Summary: The Young Prince and his wife have an important conversation.
Word count: 3.0k
Warnings: fluff, vague hints of smut (nothing explicit)
A/N: somehow chapter 10 has nearly double the likes of chapter 9, and I really wonder why that is. Are people reading previous chapters without leaving a like or do people read separate chapters without reading the rest? How does this work, does anyone know? Please let me know if you do, I'm just trying to understand the inner workings of tumblr!
Cross-posted on AO3 (registered users only).
The sound of the door closing echoed painfully through his chambers as she walked further into the room, away from him. Her body was tense and she had her arms folded across her stomach, as if in a vain attempt to protect herself.
She could not understand why he wasn't absolutely furious with her. He had seen it fit to yell at Edric, when she came up with the plan and had only dragged him along. If he was truly going to be be held accountable for her actions, does that mean he might be send away again? She prayed not. He was the only person in this Keep that she knew she could trust fully.
"You cannot punish Edric for my mistakes. I forced him to come with me, it was my idea. I–"
"I know," Valarr said quietly. He had a pained expression on his face as he stared at her.
"I'm not angry with you. You are such a compassionate, principled woman, and I deeply admire that about you. I should've known you would want to do something like this sooner or later."
She simply gaped at him in response. She hadn't been sure what to expect from this conversation, but it certainly wasn't this.
"I just hope you can understand that this is not the way to go about it. You are a princess of the realm now, and the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If something happened to you, I would never forgive myself."
His eyes seemed to be pleading for her to understand. He slowly stepped towards her before gently grabbed her hands. For reasons she couldn't understand, she let him.
"You are a member of the royal family now, and that comes with both responsibilities and risks. You cannot simply wander off whenever the fancy strikes you. There are too many people out there who wish to do you harm or those who would use you against us, against me. Not to mention how your actions might be perceived by the lords and ladies at court and elsewhere, who value decorum above all else."
He let out a deep sigh, looking at her with damp eyes.
"I do not ever wish to control you, or to tell you what to do. I am sorry if I have ever made you feel that way. But please, if you truly wish to venture out into the city, take a proper escort with you. Plan out where you wish to go, so that the guards can inspect the streets beforehand. I would also like to accompany you next time, if you'll have me."
"You would?" she said dumbfounded.
He nodded at her, squeezing her hands.
"Of course, gevie," he whispered. "I would do anything for you."
"Anything?" she asked quietly, furrowing her brows.
"Anything."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks as she tried to find the courage to ask him the question she had wanted to ask him for days now. She did not know the true meaning of it all before, but she did now. She averted her eyes quickly before speaking.
"Then why do you not wish to bed me?" she whispered.
He stayed silent for a long time, and when she finally had the courage to look up at him, he had a distressed look on his face. She immediately regretted her words.
"I–"
"No, no," he interrupted her. "I owe you the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might make me."
He took a deep breath before averting his gaze from her, instead staring at the lit fireplace.
"You were right, I am a coward. I was terrified of what might befall you in the birthing bed. My own mother died giving birth to Matarys, and I could not bare the thought of losing you like that as well. My fears clouded my judgment, and I thought the best way to prevent losing you was to ensure you didn't fall pregnant at all. I now know that was never my decision to make, especially without telling you why."
She had been aware of his mother's cause of death, though she had not given it much thought until that moment. She had lost her own mother as well when she was a child, though that had been from the shaking sickness. Her mother had suffered from the illness her whole life, but none of them had ever considered it might prove fatal.
The loss had been sudden and heart-wrenching, and her father had not been the same man since. He was a kind, warm and loving father once, she knew. Her father would have never even considered marrying her sister off to such old, honorless men if her mother had still been there to talk him out of it. Perhaps her striking resemblance to his beloved wife was what made him change course for the marriage of his youngest child. She might have been glad for it, had it not meant the suffering of her sisters as well.
Quickly pulled from her thoughts, she gave him a teary, sympathetic smile. She squeezed his hands in comfort, which made him return her gaze finally.
"Besides that, I was insecure and afraid of what you might think of me. I have never… lain with a woman before. I do not know how to please a woman in that manner. I was scared I would disappoint you, or that you would grow to hate me forever. But I realize now that my actions might have caused that to happen either way."
She felt a few stray tears slipping down her face at his words. She was beyond relieved to hear that he hadn't thought there was something wrong with her, or Gods forbid, that he might desire another.
Valarr's face crumbed completely at the sight of her tears, and he quickly pulled her into his arms. The familiar scent of parchment and ink put her mind at ease almost immediately. How she had missed his embrace.
"So you truly do not wish to put me aside?" she whispered uncertainly.
"No!" he said frantically, pulling away from her to make eye contact.
"No, never. You are the most beautiful, intelligent, kind, determined, inspiring woman I have ever met. I could never want anyone else. I wish to spend the rest of my life with you, if you'll still have me."
She looked at him hesitantly. His words were sweet, but they would not magically erase his actions from the last few days. She pulled away from him reluctantly, taking a few small steps back from him.
"How do I know you will not lie to me again?" she said, her eyes narrowing. "I can't trust you if I have to live in fear of you shutting me out every time something goes wrong or scares you. If you truly want this marriage to work, you have to learn to let me in, even when it's difficult. You have to trust me."
He nodded along vigorously with every word she said, never breaking eye contact.
"You're right. I was foolish, and I didn't consider how much this might hurt you and our marriage. I am so sorry, my love, and I will do whatever I can to fix this and earn your trust back."
She chewed on her lip, contemplating her response. Tears burned behind her eyes again, and one slipped down her cheek silently.
"I will need some time, but I am willing to try. You'll need to prove to me that you will do better."
He nodded eagerly, a relieved look on his face.
"Of course, gevie. Whatever you wish, it shall be yours."
He took a deep bow after that, which made her laugh through her tears. He stepped towards her slightly, waiting for her to give permission to touch her. She nodded at him silently, and he reached his hand towards her face, wiping her tears away gently.
"Please don't cry, gevie," he murmured.
She just sniffled in response, a small smile on her face. He silently gazed down at her, adoration evident in his eyes.
"I love you," he whispered. "So much more than you will ever know."
Her eyes widened at his words. A warmth spread through her body, and her heart knew the answer before her head caught up.
"I love you, too."
A wide smile spread across his face. She quickly threw herself into his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped his strong arms around her tightly, and they stayed like that for what felt like hours. His scent surrounded her, which made her heart beat faster and heat rise to her cheeks.
He placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, which made her pull away from him slightly to gaze up at him in adoration.
His eyes suddenly widened before a mischievous smile spread across his face. He pulled away from her gently, which made a frown appear on her face.
"I have a present for you," he said, the grin still on his face.
She tilted her head in question when he walked towards his bedroom quickly. She heard a small sound that sounded suspiciously like meowing before he returned, his hand cupped around a small object.
"She does not have a name yet," he said as he approached her. In his hands lay a small, black-and-white kitten. She couldn't contain a squeal as she rushed towards him. She cooed at the kitten as he handed her over gently.
"Well, hello, little one," she whispered. The cat looked up at her curiously, letting out a quiet purr.
"What would you like to call her?" Valarr asked, gazing at her fondly.
She thought for a moment. Her last cat had been named for a goddess, so she thought it best to continue that pattern.
"Meraxes," she said quietly. He nodded happily in response. Perhaps he was glad she had named the kitten after a Valyrian goddess, though she suspected he would have been happy with her choice regardless.
Warmth spread throughout her chest at the enormous affection she felt for both of the creatures in front of her. Valarr had remembered her story of Pantera, and had gone out of his way to bring her a bit of happiness. She could not express how much she adored him, as her words failed her.
So she walked away instead, placing the kitten down on one of the armchairs in front of the roaring fire. The cat let out a soft meow before curling up and closing her eyes. She turned back to Valarr with a determined look on her face, her lips curled into a small smile.
She gathered up all of her courage and walked towards him. She stopped right in front of him, close enough that their lips almost touched. He gave her a curious look at the proximity, a blush spreading on his cheeks.
"Thank you," she whispered, flitting her eyes down to his lips for a brief second.
She could see him swallow before answering. "You're most welcome, gevie."
She hovered her lips over his, meeting his adoring gaze with a questioning look in her eyes. He just smiled at her, which gave her the courage to continue. She moved forward, finally allowing their lips to meet.
They had only ever kissed at their wedding before, but this felt completely different. It was filled with deep want and devotion, while still remaining soft and gentle. She wrapped her arms around his neck as the kiss grew more passionate, pushing her body closer.
After a few minutes, she pulled away reluctantly, her mind set on getting what she wanted.
"Aelinor and Alys told me what happens during the bedding."
His eyes widened at that.
"D-Did they?" he stuttered.
She nodded shyly. "I–I'm very curious about it. Would you show me, please?"
She looked away as she uttered those words, beyond anxious to be rejected again.
"I– I not entirely sure what we're meant to do, either," he said nervously.
"Then we'll find out together. If you'd like to," she replied simply.
He thought it over for a second before nodding, a nervous smile on his lips.
He kissed her less gently after that, his hands wandering where they hadn't before. Soon, giggles echoed through his chambers as he pulled her towards his bed.
She woke up the next morning with familiar arms wrapped around her waist. Valarr held her tightly to his bare chest, nuzzling his nose into the crook of her neck. The ticklish feeling made her giggle, and she could feel Valarr smile against her shoulder.
"Good morning, my love."
He placed a soft kiss against her shoulder as he greeted her. She just hummed in response, grabbing his hands and squeezing them slightly. She then turned her body around to face him, which put their faces only a few inches away from each other. They both had content smiles on their faces, and spend some time gazing at each other.
"I love you," she whispered under her breath with a smile. His eyes lit up at her words.
"Love you more, gevie," he replied with a smirk on his face.
She gasped aloud, giving him a shove under the blankets.
"That's not possible, I'm afraid."
"It's not?" he said, a mocking quizzical look on his face. "I think–"
She silenced him quickly with a deep kiss. He pushed her shoulder gently to make her lay on her back, never breaking their kiss. He slowly crawled on top of her, placing his hands on both sides of her head to support himself.
"I'll show you it's very possible, my darling wife," he murmured against her lips. She let out a giggle at that, wrapping her arms around his neck again before deepening the kiss.
She had a pleased smile on her face as she walked towards Aelinor's solar for lunch. Her husband had begged her to stay by his side, but she had gently told him that she owed the two ladies an explanation about her disappearance, at the very least. She was also eager to discuss her adventures with her aunts-in-law, though she did not mention that bit to Valarr.
She was humming happily to herself as she entered the room, which made the two ladies give her an inquisitive look. The wide smile on her face made them smile as well.
"Come sit down, dear, we want to know everything," Alys said impatiently. Aelinor said nothing, but the look on her face made it clear she was curious as well.
She quickly approached her chair before eagerly starting her story.
"I went to the River Gate yesterday, and to Fishmonger's Square. I spoke to some kids, and Gods, their lives are awful. They are starving there, and it's so dirty!"
Alys shrugged in response. "I did warn you it smells awful there."
"Well, it shouldn't!" she exclaimed. "How can we let them live in those horrid conditions while we sit in this castle, stuffing our faces every night? It's absolutely unacceptable."
"Well, what would you have us do?" Aelinor questioned, her tone bored.
"I-I don't know. Clean the streets, make their food more affordable. There's so much we can do to help them, I–"
"And who will pay for that?" Aelinor interrupted. "The King? He might, but only if you have a sensible plan. Good intentions will only get you so far, my dear."
"Gods, must we have this conversation now?" Alys groaned, throwing her hands up in frustration. "We want to know how the bedding went, not your little philanthropic outing!"
She just stared at Alys, mouth falling open in disbelief.
"How do you even know that happened?"
The two women exchanged a look before Aelinor let out a sigh.
"The guards talk, darling. Alys questioned Ser Roland this morning about where you went yesterday, and he told us you had entered Valarr's chambers and were yet to come back out."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. She sunk back into her chair, crossing her arms and putting on a sour face.
"Fine. Yes, it happened."
"And?" Alys said impatiently. Both women leaned towards her, as if to hear her better.
"It was… really nice. He was incredibly kind and attentive. It didn't even hurt. It felt good, in fact."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks as she continued, averting her eyes from their piercing gazes now. "We even did it again this morning."
Alys squealed loudly while Aelinor just had a pleased smile on her face.
"That is wonderful, sweetling! I am so glad," Alys said cheerfully.
"Did you two discuss your… issues?" Aelinor questioned, ignoring Alys.
"Yes. He apologized for his behavior and explained his reasoning."
"And what would that be?" Alys asked.
