is brazen to look at him in such a way in front of his family. But you care little for that now. “Peculiar specimen, isn’t she?”
“Oh, to be sure,” Adora agrees as Aerion loops her arm through his own. “But quite impressive. You won her in a tourney, you say?” You take a step forward, mouth open, and a fire burning in your lungs.
“Ser Wyght!” Crakehall calls from across the courtyard. “You’re needed.”
Your hands ball into fists at your side as Aerion brushes past you, sparing you no second look. When you remain still too long, he lets out a long, suffering sigh, barely turning to face you. “Well, you heard him, pet.”
Something inside you twists with an idngiant rage as Adora giggles, unaware of the game her betrothed has just started.
As you turn to obey Crakehall, Valarr remains by the carriage. “I am sorry. That was cruel.”
“That was Aerion,” you dismiss, brushing past him with a rotten taste on your tongue.
You’ve been spending more time in the barracks now that Aerion’s attention has been consumed with his betrothed. They spend the majority of their time in the estate, eating and lounging in the gardens. When you tried to follow him– to guard him– he had dismissed you coldly.
“What will you do? Save me from a wasp?” He had sneered, and Adora, unaware of your true role, had giggled.
You wonder how long this mask of his will last. How long can he play this new game he’s just made?
You still don’t know what his intentions are in humiliating you, dismissing you, and being so strangely kind to the Tyrell girl. Perhaps he is capable of being a prince.
Perhaps your own violence and grit have only ever brought out the worst in him. Maybe this is what he needed: someone soft and kind. A lady waiting for him with a kind word and a sweeter smile.
His father seems pleased, but just as taken aback by Aerion’s behavior as you.
You’re winning at a game of cards when Crakehall calls your name. With a sigh, you reveal your cards. The other men groan, reluctantly passing you their gold. “Men,” you dismiss with a nod. They jeer as you walk out of the room, muttering bitterly about cheating.
Crakehall stands at the entrance to the barracks, a strange expression on his face. “Ser?”
“Prince Aerion has summoned you. The Lady Tyrell wishes to explore the woods. You’re to accompany them. Her guard-" he nods over your shoulder, and you finally notice the man lurking in the shadows behind you. “Ser Donel will accompany you.”
“Ser,” you agree, with a nod. He shoots Donel a weary look before dismissing you.
Ser Donel lingers just behind you, right where you can’t keep him in your eyeline. It bothers you to no end, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of voicing your irritation. “So,” his gruff voice catches you off guard as you walk to the entrance of the forest.
“How long have you served the prince?”
You pause, forcing him to catch up and stand at your side. He has a beard that is unbecoming for a man of his station and scraggly black hair. For a family that values such opulence, their choice of guard is interesting.
“I’ve only been sworn to him a few months. Hardly a season.”
You can see Aerion and Adora off in the distance. His head is tucked toward hers, hand resting loosely on the back of her neck. Something twists in your chest that you don’t wish to acknowledge.
Donel lets out a low, rough laugh. “That’s not the type of service I meant,” he taunts.
Your steps stagger, heart pounding a violent beat against your ribs as you turn your narrow glare onto him. But he keeps walking, uncaring of the offense he’s caused. You want to be angry, truly, to be reduced to a common whore rather than the knight you are.
But how can you say that he is wrong?
Before Adora, you had warmed Aerion’s bed nearly every night since you arrived at Summerhall. He has even gone so far as to reduce you to nothing more than some fascinating creature he picked up at Ashford.
You are no longer a knight to him, nor a protector. He has whittled away your character and left nothing behind except the toy he’s made you into.
Your heart seizes, eyes burning as you realize you've been played for a fool.
You look up and find Aerion staring back at you, smirk cruel as he waits for you to join him. You want to turn around and run back to the barracks. To take all that belongs to you and flee Summerhall. Feel the wind on your face and the ground beneath your feet as you sleep under an elm tree.
You wish to be a hedge knight again.
Because at least in the hedge, you were still a knight.
Not some prince’s plaything.
It takes every ounce of effort and remembrance of your oath to force yourself forward. To put the thoughts of freedom behind you as you stalk toward Aerion. Your prince.
As if he had ever once been in your grasp.
“You certainly took your time,” Aerion chides, eyes raking over your form.
“Apologies, my prince,” you respond stiffly. His eyes narrow ever so slightly. But he quickly laces Adora’s arm with his and turns her toward the forest’s path. Ser Donel spares no second glance as he follows closely behind his lady.
Adora tilts her head toward you inquisitively, offering a soft smile. Your hand tightens around the handle of your sword, and you find that you cannot return it. She tilts her head, expression falling slightly.
Aerion notices and clicks his tongue. “Is my sullen pet bothering you, my lady?” The knife digs deeper into your chest.
She startles and rips her eyes from you. “Oh, of course not. It is just so interesting seeing a woman in armor.” Ser Donel snorts, and she shoots him a harsh look that surprises you. “It’s quite impressive.”
Aerion shrugs, not turning toward you. “I suppose. She’s more of a novelty than anything useful. The men— well, they take pity, let her best them for a good show.”
Your breath stutters as you glare down at his back. Adora looks unconvinced, brows furrowing as she takes in the distressed look on your face.
“She looks like she could put up a good fight.” Her eyes narrow as she turns back to Aerion. “I heard that a woman had bested a prince in Ashford. Is that how you acquired her, my prince?”
Aerion pauses for a moment, that thin veneer of gentility giving way to something harsher. “Where did you hear such a thing?”
“Your cousin.”
Aerion scoffs and your eyes narrow in on the way his grip tightens around her arm. She grimaces and pushes slightly at his shoulder until he relents. Ser Donel makes no move to help his lady, and you scoff.
“My cousin is a liar. Valarr is quite bitter that he has never beaten me with a blade. I would not take what he says with much severity.”
Adora hums; she looks as if she wants to push further. But her eyes soften, her smile falling slightly into something a little dumber. A little more prey-like. You tilt your head as you watch the shift in her face. She’s got a mask of her own.
Smart little lady.
“Of course, my love,” she relents. You see the way Aerion’s shoulders stiffen at the affectionate name.
The walk continues, Adora pointing out her favorite flora as Aerion leads her along the path. You and Donel remain silent shadows. Occasionally, you catch Aerion watching you after a sharp barb or insult to your knighthood.
A haze seems to fall over your eyes, the sound of rushing water in your ears as you drown him out. He grows more agitated the longer you walk. His grip tightens on Adora, pace speeding up as he tries to get back to Sumerhall under the guise of not missing supper.
When you arrive back at the gates, you split off from the group. But Aerion's cruel voice calls your name. Not your title. Your name. “And where are you going?”
You pause, back stiffening as you slowly turn back to him. You keep your face carefully impassive, allowing no bitterness or resentment to shine through.
“My prince has made it clear that I am a pet. Are pets not meant to return to their kennels?” you demand, nodding toward the barracks.
Aerion’s brows dip, a wrinkle forming between them as he tilts his head at you. “You will go when I dismiss you,” he says coolly.
You lick your lips, sucking in a sharp breath as you stare down at him. “You know,” Adora cuts in, eyes darting between the pair of you. Aerion does not break his gaze. “I have been thinking. My father is so traditional. He’s not very happy about a woman being on your guard. Have you considered delegating her to another role?”
Aerion does not bother looking at her as he glares up at you. “She’s hardly a guard,” he bites out. “Be gone with you,” he snaps, waving his hand and turning his back to you. His arm slips from Adora’s as he storms into Summerhall.
She lingers beside you a moment, sparing you a small glance before nodding her head and bidding goodnight.
You stand there a minute longer before racing off to the barracks. You find an empty room and slam the door behind you. Your hands rip desperately at the heavy armor on your chest and shoulders. Something bubbles up in your eyes as the metal clangs against the floor.
You refuse to acknowledge the warmth carving down your cheeks as you stare down at the abandoned remains of your time in Aerion’s service.
You did not come here to be made a spectacle or a prince’s pet. You swore that no prince would break you, and you meant it. No matter what it took— you would find a way out of your oath. And you would not abandon your honor to do so.
He did not get to take that from you, as well.
The opportunity comes sooner than you would think.
You sit at a table in the barracks, armor stripped, in nothing more than trousers and a tunic. Crakehall sits across from you, nursing a mug of ale as you both stare into the fire. It burns at your eyes, but it’s better than the tears you had shed earlier.
It feels shameful–not to have cried–but to have allowed a man to hurt you so.
Crakehall sends you strange looks from the sides of his eyes. Leg bouncing as he waits for you to speak. But you have no interest in it. You’d prefer to listen to the bickering behind you. Tyrell and Targaryen guards fighting over a round of cards.
You let the noise fill your head and drown out everything else.
Sighing, you lean back, arms draped lazily across your chair as your legs fall open before you. Crakehall glances over at you and snorts. “What?”
He shakes his head and shrugs, taking another draw of his ale. “You truly are not a lady,” he observes, nodding toward your spread legs.
“Thank you,” you mutter, no real heat to your voice. That only makes his frown deepen. He reaches over and places his mug on the table beside you. Leaning forward, his elbows rest on his knees as he stares at you.
“What happened in the forest today?” He asks, voice quiet, too gentle to feel comfortable.
You blink rapidly, allowing yourself to pretend it's the flames irritating your eyes. “I am a novelty to him. And, apparently, to everyone else nothing more than a whore.” Crakehall’s expression hardens, his frown deepening as he straightens up. “Not only that, every man here has simply let me best them out of pity.”
“I have never let you best me,” he tells you, voice firm, cutting through the noise in your head.
You blink, the film leaving your eyes as you finally, truly look at him. He is concerned. Not in the way a captain would be, but someone closer than that, a softer guiding hand that you don’t want to think about. “No. You haven’t.”
“‘Course he ‘asn’t,” a rough voice interrupts.
You stiffen, turning and finding Ser Donel standing in the doorway of the rooms. “Wouldn’t look good for the cap’in of the guard to be bested by a whore.”
“Captain,” you correct lazily. “If you’re going to be an ass, try not to sound like one, too.”
His cheeks flush red beneath his scruffy beard, and he pushes away from the wall. You hear the sounds of chairs scraping behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the Targaryen guards on their feet, eyes narrowed with intent.
Crakehall himself stands, taking one step closer to Donel. Of course, the man cowers to him– shows him a modicum of respect.
Your eyes drop to the sword at Donel’s hip, and a thought suddenly comes alive. A plan. A good way to keep your honor intact and your oath broken cleanly. You get to your feet and your hand lands on Crakehall’s shoulder. He stiffens, shooting you a wary look, but you shake your head and nod him back.
He hesitates before falling back a step. “You think my fights are handed to me?” You ask Donel.
His eyes dart toward the guards behind you, and he shrugs. “I do.”
“What would you wager?”
His eyes widen, and you can hear Crakehall shift uncomfortably behind you, his armor rattling. Donel lets out a disbelieving scoff and shakes his head. “No, no,” you shake your head. “If you truly believe my fights are handed to me, then what would you bet?”