She looked away shyly. She was not particularly eager to expose his insecurities to his aunts, so she decided not to mention it, instead focusing on his fears.
"He was scared that childbirth might prove fatal for me, as it did with Lady Jena."
They stayed quiet after that, their gazes softening in sympathy at her words.
"That's very understandable," Aelinor murmured. She just nodded in response, not sure what else to say. They all remained silent for moment before Alys spoke up again.
"Well, I am glad you two patched things up. I'm sure you will make each other very happy. You two make such a lovely couple."
Aelinor nodded in agreement, a thin smile on her face.
Before she could respond, someone knocked on the door of Aelinor's chambers. When Aelinor gave them permission to enter, Edric walked in with a slight smirk on his face.
"Your husband requests your presence, my lady. He wishes to take a walk with you in the Godswood."
Heat rose to her cheeks at the knowing look her aunts-in-law send her. She nodded at Edric before quickly saying goodbye to the ladies. They just smirked at her, while Alys giggled at her departure.
Just before Edric closed the door behind them, she could hear Alys loudly whisper towards her sister-in-law, holding out her palm expectantly.
"I won, Aelinor! You owe me."
She let out a loud snort, quickly walking away before the ladies could say anything in response.
Please let me know (through a comment, ask or dm) if you want to be (un)tagged for the next part or if I made a mistake! (Please check if your tag settings are turned on before asking)
aerion targaryen who keeps having nightmares of reader dying and he doesn't know how to deal with it
He demands reader be there with him 24/7 but also afraid to talk to her too because he's scared he's gonna end up crying when he does
And one night, he wakes up and reader isn't there with him but just as he's about to jump out of bed, reader comes back in the room (turns out she was just hungry for a midnight snack) and aerion who loses his temper "Where were you!?" And reader is just confused "I went to the kitchen-"
Annnndddd I want you to come up with the ending!! :33
I’m Scared I’ll Never Sleep Again
Request: aerion targaryen who keeps having nightmares of reader dying and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He demands reader be there with him 24/7 but also afraid to talk to her too because he's scared he's gonna end up crying when he does. And one night, he wakes up and reader isn't there with him but just as he's about to jump out of bed, reader comes back in the room (turns out she was just hungry for a midnight snack) and aerion who loses his temper "Where were you!?" And reader is just confused "I went to the kitchen-" Annnndddd I want you to come up with the ending!! :33
Hi! So sorry it took me so long to get this out. I haven’t written for Aerion before, so this is a bit out of character. But hopefully you still like it! Thank you for the request :)
(Warnings: mentions of death and blood, swearing, i think that’s it? let me know if i missed anything)
—
Although it was true that Daeron was the dragon dreamer of the family, prophetic and misconstrued dreams plagued three of Maekar’s six children. It wasn’t something your husband talked about often, but you knew he understood the weight of them. He’d familiarized himself with the history and legacy of his house from the time he could read. Of course he knew who throughout his ancestry possessed this rare skill.
It wasn’t something Daeron could hide. Plagued the most, he chose to drink, gamble, and lust his way through the nights to avoid them. Aerion, however, was much more reserved about it.
When your marriage was first arranged, neither of you were thrilled. You didn’t want to leave your home in Highgarden, and Aerion had no interest in some simpering girl who couldn’t meet his gaze without trembling. Despite his fondness for women, he preferred having the choice. What fun was it if you didn’t know how to play the game with him?
You were summoned to court shortly after the news of Baelor’s death. Maekar, clinging to what little good he could make of his family after everything that happened, was desperate for a girl that could whip his son into shape. He needed a girl that was strong as well as beautiful, smart as well as dignified. He needed a match for his son that would hopefully finally make a man out of him. After carefully examining the eligible daughters of the Great Houses, you were selected. Within a fortnight of Lord Tyrell receiving the raven, you were on your way to King’s Landing.
Much to his father’s dismay, Aerion was the first to greet you upon your arrival. He didn’t even let Maekar get a word in before he stepped up to the carriage once the door was opened, offering you his hand to help you down. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought the action chivalrous and princely. But you’d heard plenty of tales of the prince before your arrival. You knew this was a calculated move, a test. He was purely waiting to see whether you’d pass or fail.
Without missing a beat, you hiked your skirts up with one hand and gripped his hand tightly with the other. “Did you know you can smell the shit for miles coming into the city?”
You carefully stepped over a pile of mud as he helped you down, letting go of him to smooth out your skirts. Once you were satisfied with your appearance, you looked up to meet him in the eye. He didn’t say a word, but you could see the intrigue in his gaze. He cocked his head to the side, glancing back at Maekar.
“Did you hear that, Father?” he hummed, clearly amused by his father’s usual grimace that was temporarily stunned into a look of confusion. “You can smell the shit for miles.”
You remembered your lessons, curtsying carefully. “My lord. It is an honor to meet you. I thank you for the invitation.”
You spoke like the lady he’d hoped you would be, but Maekar could hear the disgenuine tone in your voice. Either you were even smarter than you looked, or he’d made a grave mistake. Only time would tell.
“The journey was comfortable, I hope?”
More pretty words his own mother had taught him to say. Princes were supposed to care about hospitality and manners, as though they were golden knights among mere men. He’d always found it to be a load of bullshit, but he’d grown accustomed to it over the years. He’d never heard a lady of a noble house speak to him with anything but the carefully crafted words their mothers or septas taught them to say when addressed by a lord. But here you were, swearing upon your first meeting with them. He couldn’t help but begin to like you.
“Highgarden must smell pleasant with all those gardens,” Aerion mused, gaining your attention. “Does the smell of our city offend you, my lady?”
“Aerion—”
“Nonsense, my prince,” you answered sweetly, taking a deep breath of city air. “It suits me just fine. Shit and all.”
Maekar couldn’t help but laugh, trying and failing to stifle it. “Shit and all, my lady?”
“Shit and all.”
—
The following days were spent getting to know your new home and your betrothed. Aerion, ever the little shit, did all he could to bother you. But not once did you let him phase you. Every harsh word, every too tight grip, every whim he wanted you to indulge him on, you endured it. His father was never far, always watching with a scrutinizing stare to see if you’d slip up. He watched for days and days, but you never once faltered. Whatever tests he and his son had for you, you’d passed them with flying colors. He grew surer and surer about his decision to betroth you by the day.
When the day of your wedding finally came, Aerion was enamored with you.
He didn’t want to be, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked you. Your beauty, your wit, your tenacity. He thought he would enjoy making you squirm and wince, but he found himself enjoying the chase more. Your bark was every bit as big as his, and he could only hope your bite was the same.
He used to shudder at the idea of becoming soft for someone. The only woman he ever got that way for was his mother, and she was long gone. He had no intention of ever letting that part of himself surfacing again, yet you brought it out of him as you slowly settled into your marriage.
He was still every bit as harsh and possessive as he was the day he’d met you. But where he used to dig his claws in, he now favored a tight grip. His bite had turned into nothing more than a nip. He was learning to love you how you deserved to be loved, unwilling to settle for anything less.
It was obvious to anyone with eyes — the prince was head over heels for his wife.
Despite his closeness to you, Aerion was a tough nut to crack. He was always fond of jokes and deflection when the moment turned serious. Any time you prodded into his past, he’d gently guide you away with a sharp quip or wandering hand. More often than not, you’d let him. But over time, you slowly wore him down.
It took him weeks into your marriage to even admit that he had strange dreams. You’d pried the information from him the third night in a row you’d found him staring up at the canopies once you started sharing a bed.
“It’s just dreams,” he scoffed once you sat up and looked at him with concern in your gaze. “They don’t mean anything.”
You frowned, reaching up to smooth a hair out of place back down. “You need your rest, Aerion. You annoy me as it is. I will not indulge a husband comparable to a whining child all day tomorrow because he was too stubborn to sleep.”
Aerion stifled a grumble, turning his head to nip at your wrist. He caught it when you tried to pull away, pressing a kiss into your skin instead. You let your wrist go slack in his grip, watching as he guided your hand back into his hair.
“So spoiled,” you whispered, but you were smiling as he relaxed into the pillows once more.
Aerion huffed, closing his eyes. “I am what you made me.”
“Oh, so this is my fault now?”
“It is.”
“It has nothing to do with being a brat all your life before I came along?”
“Shut up, woman.”
“Excuse me?” you asked with a raised brow, pulling your hand away.
“No, no, no, no,” he rushed out, hastily pulling your hand back to his head. “I take it back, I take it back.”
You rolled your eyes, relenting. “Of course you do.”
—
As your marriage progressed, Aerion’s dreams got worse.
They were violent affairs. Before you, he dreamed of dragon fire and burning cities, the stench of death filling his nose. And before you, these dreams didn’t bother him much. Death was an inevitable thing. He would greet death as he greeted life, with a glint in his eye and a sword in his hand. It was no matter to him. The lives he took, or the one that claimed his, it was all inconsequential. It was a fate his ancestors met for centuries before him, and it was a fate his descendants would meet for centuries after him.
As his affection for you grew, his dreams began to shift. What was once vague and out of body became too up close and personal. The faceless men he’d watch be slaughtered suddenly began to morph into you, his beloved wife he’d burn down cities for.
The first time it happened, he was dreaming of your wedding day.
He dreamt of you standing at the altar with him, your beautiful gown flowing behind you. Your hair was done flawlessly, every pin placed with purpose. You smelled of roses and sunlight. Your father had arranged to have oils sent to you to remind you of home. Aerion felt weak in the knees the first time he smelled them on you. You had to pry him off you every time he’d get a whiff in passing and promptly bury his nose in your neck.
He dreamt of your smile, the way your gaze met his as you said the vows countless others had made before you. Up until that point, it was perfect. It was a happy memory.
But then your smile faltered.
You lowered your head slowly, grasping at the fabric banded across your stomach. Aerion watched in confusion until he felt dread spread throughout his chest, watching in horror as blood began to seep through your dress. You clutched helplessly at your stomach, looking to Aerion for help with desperate eyes, but there was nothing he could do. His own hand moved to cover yours, pressing down as hard as he could to stem the bleeding. But it was to no avail. You were bleeding out.
You crashed to your knees, clutching at his shoulders like a scared little child. He could hear himself screaming. It was a carnal and pained sound, a wail like the one his mother used to make when it was time to bring a new little brother or sister into the world. He felt like he was drowning in it.
He clawed and pawed at you, desperately looking around for help from someone, anyone. But help didn’t come. He had no choice but to watch you bleed.
He finally ripped himself from the dream when the light left your eyes, shooting up in the bed with a gasp from breath. His chest heaved as he panicked, blindly reaching over to your side of the bend until he could feel warm skin under his palm.
“Mmm,” you groaned, shifting onto your side as you cracked open an eye. “Aerion? What is it?”
I watched you die, he immediately wanted to say. I couldn’t save you.
But Aerion was full of pride. It pained him to admit vulnerability. He already choked on his love for you as it was. He couldn’t stomach the inevitable look of pity in your eye when he told you the truth. So he took a shaky breath, slowly laying back down.
“I dreamt I was falling,” he murmured, patting your thigh. “Go back to sleep.”
You frowned, throwing a leg over his hip to hold him down. “That’s silly.”
You twisted and turned in his grip until you were pressed flush against him, your limbs intertwined. One hand reached up to thread through his hair, the other resting on his arm. He let out a content purr, like a cat who’d just found a warm lap to sit in.
“There,” you whispered, resting your head on his chest. “I’ve got you. You can’t fall.”
He turned his head until his nose was buried in your hair. “Clever girl.”
—
The dream repeated itself often in various forms, always ending the same way — he couldn’t save you.
Whether it be by his hand or another’s, he’d watched you die now more times than he could stomach. Aerion wasn’t as foolish as some of his ancestors. He knew what the dreams were, and he knew they weren’t to be ignored.
Not when it came to you.
Still, though, he couldn’t talk to you about it. What if you didn’t understand? What if you laughed at him? What if you looked at him like he was crazy? What if—gods forbid—he burst into tears like some sniveling child clutching at his mothers skirts?
Before his mother passed, all of his siblings had nightmares at some point bad enough to send them climbing into her bed. Maekar was absolutely no help when it came to comforting his children.
“It’s not real,” he’d grumble, shifting over in the bed to get whichever child it was off of him. “Don’t be silly.”
Dyanna was kinder. “It was real to them.”
She’d sit with them until they calmed, rubbing their backs and stroking their hair. Then she’d take them back to their room and tuck them into bed, promising them a restful sleep now that they’d chased the bad dreams away. Aerion’s mother had been gone for years now. He hadn’t had anyone to chase the dreams away in quite a long time, and he didn’t want the burden to fall on you.
That didn’t mean he didn’t comfort himself, though.