“My life,” he bites out bitterly. “On my life, no woman toting a sword actually knows how to swing it. Just playing pretend while you wait for the prince to call you to his bed.”
“Enough–”
Crakehall tries to interrupt, but you just hold your hand up. “Alright,” you whisper, lips curling up in a slow, conniving baring of your teeth. “Our lives then,” you hold your hand out to him, and Donel glares down at it.
Backing down now would be admitting he was wrong. Admitting that he could be defeated by a woman. And his pride would never allow that. So with a nasty curse under his breath, he claps his hand in yours and shakes.
“The courtyard,” he bites out, and you nod. You move to follow him, but Crakehall grabs your arm, jerking you back.
“What in the seven hells are you playing at? Wagering with a Tyrell guard like that?”
You glare down at his hand, and he pauses before slowly releasing you. “I’m cutting my leash,” you bite out, storming off after Donel.
“Will you at least don your armor?”
You stop, turning to face him. “I got myself here as a hedge knight. That’s how I’ll get myself out,” you tell him.
No fancy armor, no noble-made shields. You and your sword. It’s all you’ve ever needed.
The prince thrives on cruelty. He has made an art form of terrorizing those around him in the worst ways he can. And he is incredibly good at reading people, finding their weaknesses, and turning them into playthings for himself.
Perhaps in your time here, you have learned from him.
Donel’s pride trapped him into this wager just as Aerion had once trapped you into his oath. Donel, whether he’s realized it or not, will free you from the shackles of the dragons.
You stand in the training yard; the setting sun casts an eerie, crimson glow across you all. Tyrell and Targaryen guards alike have gathered around the perimeter, watching as you and Donel circle each other. Your head or his, you will get what you want.
Donel lunges forward, and you side-step him, kicking at his back. You’re lighter without your armor, more nimble; it's easier to dart around your opponent. But you’re also far more vulnerable to his blade.
It’s a delicate line you walk, one you haven’t had to balance in a long while. Not since Aerion brought you here. Stuffed you full of delicacies and kind captains- let you get lazy like a fat cat.
You lift your sword, aiming for his head, when a voice echoes across the yard. “What is going on here?”
You pause, head whipping over as you see Aerion storming into the courtyard. His father and uncle are behind him, the Tyrell nobles looking horrified as they take in the scene. Crakehall moves forward and holds out his arms.
“A wager, my lords, they’ve both agreed.”
Aerion scoffs, “I have not–”
Fire races across your arm as you stumble back with a gasp. Donel had taken advantage of your distraction. Blood weeps down your arm, slickens your palms around your blade’s handle as you turn to meet him.
You raise your sword just as his bears down on you; the clash echoes through the sky. The sparks burn against your skin as you slide your blade against his, pushing him back and stepping around him.
You can hear them, ordering you to stop. To obey your masters. But Donel is not stopping, and neither can you. Not with him bearing down on you. You duck under a particularly harsh swing and barrel forward.
Your shoulder catches him in the gut; his armor bruises the bone violently. But you drop your sword, wrap your arms around his torso, and slam him into the ground. He’s disoriented, groaning as he tries to raise his sword. You knock his arm to the side.
You hear them approaching, rushing to stop you. You slip the dagger from your waist and pierce it into his throat until the blade is touching the dirt beneath him.
When you look up, it is Aerion staring down at you, eyes wide and face pale as he stares down at the Tyrell guard. Adora is just behind him, cheeks nearly green as she takes in the blood. Your other princes are staring at you from beside Crakehall, resigned expressions on each of their faces.
“What have you done?” Aerion demands, voice a harsh whisper.
Your eyes narrow as Donel’s blood pools into your hands. “Freed myself.”
Maekar paces before you, muttering angrily to himself. Baelor is seated in the grand chair that sits in the largest room of Summerhall. The Tyrell lord is beside him. Crakehall and Aerion stand behind you.
“This is completely unacceptable!” Tyrell screeches, face a bloody red. “A woman–”
“Defeated your man.” It is Aerion who steps in. Sneering at the fat lord. It is not in your defense; rather, you are an extension of himself, and he must make sure he is never perceived as weak.
“Killed a fucking lord’s son,” Maekar bites back, finally stopping his pacing. “And you,” he glares at Crakehall. “You let this happen! I ought to strip you of your titles and–”
“Brother,” Baelor calls calmly behind you. His voice is soft, commanding, but you can see the underlying disappointment in his expression. Maekar just barely holds himself back, shaking his head with a scoff.
He turns his mismatched gaze to you, and you straighten. “What happened?”
“Ser Donel implied that no fight I had won had been won honorably. I asked what he would wager. He offered his life.” A long, cruel smile curls on your lips.
“He lost,” you bite out, the blood still warm on your skin.
“I want her head!” Tyrell demands, stomping his foot. Adora flushes at her father’s behavior.
“Father, perhaps–”
“No,” he bellows, storming toward you. Crakehall takes a step forward and glares down at the man. Tyrell flounders until he’s whirling back around on Baelor. “I want her bloody head.”
Baelor’s fingers find his temple, and he rubs slowly, grimacing at the headache you’re sure this is causing. “It was an agreed-upon wager, my lord. You would have me execute her for winning?”
Tyrell nods eagerly. “She must have cheated in some way. Must have—”
“Ser Wyght does not need to cheat to win,” Aerion steps in. His tone is cold, his head tilting as he slinks closer toward Tyrell.
The little lord quiets down, floundering as he backs up. “She beat your man because he was not good enough. You do not get to take her head for that. But, perhaps, I should take your tongue,” his voice a hiss, threat heavy in every step he takes.
“Aerion!” Maekar barks; he rushes forward and jerks him away from Lord Tyrell.
“Her hand then,” Tyrell orders, and you stiffen; that hadn’t been a possibility you’d considered. “So she might never kill one of her betters again.”
Baelor looks over at you, and you can see him consider it. A way to keep everyone happy.
Everyone except the low-born it affects.
“Your grace,” you step forward. “I beg you not to take my hand. What life would I be able to lead as a cripple? Surely naught but a vile one. Instead, I beg that you strip me of my titles.”
“What?” Aerion snaps, whirling around on you.
You fall into a kneeling position before Baelor. “I no longer deserve to be on the prince’s guard. I am not worthy of it. Banish me from hearth and hall, my lord. It is what I deserve.”
Baelor looks over to lord Tyrell, who slowly narrows his eyes at you. “No,” Aerion’s voice is loud; it cracks through the hall as he stalks toward you. “Get up,” he orders. “Now.”
“Very well,” his uncle interrupts. “Ser Wyght, you have dishonored House Targaryen and House Tyrell through your brazen actions tonight. You are to be removed from the prince’s guard, banished from Summerhall, and lose all rights and privileges associated with your former title.”
Aerion is frozen beside you, glaring up at his uncle as he rises from his seat. “And her knighthood?” Tyrell demands.
Baelor shoots him a weary look. “I believe I have satisfied you quite enough, tonight, Lord Tyrell. Do not test the limits of my hospitality.”
Tyrell’s jaw snaps shut at that. He hesitates beside you, as if he wants to strike you. You remain kneeling until the royals have all filed out of the hall.
Only Aerion remains beside you. When you finally stand, his eyes are red, sharp teeth bared in fury.
“Is this what you wanted? You would sacrifice a roof over your head, a purpose, a place at my side just to go back to your elm trees… just to be free of me?” You stare down at him, that knife he’d buried in your chest finally falling to the floor.
“No,” you tell him softly. “I am a hedge knight, my prince. And you may dress me in your fine armor and decadent embellishments, but that does not change who I am. I did not do this for you. I did this for myself.”
Aerion stares up at you, his hands balled at his sides. After a moment, he just steps back, his glare burning nothing but hatred into you as he storms from the hall. Your shoulders go lax with relief as you finally let yourself take a breath.
“So,” you jump, having forgotten Crakehall was still there. “This was your plan, then?”
You nod, turning toward him. “Free of my oath and kept my honor,” you tell him. He nods, smiling, but there is something softer in his eyes. Something tired.
“You are my only decent opponent here. I will miss sparring with you.” He holds out his arm, and you offer a small smile.
“And I you,” you tell him, clapping your hand around his arm. He holds it there for a moment before stepping back.
“Collect your things, Ser. You’re to be free of Summerhall before dawn.” You give him a firm nod before brushing past him.
“Ready to stretch your legs, girl?” You whisper, smoothing your hand over your mare’s mane. She huffs impatiently, nudging at you. You let out a small laugh, tightening the straps of her saddle.
“You have surprised me.” You jump, heart pounding as you turn. Maekar stands behind you, hands tucked behind his back, nose wrinkled at the smell of the stables. “I thought you to be nothing more than a stupid hedge knight.”
Your brows furrow as you frown. “I’ve been trying to think of ways to rid you from my son’s side. I failed to realize we had such similar goals,” he admits. He takes one step forward, and you step back, shoulder pressing into your mare’s side. Her hoof kicks impatiently at the hay.
“When you first ordered me here… I told you. I told you that Aerion did not have me; I did not wish to stay. Regardless of my relations to your son, that has never changed.”
He pauses, eyes narrowing. “I see that, now. I also see you still haven’t learned how to address your betters.” You almost smile at that, but his expression remains severe. “Leave Summerhall, cease haunting my son’s door, go live the life of a hedge knight. If he comes looking,” he holds out a pouch, gold clinking inside, “do not come back.”
You stare down at the gold. It would be good to have something to give you a running start on the road. But your stomach burns at the thought of being forced into another Targaryen’s debt.
“You have my word,” you swear, ignoring the gold as you swing your leg over the saddle. “The hedge calls me, my prince. I hope to never see you again.”
He scoffs and tucks away the gold. “You’re going to have your fucking tongue taken one of these days.” You don’t bother responding, merely leading your mare out of her stall. The moment she’s free of the stables, she takes off at a run.
You race through the courtyard, leaning forward and letting the wind bite at your cheeks as the long, open road stands just before you.
Just over your shoulder, standing behind the window of the chambers you had once lain in, Aerion watches. He watches as your mare leaves her hoof marks buried deep in the grass as she takes you away. He can see the smile on your face as you turn from the stables and out the gate of Summerhall.
This was not supposed to happen.
You were supposed to fight him. Bite back at him. Each insult was meant to stoke the fire between you, not quell it completely. Aerion glares through the window, ignoring the way his heart is racing, the strange feeling squeezing his chest.
This was not over.
“–Of course I told her what a foolish endeavor that would be. A velvet headpiece- can you imagine?” Adora laughs, but it trails off as she turns toward Aerion. His gaze is distant, fingers spinning his blade on the table as his leg jumps up and down.
His jaw is gritted so tightly, she’s surprised she doesn’t hear a crack. Adora lets out a low sigh and sinks back into her chair. She props her head in her hand, just watching him. He has been like this since that knight of his left.