You’d feel him reach for you in the night, clinging to you even worse than he normally did. He’d hold you close, whispering something you couldn’t quite make out into your skin. If you rolled away from him, he’d drag you back into his chest and lock his arm around your waist. If some part of him wasn’t touching some part of you, you’d get an earful in the morning about it.
As the dreams progressed, the worse about it he got.
One day, he decreed that you couldn’t leave his side unless absolutely necessary. “Where else do you have to be that’s more important than by my side?”
It was ridiculous, but he looked adorable when he pouted. You couldn’t help but goad him on.
“So, I'll never have anything for myself again? I have to follow you around to training, to meetings, to wherever you’re summoned? I can’t spend time in the gardens, or meet with any of the ladies of the court?”
“They’re quite dull, I assure you,” he shrugged, a goblet of wine poised at his lips. “We can go to the gardens if you wish. But not by the little yellows ones. They make my eyes water.”
He’d discovered that after following you in one day. He was sneezing for a week before he figured out that the few you’d plucked and gathered into a vase for your room was causing it. He promptly threw the entire thing out the window.
“You’ll go to the gardens with me?” you asked with a raised brow.
He smirked, and you knew his intent was less than innocent. “We can hide behind the ivy walls and play a little game. See just how quiet my girl can be.”
You laughed, but there was a shred of annoyance in your tone. “I am not a dog to be leashed, Aerion. You can’t command me to be by your side every second of every day.”
“Can’t I?”
You narrowed your eyes at home. “You can if you tell me why.”
“Because I said so?” he mused, narrowly moving out of the way fast enough to avoid your attack on his arm. “Can’t a husband want his wife by his side?”
“Can’t a husband be honest with his wife?” you countered, grinning when he glared.
You reached for him, taking his hand in yours. “When you’re ready to tell the truth, we can open this discussion again. Until then, I’m going to the gardens. You’re free to do as you wish, husband. Do behave yourself.”
You turned and walked away before he could protest. He watched you go with a longing ache in his chest, willing himself to call out to you. But his pride wouldn’t let him. Instead, he let you go.
—
This behavior continued until it all came to a head one night when a dream ripped him from sleep like claws digging into his side, piercing his skin.
He shot up into the dark with a cry, sucking in air like it was the last breath he’d get. His hand fumbled in the dark for any inch of warm skin he could get his hands on, but dread settled in his stomach when all he felt was cold sheets below his palm. His mind was still muddled with sleep, his heart racing in his chest. He’d yet to get his bearings, but he willed his brain to catch up with his body as he frantically reached around for you.
It was the middle of the night — where could you have gone? Has something happened to you? Did someone come in and take you? Did you leave him?
He nearly made himself sick, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought of any one of those possibilities. He quickly ripped the sheets off his body, clambering to his feet. He stumbled around as he looked around for the clothes he’d kicked off the evening before, finding his shirt at the foot of the bed and his pants across the room on the floor. He could feel tears stinging behind his eyes that he willed not to fall as he moved around in the dark with nothing but a single candle to light the way.
Just as he reached for his shirt, he heard the chamber door creak open with a groan. He immediately lunged for the sword he kept by his bedside, only to stop in his tracks when his wild gaze met your bewildered one. He stared at you in shock for a moment before he finally snapped out of it, his face growing cold.
“Where were you?” he demanded to know, dropping the sword and the shirt he had balled up in his fist.
You gently shut the door behind you, setting down the plate you’d taken from the kitchen on the side table. “I was hungry?”
You cautiously approached your husband as if he was a cornered animal, gently reaching out to brush the tips of your fingers along his arm. “What’s going on?”
“You weren’t here!” he spat, pulling away from you like your touch burned. “Why didn’t you wake me? Why did you leave?”
“Aerion—”
“I told you not to leave my side!”
“Aerion!”
There was clearly a lot more going on here than meets the eye. You gently shushed him, reaching for him again, this time with a firmer grip. You could feel him flinch under your grasp, but you didn’t relent. He fussed and whined like a child until you managed to catch both of his wrists, squeezing them until he finally let his arms go lax.
“There,” you murmured, releasing your grip to slide your hands into his. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”
He was breathing heavily as he clung to your hands, a look of distrust in his eye. You frowned, reaching one hand up to run your thumb along his cheekbone.
“What is it, Aerion?”
He didn’t answer with words, instead pulling you into a bone crushing hug. He would’ve knocked you off your feet if you hadn’t dug your heels into the floor to brace yourself. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, trying your best to sooth him.
“What is it, love?” you asked once he’d calmed down some. “What happened?”
He whispered something into your skin, unwilling to pull away even an inch to speak more clearly.
But you didn’t need to hear him. You’d been seeing the change in him for weeks now. The restless nights, the fidgeting in his sleep. The way he’d refuse to talk about it, always throwing you off the scent. He wasn’t going to talk about it until you forced him to.
“A dream?” you asked.
His silence was enough of an answer.
“Someone hurt you?” you gently prodded, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. “Someone hurt me?”
He winced, a blazing look in his eyes. “Never. I will never let anyone hurt you.”
His voice wobbled as he spoke, and you felt something crack in your chest. You slowly guided him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed, silently asking him to sit. When he did, you promptly tucked yourself into his lap, your eyes level with his. He held you so tight that all you could manage was shallow breaths.
“I’m safe,” you tried to reassure him, speaking softly but surely. “You’re safe. We’re alright.”
Aerion nuzzled his nose into the crook of your shoulder, inhaling deeply. “I told you not to leave.”
You would’ve scolded him if he didn’t sound so pathetic. You cupped his cheeks, squishing them together until his lips puckered into a pout. You could tell he was scowling, but he made no move to pull away. Any touch from you would be welcomed with open arms.
“Stubborn thing,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He scoffed. “And say what? ‘My love, I keep having dreams of you dying horrible deaths where there’s nothing I can do to stop it?’ That’s what you want to hear?”
“That’s a start,” you mused, brushing his hair back with gentle hands.
Aerion rolled his eyes, turning his head to nip at your palm. “You’re a pain.”
You laughed, pinching his cheek. “Takes one to know one.”
Aerion grumbled to himself, pulling you closer. He was always like this. He always had to be touching you, feeling your skin on his. Now you understood why. You let him squeeze the life out of you, running a hand up and down his back.
“You smell like wine,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Have you been drinking?”
“Sometimes it stops the dreams,” he shrugged.
You sighed, pulling back to look at him. “It also makes you restless. You never sleep well, and you always complain about your chest burning. If you want to sleep dreamlessly that bad, we should ask the Grand Maester if he can make you something.”
Aerion didn’t answer you, too busy analyzing every nook and cranny of your face as if it was the last time he’d get to see it. He scowled at the dreaded love and affection he felt for you growing tenfold when he saw the concern in your eyes.
“He’ll just tell me to drink tea. I hate tea. It tastes like grass.”
You hummed, leaning forward until your nose brushed his. “I have a question.”
“I don’t have an answer.”
“Oh, shut up,” you grinned, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Do you have good dreams? Happy ones? Or is it only the nightmares?”
Aerion thought a moment before shaking his head. “I have good ones too.”
“Well? Don’t leave me guessing.”
He let his hands settle on your hips, gently squeezing. “Days at Summerhall. Mother telling me a story. You…the day you arrived.”
“Such a sap,” you mused, patting his cheek.
Aerion groaned, dramatically flopping back onto the bed. He dragged you down with him, refusing to let go until you were pressed flat against him like a weighted blanket. Only then did he let you reach for the covers, letting you shift until you were comfortable. You relaxed into the warmth of him.
“I didn’t even get to eat the bread I took.”
Aerion bit back a grin. “Well, excuse me for wanting to hold my wife. Think you can hold out till morning, you bottomless pit?”
You smacked his arm, earning a laugh. “Bottomless pit? Do you want me to stab you? That can be arranged, husband.”
“I’m sure it could,” he replied, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep.”
You frowned. “What about you? The dreams.”
You could feel him shake his head. “I think you’ve chased them away, love.”
You felt your cheeks warm at his words, hoping he couldn’t feel the heat of the one pressed against his chest. He softened underneath you, the tension in his muscles starting to ease. His breaths got shallower as sleep started to take hold. You spared a glance up at him once you felt his hands loosen their grip on you. You smiled at the look of peace on his face.
You laid back down, closing your eyes to drift off with him.
SYNOPSIS: in the quiet dark of ennis, peter comes home to his exhausted wife and their newborn daughter, june. between sleepless nights, old tenderness, and the weight of the tsalal case pulling him away, she begins to wonder if the town is taking him from her too. but when danvers calls again, peter finally chooses the warmth waiting for him at home.
WARNING: none, just domestic angst and soft peter
WORD COUNT: 10k
NOTES: i watched season 4 of true detective just for this story and for finn...of course...so please enjoy the product of my very specific priorities. this is my little peter prior wife and baby agenda, and i’m fully making it everyone’s problem!!!
The first thing you learn about motherhood is that night does not end when the sun comes up. Not in Ennis. Not really.
There is no sunrise here the way there had been in Anchorage. No pale gold spreading across buildings, no morning traffic dragging itself awake, no coffee shop windows filling with steam and chatter while the sky bruised itself into blue. In Anchorage, even winter had movement. Even when the cold came down hard enough to sting your lungs, there were buses groaning through slush, people hurrying with their collars turned up, headlights blinking through snow, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bar, somebody calling someone else’s name from across a parking lot.
There had been life there. Noise. Proof that the world was still turning.
In Ennis, the dark sat low and heavy over everything. It pressed against the windows like a hand.
You sat on the couch beneath the yellowing lamp in the living room, one knee pulled up beneath you, your newborn daughter tucked against your chest. June’s tiny cheek rested against the soft, worn collar of Peter’s old sweatshirt, the one you had stolen sometime in your third trimester and never given back. It smelled less like him now than it used to. Too many cycles through the wash. Too much spit up. Too many nights where you had worn it because you wanted to feel like some part of him was still touching you.
Still, it was his. That counted for something.
June made a soft sound in her sleep, a little whimper that barely became anything before fading into another breath. Her fingers were curled into a fist near her mouth, impossibly small. Smaller than you still knew how to believe. Her whole body fit against you like a secret. Like something the world had not yet earned the right to know about.
You looked down at her and wondered how something so small could make you feel so full and so hollow at the same time.
“You’re okay,” you whispered, though she had not asked.
Maybe you were saying it to yourself.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the walls settling against the cold. The windows were dark. The sink had bottles in it. A half folded basket of laundry sat on the floor near the hallway. There was a burp cloth over your shoulder, another one on the coffee table, and another one somehow on the arm of the recliner across the room.
Before having a baby, you had thought exhaustion meant being tired. You had been wrong. Exhaustion was a place. A weather system. A second skin. It was standing in the kitchen at three in the morning with your hair falling out of its clip and realizing you had been crying for several minutes without making a sound. It was forgetting words. It was resenting the kettle for taking too long to boil. It was staring at your husband’s untouched side of the bed and trying very hard not to hate a job you knew he cared about.
You shifted carefully, wincing at the dull ache that still lived in your body. June squirmed at the movement, her little mouth opening, her brows drawing together in a frown that looked so much like Peter’s that it almost made you laugh.
Almost.
“You get that from your dad,” you murmured, brushing the pad of your thumb over her soft cheek. “The dramatic forehead thing. Poor baby.”
June settled again.
You kissed her hair. She smelled like milk and warmth and that strange newborn sweetness that made your chest hurt. You had heard people talk about it before, always with the same faraway look, and you had never understood. Now you did. Sometimes you found yourself breathing her in like proof. Like if you could memorize her enough, you could keep everything bad away from her.
The front door opened so quietly you might have missed it if the lock had not clicked.
Your body knew before your mind did.
Peter.
The cold came in with him first. It slipped across the floor, sharp and clean and mean. Then came the soft scrape of his boots on the mat, the careful pause that meant he was trying not to wake either of you, the rustle of his jacket as he eased it off.
He always tried to come home quietly. He almost never succeeded.
His keys slipped from his hand and hit the small dish by the door with a clatter that seemed to ricochet around the entire room.
Peter froze.
June startled against your chest, her little arms jerking.
You closed your eyes.
From the entryway, Peter whispered, “Shit.”
You opened them again and found him standing half in shadow, still in uniform, hair flattened from his hat, cheeks red from the cold. Snow clung to his shoulders and melted in tiny glistening specks under the dim light. He looked young and exhausted and guilty in a way that had become painfully familiar.
His eyes went to June first. Then to you.
The guilt got worse.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey.”