The woman-knight was a clever one, Adora could admit. Admirable, even. She brushed through the men of Summerhall and wove her threads until she had them giving her exactly what she had wanted.
She remains a knight and is now free from the prince. Adora had not met a woman like that before– one who could simply use brute force to get what she wanted and still know how to dig her nails into a man.
Adora had always been good at giving men what they wanted. The face they wanted to see. The soft, innocent look that made a man want to protect her. It was boring, irritating, and tiring, but she did it anyway.
At first, she thought it was working with the prince. He was gentle, decent enough, and would guide her through the gardens with a soft touch on her arm. His hand had tightened of late, words clipped and temper flaring at every little thing.
He’d thrown steaming soup at a maid the night before for serving him wine from his right side rather than his left.
The poor girl’s screech still hadn’t left Adora’s head, nor had the smell of her flesh burning.
Aerion had not apologized nor explained himself. She was not even sure why he had agreed to join her for a light lunch in the gardens. He had not heard a word she’d said since they’d sat down together.
No, his hand just kept spinning that blade of his, sharp eyes boring into the hedge like he wanted to set it on fire.
Perhaps all hedges were an insult to him now.
Adora let out a bored sigh, gaze drifting to the roses. The gardens at Highgarden were far more impressive and better kept than Summerhall. The gardeners tried, of course, but nothing could ever beat the beauty of a Tyrell spring.
“What were you prattling on about?” Aerion suddenly snaps, eyes ripping from the hedge to Adora.
She bites back a scowl at his brusqueness and paints on the soft smile instead. But that only seems to make him angrier, knuckles going white around the blade. Her heart races just a little as she glances down at it.
“Nothing of import, my prince. Did you have anything you wanted to share?”
Aerion’s eyes narrow before he slumps back into his chair, releasing the blade. “No,” he bites out sullenly.
Ah, so he wants a fight. He wants a woman who is just as rough and cruel as he is. Well, it is not a mask Adora has ever tried. She doesn’t have much interest in it, either. He could go fetch his knight for that if he wanted a fight so badly.
Adora highly doubted the woman would ever come back to this cursed hall again.
At least, if she had gotten one thing out of this dreaded visit, that woman-knight got rid of Donel for her. She was growing tired of his stench, and acquiring Tears of Lys was such an effort to rid herself of one guard.
Aerion rises suddenly to his feet, chair teetering behind him. Adora watches him with wide eyes, but he says nothing, simply stalks back inside. Crakehall, his temporary guard, follows behind him. There’s a hollowness to the older man’s eyes that has been present since the night of the wager.
A pet, Aerion had called the knight. Laughable, truly, for all the pain she left behind in pursuit of her freedom.
Adora turned toward one of the maids flitting about, “Some wine?” she requested, planning to drink the rest of this horrid afternoon away.
“Fuck off with the flowers,” Maekar snaps, sending one of the maids scurrying off. Baelor chuckles behind him, and it makes his shoulders rise with irritation.
“Do weddings not make you feel festive, brother?” He asks, coming up beside him. Of course, ever the better brother, he offers each passing servant a nod of acknowledgement. They’re the fucking help; what does it matter if he’s aware of their existence?
“What do you think?” Maekar bites out, shooting Baelor a glare.
Baelor nods his head in understanding before his expression turns more solemn. Maekar knows what he’s thinking about. Who he’s thinking about. Weddings always make the brothers think of them. The wives lost.
Maekar should’ve gone before Dyanna. She would have done a better job with their children; that’s for certain.
His lips curl as he looks over at Aerion. They’re in the bloody sept, preparing for his wedding, and he’s just sulking. Playing with that damn dagger of his and glaring at the floor. “I could kill him,” Maekar grumbles.
“He’s your son,” Baelor chides.
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Maekar snaps. “He’s never once listened unless it’s suited him. Never done what I told him to without putting up a fight.” Maekar shakes his head, trying and failing to reconcile the cruel man in front of him with the boy who’d once loved fishing with his brothers. Who’d once followed right behind Maekar, always stepping on his heels and smiling up at him.
“He’s a prince, and a Targaryen. Rare is it that our men are bred to be reasonable,” Baelor explains away.
Maekar shakes his head. For a while, he was reminded of that boy. Aerion was cruel; he had been for a long time. But when that woman had been here, he’d been calmer. Just enough not to have a maid crying out every few minutes because Aerion’s temper had flared. They’d managed to get through dinners without vying for each other’s throats.
“It was a stupid idea.”
“What?” Baelor asks, peering curiously at Maekar. “The engagement?”
Maekar shakes his head, watching as Aerion pushes his foot out, tripping a servant passing by. They slam hard into the stone ground; blood gushes from their nose. Even that does not get a smile from Aerion.
“Sending her away.”
Baelor stiffens at the mention of the knight. He’d been irritated that night by that idiot Tyrell’s audacity to demand something of a prince.
And because they all realized they’d been played for a fool.
Every one of them had fallen right where she wanted, and they hadn’t punished her but handed her what she’d demanded on a silver platter.
“Tyrell would not have let her leave without something being stripped from her. Better her title than her head.”
“Should have told him to fuck off,” Maekar bites out, and Baelor lets out an amused scoff. “Or, taken her hand and kept her here. Maybe he wouldn’t be so foul.”
Baelor finally looked over at Aerion, frowning at the boy’s sullen disposition— the unusual sink to his shoulders. Where there should have been a cruel fire in his eyes, there was ice. Something cold and lonely, lashing out at anyone who got too close.
“You’d told me you were concerned about his attachment to her. That it was better–”
“I know what I fucking said,” Maekar interrupts. “I was wrong.”
Baelor goes still, slowly turning and giving Maekar a disbelieving look. “Say that again?”
Maekar shoots him a sharp glare. “Fuck off.”
Baelor shakes his head with a huff. “Rare it is to hear you admit that you’re not all-knowing.”
Maekar just frowns, eyes not leaving Aerion. It was hard enough dealing with Daeron. His son that was a year away from drinking himself into an early grave. Now, Aerion was miserable, lashing out at everyone and everything. His last hope had been Aegon. And then that hedge knight had stolen him.
Fucking hedge knights.
“Stand up straight,” his father hisses at him. Aerion is obstinately deaf, not sparing his father a look as he stands before the septon.
A dry run for the real day. Servants are still flitting around, setting up flowers and banners of Targaryen and Tyrell colors between the columns of the sept. Aerion sneers at that; it should just be the Targaryen dragon flying high. What does it matter who the woman was before she was married?
But it’s clear that Lord Tyrell is inclined to fits when he does not get what he wants, so neither his father nor uncle objected to it. A cowardly move, in his opinion. It’s unbecoming of prospective leaders to give in so quickly to little lords’ demands.
Aerion shifts impatiently on his feet and glances over his shoulder. Looking for someone to share in his misery with. Or just a pretty face to look up at. But she’s not there. It’s not her staring back at him but Crakehall. The old bastard who’d been more than happy to help send her off.
He’d nearly taken his head for it, only his father had stopped him. And then his uncle’s threat of what would happen should he continue to threaten the captain of his guard. No real promise had been given, but Aerion hadn’t been entertained enough to continue.
After months of her standing just behind him, it’s still jarring to see someone else. And the irritation still hasn’t eased. She had run, abandoned her oath, left him for a life on the road like some….
Like she was nothing more than small folk, a hedge knight. She had reduced herself back to the dirt.
He could have given her more than that. He would have made her more than that. But it doesn’t matter how much you train or groom a mutt. They’ll always lack pedigree, always go back to scrounging in alleys for scraps of someone else’s food.
Aerion sucks his teeth. He’s better off without her. Skilled fighter or not, she had been far too obstinate. And he had only let her get away with it because of what she provided in his bedroom. Even then, he could find any common wench to replace her.
The sept doors open and Adora enters on her father’s arm.
Or… he supposes his wife could replace that.
His lips curl at the thought. Adora has no bite. She’s all softness and quiet words. Each look into her wide eyes makes him sick to his stomach and long for a bow. Since he’s met her, he’s had the inexplicable urge to go hunting for does.
His throat tightens the closer she gets. The Targaryen cloak weighs heavy on his shoulders as he shifts on his feet. She smiles up at him and his brow furrows, imagining someone else scowling down at him instead.
The septon is speaking, nothing more than empty words as they rehearse. Adora stands before him, and he reaches forward, unclasping the Tyrell cloak from her dress. Without thinking, Aerion removes the cloak from his shoulders; Adora turns, waits patiently.
His hands freeze as the cloak hangs just above her. He stands there too long, and she gives him a curious look. “What are you doing?” Maekar hisses. “Put the damn thing on her.”
The cloak slips from his fingers, and Adora frowns down at it. No, he would not be forced into this marriage he did not want. He would not allow his father to dictate his life as he saw fit. He was a prince. He was a dragon; he did not have to marry Tyrell filth if he did not want to.
Aerion glared down at the cloak and stormed past her. His father called his name behind him, but he did not stop. He needed out of the sept, away from the flowers and jolly festivities. He did not want Adora. Did not want her for a wife or even as someone to warm his bed.
There was a looming shadow behind him, a taller woman with a colder gaze that was stuck in his head. He would never marry her, of course not. She was nothing more than common filth. But she had been so brazen as to think she could leave behind a dragon. As if she had any say in the arrangement.
Left him, his side, his luxuries for…. Dirt. Mud. To sleep under fucking Elm trees.
He hated her for thinking she could leave. But he truly hated her for leaving him.
Aerion sat at his desk, glaring at the chaise where she had spent most of her nights with him. His hand tightened around his Valyrian dagger. He thought of what it had felt like the first time she had fought him. That animalistic anger on her face, the brute strength as she had thrown him to the ground.
The warmth of her blood pooling down his hand when he had stabbed her.
A part of him ached for that warmth. Perhaps the part of him that wished to take her head for finding such a clever way out of her oath to him. He had won her, without having to cheat like she always accused him. And then she had cheated her way out.
The hypocrisy of it all makes him want to feel the dagger sinking into her flesh once more. He lets out a huff, slamming the tip of his blade into the desk.
The room to his door creaked open, and he stood. Who would be brazen enough to walk into his chambers?
A head of brown hair peeked around the edge of the door, and Aerion let out an annoyed sigh. He would let his dagger find its home in Adora’s heart if he were not saving it for someone else.
“Out,” he snapped, voice cold as he picked up his dagger once more.
Adora let out a sharp scoff and made her way into the room. She’d removed the bridal gown and was back in her typical Tyrell attire. Entirely too exposing and lacking enough protection from the elements for his taste. Though it’s not as if she could don some armor, she’d fall beneath the weight.
“I am afraid you have no power to command me,” she mutters, eyes roving over his chambers. Her lips curl at the mess of wine and bread on the floor from where he’d thrown it at a maid.