He shut the door behind him with exaggerated care, like the door was a bomb he was trying to disarm. Then he bent to untie his boots, hands moving slowly, shoulders stiff. You watched him. You always watched him when he came home now. Not because you meant to make him feel worse. Not because you were waiting to punish him.
You watched because sometimes you needed a second to make sure he was really there.
Peter pulled off one boot, then the other. He lined them up by the door, because he was Peter and he lined up his boots even when he looked like he might fall asleep standing. Then he hung up his coat, glanced toward the hallway, and rubbed a tired hand over his face.
“Did I wake her?”
“She startled. She’s okay.”
His mouth twitched downward. “I’m sorry.”
You could have said it was fine. You had said it was fine so many times that the words had started to feel like little stones in your mouth. Instead, you looked down at June.
“She just went down.”
Peter’s expression flickered.
“Sorry,” he said again, quieter.
You hated that. You hated how fast he apologized now. How quickly he folded in on himself, like he was already bracing for impact. You hated that part of you wanted to let him feel bad because at least then he felt something about what this was doing to you. And you hated that you loved him too much to be cruel about it.
He crossed the room slowly, his socks silent on the floorboards. When he reached you, he crouched in front of the couch instead of sitting beside you, bringing himself lower, his face level with June.
In the lamplight, his features softened in a way they only did at home.
“Hi, Junebug,” he whispered.
June did not open her eyes.
Peter’s face did something anyway. Something helpless and aching. Like every time he looked at her, something in him gave way all over again.
He reached out, then hesitated. “Can I?”
You nodded.
He touched two fingers gently to June’s back, barely there. His hand was cold, even though he had tried to warm it by rubbing it against his shirt first. He always did that. He always remembered.
“You’re freezing,” you said.
“I know.” He pulled his hand back immediately. “Sorry.”
“Peter.”
He looked up at you.
You softened despite yourself. “You don’t have to apologize for being cold.”
His lips parted like he wanted to argue, then closed again. That was Peter, too. Apologizing for the weather because he had walked through it.
You shifted June higher against your chest. “You eat?”
He gave you the answer with his face before he tried lying with his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“You did not.”
“I had coffee.”
“That’s not food.”
“It had milk in it.”
“Peter.”
“And sugar.”
“You’re a father now. You can’t still be this pathetic.”
A tiny smile pulled at his mouth, tired but real. There he was.
For one second, beneath the uniform and the case and the haunted look Ennis kept putting back into his eyes, there he was. Your Peter. The one who used to come into the coffee shop in Anchorage with his shoulders hunched and his ears pink from the cold, ordering the same drink every night like the world might fall apart if he inconvenienced you with a change.
Back then, he had been in Anchorage for police training, though he had looked less like a cop and more like a boy trying very hard to become one. He had been quiet, awkward, sweet in a way that seemed almost accidental. Always polite. Always tired. Always standing at the counter like he expected someone to tell him he was in the wrong place.
The first time he came in, he ordered a black coffee and then stared at the pastry case for so long that you finally leaned your elbows on the counter and said, “Are you waiting for one of them to confess?”
His eyes had snapped up to yours, startled.
“What?”
“The muffins.” You had nodded toward the case. “You’re looking at them like you’re interrogating them.”
He had gone red so fast you almost felt bad.
Almost.
“No, I was just—” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m not the muffin’s lawyer.”
That had been the first time you saw him smile. Not a full smile. Not yet. Just the corner of his mouth, like his face wasn’t used to being asked for that.
He bought a blueberry muffin. Then he came back the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that.
At first, he always sat alone. He picked the corner table near the window, the one where the heater was loud and the light flickered if someone leaned too hard against the wall. He would bring training manuals, case studies, notebooks with his neat, cramped handwriting. He always looked exhausted. He always said please and thank you. He always cleaned up after himself before leaving, even if all he had used was a napkin.
You started giving him extra whipped cream on his hot chocolate once you learned he hated black coffee and only ordered it because he thought that was what tired cops were supposed to drink.
He denied it. Badly.
“You grimace every time you take a sip,” you told him one night, sliding the hot chocolate across the counter.
“I don’t grimace.”
“You look like you’re drinking lake water.”
He looked down at the cup. “I don’t really like sweet stuff.”
“You bought a muffin every night for two weeks.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He had no answer. You smiled. He took the hot chocolate.
After that, he started staying longer.
Not all at once. Peter Prior did not do anything all at once unless someone ordered him to. He stayed in increments. Ten extra minutes. Then twenty. Then he started packing up his books but not leaving, lingering by the counter while you wiped down the espresso machine. Then he started asking about your day in a voice so careful it made your chest ache.
You learned he was from Ennis. You learned his father was a cop. You learned his mother was not around in a way he never explained plainly.
You learned he liked old horror movies but pretended not to because he scared too easily. You learned he hated mushrooms, loved terrible gas station hot dogs, and thought small talk was a form of social punishment. You learned he could be funny when he forgot to be nervous. Dry, quiet, a little self deprecating. The kind of funny that snuck up on you.
You learned that if you looked at him too long, he would look away. You also learned that he always looked back.
The first time he walked you to your car after closing, he kept his hands shoved in his coat pockets the whole way, shoulders nearly up to his ears.
“You know,” you said, stepping carefully over a patch of ice, “you don’t have to look like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’m just making sure you get to your car.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s late.”
“That’s still nice.”
He had looked at you then, his breath fogging white between you.
“I can be nice,” he said, like he was admitting something dangerous.
“I know.”
That had surprised him more than any teasing ever had. You could still remember his face under the parking lot lights. Soft. Hopeful in a way he was trying to hide.
He had always been softer than he realized.
Now, years later, he was crouched in front of you in your living room in Ennis, staring at the daughter you had made together like she was the only holy thing he had ever seen.
“Give her to me,” he said quietly.
Your arms tightened before you meant them to.
Peter noticed. Of course he did.
“You don’t have to,” he added fast. “I just meant—if you want. If you need a break.”
You did. God, you did.
But it had been one of those nights where June only wanted you. Where every attempt to put her down made her cry until she went red and breathless. Where your back hurt and your eyes burned and your body felt like it belonged to someone else. You were exhausted, but handing her over still felt like peeling off your own skin.
Motherhood had made you irrational in ways no one warned you about. Or maybe they had warned you and you had been too pregnant and proud to listen.
Peter waited. That was one thing he had always been good at with you. Waiting.
You looked at him, really looked. At the shadows under his eyes. The chapped skin near his knuckles. The little cut near his thumb. The way his wedding ring caught the lamplight when he reached for June but did not touch her yet.
Then you carefully eased your daughter away from your chest.
Peter stood first, then bent over you, one hand sliding beneath June’s head, the other supporting her body with a gentleness that still undid you. He had been terrified of holding her at the hospital. Absolutely pale with it. The nurse had placed June in his arms and he had looked at you with open panic, whispering, “She’s too small.”
You had been exhausted, sweaty, trembling, half out of your mind with pain and relief, and still you had laughed.
“She’s a baby, Peter.”
“I know, but she’s—she’s really small.”
“You’re not going to break her.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
He had looked down at June then. And everything in him had changed. You had seen it happen. A door opening. A wall falling. Something old and scared in him stepping into the light with both hands raised.
Now he held June against his chest like he had been made to do it. Awkwardly, still. Carefully, always. But with a tenderness that made your throat close.
June fussed once at the transfer, her face scrunching.
Peter swayed immediately. Not because anyone had taught him. Because he had watched you.
He watched everything you did with June like he was studying for the most important test of his life. The angle of your hand when you burped her. The songs you hummed. The way you checked the back of her neck to see if she was too warm. The little bounce you did when she was fighting sleep.
He noticed, and then he tried.
“She’s okay,” he whispered, more to June than to you. “I know. I know, baby girl. Dad’s got you.”
Dad. The word still did something strange to you. Peter Prior, who once blushed because you remembered his coffee order, was someone’s father.
Your daughter’s father. Your husband. Your Peter.
You sank back into the couch, your arms suddenly empty and aching with relief. The absence of June’s weight was almost disorienting. You flexed your fingers, realizing they had gone stiff from holding her so long.
Peter looked down at you. “When did you last sleep?”
You gave him a look.
His face fell.
“That bad?”
“I don’t know what day it is.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Don’t tell me that like Thursday means anything here.”
Another tiny smile.
He kept swaying, June tucked under his chin, one large hand spread over her back. She made a soft grunting noise, her face pressed into his shirt.
“She eat?” he asked.
“Twice. Maybe three times. She’s cluster feeding again.”
Peter nodded like he knew exactly what that meant. He did, technically. You had explained it yesterday while crying over toast. He had looked so stricken that you ended up comforting him, which was ridiculous and also exactly the sort of thing that happened in marriage. Especially your marriage. Peter could handle crime scenes, death, Danvers in a mood, his father’s disappointment, the bleak unkindness of Ennis.
But you crying over toast?
That had nearly killed him.
“Did you pump? ” he asked carefully.
You closed your eyes. “No.”
“Okay.”
“I meant to.”
“I’m not asking like that.”
“I know.”
“I just thought if there was a bottle, I could take the next one.”
The next one. He said it so simply. Like he would be here. Like there would not be a call. Like Danvers would not need him. Like the town would not split open again and swallow him before June woke.
You opened your eyes.
Peter must have seen something on your face, because his expression shifted.
“What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
He did not believe you. You could tell. But he was holding June, and she had just started to settle, and both of you knew better than to disturb a sleeping newborn for the sake of marital honesty. That was another thing no one told you. Some arguments had to wait because the baby was finally asleep. Some pain had to lower its voice.
Peter looked toward the kitchen. “I can make you tea.”
“You just got home.”
“I can still make tea.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I can heat something up too.”
“There’s leftover lasagna.”
“I’ll eat that.”
“You hate it.”
“I don’t.”
“You told me it wasn't quite to your taste.”
“I said it was filling.”
“You said it was filling because you’re scared of hurting my feelings.”
Peter was quiet for a second.
Then he said, “It’s very filling.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Peter’s eyes lifted to your face instantly, like he had been waiting all night for that sound. Like it mattered. Like you had given him something. That was the trouble with Peter. Even exhausted, even absent, even guilty, he loved you in a way that made it hard to stay angry cleanly.
His love was everywhere. It was in the way he always warmed his hands before touching you. The way he filled your water bottle before leaving, even when he barely had time to find his own hat. The way he checked that your phone charger was plugged in near the bed. The way he had driven forty minutes in a storm once because you mentioned craving the specific crackers they only stocked at the bigger store outside town.
It was in his phone. His lock screen was you. Not June, though he had hundreds of pictures of her. You. A photo from late in your pregnancy, taken in Anchorage when the two of you had gone back for a weekend because you were homesick and he had pretended it was “for supplies.” You were standing near the water in his parka, one hand under your belly, your hair whipped across your face by the wind. You had been laughing because Peter, who was taking the picture, had almost slipped on ice and tried to play it off like he had done it on purpose.
You hated the photo. He loved it. You had found out it was his lock screen by accident. You were in bed, hugely pregnant and grumpy, when his phone lit up on the nightstand. There you were, laughing in the cold, belly round under his jacket.
“Peter,” you had said.
He had looked over from where he was folding tiny onesies with excessive seriousness. “What?”
“Why am I your lock screen?”
He glanced at the phone, then went pink. “Because I like that picture.”
“I look like a windblown whale.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You look happy.”
That had shut you up.
He had looked down at the onesie in his hands, thumb rubbing over the little sleeve.
“You look happy,” he said again, softer. “And she’s in it too.”
She. June, before she was June. Before you had seen her face. Before you knew she had Peter’s dramatic frown and your stubborn refusal to sleep when convenient.
His home screen was another picture of you. One where you were asleep on the couch with a book open on your chest, his hand visible at the edge of the frame because apparently he had been touching your ankle while taking it. You had called him creepy. He had laughed, embarrassed, and refused to change it.
At work, it was worse.
His computer wallpaper at the station was a photo of you holding June the day you came home from the hospital. Your face was tired and soft, your eyes lowered to the baby. June was bundled in a cream blanket, only her nose and one cheek visible. Peter had taken the picture from the doorway of your bedroom. You had not known until three days later, when Danvers called him and you heard her voice faintly through the phone.
“Prior, is that your wife on the damn desktop?”
Peter had made a sound like he had been shot. You, sitting on the bed nursing June, had looked up.
Danvers said something else you couldn’t hear clearly. Peter turned away from you, but not fast enough to hide the back of his neck going red.
“No,” he said into the phone.
You raised your eyebrows. He winced.
“I mean yes, it’s my wife, but it’s not— It’s just a picture.”
Another pause. His eyes flicked toward you.
“No, I don’t think it’s a shrine.”
You had covered your mouth, trying not to laugh and disturb the baby.
Peter had looked mortified.
Then Danvers said something sharp enough that his expression shifted back into work mode.
“Yes, Chief,” he said.
Chief. Not Liz. Not Danvers. Chief. That was how you knew she had him again.
Even now, with June asleep in his arms, you could feel the station clinging to him. The Tsalal case had soaked into the lines of his face. He had come home, but part of him was still out there. In the ice. In the dark. In whatever awful room Danvers had dragged him through before sending him home too late.
“Was it bad?” you asked quietly.
Peter’s gaze moved from June to you.
For a second, he looked like he might lie.
Not because he wanted to deceive you. Peter lied badly and rarely, and mostly to spare people. He would tell you he had eaten. He would say he was fine. He would say Hank didn’t mean it like that. He would say Danvers was under pressure. He would say a thing was nothing if admitting it was something meant handing you more weight to carry.
But he did not lie about the darkness anymore. Not to you.
“Yeah,” he said.
One word. Enough.
You nodded. He kept swaying. The floor creaked under his feet with every gentle shift of his weight.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
His eyes moved to June.
“No.”
That answer hurt less than it might have months ago. Before June, you might have thought he was shutting you out. Now you understood there were some things he did not want in the room with her. Some images he would not let get close to his daughter if he could help it.
Still, you felt the distance. You felt it all the time now.
It was strange to miss someone who was standing ten feet away.
Peter seemed to feel it too. He came closer, still holding June, and sat carefully beside you on the couch. Not too close at first, as if he was afraid of crowding you. You leaned into him anyway.
His whole body softened.
That was the thing.
Peter would let the entire world take from him until there was almost nothing left, but the second you leaned into him, he acted like he had been waiting all day to become solid again.
He turned his face and kissed the top of your head.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes.
“You were gone fourteen hours.”
“I know.”
“That’s too long to miss someone. At that point, you’re just absent.”
He flinched. You regretted it immediately. \But not enough to take it back.
His jaw worked once. He looked down at June, then at your hands in your lap. “I know.”
The house went quiet around you.
You stared at the baby in his arms instead of at him. June was asleep now, her mouth slightly open, one hand curled against Peter’s shirt. Peter looked down at her like he was afraid to blink. Like she might disappear if he loved her wrong.
“I’m trying,” he said.
You believed him. That was the worst part.
“I know you are.”
“I’m not trying to leave you here by yourself.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t want you to feel like that.”
You looked up at him then.
His eyes were red at the edges. From the cold, maybe. From no sleep. From whatever he had seen. From guilt.
Maybe all of it.
“But I do,” you said.
Peter’s face changed.
There was no anger in him. No defensiveness. Sometimes you wished there was. It would be easier to fight with him if he fought back. Instead, Peter just looked like you had placed something breakable in his hands and he knew he had already cracked it.
You lowered your voice, though June was asleep. “I feel like that all the time.”
He breathed in slowly.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were almost soundless. You were so tired of apologies. You were so tired that you wanted to crawl into his lap and sob until he understood. You were so tired that you wanted to push him away before he could be called away again.
Instead, you reached for June’s little hand and touched her curled fingers.
“I know the case matters.”
Peter closed his eyes briefly.
“I know it does,” you continued. “I know it’s awful. I know Danvers needs you. I know your dad is—”
You stopped.
Peter opened his eyes. His mouth tightened at the mention of Hank, even unfinished. Hank Prior had a way of entering rooms he was not in. A shadow with a badge.
Peter had told you once, early in your relationship, that his father was complicated. You had been too young in your love then to understand that complicated was sometimes the word people used when the real word hurt too much. Hank was not openly cruel to you. That might have been easier. He did not yell in your face or call you names. He brought meat when he had extra. He fixed the loose hinge on the back door without being asked. He held June once, stiffly, with an expression you could not read.
But his kindness always had a hook in it.
He looked at you like you were the soft thing that had made his son softer. Like Anchorage had spoiled Peter and you had finished the job.
Once, when you were eight months pregnant and Peter had left dinner early because Danvers called, Hank had looked at you across the table and said, “You knew what you were marrying.”
Peter had gone still.
You had looked Hank dead in the eye and said, “Yes. I married Peter.”
The silence afterward had been ugly. Peter had apologized all the way home, one hand on the wheel, one hand reaching for yours whenever the road straightened enough. You remembered the pressure of his fingers.
The way he said, “He shouldn’t talk to you like that.”
The way he said it like he was ashamed he had not said it sooner.
Now, on the couch, you felt Peter’s shoulder tense against yours.
“You can say it,” he said.
“Say what?”
“That he’s an asshole.”
You blinked, then let out a tired little laugh. “Peter.”
“What?”
“You never say that.”
He looked down, embarrassed. “Yeah, well.”
“He is sometimes.”
“More than sometimes.”
You watched him carefully. That was new. Not the truth of it. The willingness to say it.
Peter rubbed his thumb over June’s blanket.
“He asked about you today,” he said.
“Hank did?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he ask?”
Peter hesitated. There it was. The old instinct. Protect. Smooth over. Translate sharpness into something harmless.
You sat up a little. “Peter.”
He sighed through his nose. “He asked if you were still mad.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Still mad about what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He looked at you, then away.
“About me working.”
You laughed once, but it had no humor in it.
June stirred. Both of you froze.
Peter immediately shifted her, whispering, “Sorry. Sorry, baby. Go back to sleep.”
June made a small offended noise, then settled again.
You lowered your voice. “I’m not mad that you’re working.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because everyone else seems to think I’m just sitting here keeping score because I don’t understand that there’s a case.”
“I know you understand.”
“I moved here for you, Peter. I know what this place is.”
His face tightened at that. You had not meant for it to come out like an accusation. Or maybe you had. That was the other thing about exhaustion. It took the careful wrapping off your words before you could stop it.
Peter stared at you.
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he said.
“What?”
“Move here.”
You frowned. “That’s not what I said.”
“I know.” His eyes dropped. “But sometimes I think— ”
He stopped himself. You waited. He did not continue.
“Sometimes you think what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Peter.”
His fingers flexed once against June’s blanket.
“When you’re here alone, and it’s dark all the time, and I’m gone, and you’re tired, and you don’t have your mom or your friends or your places, I think maybe I ruined your life.”
The words sat between you. Heavy, awful, and honest.
For a moment, you could not speak.
Peter’s face had gone carefully blank in the way it did when he was trying very hard not to feel something where someone else could see. But you knew him too well. You saw the hurt anyway. The shame. The fear that had probably been living in him for months, maybe longer.
You reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into your palm before he could stop himself.
“You didn’t ruin my life,” you said.
His eyes met yours.
“You didn’t,” you repeated. “But I am lonely.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“And I am tired. And I miss Anchorage. And sometimes I hate this town so much I can’t breathe.”
“I know.”
“But I came here because I wanted you.”
His eyes shone a little in the lamplight. You stroked your thumb along his cheekbone. His skin was cold there too.
“I still want you,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
He let out a breath like it hurt.
“You have me.”
“Do I?”
Peter went still.
You did not ask it harshly. That made it worse.
His eyes searched yours, almost pleading. But he did not answer right away, because Peter Prior was many things, but he was not stupid. He knew the difference between loving someone and being available to them. He knew, even if he had spent years pretending he didn’t.
Before he could say anything, June stretched in his arms. Her mouth opened in a tiny yawn, her whole face scrunching, and the spell broke.
Peter looked down at her with such immediate devotion that your chest ached again.
“Hi,” he whispered. “Hi, sweetheart.”
June’s eyes blinked open for half a second. Peter froze like she had just handed him the meaning of life.
You smiled despite yourself.
“She can’t see you yet.”
“She looked at me.”
“She looked toward the blurry shape making noise.”
“She knows.”
“She’s three weeks old.”
“She knows,” he insisted softly.
You looked at him, and for a few seconds, the room was almost warm enough. This was the Peter you had followed into the dark. Not the cop. Not Hank’s son. Not Danvers’s exhausted right hand.
This one.
The man who argued with you about whether your newborn daughter could recognize him. The man who sent you pictures of every ugly mug he found at the station because he knew you loved making fun of them. The man who once spent thirty five minutes in a grocery store aisle trying to choose the right kind of prenatal vitamin because he did not want to get the wrong one and disappoint you.
The man who had cried in the hospital bathroom after June was born, thinking you could not hear him. You had heard. You had been too tired to say anything then.
Later, when he climbed into the hospital bed beside you even though the nurse had told him not to, you had pressed your face into his neck and said, “You okay?”
He had lied.
“Yeah.”
His voice had cracked on the one syllable. You had believed the feeling beneath the lie more than the lie itself.
Now he bent his head and kissed June’s forehead, his lips barely touching her skin.
She made a small sound and Peter smiled.
You watched him, and something inside you loosened and tightened at the same time.
“Your dad loves you so much,” you whispered to her.
Peter looked at you. His expression was open in a way that made you ache.
“I do,” he said.
“I was talking to June.”
“I know.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“I love her,” he said. “And I love you.”
You looked down.
“I know.”
“No.” His voice was still quiet, but something in it changed. Not louder. Firmer. “I mean I love you. Not just—Not like I assume you know because we’re married or because I come home when I can. I love you.”
Your throat tightened.
Peter was not always good with speeches. Most of the time, words had to be dragged out of him with both hands. Compliments made him squirm. Direct emotion made him look like he wanted to crawl out of his own body. But when he did speak plainly, he meant every word so intensely it could stop you where you stood.
“You’re my lock screen,” you said, because tenderness scared you too sometimes.
He blinked.
Then his cheeks flushed. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“You have me on your phone like a teenage boy with a crush.”
His blush got worse. “I’m married to you.”
“That does not make it less embarrassing.”
“It’s not embarrassing.”
“Danvers called it a shrine.”
Peter groaned softly, tipping his head back against the couch for half a second. “She won’t let that go.”
“Because she’s right.”
“It’s one picture.”
“Peter.”
“Two pictures.”
“And your desktop.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He looked at you with the exact same expression he had worn years ago when you asked how coffee was different from muffins.
No answer. You smiled. He smiled back, sheepish and tired.
“You have a framed picture in your locker too,” you added.
Peter stared at you.
“I saw it.”
“When?”
“When I brought your lunch last week.”
“You were snooping?”
“I was delivering soup to my husband who forgot food existed.”
“That soup was good by the way.”
June wriggled again, making a frustrated little sound.
Peter immediately lowered his voice. “Sorry, Junebug.”
You reached over and adjusted the blanket near her chin. Peter watched your hand. His gaze lingered on your wedding ring. Then he took your hand in his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, over the ring, over the dry skin near your nails.
“I like seeing you,” he said.
The teasing went quiet in you.
“When I’m there,” he continued, “at the station, and everything is...” He shook his head once. “I like looking over and seeing you. Both of you. It reminds me I’m not just there.”
You swallowed.
He looked embarrassed now, but he kept going.
“And when my phone lights up, I like that it’s you. Even if it’s Danvers calling. Even if it’s my dad. Even if it’s something bad. Before I answer, I see you.”
Your chest hurt.
“Peter.”
“It helps.”
You did not know what to say to that. So you squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. For a little while, neither of you spoke. The heater kicked on again, rattling through the walls. Outside, the wind dragged itself against the house. June slept in the cradle of Peter’s arm, impossibly small between you.
This was what you had imagined, in pieces, before she came. Not the exhaustion. Not the loneliness. Not the blood and milk and fear and resentment. But this. The three of you tucked into the dim warmth of your little house while the dark stayed outside where it belonged. You had imagined Peter holding your baby with that serious, careful look on his face. You had imagined him learning how to be a father. You had imagined laughing softly in the middle of the night, tired but together.
You had not imagined how much of together could feel like waiting for him to be taken away.
His phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room like a blade. Peter’s whole body changed. His shoulders went still. His jaw tightened. His hand stopped moving over yours.
June slept on.
You looked at the phone on the coffee table. The screen lit up.
Your own face stared back at you from the lock screen, laughing in Peter’s parka beside the water in Anchorage. For one strange second, you hated that version of yourself. That woman who thought love and courage were the same thing. That woman who had believed distance was the hard part. That woman who had not yet learned what it meant to move somewhere and slowly become no one but somebody’s wife.
Then the caller ID appeared. Danvers. Of course.
Peter did not move. Neither did you. The phone buzzed again, rattling against the table.
June’s forehead wrinkled.
Peter whispered, “Shit,” and reached for it.
You did not stop him.
That was not how this worked. You did not grab his wrist. You did not beg. You did not make demands. You just sat there, still and silent, while he picked up the phone with the hand that was not holding your daughter.