Aerion’s brows turn in, and his head shoots up. “I am your prince and–”
“And my nothing,” she cut in. Her smile was sharp, almost cruel. Aerion reared back; there was no wide look to her eyes now. Nothing soft about her as she let her hatred become increasingly clear. Obstinate little–
“I have discussed matters with my father and your uncle. You leaving me, even while rehearsing, was humiliating. An insult to House Tyrell,” her words are hollow, not her own. Just a script she’s pushing forth to get what she wants. “The engagement is off, you are free of me and I of you.”
Aerion sneers at that. Why was everyone trying to be free of him?
Adora turns on her heel, and he surges to his feet. Her brow raises impatiently as rage burns hot in his chest. At her obstinance and disrespect, at everyone being so eager to escape his presence. They did not get to leave until he decided that they could.
When he does not find anything to truly voice his anger, she casts her eyes to the sky. “I pray that you find another knight, soon enough. Though I doubt anyone will be able to replace her. I, for my part, will not spend the rest of my life standing in another woman’s shadow. Goodbye, my prince.”
She flicked her hair over her shoulder and stalked from his room, the smell of roses trailing behind her. Aerion revolted against the scent, longing for something more earthy, something metallic and rough.
He sank onto the chaise, feeling the indent of where she had been. He threw his dagger blindly and watched as it buried itself in the wall above the hearth. Someday soon, it would be finding its home.
You were filthy and smelled worse than a pigsty– and you couldn’t get the smile from your face if you tried.
Your hair was in knotted braids as you leaned back against the rough bark of an Elm tree. Your mare stood at your side, lightly grazing the grass as you took a break. Dirt had caked itself onto you as a second skin after a week of sleeping in fields and forests.
You would find a stream soon enough, bathe yourself, and allow yourself to be marginally less filthy. But you still had not found yourself missing the hot, lavender-oiled baths of Summerhall. Or the warmth of someone else’s hearth or presence beside you.
The quiet was, perhaps, one of the best sounds you’d ever heard. Nothing but birds in the trees, the wind in your hair, and your mare huffing at you when you stopped for too long. The Targaryens had kept her locked up for as long as you were at Summerhall. You did not get to leave the halls, and neither did she. Standing still for too long made both of your legs itch.
Reaching down into your satchel, you pull out two apples. You sink your teeth in, let the juice run down your hand, as you hold out the other one to her. She lets out a little huff before you feel her soft nose brushing against your palm. Her teeth barely graze your skin as she takes it from you.
The sound of her chewing beside you is infinitely better than listening to royal silverware clink against porcelain.
When you both finish your brief and too-small lunch, you get to your feet with a low groan. There is an ache forming in your back from too many nights sleeping in the dirt. Had you the money for it, you would find yourself a decent enough inn to stay at for a night.
As it was, you had rejected Targaryen gold and found yourself with a lighter purse than you’d ever had before the Targaryens stole you away. Perhaps you could find a farmer to do some work for, just for a few nights.
It’s rare that the men are eager to let a woman do their jobs. Occasionally, though, you find the rare widow whose husband is long dead. They’re oft eager for a pair of strong hands that doesn’t come attached to a night of reckless abandon with her body.
With a sigh, you mount your mare and motion her forward. She takes off at an eager cantor, huffing beneath you. You’d stopped too long for her liking, apparently. Misty never had taken well to the life of a lazy royal’s show horse. She was just as eager for the rough and tumble road as you were.
You take care to watch out for any modest homesteads that look as if they might need an extra hand. But the road before you will be empty for many miles. Your best hope will simply be hunting some hare for your dinner until you can find a little more civilization.
Doesn’t sound so bad.
With a small grin, you urge Misty forward once more, and she takes off at a gallop, eager beneath you. It only takes a day more of riding for you to find anything of import. A smaller lord celebrating his first son’s name day with a tourney.
When you go to enlist, you’re, of course, stopped by the typical sneer and sharp “A woman is no knight.” Which is when the letter Lyonel had once given you comes in handy. With the Baratheons’ seal on the edge, no snivelling man could deny your knighthood nor your entrance.
“Off with you,” the man mutters, motioning you toward the keep. You nod, making your way through the tents of grander men with finer armor, before you find yourself a decent enough oak to sleep under for the night. You do not have to win the tourney– just one tilt will be enough for you to pad your pockets and fetch some more supplies.
You tie Misty to the branch of the oak, ignoring her sharp snorting. “You will have plenty of fun tomorrow, girl,” you chide her. “Save some energy.”
With a low sigh, you throw down your threadbare blanket and lie back against the roots of the oak. Above you, the stars are shining so bright you feel as if you could touch them. They’re nearly blinding, a far better sight than the arched roofs of Summerhall.
A small smile curls on your face as you let your eyes flutter shut, the promise of tomorrow easing you to sleep.
The joust goes well the next day. You manage to make it through two tilts before being unseated. From that, you earn just enough to start heading toward your next stop. It has been far too long since you have enjoyed the Laughing Storm’s presence.
Those damnable Targaryens are covetous and greedy with their toys. You had not even been allowed to get a raven to him. Aerion said it was simply an assurance of confidence– that you were not giving away royal secrets.
You suspect it is because he knows that Lyonel gets to see a part of you that Aerion never has. But Aerion has never given you the reason or confidence to be vulnerable around him. Especially at the end of your time with him.
If anything, he’d only ever proven Lyonel right about his distaste toward the royals.
It will be a long, hard ride to see him again; hopefully your winnings will be enough to see you through.
The week passes by quickly enough. You spend most days riding until you fear for Misty’s constitution. She would push herself to exhaustion if you didn’t stop her. Soon the roads shift from packed dirt to a softer silt.
She seems to become more energized when she smells the salt of the sea on the wind. You, yourself, start to feel like a person again rather than some creature slinking through the wilderness.
The closer you get to Lyonel’s towering fortress, the faster Misty gets. She’s practically racing forth as you come across the gate to his ancestral home.
When you had first started visiting Lyonel, the guards had not been kind. You do not blame them, of course. Their lord’s safety is paramount. But by this point in your life, the moment they see a bedraggled hedge knight riding up, they’re shouting “Open the gates!”
You nod to each of them in turn as you ride forth. “I’ll send word of your arrival ahead to Lord Baratheon,” one of the guards says. He leaves his post for a moment to catch the attention of a page and send him scurrying ahead of you.
You let out a small chuckle at the boy’s haste to comply. Lyonel certainly brings up much more passionate, disciplined charges than the Targaryens’ little noble boys.
Misty is eager beneath you, huffing and fighting against your hold on her lead. “Calm, girl,” you mutter, running your hand across her mane. It would not do well for her to go bolting through Storm’s End courtyard and barrel over a lady.
As you reach the inner yard of the fortress, the page is rushing back, face flushed and chest heaving. “I will take your mare, my lady,” he offers with a hand shaking from exertion.
You send him a flat glare that has him swallowing roughly. “Apologies, Ser. Please allow me to take your mount?” He asks, voice rising in pitch as he cowers.
“Relax, boy,” you mutter, dismounting. “And careful with her,” you warn him. “She will think that ginger head of yours is an apple.”
His face goes pale as he stares up at Misty, who lets out a loud huff, staring down at him. “You are such a terror,” a voice croons from the arches of the fortress. Your heart skips a beat, chest warming as a smile breaks through the layer of dirt on your face.
“My lord,” you greet, turning to face Lyonel. He peels himself away from the stone architecture, and the little page takes that as his cue to scurry away. Stalking toward you, you can see why people see him as such a threat on the battlefield. That disappears, however, when he lets out a loud, bellowing laugh and drags you into his arms.
You chuckle, leaning down to let him embrace you fully. He pulls back just as fast, nose screwing up. “By the gods, you smell awful.”
Lightly, you swat at his shoulder. “I have been on the road for over two months. You cannot expect me to smell like a field of roses.”
Lyonel shakes his head, arm loose around your back. “Come, I will have you cleaned and fed. We will have you looking less like a golem in no time.” You roll your eyes at him, but follow him regardless. “I hope you do not mind; I’d like to use that mare of yours to break in some of my squires.”
“By all means… she loves nothing more than bucking off green boys.”
Lyonel chuckles at that, but it trails off as he shoots you a sidelong look. “So… Months with no word from you. I’d begun to wonder if the dragons had set you alight.”
“Please,” you hiss. “You know me better than that.”
Lyonel tips his head in apology as he leads you to your usual chambers. “A raven would have been appreciated.”
Guilt sours in your stomach. You know that it is no fault of your own. Aerion had kept you silent on purpose. He had no intention of sharing your mind or wit with others. But Lyonel is one of your oldest friends and most outspoken supporters. You should have found a way.
Just as you open your mouth to apologize, he waves you off. “Ah, forget it. Best not to linger in the past. I have you here now, and there are no dragons in sight to steal you away.” His hand squeezes around your side before he throws open the doors to your temporary rooms.
To a noble, the small, cramped chamber would be an immediate offense. But you know that he gives it to you for the balcony beyond the room. Large and sprawling, there is a bed to sleep under the stars and hear the sounds of waves crashing against the fortress. A comfort unique to you and not some stuffy nobility.
There is already water steaming in the large iron tub in the center of the room. Lyonel moves to lounge in one of the overstuffed chairs beside the bath. The scent of rosemary and lavender fills your senses. It feels as if your lungs are opening again as you stand over the steam.
No shame or bashful hesitance lingers between the two of you as you strip out of your clothes. This is a practice you’ve engaged with Lyonel plenty of times. Sitting beside him in bathhouses as he regaled you with stories of wild conquest.
Your clothes hit the floor with a slap that makes his nose wrinkle in distaste. “Gods, how long since your last bath?”
“Do streams count?” You ask, letting out a hiss as you lower yourself into the steaming bath.
“No.” Lyonel drawls, shaking his head as he meets your eyes. “Right, well, now I am owed a story.”
“A story?” you ask, dipping your head beneath the water and feeling the filth melt away.
“Aye,” he tells you, his expression would be grave were it not for the smile pushing at the corners of his mouth. “The dragons take you from me after Ashford. You swear that you’ll escape them. And now, you turn up at my door. I believe I’m owed one good tale.”
You roll your head lazily to meet his eyes. He lounges in his chair, limbs sprawled with all the confidence owed to a man of his birth. “Alright,” you agree. So you tell him of the oath you’d been trapped into, the nights spent with the Dragon Prince, his cruelty toward the end, and how you’d made your way out with your honor and hands intact.
Which of course, inevitably leads to your tales of life back on the road. The sun is rising on the horizon, and the bath has long grown frigid by the time you run out of words.
You break your fast with Lyonel on the morrow. Both of you are still tired from the night spent catching up on all that the other had missed. You stuff your face with fresh fruit as he rubs at his temple, indulging in wine far too early in the day.
“I still cannot believe you lay with a dragon,” he abruptly announces.
You choke on the plum you’d been eating, shooting him a harsh look. “Where did that come from?”
He lifts his gaze from his platter and offers a wry grin. “For so long, I thought that we shared the same hatred for those white-haired, kin-fuckers.” You put your food down, realizing you’re not going to be getting through this without choking on something at his audacity.
“And then you lie with one.” He laughs, his tone not malicious, rather teasing as he shakes his head at you.
You sigh, gaze drifting toward the arches behind you. The open layout that allows the sea breeze to permeate every part of the fortress. The sun glints off the placid waves as you drum your nails along the table. “Loathe as I am to admit it, my time with the prince was not so miserable.”
Lyonel raises his brows as you turn back to face him. You offer a wayward shrug. “It was fun, pinning him to the sheets,” he chuckles at that, and you join weakly. “And I enjoyed my training with the captain of the guard. He was a good man, truly. Had I not been trapped there– forced into an oath that kept me bound, perhaps I would not have been as eager to leave. But Aerion would sooner clip my wings than see me happy outside of him.”
“And then…” Lyonel prompts. “I know that you said you were eager to leave; I assumed because the royals are so intolerable. But you have a sadness in your eyes; I do not like seeing it on you.”
Something tight twists in your chest as you straighten in your chair. “Aerion is cruel; everyone knows that. But our cruelty was a mutual one, one we could enjoy. Then…” your tone hardens as you glare down at the table. “He made me into an amusement, a pet. Called me a novelty that had never won her own fight.”
There’s a loud slam, the silverware clattering as you jump. Ripping your eyes back toward Lyonel, you see his hand planted firmly on the table. He’s pointing a butter knife at you with a burning fury in his eyes that makes you smile.
“Do not ever let that dragon cunt make you think for one moment you have not earned all that you have. I do not make my investments lightly.” He lets out a long sigh, slowly easing back into his chair. “You and that blasted giant. I seem to have a propensity toward hedge knights.”
“And how is Dunk and that little squire of his?” You ask, shifting the topic back to something lighter.
Lyonel snorts and rolls his eyes. “Came through here a moon past. Nearly ate me out of house and hearth,” he complains.
You grin, leaning back in your chair as you let him carry the conversation for the rest of the morning.
“At Ashford, your dragon overseers left something of yours behind.” You’re walking through the courtyard with Lyonel; he’d wanted you to terrify a few of his squires before you left him. Standing before the racks of weapons, he pulls out a small shield.
Your eyes widen, delight filling you as you allow yourself a large smile. “The shield,” you gush, taking it from him eagerly.
“Your prize for defeating the prince, and then surviving him,” he tells you. Your hand roves over the beautifully crafted falcon emblazoned onto the shield. The fury in its eyes that sparks something hot in your chest. You had mourned the loss of the shield the first month after you left Ashford. But you had never once considered that it had been intentionally left behind.
That when the Targaryen men were sent to collect and pack you– they’d left behind the gift of another noble. “Spoiled prat,” you suddenly hiss.
Lyonel’s brows draw in. “Excuse me?” he demands.
You roll your eyes at him. “Not you. I cherish this gift, truly. But I do believe that my dragon lover was quite malicious in his intentions, leaving it behind.”
Lyonel’s eyes narrow for a moment as he lets out a sharp exhale. “Of course.” You both sit in the anger for a moment. The resentment that these will be the men lording over you all until you’re rotting in the ground.
“Well,” Lyonel claps, ripping through the tension. “You are here, now. Best to leave the fires of the past behind.”
“Aye,” you agree, slipping the shield onto your arm. Lyonel grants you an appreciative nod.
“Gods, but you would be wonderful out on the field with me.”
You chuckle and shake your head. “It is a hedge life for me, I’m afraid.”
“Sir!” A guard comes rushing up, interrupting the pair of you. You stiffen, and Lyonel straightens, the alarm in the boy’s voice drawing your attention. “Guards at the gate. Envoys of the prince.”
Lyonel’s jaw sets, eyes hooded as he glowers at the boy. “Which prince?” he bites out.
“They would not say,” the guard answers, eyes darting over to you. “They are here looking for Ser Wyght.”
“Well, tell them to fuck–”
“Lyonel,” you interrupt, shooting him a flat look. “It is only an envoy. I will speak with them.” He looks as if he wants to protest, chest heaving with a great sigh, but he relents. He holds out his arm, motioning the guard and you onward.
The guard leads you forth, and though you wish Lyonel would not come, he follows anyway. You know he is fiercely protective of those he cares for. More than that, he is always eager for a reason to spill royal blood. Or as close to royal as he can get. By coming here, you had not meant to trouble his household.
At the gate of Storm’s End stand four guards in the familiar red and black attire of Targaryens. But leading them is an all too familiar face decked in pure white armor. Your chest clenches as you hasten, rushing up to meet Crakehall.
His eyes crinkle at the sight of you, a subdued expression on his face as he takes you in. The tattered tunic and trousers, the grit beneath your nails. Beyond that, the circles that had been an affliction beneath your eyes for months were finally gone.
“You look good,” he tells you.
“And you,” you respond.
“What is a white cloak doing at my door?” Lyonel butts in, patience thin as he observes the man. You shoot him a pleading look, but he does not relent.
“I’ve been sent here on behalf of the prince,” he tells you, holding out a scroll. You take it from him, finger running along the Targaryen seal.
“Aerion?” you ask, heart palpitating as you slide your nail beneath the seal and rip the letter open.
Crakehall hesitates for a moment before clearing his throat. “The Prince Maekar Targaryen.” Your hands still and you keep your eyes steady on the parchment. Perhaps it is relief or disappointment at knowing it was not Aerion. Either way– you do not enjoy the feeling that sinks into your chest.
“Ah,” you mutter, eyes roving across the letter. You take in the contents in bits and pieces, mind still racing from Crakehall’s presence.
All titles and privileges to be restored.
Banishment from Summerhall hereby lifted.
Presence at the Prince Aerion Targaryen’s side demanded at once.
Engagement between the House Tyrell and House Targaryen has been broken.
The last sentence makes you pause, eyes reading it over and over again before you tilt your head. In your mind, you can almost hear Maekar’s voice. Were he here, saying this to you, you have no doubt there would be accusation in his tone. You leaving, killing a Tyrell man– it is your fault that the engagement has failed.
“I am a part of House Targaryen once more, it seems,” you observe, voice detached. Lyonel lets out a sharp noise from beside you.
“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath.
Crakehall shifts on his feet. “He wanted me to get you back by the next moon.”
“And why did our prince send a white cloak for a job such as this?” Lyonel demands from your side.
“Because he is the only man I have never beaten,” you supply, offering Crakehall a wry smile. He returns it, just barely.
“Aye,” he agrees.
You glance down at the letter before slowly crumpling it, tossing it over the bridge and into the crashing waves below. The men behind him hastily grab their swords, but he holds up his hand, halting them.
“Is it to be a fight, then?” You ask your former captain; you are unarmed except for the shield you hold.
Crakehall considers, rocking back on his heels before he offers you a wide grin. “It seems you have finally bested me. I will take my defeat back to the Targaryens empty-handed.”
Something loosens in your chest, a shaky exhale rattling out. Lyonel seems unconvinced, however. “And them?” he demands, nodding to the guards behind Crakehall.
Crakehall shoots them a disinterested glance. “They will do as they’re bid… Or find themselves lost on the way.” The guards shift uncomfortably but say nothing in protest.
You stand up straighter, offer Crakehall a thankful look as you nod your head. “To our last match,” you tell him.
“A fine victory it was,” he concedes. “Right, men, we know when we’ve been bested. Back to Summerhall.” He offers you a wink as he turns around, motioning his men forward. You stand there longer than you should, something burning at your eyes as you watch him grow smaller on the horizon.
“You liked him, I take it,” Lyonel observes.
You give a jerky nod, not meeting his eye. “He is a fine man. And a true knight.”
Lyonel humphs, but he does not object. You turn to face him, shoulders slumped. “I will leave on the morrow.” He tries to object, but you shake your head. “Defeated or no, the princes will not simply roll over and accept my refusal. They will send more men here, and I do not wish to burden your house. I know you, Lyonel; you will fight for me.”
His lips purse, but he makes no move to disagree. “It is safer for us both that I am far from here and far from the Targaryens’ reach.”
His eyes narrow as he reaches out, hand clapping around your shoulder. “This is not goodbye, friend. I will see you again.”
“Aye,” you swear, placing your hand over his. He squeezes your shoulder once, eyes tinged with something regretful as he lets you go.
“Well, we should enjoy our last night together, at least. Let us drink and be merry!” He commands, slinging his arm around your shoulder as best he can while he leads you back into his fortress. You smile, but your stare is still on the horizon. Thinking of Summerhall, of the prince who called for you and the one who had let it lie.
Lyonel had supplied you with plenty of fruit and dried meat to keep you fed on the road. You had refused his gold, but from the clinking happening in a pouch on Misty’s saddle, you imagined he ignored that. The falcon shield sits on your back, its wings resting on your shoulders.
You feel as if you could fly while you ride through Westeros.
There is no master to command you. No dragon whose whims you must obey. You have escaped your gilded cage and have no intention of returning. Not so long as you have breath in your lungs and a fight in your heart.
A week into your departure from Lyonel’s home, you find your back aching and flesh stinking. A decent enough-looking inn appears when you find yourself in a small town full of pleasant enough smallfolk.
A few of the children give you wide-eyed looks as they watch you ride by. At your stature or the size of your sword– you’re not sure. But you shoot them a wry smile that has them scattering off. Perhaps it is Misty that scares them, her wicked eye and propensity to nip at little hands.
“Behave,” you mutter when she lets out a particularly disgruntled snort when one of the children runs too close to you.
“Miss! Miss!” You glance down at the little girl running beside you and tighten your grip on Misty’s lead before she can bite at the child. “Are you a knight?” she asks, eyes wide beneath her mud-streaked face.
“Aye,” you call down to her, nearly laughing at how she struggles to keep pace with you.
Her feet plant into the mud as she stares up at you, lips parted in awe. Perhaps one day she could be as tall as you, as broad as you. She could face the same scowling and beratement from men smaller than her. And from it, she could become the beast they feared in the dark.
But that is many years off for her, and it is more likely you will become nothing more than a fuzzy memory. But you would like, for once, to have a squire of your own, a girl with the same fire in her heart as you.
Shaking the thoughts away, you ride up to the inn, dismount, and pass Misty off to the stablehand. “Watch her teeth,” you warn him, tossing him a gold piece as you make your way into the inn. It is not as rowdy as other villages you have visited.
There is a bard in the corner playing decently enough. A few old men gathered around the hearth, telling stories of the old ways as they sip on their ale. There are a few men who look close to your age, but their cheeks are ruddy, and their shoulders slumped from a day's work. They spare you no second looks as you make your way to the wench behind the bar.
“What can I get you, Ser?” She glances at you, looks away, and then her gaze quickly jerks back to yours. “By the Gods, you’re a big woman, ain’t you?”