He looked at you before answering. That almost made it worse. Like he was asking permission he already knew he would not really use.
He swiped.
“Prior.”
Danvers’s voice came through sharp and muffled. You could not make out every word, but you knew the tone. Everyone in Ennis knew that tone. The one that assumed the world would rearrange itself if she sounded irritated enough.
Peter listened. His eyes dropped to June. Then to your hand, still in his.
“I just got home,” he said quietly.
A pause.
Danvers spoke again. Peter’s mouth tightened. You looked away. Not because you did not want to hear. Because you did. Because you were afraid of what your face would do if you watched him choose.
“I can look at it in the morning,” he said.
Your eyes moved back to him.
Peter stared at the floor, brows drawn together. His thumb had resumed moving over your knuckles, but now it felt automatic. Nervous.
Danvers said something else. Sharper.
Peter closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “No, I understand.”
There it was. The beginning of leaving. You felt it in your body before he stood. The old familiar rearranging. The way the room became something you had to survive alone again. The way your arms seemed to remember the weight of June before Peter had even handed her back.
Your hand slipped out of his. Peter’s eyes opened. He looked at you, you looked back. You did not cry. You were too tired for crying. You did not glare. You were too tired for anger. You only looked at him. And maybe that was worse. Because Peter’s face changed like you had said everything.
Danvers was still talking.
Peter swallowed.
“I said I understand,” he said into the phone, and there was something strained in his voice now. “But I can’t come in right now.”
Your breath caught.
Peter seemed to hear himself at the same time you did. He sat a little straighter. June slept in his arm, her cheek pressed to his chest. You stared at him, not moving, not daring to.
On the other end of the line, Danvers snapped something.
Peter’s jaw flexed.
“My wife hasn’t slept,” he said. “The baby’s been up all night.”
Another pause.
His eyes flicked to you, then away.
“No, I’m not saying the case can wait. I’m saying I can’t come in right now.”
You could hear Danvers then, not the words exactly but the disbelief. The offense. As if Peter had broken a law of nature by having a life that did not immediately fold itself around her need.
Peter listened.
His face went pale, then flushed.
“Chief,” he said, and now there was warning in it. Small, but there.
Your heart beat harder. You had never heard him use that tone with her. Not once. He was always respectful. Always quick. Always trying to be useful before she had to ask twice. It was one of the things that made Danvers depend on him. It was one of the things that made you resent her, even when you knew she was not the only one to blame.
Peter had trained people to believe he would always say yes.
Danvers said something else. Peter’s eyes went cold in a way you rarely saw at home. Then he looked down at June. Whatever he saw there made his face break.
“I’m not leaving them tonight,” he said.
The room went so quiet you could hear the faint buzz of the call against his ear. Danvers spoke again, lower now. Peter’s mouth parted. For one awful second, you thought he would take it back.
Instead, he said, “Then be pissed.”
Your eyes widened. Peter looked a little startled by himself too. But he did not apologize.
“I’ll come in early,” he said. “I’ll look at whatever you need me to look at then. But tonight, I’m home.”
Danvers said his name. You heard that much. Prior. Like a command.
Peter’s hand tightened around the phone.
“My daughter needs me,” he said. “My wife needs me. I don’t know why that’s hard for everybody to understand.”
Your throat closed. He listened for one more second. Then he ended the call. He did not throw the phone. He did not swear. He did not do anything dramatic. He just set it carefully back on the coffee table, screen down this time, and stared at it like it might bite.
You stared at him. June slept on, unaware that something enormous had just moved through the room.
Peter did not look at you right away. His breathing was a little uneven. His ears were red. He looked terrified and furious and ashamed and relieved all at once.
“Peter,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said quickly.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I probably shouldn’t have said ‘then be pissed.’”
“No,” you said slowly. “You probably should have said that years ago.”
His eyes came to yours. You meant it.
A laugh tried to leave him but did not quite make it. It turned into something rougher. He looked down at June and shifted her closer, almost like he needed to make sure she was still there.
“I’m shaking,” he admitted.
You looked at his hand. He was. Just barely. The hand holding the phone had trembled when he set it down. Now it rested on his thigh, fingers flexing once, then curling. You reached over and took it. His grip closed around yours immediately.
“I don’t know why that was so hard,” he said.
You did. Of course you did. Because saying no to Danvers meant saying no to more than a phone call. It meant saying no to the version of himself everyone in Ennis found useful. It meant risking disappointment. Anger...consequence. It meant admitting he had limits in a town that treated limits like weakness. And Peter had been raised by a man who did not respect weakness.
“You’re allowed to be here,” you said.
His eyes went glossy. He blinked hard and looked away.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
He was quiet.
You squeezed his hand. “You’re allowed to be here, Peter.”
His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. June stirred, saving him from having to answer. Her little face twisted, her mouth opening in a soundless complaint.
Peter looked almost grateful for the interruption.
“Okay,” he whispered, shifting her. “Okay. I know.”
“She’s hungry,” you said.
“Already?”
“She’s a tyrant.”
“She gets that from you.”
You stared at him. His eyes widened slightly.
“Sorry.”
But he was smiling. Really smiling now. Small and tired and still a little shaken, but real.
You took June from him, and he helped arrange the blanket without being asked. He reached for the water bottle beside the couch and handed it to you. Then he got up and went to the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Making tea.”
“Peter.”
“And heating up the soup.”
“That's all you eat. Soup.”
“I love the soup.”
“You just lied to the mother of your child.”
“I’m providing emotional support to the soup.”
The microwave door opened. You heard him moving around the kitchen, quiet and familiar. Cabinet, then mug, then spoon. The kettle clicking on. A drawer opening and closing because there was no more clean dish towels.
June latched, and your body sagged with the strange relief and discomfort of feeding her again. You looked down at her, brushing your fingers over the soft hair at the back of her head.
In the kitchen, Peter’s phone buzzed again. You both froze. He did not pick it up.
The buzzing stopped. Then started again. Peter stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand braced against the frame, looking at the phone on the coffee table like the entire town had crawled into it.
You watched him. He looked at you.
The phone kept buzzing. Then it stopped. Then silence. Peter breathed out. A moment later, his radio crackled from where he had left it clipped near his coat.
You closed your eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
But he did not move toward it. He turned around and went back to the kettle.
You opened your eyes again. The smallest laugh left you. Not because it was funny. Because if you did not laugh, you might fall apart.
Peter came back a few minutes later with tea for you and a bowl of soup for himself, which he ate sitting beside you, still in his uniform pants and undershirt, socks mismatched because apparently he had dressed in the dark that morning. He took one bite of soup and tried so hard not to react that you nearly smiled into your mug.
“Good?” you asked.
He swallowed.
“Very filling.”
You shook your head. June nursed noisily, one tiny hand resting against you. Peter watched both of you over the rim of his bowl.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m married to you. I’m allowed to look at you.”
You looked down, warmth rising in your face despite everything.
Peter noticed, because Peter noticed you. Even when he was exhausted. Even when he was half gone. Some part of him always came back to attention when you were embarrassed, as if making you blush was a victory he had not expected but intended to treasure.
“You’re pretty,” he said.
You scoffed.
“I am currently leaking milk and wearing your sweatshirt.”
“Yeah.”
“My hair has been in this clip since yesterday.”
“I like that clip.”
“I smell like spit up.”
“I wasn’t going to mention it.”
You kicked his shin lightly. He smiled into his soup. It was almost easy for a minute. Almost. Then the radio crackled again. Danvers’s voice, faint but unmistakable.
“Prior, you there?”
Peter stared at his bowl. You stared at him. June kept nursing, tiny and determined and oblivious.
“Prior.”
Peter set the bowl down slowly. The room tightened. You felt the old fear rise in you. Not fear of Danvers. Not exactly. Fear of losing him to a voice. Fear that the boundary he had just drawn would collapse under the weight of being needed.
Peter stood. Your stomach dropped. But he did not go for his coat.
He crossed to the entryway, picked up the radio, pressed the button, and said, “I’m here.”
A pause. Danvers said something you couldn’t quite catch. Peter’s face shifted. Work again. Duty again. The case again. Then his eyes moved to you. To June.
His thumb rubbed once over the side of the radio.
“I told you,” he said, voice steady though quiet. “I’m home tonight.”
Danvers answered sharply. Peter listened. You could see the struggle in him. The flinch he tried to hide. The instinct to obey. The guilt already rising. The fear that someone would suffer because he was here instead of there.
Then June made a soft sound against you. Peter looked at her. His face settled. Not hardened. Settled into something soft.
“I’ll be in at six,” he said. “I’m turning this off now.”
He released the button before Danvers could answer. Then he turned the radio off. Actually off. The silence after was so complete it rang.
Peter stood by the door with the radio in his hand. You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, maybe since June had been born, you felt something like space open in your chest.
Peter placed the radio on the little shelf by the door as if it were something dangerous. Then he came back to you. He did not sit right away. He stood in front of the couch, uncertain now, almost shy. The man had just told his boss no twice and still looked nervous about taking up space in his own living room.
You shifted June carefully, covering yourself.
“Come here,” you said.
He came immediately. You patted the cushion beside you. He sat. Closer this time. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm went along the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching until you leaned into him. Then he wrapped around you gently, careful of the baby, careful of your body, careful of everything.
Always so careful. Sometimes you loved that about him. Sometimes you wanted to shake him and tell him love did not have to be handled like evidence. Tonight, you let yourself rest against him.
Peter kissed your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes.
“Not tonight.”
He went still. “What?”
“Don’t apologize tonight. Just be here.”
His arm tightened around you.
“Okay,” he said.
June finished nursing and fell asleep almost immediately after, milk drunk and heavy, her mouth slack in that ridiculous way that made both of you stare at her like fools.
Peter burped her while you drank your tea. He was overly serious about it, as always. One hand supporting her chest, the other patting her back with the delicate concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
“You can pat harder,” you said.
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You won’t.”
“She’s tiny.”
“You are obsessed with how tiny she is.”
“She is.”
“Yes, Peter. She is a newborn.”
He looked down at June, then murmured, “Tiny baby.”
You covered your smile with your mug. When June finally burped, Peter looked absurdly proud.
“That was a good one,” he whispered.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
You laughed again, and this time it came easier. Peter looked at you. You knew that look. The one that made you feel like he was taking a picture without a camera. Like he was saving you somewhere.
“What?” you asked softly.
He shook his head.
“Tell me.”
He looked down, embarrassed.
“I like when you laugh.”
You waited. His thumb stroked June’s back.
“I haven’t heard it much lately.”
The ache returned, but softer this time.
“No,” you said. “You haven’t.”
“I missed it.”
“You missed a lot.”
He nodded. No flinch this time. No apology. Just a nod.
“I know.”
That mattered too.
He stood and took June to her bassinet in the bedroom with the kind of solemn reverence that would have been funny if it had not been so tender. You followed, slower, carrying your tea. The hallway was dark except for the nightlight plugged near the nursery door, though nursery was a generous word for a room that still had boxes in one corner and a crooked shelf Peter kept promising to fix.
June did not sleep in there yet. Neither of you could stand it. Her bassinet was beside your bed, on your side because you fed her, but close enough that Peter had more than once woken in a panic and leaned across you just to make sure she was breathing.
The first night home from the hospital, you woke to find him standing over the bassinet in the dark.
“Peter,” you had whispered, heart lurching. “What are you doing?”
He turned, guilty. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring at her.”
“I was checking.”
“You checked five minutes ago.”
“I know.”
You had been too tired to argue. You just lifted the blanket on his side of the bed and said, “Get in before you freeze.”
He had obeyed, sliding in beside you with cold feet and careful hands.
Then, after a long silence, he whispered, “How do people sleep?”
You had turned your face toward him. “What?”
“When there’s a baby. How do people sleep? What if she needs something?”
You had stared at him in the dark. Then you started crying. Not because it was sad. Because he was so scared. Because you were so scared. Because the two of you had made something you loved so much that sleep suddenly felt irresponsible.
Now Peter lowered June into the bassinet one inch at a time. She twitched. He froze. She settled. He lowered her another inch. Froze again.
You watched from the doorway.
“You know you can put her down before she graduates high school.”
“Shh.”
“She can’t understand sarcasm yet.”
“She understands feelings.”
He glanced over, smiling faintly.
Finally, June was down. Peter slowly withdrew his hands, pausing when she made one small noise. When she stayed asleep, he straightened with the careful relief of a man who had just completed a hostage negotiation.
You whispered, “Heroic.”
He shot you a look. Then he adjusted the edge of her blanket, checked the room temperature, checked the monitor that did not need checking, and finally turned toward you.