You let out a small scoff and slide her two gold pieces. “A meal and a room,” you tell her. She nods, eyes still wide as she takes your coin and fetches you a key.
“A moment for the stew,” she tells you, slowly making her way to the back.
You nod, nails drumming along the wood as you lean against it. A flash of color catches your attention through the fogged window, but you ignore it. “—you heard ‘bout them guards coming through?” One of the younger men behind you speaks.
Your brows furrow, head tilting slightly toward them. “Aye. Red and black bastards,” one of the others bites out.
“The fuck are Targaryen men doing out here?”
Your knuckles go white around the counter, breath stopping as you slump forward. The flash of color in the window– guards, you realize. Quickly, you unclasp your cloak and readjust it to hide your shield from view. You pull your hood up, tucking away what hair someone might be able to see.
The wench returns with stew just as the inn’s door opens. The conversations stop, the bard’s playing quiets, and your eyes fall shut. “We’re looking for a woman,” a gruff voice calls out. Armor rattles as the guards slowly make their way in.
“Tall–”
“Big bitch,” one of them mutters. Without turning, you’re sure you’d beaten him in combat at some point during your stay at Summerhall.
“Quiet,” one barks. “A woman, tall, big, thinks herself a knight. Ser Wyght.”
The wench looks up at you, and you grimace. Something hardens in her expression as she calls over your shoulder, “Ain’t seen no one like that here.”
Your eyes widen before you remember the resentment in the other men’s voices. Surely these guards have been making their way through neighboring villages. Most likely abusing the house they serve and taking what they want. These people owe no loyalty to you, but they hold no love for these men.
“Really?” The sound of a table being kicked over has you grimacing. “Heard one of the children rattling on about some she-beast riding through. Little brat wouldn’t say much more than that, though.”
One of the guards lets out a low chuckle and your shoulders tense, nails digging into the wood until you feel it bend beneath your grip. That salacious tone, the blood-thirst clear in their voice. “Did you hurt her?” you call out, the wench shooting you a wary look.
“Gods, you’re a biggun, aren’t you?” One of them whistles.
“Did you hurt her?” You demand, again, hand drifting to the dagger on your belt.
You can hear them getting closer, greaves heavy on the ground. “Knocked her around a bit. Teach that brat to lie to a royal–”
His words are cut off by a bloody gurgle. You turn, dagger still buried in his throat as you face the other guards. Only two of them, frozen where they stand as they watch their friend claw at his throat like a rabid animal. You slowly push him from the blade, wiping it on your trousers.
“She-beast, you say?” You push your hood back. “Certainly a new title,” you mutter. In a second, they draw their swords. One of them charges, the other hanging back with something like apprehension in his gaze. You pay him little mind, ducking under the first man’s swing and dragging your dagger along his gut as he runs by.
If serving the Targaryens taught you one thing– it was how to find the weak spots in their armor.
He drops to the floor, eyes wide as he tries to hold his guts in place. You tilt your head, beckoning the other one forward. He manages one step before a sharp voice cuts through the violence.
“Enough.” It is cold, low, and calm. All the confidence in the world that he’ll be obeyed. “What a pathetic display,” he snaps, and you’re sure he’s scowling down at the guards you felled.
You turn, and find Aerion staring right back at you. His smile is sharp, pointed teeth poking against his bottom lip. “I see you’ve remained sharp.”
“As ever,” you bite out, watching as three more guards follow behind him. Not white cloaks. Simple household guards. “Does your father know you’ve escaped?”
His eyes narrow, smile falling for a fraction of a second. “I am a prince of the realm. I go where I please.”
“Terrorizing little girls and small folk alike,” you bite out.
He lets out an irritated huff. If he had a hand in it, he would not admit it because he knows that will sever any chance he holds with reconciliation. And he will not admit he had no part in it because that means confessing he is not in complete control of his men as he likes to believe.
“That’s enough, I’ve only come to talk.”
You stand in the room you would have slept in tonight. The remaining guards Aerion has brought along stand outside the door while the prince remains on the other side… with you. They had hesitated at letting the door close, letting it lock with him out of their reach.
All of you know in such a tight space, with nothing between you but a blade, you would be the one to come out unscathed. The same cannot be said for the dragon.
Sighing, you unclasp your cloak, tossing it along the chair by the hearth. Aerion stands in the doorway, but you can feel his glare on your back. “The falcon,” he mutters.
“Aye. The shield that was forgotten at Ashford,” you shoot him a sharp look over your shoulder that he gives no response to. Instead, he simply brushes by you. He looks as if he might take a seat on the bed, but his lips curl at the state of the sheets. Instead, he sits on the other seat by the fire. He lounges back, foot propped on his knee as he stares up at you.
“You came all this way, rode through the mud and filth; what is it you want, dragon?”
He huffs at the name, lips quirking slightly as he regards you. “Sit,” he offers, motioning to the other chair. You arch a brow, continuing to lean on the back of the chair, staring down at him. His eye twitches, the command on the tip of his tongue.
“You defied a royal order,” he says instead. What surprise you feel at being spared from the power of his title— you don’t show it. “My father reinstated your titles and commanded you back to my side. You disobeyed. I could have your head for that.”
“You’d have to take it first. We both know how that went last time.” Something glints in his eyes at that. Not necessarily anger at your rebuttal, but an excitement that nearly mirrors the one in your chest. You would not mind another go at the prince. The most warmth you had ever received from him was his blood fresh on your hands.
“So eager for violence,” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly. He has unsheathed his Valyrian dagger, spinning it lightly in his hand. You have not forgotten the bite of it in your side. Occasionally, you still have an ache where he’d plunged it into you.
“Is that not what you’re here for?” You ask, leaning back and crossing your arms. “I defied your father— you, by not returning to Summerhall. You have searched through villages for me. What other reason could you have but to see my blood spilled?”
“To see you returned to my side,” he bites back, almost resentful of your implications.
Your eyes narrow and you shake your head. “I am afraid that you have never understood what a cage it is to be by your side, princeling.”
“Do not,” he hisses, getting to his feet. “Pretend that what I gave you is not better than this life. That the luxuries, the food, the armor were not better.”
“That has always been our problem, Aerion. You see the world through the lens of royalty. Like it or not, you have been just as much a prisoner as I. You do not have the freedom nor luxury to hunt for your own food. Earn your gold. Carve your way through the world and make a name for yourself on nothing but merit and your own victories. It is a shame that all of that has been handed to you.”
He goes still, eyes widening as he sucks in a sharp breath. “How dare—”
“If I wanted what you are offering me, I would go to Lyonel.” His jaw snaps shut at the mention of his name. “I would go to him, indulge myself, and then leave. That is the difference, the pain that comes with your attention. I could not leave. I was nothing more than a leashed hound at your side. And what little I had, my title, you took from me and turned me into a novelty.”
It is hard to keep the hurt from bleeding into your voice, the pain at how quickly he turned against you. Aerion shakes his head, pacing away from you. “That was not supposed to happen.” Your brows furrow, but he barrels on.
“We bite at each other. Tear and claw until there is blood in our mouths. You did not fight back. You just gave up,” he hisses out, disgust curling around his last words.
Your eyes narrow and you let out a disbelieving scoff. “Did you truly think I would fight so hard for the approval of a prince? I know who I am, Aerion; I always have. I do not need you to reassure me of that. And I certainly do not need to fight to prove myself to you.”
He pauses, cheeks pale despite the fire roaring behind you. He sucks in a sharp breath, jaw clicking shut as he struggles to find his next words. “Come back with me.”
“No.” You shake your head, picking up your cloak, readying yourself to leave and find some other lodging. Aerion stalks forward, his hands wrap tight around your wrists, wrenching the cloak from your grasp.
“Return to my side,” he tries again, but it sounds less like a demand and more like a question. You have never once heard the prince unsure of himself.
Your brows furrow as you shake your head. Your hands are as gentle as they can be as they wrap around his. Something like hope blooms in his eyes, and you are quick to crush it beneath your heel.
“I can never return to you, Aerion. Because you do not know how to let go. I cannot be caged again.”
“I would not cage you. Surely, my presence is not so awful,” he scoffs, but you can hear something thick in his words. Something he doesn’t want you to hear.
You shake your head, considering. “No, it isn’t. I enjoyed our time together.” His grip tightens, and then your rolling your wrists in his grip, effectively breaking his hold. “But not enough to surrender my freedom.”
“You will not even give me the chance to release you?” He demands.
“It is not worth the chance that you will keep me,” you tell him, voice cold as you pick up your cloak once more.
Just as you make it to the door, his voice is cutting through the room. “Stop!” And this is not the sharp demand of a prince but something raw, more desperate. It’s vulnerable enough to make you halt.
“My family is returning to the Red Keep; it is how I made my way here. If you ever change your mind, take this.”
You turn as he shoves something into your hand. Before you can respond, he’s unlatching the door and storming out into the hall. The guards say nothing as they fall in step behind him. You hover in the doorway and glance down at the parchment in your hand.
The Targaryen seal. A pass to enter the Red Keep as you please.
You purse your lips as you consider it. “You can keep the room,” a gruff voice breaks through your thoughts, and you startle. The bar wench is standing before you. “Already paid for it.”
You nod, slightly dazed as you step back into the room. You stare over at your shield, the falcon with its wings outstretched and eyes alight. A falcon must accept its cage to be truly tamed. You would never allow that to happen again.
The slightly desperate tone of Aerion’s voice rings through your head as you go to sleep. You will not even give me the chance to release you?
It is a long while before your path leads you back to Fleabottom. There was work on a nearby farm that had kept you fed and clothed for the past season. But the old farmer now had an orphan to help him with his work. You were no longer needed.
So, you took the path that made the most sense. It was chance that it led you to the base of the Red Keep.
You stare up at it from the filth and muck of Fleabottom. From the very squalor you were weaned from. The people around you look enviously at your healthy mare, polished sword, and fine shield on your back.
You know this place well enough. Whatever inn you decide to sleep in tonight will be visited by thieves. You will either have your throat slit in your sleep for the possibility of gold. Or more blood on your hands. Neither is very accommodating.
The parchment in your pocket practically burns a hole against your thigh as you urge Misty onward. She quickly makes her way up the steep, uneven stones. Teeth nipping at anyone who looks too closely at her shining coat with hunger in their eyes.
With each orphan and sickly child you pass, you wish to toss a coin their way. But you’d been one of them once. Gold would only have the others turn on them, leave them ripped to pieces for a bit of gold that would inevitably be stolen by someone else.
So, you keep your eyes forward, attention intent on the gates slowly appearing before you. The guards there share odd looks with each other as you approach. A filthy knight with tattered clothes approaches the Red Keep— they openly laugh.
Your expression falls flat as you pull Aerion’s pass from your pocket. “Here,” you call, tossing it to one of them.
“What’s this, then?” His laughter trails off as he opens the letter, jaw going slack. The other one shoots you an aghast look, and you grin down at them.
“The gates?”