The bedroom was dim. Messy. Lived in. Your side of the bed was surrounded by water bottles, nipple cream, burp cloths, snacks, books you had not been able to focus on, and one of Peter’s flannels thrown over a chair. His side was almost untouched because he was barely in it.
You saw him notice that. His eyes moved from his side of the bed to yours. The guilt tried to come back. You stepped toward him before it could settle. His arms opened instantly. You fit yourself against him, careful of your sore body, and he wrapped around you like he had been waiting to do it all day. His cheek rested against the top of your head. His hands spread over your back, warm now, finally.
For a while, you just stood there. No case. No phone. No Hank. No Danvers. Just Peter’s heartbeat under your ear and your daughter breathing beside the bed.
“I’m glad you’re home,” you whispered.
He held you tighter.
“Me too.”
“I mean really home.”
His breath caught. Then he nodded against your hair.
“I know.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was close, tired and open, younger in the low light. You touched the collar of his shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that did not matter.
“You’re going to have to keep doing it,” you said.
He did not pretend not to understand.
“I know.”
“Not just tonight.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to call again.”
“Yeah.”
“And your dad is going to say something.”
His mouth tightened.
“Probably.”
“And Danvers is going to act like I personally killed the investigation because I asked my husband to come home and hold his baby.”
“She won’t—”
You gave him a look. He sighed.
“Yeah. She might.”
You almost smiled. Peter looked down at your hand on his chest. Then he covered it with his own.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.
You softened. “Do what?”
“All of it.”
You waited. He swallowed.
“Be good at the job. Be good for you. Be good for June. Deal with my dad. Deal with Danvers. Not screw up the case. Not screw up our kid. Not—” His voice roughened. “Not become somebody you wish you didn’t move here for.”
The last part came out barely audible. Your heart hurt. You moved your hand from his chest to his face, making him look at you.
“Peter.”
His eyes flicked between yours.
“I do not need you to be perfect,” you said.
He breathed out shakily.
“I need you to come home before there’s nothing left of you.”
His eyes closed.
You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It was not a dramatic kiss. Not desperate. Not the kind of kiss you had shared in Anchorage when saying goodbye had felt like an injury. It was quieter than that. Domestic. Tired. A little sad. His lips were cold at first, then warm. He kissed you carefully, one hand at your waist, the other at the side of your neck, thumb gentle below your ear.
When you pulled back, he followed for half a second like he didn’t want it to end. That, too, was Peter. Shy until you gave him permission, then quietly greedy for every scrap of affection you offered.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
His forehead rested against yours.
“And I love June,” he said, like it was important to list you separately. Like one love did not cancel out the other. Like his heart had rooms and he wanted you to know yours had not been emptied when she arrived.
“I know.”
“I’m scared all the time,” he said.
The confession surprised you. You stayed still. Peter’s eyes remained closed.
“Since she was born,” he continued. “I look at her and I just—I don’t know. Everything is worse now.”
You pulled back slightly.
His eyes opened, and he rushed to explain.
“No, not her. Not June. I mean the world. The case. This town. Everything men do and don’t do. Everything people ignore.” His throat moved. “I keep thinking about her growing up here.”
You glanced toward the bassinet.
June slept on.
“I know,” you said.
Peter’s gaze followed yours.
“I don’t want her to think this is all there is.”
Your chest tightened. The dark. The secrets. The cold. Men like Hank. Women like Danvers, hardened by loss until tenderness looked like liability. A town that taught everyone to survive by looking away until something dead forced them to look back.
“I don’t either,” you said.
Peter looked at you.
“I don’t want you thinking that either.”
You were not prepared for that. Your eyes burned.
“Peter.”
“I mean it.” His hand tightened slightly at your waist. “I know you miss home.”
You looked down.
“And I know I’m the reason you’re here.”
“You’re also the reason I stayed.”
He shook his head a little, not rejecting it, just struggling under the weight of it.
“I need to make it worth it.”
“You don’t have to compete with Anchorage.”
“Feels like I do.”
“You don’t.”
He gave you a sad little look. “You loved it there.”
“I did.”
“And you hate it here.”
You were quiet. He nodded, like your silence answered enough.
“I don’t hate everything here,” you said.
“What don’t you hate?”
“You.”
His mouth softened.
“June.”
He looked toward the bassinet, and his face changed again.
“And the way the snow looks on the roof of our house,” you added.
He looked back at you.
“And that one cashier at the store who always tells me her plans for that week.”
“Marla.”
“Marla. I like Marla.”
“She likes you.”
“She told me I looked like I needed a nap and a divorce.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “She said what?”
“She said it kindly.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I forgot.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You shrugged.
His face pinched with concern and something darker. “Do you want one?”
“A nap or a divorce?”
His expression made the joke collapse. Oh.
“Peter,” you said softly.
He looked away. You touched his chin, bringing him back.
“No.”
His eyes searched yours.
“No divorce,” you said. “Many naps, ideally. But no divorce.”
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his eyes were wet again.
“Okay.”
“You are so dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
“You thought Marla from the grocery store ended our marriage.”
“I didn’t know how serious the conversation was.”
“It wasn't serious. I love you Pete. Even when you scold your boss for me.”
That got him. He laughed under his breath and looked down, shaking his head. It was quiet because of June, but it was real. Real enough that it warmed the room. You missed making him laugh. In Anchorage, it had been easier. The world had been easier to hold there.
Back then, Peter had called you every night after he went back to Ennis. At first, the calls were polite and awkward, full of pauses and “sorry, you go first” and “no, you go.” Then they became the best part of your day. You would sit on your bed with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to him talk about his shifts, about his dad, about the cold, about how Ennis was exactly the same and somehow worse than he remembered after being away.
He would ask about the coffee shop. About your roommates. About the rude regular with the green scarf. About whether the espresso machine had finally died. You teased him for remembering everything. He said, “I remember things about you.” You had gone quiet. So had he. Then he whispered, “Sorry. Was that weird?” You had smiled into the dark. “No.”
Months of calls became visits. Visits became leaving half your things at his place. Then one night, standing outside your apartment in Anchorage with snow in your hair and Peter looking like he was about to either kiss you or apologize himself into an early grave, you told him you loved him. He stared at you for so long you almost took it back. Then he said, “I love you too.” Like a confession. Like a vow. Like it scared him and saved him at the same time.
When you moved to Ennis, he carried every box himself even though you told him that was ridiculous. He assembled furniture badly but earnestly. He burned dinner the first night and looked so devastated that you ate around the black parts.
He bought you the warmest boots he could afford. He put extra blankets in the car. He learned which brand of tea you liked when the darkness started getting to you. He loved you. No one could say he didn’t. But love, you were learning, did not automatically know how to protect itself. Sometimes love had to be taught where to stand.
June made a sound in the bassinet. Both of you turned. She slept.
Peter exhaled.
You smiled faintly. “You’re hovering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“She made a sound.”
“Babies do that.”
“How many sounds are normal?”
“At least twelve thousand per night.”
He looked genuinely distressed.
You patted his chest. “I just made that up.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“You’re mean when you’re tired.”
“I’m mean when I’m awake.”
“Also true.”
You gasped softly. Peter’s eyes flicked to yours, amused now. There it was again. That thing between you. The old rhythm. The one Ennis had not managed to kill, even if it had buried it under dirty laundry and missed dinners and unanswered texts. You missed him so badly while standing in front of him that you reached for his hand. He took it.
“You should change,” you said. “You smell like station coffee.”
“Station coffee is terrible.”
“See? That’s why I miss Anchorage. At least there, I could personally stop you from drinking garbage.”
“You did.”
“You were healthier under my supervision.”
“I gained five pounds in muffins.”
“You needed them. You looked haunted.”
He gave you a look.
“You did,” you insisted. “Like a Victorian child detective.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It was you.”
“I was in police training.”
“You had cheekbones and carried baggage.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded. “Okay.”
You laughed, and he looked pleased with himself for getting you there.
He changed in the bathroom while you climbed into bed, moving slowly, carefully, still aware of every sore part of yourself. You checked June twice before lying down. Then once more after. Her tiny chest rose and fell.
Peter came out in sweatpants and a worn thermal, hair damp where he had splashed water on his face. Without his uniform, he looked softer. Still tired. Still carrying the day. But more yours.
He paused near the bassinet and looked down. You watched him. His face in the dim light was something private. Something almost painful.
“Hi, baby,” he whispered, though June was asleep. “I’m here.”
Your eyes burned again.
You turned onto your side, facing him. Peter checked on the baby again, then seemed to realize he was stalling. He looked toward the bed.
“You sure?” he asked.
You frowned. “About what?”
“Me sleeping?”
The question was so ridiculous and so sad that you almost could not answer.
“Peter.”
“I can sit with her for a while. You sleep.”
“You can sleep in your bed with your wife.”
He looked relieved and guilty at the same time.
“Okay.”
He climbed in carefully, as if the mattress might scream. The bed shifted under his weight. For a moment, he stayed on his side, leaving space between you. You stared at him. He stared back.
“You are allowed to touch me,” you said.
His face softened. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I know you’re still sore.”
“I am. That doesn’t mean I want you across the bed like a respectful ghost.”
“A respectful ghost?”
“That’s what you look like.”
He smiled. Then he moved closer. Slowly, giving you time to stop him, he slid an arm around your waist. You guided his hand higher, away from where your body still ached, and tucked yourself against his chest. He settled around you with a careful sigh.
The warmth of him was immediate. You had forgotten, somehow, how warm he was. Or maybe you remembered too well, and that was why his absence hurt.
His hand rested over your ribs. His wedding ring was cool through the fabric of your sweatshirt. His chin brushed your hair. For a while, the two of you laid there listening to June breathe.
Then Peter whispered, “Are you awake?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
You waited.
He said, “I’m really glad you married me.”
Your throat tightened in the dark.
“You say that like you’re sur prised.”
“I am sometimes.”
“Why?”
He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because you could’ve had an easier life.”
You stared into the dim room. There were many things you could say. That easier did not mean better. That you had chosen him. That you were not a martyr. That sometimes you did wonder what your life would look like if you had stayed in Anchorage, if your mother could come over after work, if your friends could bring coffee, if you could walk June under streetlights that did not feel like warnings.
All of it was true. None of it was simple.
You covered his hand with yours.
“I didn’t marry a life,” you said. “I married you.”
His breath moved against your hair.
“But Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“I need you in the life too.”
His arm tightened around you.
“I know.”
Outside, the wind rose again, dragging snow against the windows. Somewhere in the house, the heater groaned. June made another tiny newborn sound, and Peter’s hand twitched like he wanted to check on her again.
You held him in place.
“She’s okay,” you whispered.
He relaxed, barely.
“Okay.”
You closed your eyes.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt yourself begin to drift before June woke again. Sleep came slowly, cautiously, as if it did not trust your house anymore. But Peter was warm behind you, his breath steadying against your hair, his hand held under yours like you were keeping him there. Maybe you were. Maybe that was not a bad thing.
Just before you slipped under, Peter whispered so softly you almost missed it.
“I’ll do better.”
You did not open your eyes. You only squeezed his hand once. Not forgiveness. Not yet. Not all of it. But something. A start.
In the bassinet, June slept between the two of you and the dark.
And for one night, when Ennis called, Peter Prior did not go.
8 month old Yuki lives and breathes for cuddles. 70% of her day consists of cuddling mama and papa. She also has an adorable habit-
She will gently press her soft cheeks against the cheek of the person to pick her up after she wakes up.
It's 6 in the morning, Yuki just woke up cause she was hungry. Sukuna held her with one arm while preparing her bottle with another.
You're busy making breakfast. "Is my perfect girl up?" You smile at them.
"Wa..." Yuki sleepily presses her cheek against Sukuna's.
Except Papa just woke up, didn't shave yet and had a rough stubble. It poked Yuki's soft baby skin.
"Eh..." She whined while patting her cheek.
She looked at papa with a confused look.
"Why would you wound me, father?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sukuna asked.
More offended baby looks.
"What did I do?" Sukuna looks at you confusedly.
You press your lips to hold in your laughter. "Your beard."
👁👁
"The texture of your face is unacceptable."
Yuki's expression clears it up.
She reached for you instead.
"Mama..." Grabby hands.
You take her gently. "There's my sunshine..." You coo softly.
"She's upset." You add with a snort.
"IT'S JUST MY FACE???"
Yuki does the same to you to check.
Very soft and very mama, no harm detected.
Then she looks back at Sukuna accusingly.
👁👁
"Further contact is halted until the threat is assessed."
Sukuna grumbles while walking towards the bathroom.