After a moment, they rush to comply, the fear of denying the prince’s guest overriding their suspicions against you. You lean down, snatching the pass from his hand as you ride forward. You can still feel their shocked stares as the gates close behind you.
In the courtyard, you dismount, servants skirting around you with weary glances. A stableboy comes forth, “Your horse, Ser?”
You freeze, caught off guard by such a quick acknowledgement of your title. “Oh,” working over your shock, you pass the lead to him. “Let her graze; she doesn’t do well in stables.” He gives you a firm nod before leading Misty off.
Now that you are here, you find yourself utterly lost. You have always only seen the Red Keep from below. Standing in its courtyard, filthy and with nothing to your name but a shield and horse, you are completely out of your element.
A boy rushes up from behind you, sparing you a short look as he races into the castle. Off to alert the prince of your arrival, you’re sure.
To your left, you hear the sounds of swords clashing. A familiar voice barking out harsh orders. A smile comes to your face unbidden. You follow the noise, dipping into the archways and up a set of stone stairs. It leads to a balcony that overlooks the training yard.
Leaning against the bannister, you stare down at Crakehall. He’s correcting the younger guards, voice severe as he paces around them.
“Eager for a spar, already?”
Your head drops, hanging between your shoulders. You had not even heard him come up. “No, simply watching.”
Aerion hums, coming to stand beside you. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a rematch. A way to earn his honor back after losing to you,” he shoots you a sharp look that says he saw right through the man’s lie.
You offer him nothing more than a simple shrug. “I am tired and weary. I want nothing more than a hot bath.”
His nose wrinkles as he nods, “You smell horrendous.”
“How princely,” you scoff, straightening up.
“Is that why you came here? For a prince?” He asks, hip propped against the bannister as he watches you.
Your eyes narrow a moment before you slowly shake your head. “No,” you whisper, straightening up. “That’s not why,” you lean in, breath brushing against his lips. Despite his earlier comment, he leans in. There’s a twitch in your eye when you see the way he curves toward you.
You back up with a low huff, and he rears back, something shameful in his expression. “I wanted a bath, that’s all,” you tell him. “Does my invitation still stand?”
“Yes,” Aerion grits out, pushing away from the railing. He strides forward, and you follow behind him, ignoring the odd looks you get from the nobility moving through the keep. He pays them no mind. But why would he? He has nothing to prove to them. He is a Dragon Prince; they speak no wicked word against him if they want to keep their tongue.
He leads you through the keep until you reach a set of arched doors. You glance to the room across from them. “Your room?” you ask him.
“No,” he dismisses, and your brows furrow. You’d thought he would keep you close. Aerion pushes the doors to your chambers open and makes his way in. You follow, watching as he pours himself some Arbor Gold from a flagon by the hearth. In the center of the room is a tub with steaming water already rising from it.
“That was fast,” you note, taking off your cloak.
Aerion looks up a moment and shrugs. “The servants have been prepared for your arrival.” You pause, glancing over at him. Such a small admission. But one that makes your gut twist.
How long had he been waiting for you?
Slowly you prop your sword against the bed, lower your shield beside it. You carefully pull at the laces of your tunic. You can feel the heat of his stare without having to look. Paying him no mind, you tug the cloth from your body, dropping it to the floor. Your boots follow and then your trousers.
Finally, you spare the prince a look. He has gone still by the hearth, eyes intent on your body, thick lines of scars, dirt, every imperfection. He traces the contours of your shape eagerly. With a low hum, you ease into the steaming waters.
There is the small clatter of a goblet being placed down hastily, and then Aerion appears at your side. You pay him no mind, dipping beneath the water until you have cleansed your body and rid your scalp of grime.
By the time you deign to face him, you smell as pleasant as a Tyrell girl.
He remains hovering over you, no chair in sight and too stubborn to kneel to a hedge knight. You smirk at that, trailing your fingers through the suds of the water. “I heard that your engagement was broken off.”
Aerion scoffs at that; he rolls his eyes, putting his back to you. “She had been an imbecile. Hardly worthy of a dragon—”
“The girl was smart,” you butt in, grinning when he shoots you a scathing glare. “Please, Aerion, did you truly think her to be an idiot? Women are given very little lot in this life; she knew how to use hers to get what she wanted.”
Aerion does not argue further; his expression becomes contemplative as he takes a step back toward you. “Just as you did.”
“Hm,” you hum, not agreeing nor denying him.
Aerion paces a moment before finally settling. “How long will you stay?”
“I will be gone on the morrow,” you answer simply. You can see the way his fingers bite into his velvet doublet. The sudden tautness in his shoulders as he slowly turns to meet your eye.
“A night, that is all?”
“Did you expect something more?”
Aerion flounders a moment before his sharp teeth click together. “I thought you would stay longer, yes. A prince has invited you to stay in the Red Keep. In these chambers and you—”
“Will leave on the morrow,” you reassert, tone hardening as you sit up in the bath. “The last time we met, what did I say to you, Aerion?”
He does not want to answer; you can see it in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw. You tilt your head, waiting. “You would not be caged,” he bites out.
“And you asked to be given a chance where I would come and then be released. I thought it was worth giving you a chance.” You brace your hands on the tub, preparing to rise. “Clearly, I was wrong.”
“No,” Aerion pushes forward, his palm resting against your arm. You still, eyeing him warily. Then, to your own surprise, he slowly lowers himself beside you. It looks like it physically pains him to do so, but his hands are on your arms, pushing you back into the tub.
You go, if only to see what he might do. “You,” he whispers, biting his tongue when he tastes the vulnerability in his tone. “You were sworn to me. And then you left. I do not allow people to leave so easily without punishment.”
You lean forward, let your palm drag along his arm until it rests on the nape of his neck. “But I have not left,” you remind him. “I am here, aren’t I?”
“And you won’t be tomorrow.”
“No,” you agree. He leans forward as you tug on him. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t return. That is the beauty of letting a caged bird free, Aerion— they still know their way back to you.”
Your lips are barely touching, just brushing against each other. He lets out a heavy breath against your skin. You can feel his palm beginning to slowly drag down your body. Heavy hand drifting from your collarbone, thumb moving over your breast, the peak of your nipple.
“Aerion,” you warn, even as you push further into his touch.
“Stay,” he breathes against your lips, arm falling beneath the water. The fine fabric of his doublet stained by the grit you’ve left behind. “Just another day,” he means it to sound like a demand, but there is a shaky edge to his words.
You go to protest when his palm finds your core. It is a dirty game he plays. A cheating move as you push into him, your lips finally meeting. He lets out a low noise against your mouth, teeth biting into your bottom lip, a punishment for leaving him so long.
Your hand squeezes around his neck as his fingers slowly glide between your thighs. You part your lips, let your tongue dart across his own as your legs slowly slide apart. He lets out a shaky groan as you push further against him, hips rolling into the barely there touch of his fingers.
Aerion pushes further into the tub, caring not for the water that splashes the ground or the way it soaks through his clothes. His other arm wraps around your back, hauling you up until you’re on your knees. Your mouths move against one another almost violently.
A desperate clash of teeth, too much biting, and too much blood drawn for what is meant to be a gentle, tender, intimate act. But the softness has always felt wrong against your skin.
You let out a sharp gasp as his touch grows bolder. His fingers ease inside you, and your grip tightens on him, nails digging into his skin. You curse against his mouth, breaking apart as your hips roll into his hands. It has been a long time since you’ve felt the warmth of a touch that is not your own.
You have tried, during your time on the road, but no one pushed you as your dragon does. They did not bite or claw, fight you for the upper hand as you needed. But he is here, now, chasing your lips, each desperate touch demanding the same thing. Stay.
Your breaths turn shaky, mouths merely parted against each other as you breathe him in. The fire burns fast, builds in your gut and rips through you so eagerly, you’re almost left cold from the feeling.
Your hips twitch against his hand, and your lips find his once more as he lets you ride the pleasure out until you’re quivering, shoving his hand away. He obeys, easily, eagerly. You pull back, pupils blown as you see him with the same sort of wrecked look on his face. There is very little left of him that is princely.
His grin is sharp, salacious as he stares up at you. Your eyes narrow, hand moving to grip his chin harshly. But he only leans into the feeling, letting you jerk him forth. “I will leave on the morrow,” you mutter, voice low as your eyes remain trained on his lips. Aerion tries to break apart, but you hold tight.
“And then I will return to you,” you swear. He will not meet your eye, petulant as he tries to rip free. You pull his gaze back to yours and press your lips to his with too much force to be romantic. “Do you trust me?”
His eyes fall shut before he finally nods in your hold. “Then let me go,” you tell him.
You release him, and he falls back, slightly stunned as you stand from the bath. “Come,” you instruct, holding out your hand as you help him to his feet. Your hands work eagerly at the clasps of his doublet. “We have much time to make up for.”
His eyes are alight with that familiar fire once more, one hand rising to clasp lightly around your throat as he pushes you against the bed. Intent on tiring you until you cannot leave him tomorrow.
But… you do, just as you’d promised.
And, just as you’d promised, you return in a week’s time. The servants grow used to your presence; the guards let you through without needing a pass. Maekar becomes painfully aware of the knight that comes and goes from his son’s life. He can tell based on his temper alone when you’ve spared him a visit and when you’ve been gone too long.
But he does not interfere this time. There is no reason to.
Not when you keep to yourself, only ever bothering with the royals when you’re sneaking into your prince’s bed chambers.
You are nothing more than a hedge knight— small folk. And Aerion is a prince. There is no world in which you could ever truly be together. But that does not stop either of you from clashing, trying, and winning against what society deems improper.
a/n: I hate men, but I love the fictional ones. Thanks, Aerion, for being my punching bag 🚬🤏😮💨
taglist for request of part two: @wishbone-wolf @oh-miniso
frank castle who makes you get off your phone when he wants to go to bed
i know i literally just said i was working on asks and things that weren’t frank castle but i guess i lied. it’s my birthday so i can do whatever i want:)
Truth be told, you’re tired. Your eyes are achey and sick of looking at your bright phone screen and it really would feel great to just close them and not open them back up but you just don’t feel like it yet. Whatever’s on your phone isn’t all that interesting, but your phone time was cut into earlier long enough to aggravate you and allow you to extend it well into bedtime. You really, really, should go to bed with how early Frank wakes up and how often he accidentally wakes you too. He’s quiet, but you’ve always been a very light sleeper.
You don’t know how he does it, stays up so late reading a book and then wakes back up at the ass crack of dawn. Well, you do, actually, it’s the nightmares. Really, what you mean is you aren’t sure how he’s as much of a functioning person as he is — any less that eight hours a night and you aren’t very nice.
Frank knows that. He knows at the time it is now, you’ll be getting seven and you’ll wake up with a grimace and grumble and toss around and shove your face back into the pillow. You’ll stomp around all day, give yourself a headache from being angry, then get back on your phone and do it all over again.
That’s why he closes his book and snatches your phone from your hands.
“Alright,” He huffs, pulling it from your grip and shutting it off. “Bedtime.”
Surprised, you look over to him and stutter out his name.
“I was watching that!” You shift up onto your elbows, the fabric of your shirt pulling up and pressing your tummy against the sheets. He doesn’t bother responding with anything other than a grunt while plugging your phone into his charger on his bedside table. He charges his own phone every other day and it could probably go longer than that, he hates the thing. Doesn’t use it for anything besides having your number and a couple others. Plus, if he gave it back to you to put on your charger he knows you’d be a brat about it — you’d spin around to face away from him and get right back on it, staying up even later than you would’ve in the first place just to prove him.
“C’mon,” He shifts down onto his back again, one arm propped up over his head on the pillow and the other patting your bum. “Up.”
Frank also knows you can’t sleep without going to the bathroom first. His attentiveness has never been more annoying and also maybe a little attractive, but that just makes you even more annoyed. You stare at him in disbelief for a moment, like he doesn’t do this a minimum of three times a week, and he stares right back at you with his eyebrows raised expectantly.
You groan when he tilts his head towards the door, but clamber out of the bed with the roll of your eyes anyways.
“Thinks he’s the boss of me…” Frank catches you muttering to yourself as you stomp off down the short hallway and smiles fondly, shaking his head. You’re stumbling back into the room soon, rubbing your tired eyes and climbing under the covers with a yawn.
“I want it back, Frank.” You attempt, knowing it will get you absolutely nowhere.
“Yeah,” He sighs, pulling you into his side. “Tough luck, sweetheart, time for bed.”
You grumble about it a little more, but situate yourself to be more comfortable against his warm, barren chest. It’s not long after your eyes close and his big hand starts petting over the side of your head and dragging back and forth over your arm that you fall asleep.
Frankie stares down at you with a small, tender smile as you fall into a deep sleep. He’ll whisper something sweet like, sweet dreams, baby, and kiss your forehead all gentle. Sometimes he’ll fall asleep right after you, but most of the time it takes him a few more hours. He doesn’t mind it; in fact, with your slumbering form tucked right up into his side, it’s the only time he can enjoy the quiet without his own thoughts taking it over.
Baby girl: his favourite in intimate and soft moments. Those moments when you’re cuddling on the couch or on the bed, those moments when you’re cooking food together, tangled in each other in the small kitchen. He calls you baby girl when texting you or calling you or when he’s looking for you.
Good girl: can be used in innocent moments like you making him his favourite meal or you coming to cuddle him when he needs it. He uses this one the most when fucking you. He just loves the reactions he gets out of you each time he calls you that, getting you to moan his name and pull harder at his hair, your tight little pussy squeezing him. He especially loves to use it when you ride him and he just lays there, arms behind his head, muscles flexed, having you do all the work.
Mama: he uses this one combined with “good job (good job mama)” to praise you when you’re doing a good job, whether it’s when you’re both in the gym and you’re doing your last reps or when it’s just doing something good. He also just calls you this when he wants to call for your attention.
Includes: Duncan the tall, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, and Valarr Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: How they'd react to being interrupted during the act
Warnings: Freaky nasty smut, I really went the extra mile for my actual real boyfriend Aerion. This is 18+, read at your own discretion.
A/N: Thinking of writing more fics instead of just headcanons and trailer trash Aerion is speaking to me
Dunk had been knuckle deep inside you, stretching and turning his fingers, thumb dragging back and forth against your clit, murmuring softly into your ear. Your skirt was rucked up to your thighs, and there was a noticeable bulge where his own arousal grew. "That's it. Come on, tad bit more for me." He was trying to coax a third orgasm out of you when a knock sounded from the door. Raymun's voice was on the other side, inquiring on whether or not he was going to him for training. "You coming along with the rest of us, mate?" You hadn't touched Dunk yet, but that didn't mean he wasn't trembling from the need running through him like lightning. Every part of him froze save for his fingers, still pumping in and out of you, warmth trailing up his neck and ceasing at his ears. He rested his head on your chest for a moment, breathing hard and fast, then turned to the door. "Er...I'll need a few m-minutes! Just wait by the...fuck...far, far, away. Go. Just g-go! I'll be out soon 'nough!" You could hear Raymun falter, leaning against the wall. "Everything...decent in there?" Dunk would stifle a groan, vowing he was just tired, and would come shortly. (Like you were about to.) After Raymun left, Dunk silenced your flustered protests with a soft kiss, hastily pulling down his trousers and replacing his fingers with his cock. "Quickly, I'll do it quickly. 's alright, you're alright with that?" He questioned, soft thrusts punctuating his words. Your fingers interlaced behind his neck, cunt clenching in sync with the plunges of his length within you. He'll ensure you finish but will leave in a hurry, kissing your cheek and promising to make it up to you. "I'll give you my tongue, my fingers, whatever you want, I just—I really have to go. I'll make amends, I swear it. I love you, I do. Bye. Fuck. I love you, goodbye."
Daeron would be entranced by you, as he always is when his head is in between your thighs while you sat on his desk. He’d notice that you’d been interrupted when your moans abruptly ended, and your hands stopped grabbing at his hair. His hooded eyes gazed up at you, and your focus was on the door behind him, motionless. He sighed, not bothering to turn around, rather irked by the disturbance if anything. "Leave us." The servant, holding a basket of sheets, mouth agape, quickly nodded their head in a reluctant bow and closed the door behind them. Daeron went right back to his task until you ungracefully pushed his head back. "My love?" He wouldn't let you leave him, hands bracketing your hips, his lips in a tiny pout to convince you to stay. "Daeron, that unfortunately-timed intrusion was mortifying! That poor maid could have seen my...or, or your...they could've seen certain...things, you understand!" He was thoroughly unimpressed with your outburst, resting his cheek against your thigh and toying with a stray thread on your dress. "Yes, I realize. May I continue? I fear you haven't been satisfied." He'd attempt to lift your skirts for him but you would scoff at his apparent indifference, stalking off into the other room. Daeron would groan, doing his best to coax you back to his bed with soft words and gentle pleas. "I'll remember to lock the doors next time, just let me fucking finish, please. I need this."
Aerion has you under his desk, fingers threaded loosely in your hair, manspreading as you sucked him off. He was in the middle of writing back to a few of his comrades, if you could call them that, from nearby kingdoms when his father walked in, no knock, no warning, no announcement. The Anvil himself intruding on you performing oral sex on your husband. Your first instinct is to move off of his cock, terrified, but Aerion holds you there, the once gentle grip now achingly stern. You would've protested had you not seen what he was doing. Maeker couldn't see you just yet from where he stood by the door, so as long as you remained where you were, your mouth on Aerion, Maekar needn't know of the very explicit deed unfolding only a few yards away. "Aerion. You neglect your courtly duties. I am not one to frown upon the happiness of newlyweds, but you have missed several gatherings, including a banquet. This behavior cannot persist." Aerion could only nod. He could not trust his voice to stay calm, nor his words to stay even. "You will answer me when I speak to you, boy!" You didn't mean to swirl your tongue around his slit, you were simply uncomfortable with the position, still, Aerion looked down at you with a gaze that could melt a glacier. "I-I'll be at the next one, father." He grit out. You had a beautiful epiphany in that moment. You liked seeing him like this. And you liked the risk even more. You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, an experimental gulp, and his eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenching. "Are you well?" Maekar inquired, lips pulled into a scowl. You traced a vein on the underside of Aerion's shaft with your tongue. "Get out." He grunted, eyes narrowed in a glare at his father. "I beg your pardon?" Maekar questioned softly, bewildered. "Get. Out." Aerion repeated, venom coating every syllable. "We will have words about this, son. Remember this." Right as the door slammed and Maekar departed, Aerion turned his steely gaze to you, and your epiphany morphed into regret. He hauled you up into his lap, your lips red and slick with spit, grabbing your chin. "You are going to suffer for this, wife."
Valarr never does sex halfway. There will be no quickies, no head, no handjobs. He'd do it for you if you asked, but it would be wrong of him to ever let you get him off without doing the same for you. The majority of the time, your sexcapades end with him finishing inside you. Therefore, you were in one of the secluded stairways of the Red Keep, hardly ever used this time of night, breaths mingling in the winter air. You sat in his lap, slowly grinding up and down on his cock where it was sheathed inside of you, muffling your noises as best you could. "Gods. Keep going, please, just like that." He whined, pulling your hips down harder to meet his tender thrusts. You'd nearly reached your second peak, eyes shut and head hiding in the junction of his neck when the sound of Valarr's strangled gasp had you cease. "Seven hells...I'll be on my way." A voice that was most definitely not Valarr's said. You couldn't force yourself to look, feeling the heat of shyness rise in you, but you knew that voice. Baelor Breakspear, the Hand of the King, the fucking crown prince. "Father, I can explain—" Valarr began, but Baelor must have held up a hand because he spoke no excuse. "I wish not to see this again, in my lifetime, if that's quite alright with the two of you. Son. My lady...er...enjoy yourself. Goodnight." You raised your head once you no longer heard the retreating footsteps. The skin of his high cheekbones were a faint shade of pink, growing deeper with your eyes on him. "He is going to annihilate me tomorrow. I hope this was worth it. We will never do this outside of our chambers without the doors securely latched ever again."
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader, set after brand new day
summary: it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones. or in other words, as charlotte york from sex and the city once said, damn it! I just really wanna be fucked, you know? just really fucked!
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, no use of y/n, sweet (and spicy) lil. drabble, established relationship, fingering, light dom/sub undertones, leaving marks, peter fingers you from behind, cum eating, pussy slapping, peter being so gosh darn tooth rottingly cute ugh, not beta read
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Just wanted to make a mess on my couch, get my fingers all filthy? For me to take it?"
You're gonna be in serious trouble, you think. Peter's fingers curl upwards, and your whines break off, broken and wanton and so delightfully needed. You can feel stray tears dripping down your cheeks, lashes wet from all the different sensations Peter's taking out of your body. "I–I think I'm gonna come."
"Yeah?" He leans back in, not quite kissing her, eyes dilated in the dark of his apartment. "You think you deserve it?"
Nodding, head shaking up and down frantically. Why yes, absolutely, Peter Parker, you do deserve it.
You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.
You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.
First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."
And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.
The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.
You end up abandoning the heels.
That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.
Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.
"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"
His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.
"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."
"Neither do I."
"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Peter."
"I don't know what you—"
"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."
That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you.
You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.
God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.
The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.
"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.
"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"
"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another.
"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"
Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."
Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave.
"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream. "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.
Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you.
Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.
The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching.
"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back.
"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"
"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."
"I'm sure you do."
"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."
"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."
+ from mara
this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3
pro‑hero bakugo and pro‑hero y/n post a picture together. someone comments, “where’s your top from, y/n?” before y/n can reply, a fan jumps in with, “he’s from japan.” it ends up being the only fan comment bakugo has ever liked.
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