(Guys i had an exam today i studied so hard and got 14/25 in the quiz part ✌️. Im so done with myself atp. The pressure of the exams is intense so i havent been posting very often.) Ik im ruining the baby Yuki cuteness with the repeatation but im just so tired after studying i cant come up w new ideas.
How that nonchalant man feel when you the cute neighbor girl always bringing cookies suddenly starts to be his wet dream…
Hello friendos ✨🤌🏻 It’s the first time for me to write anything for Chainsaw Man actually now for my beloved man Aki 🌚🌚🤌🏻 idk why K feel like he just needs someone who takes care of him. Although seeing this man crumble slowly is delicious ngl 🤣🤌🏻 anyways have fun 💖
Wordcount: 1,7k
Warnings: smūt, dirty thoughts, domestic vibe, fluff, Aki just can’t ignore you
"Whoa, who is that?" Denji asked Aki just after you had waved the sweetest hello someone could. How your eyes lit up and your lips formed into a genuine smile.
You were Akis neighbor, and you sneaked your life way too much into his even when he pretended he didn't want that.
And since Denji and Power moved in, it was totally over. You were a cute girl, still absolutely attractive, and also absolutely oblivious to that fact.
One of the reasons why Aki avoided being around you, not that he had a chance to avoid it at all.
"That's our neighbor; behave. She is nice." Aki sighed as he stepped outside with Denji before pulling a cigarette between his lips. Always that nonchalant look on his face. A look he barely held onto when you were around.
"Nice? Dude, did you see her ti-?" Denji is head over heels for you even when he just saw you for not even 10 seconds. But Aki cut him off, steel blue eyes giving a flicker of something close to being possessive.
"We don't talk about her like that, Denji." It was a clear message.
"Why not? What she got clearly needs to be from a goddess, a devil or whatever. You kept hiding her." He groaned and ran a hand over his scruffy blonde hair.
"She was on a vacation; there's no hiding," he shrugged, already aware of what would happen the next day. Because you, little sweet you...
You were his unraveling, too eager and kind for your own good and too oblivious. Although Aki knew there was more to you.
It was back when you had moved into the apartment next door. When you wanted to make a good and polite first appearance. You brought cookies you made yourself. Gooey in the center and with milk chocolate that melted on the tongue. A domestic good to leave a good first impression. How he opened the door looking nearly even bored when you stood there, cookie plate in hand. Eyes wide and friendly. It was just the first meeting when you ended up yapping not just about yourself. Something about you was always very good at seeing what others needed when they dealt with being alone. Since you also have a lot of experience in being abandoned. But instead of Akis way to act nonchalant, you were full of brightness and trying to tend the world with kindness and your cookies.
After that he ended up with an empty cookie plate as he sat alone in the dark apartment. Because some words had hit deeper than he made it look towards you. How you had said:"Come over any time; I always have something to eat or tea. Oh, and company or an ear to listen. No pressure, though; being alone can be calming but also drowning or even loud. Anyway, I know you need to get going, and I'm talking too much...bye-bye." You waved and smiled before you turned to your door and left him speechless. He inhaled pretty much those cookies just because the silence didn't feel so suffocating then.
But this was never all because sometimes your need for connection was so high that you randomly started to show up to eat breakfast with him. Because coffee and a cigarette weren't really breakfast, right? And it took a lot of his willpower to not look too long when you bent over. Those sleeping shorts did nothing to hide any of your curves. Or when your sleeping top just rode up a bit to show more skin, not that this was your intention, but you looked like a sleepy dream. Because too often it had happened, he ended up having a boner underneath the table.
"You don't need to do this, you know that?" he had asked you one time, trying to act smooth, sounding detached as always as he sipped his coffee you made. It tasted better even when it was plain black. While his hard cock throbbed the moment you bent over the table to give him some of the pickled radish for breakfast. Your top had shifted lower, which gave him a shameless view of how good your tits looked in it.
"I don't, but I want to. Besides the fact I want to feel useful," you declared with way too much energy and a good mood that never seemed to dim. "Whatever...don't get used to it," but the tone was lacking the cold bite. You weren't exactly interrupting. Even when you yapped, it was soft and more like a melody in the morning than annoying. Aki didn't interrupt you. Worse, he even knew what you were talking about, even when he said he was not a morning person, but he caught everything. When you talked about the cat you greeted every day that sat on the fence in front of the apartment. When you talked about the shift in the little bubble tea store, you needed to throw a shaker after a minor tapioca pearl devil. You considered yourself as unshaken from that day on. You smiled when you could catch a hint of a smirk when he took another sip of coffee...
Akis acknowledged that even when you were too bright in your mood compared to him, you weren't annoying, dumb, or useless. You filled space with warmth, your yapping filled silence—not unpleasant, but in a way that made things bearable. Not that he ever told that to anyone. Your domestic side was not for everyone, but you decided to let Aki see it. Because you felt what he needed, and sometimes it was a simple breakfast in your opinion.
For Aki it was not just your body or your look. Although that emo diva also thought you were adorable and way too hot to be around Denji in any case. But it was your sweet nature; you saw a worth in him, and he didn't need to earn it for once.
The whole damn day Denji had talked about you. "You saw her for 10 seconds; she is not the love of your life, so would you just shut that mouth about it?" Aki meant after a minor mission. Power was also there now. "About whom are we talking? I mean, I heard "nice boobs" and "adorable face," but who is that idiot talking about?" she asked, upset to be left out of the news that clearly occupied everyone in the household.
"(Y/N), our neighbor, nothing interesting. Denji is just going to crash out over no-" even when he tried to play it down and drag his two roommates home like two stubborn kids... Denji cut him off.
"Over the most perfect boobs, and she smelled like cookies, I'm so sure. She got that vanilla note on her skin; I could get that." Denji declared proudly with a smirk, not that it seemed a bit worrying that he actually paid so much attention in 10 seconds.
"So we got a cookie girl now? Is that the message? Does she bring cookies? How often does she bring cookies?" Power asked, as always, the most important things, while Aki just rolled his eyes.
"She is our neighbor, dumbass. She is no 'Cookie Girl.' But she brings cookies once a week." He sighed with a heavy groan. Those two really cost him his patience.
"Once a week? Do you think when I let her pet Meowy, she brings more?"
Anyway, back at home, when he had made a stop in a store, Power and Aki were already home. This is when he wanted to get in the elevator. It was already full, but before it could get up, you tried to squeeze in too. Of course, when you spotted Aki, you chose to be squished against him.
"Ohhhh, sorry it's going to get a little cuddly," you chuckled and squeezed into the gap. Your breasts pillowed against his torso. That soft body yielded to his frame, and for a moment he was sure he needed to hold his breath. 'Fuck!' he said it in his mind. Because no power in this world could stop what was rising in his pants. You were sweet and tempting, and sometimes when you caught him staring into nothing, it was not because he was tired. It was because he imagined bending you over the table and taking you raw from behind. Just to listen to those little noises you would do. Or how you would spread yourself a bit more so he could go deeper. Something was telling him that you were a needy one.
"Good reminder to take the stairs next time," he said clipped; he looked away. "Come on, Aki. It could be worse. It's cozy and warm, a bit too warm, but we focus on good things," you meant and batted your lashes. This was when he looked in your face. It was cozy and warm, just as cozy and warm as it would be when you wrapped your legs around his waist as he would pound you into oblivion to hear how sloppy that cunt would get. And at this exact moment, it was when you felt it against your thigh. A hard, insistent bulge. When you noticed your iris widened just a fraction. Before that little smile on your face turned suspiciously sultry.
Not only that, Aki thought you were worth having an eye on, even when he denied it. But you liked him too; he was pretty no matter if his dark hair was down or in his signature ponytail. It was the calmness he brought, the way he let you yap. And now you just felt how much this man needed a break and to just feel something different than duty and responsibility. He could see that you felt it; it was unmistakable how it throbbed against you after the elevator rumbled a little. He knew it. Furthermore, he fucking knew you felt that hot length against him.
And when he realized that, he looked away again, this time with a blush over his nose. "Do you want me to come over later? I can make food," you suddenly asked, Aki too occupied to realize you just pressed closer against him even now. "You don't have to; I planned something." His voice was strained but sounded nonchalant.
"Then throw this plan away and let me do it. Someone needs to take care of you, don't you think, pretty boy?" And that was all it took, because now he felt it, how precum was leaking out of him. You called him pretty boy. You wanted to take care of him when you only knew how much that uptight and nonchalant man wanted to ruin you over the kitchen counter....
— summary: locked in your shared chambers after the wedding, aerion tries to break your composure one last time. instead, you take the leash and show him exactly how sharp a wolf's teeth can be.
— pairing: aerion targaryen x stark!reader
— word count: 3.1k
— content: arranged marriage, afab!reader, toxic relationship? they're toxic for each other, p in v, power play, physical intimidation, choking, biting, mild blood, dominant reader, aerion getting absolutely ruined and begging for it lmao.
— notes: part 3 is here! the way i can't stop writing this bc this is all i ever wanted to read LMAOOO, perhaps some pegging is on the way if i'm feeling mischievous, who knows? reblogs and comments are encouraged! thank you for the love in the first chapters <3
ﾟ。₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ｡ﾟ WORKS / RULES / ABOUT / TAGS / RECS
Three days in, the shared chambers feel less like a bridal suite and more like a fighting pit.
The king’s master of protocol had arranged the rooms. He had filled the massive space with the heavy, suffocating aesthetics of the Crown. Crimson velvet draperies block the balcony doors. The carpets are thick, woven black-and-red atrocities that swallow the sound of footsteps. The hearth is unnecessarily large, kept roaring by servants until the air inside the room feels like the inside of a kiln.
It is designed to make you sweat. It is designed to make you pliant, stripped down to your lightest shifts, lounging like a proper Southern bride.
You are currently sitting on the edge of the massive, carved mahogany bed, wearing your heavy linen day-shift and a hardened leather bodice that you haven't unlaced. You are not sweating.
Aerion is.
He has been pacing for twenty minutes. The performance of the flawless, unhurried prince was abandoned the moment the heavy oak door locked behind the kingsguard an hour ago. Now, the nervous, violent energy he usually suppresses under perfectly tailored silk is bleeding out into the room.
He is down to his breeches and a fine white linen shirt, unlaced at the throat. He hasn’t taken the rings off. You watch the gold and rubies flash in the firelight as he drags a hand through his silver hair, ruining the immaculate styling.
"You're making a trench in the carpet," you say.
He stops. The sudden stillness is absolute. He turns his head slowly, the firelight catching the sharp, patrician slope of his nose and the dark, furious violet of his eyes.
"I am attempting," Aerion says, his voice a low, vibrating wire, "to decide what to do with you."
"I'm sitting on a bed. It doesn't require a strategic council."
He crosses the room in three strides.
He doesn't stop at the edge of the mattress. He steps directly into your space, his knee forcing your thighs apart so he can stand flush against the edge of the bed. He reaches down and grips the thick leather collar of your bodice.
He hauls you up.
You don't resist the pull. You let him drag your weight upward, your boots scraping against the carpet, until you are standing face-to-face. He is taller. He expects you to lean back, to try and put space between your face and his.
You lean in.
"You have been looking at me," Aerion breathes, the words hitting your mouth, "with that same flat, dead expression for three days. You sat through the wedding feast looking like a bored spectator at a hanging. You stood in the sept as though the High Septon were a street beggar you were waiting to walk past."
"I said the vows."
"You said the words." He twists the leather of your bodice, his knuckles digging hard into your collarbone. "You haven't yielded an inch of ground since you arrived in the Reach. You think this is a game of endurance. You think you can outlast me by freezing me out."
"I don't think about outlasting you at all."
His grip tightens. The leather groans. "Lie to me again."
"Aerion," you say. You drop the title. You strip all the courtly reverence out of his name, leaving it bare and sharp in the stifling heat of the room. "If I wanted to fight you, you would already be bleeding."
He slams you backward. The heavy mahogany bedpost catches you directly between the shoulder blades. The impact knocks the air out of your lungs in a sharp, involuntary hiss. Before you can draw breath, his forearm is across your throat, pinning you flat against the carved wood.
His weight is fully on you, pressing you against the post. The heat radiating off his body is intense, feverish. He smells like arbor gold, expensive myrrh, and the sharp, metallic scent of raw adrenaline.
"Do you know how easy it would be?" he whispers. The courtly melody is completely gone from his voice. It is a ragged, feral rasp. "I could crush your windpipe. I could leave you choking on the floor. I am your husband. There is not a single lord in this castle who would ask a question if you bruised."
The heavy gold of his signet ring bites deeply into the skin of your neck just above your collarbone. The pressure on your windpipe is real. He is not posturing, the muscle in his forearm is rigid.
You look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, eclipsing the violet. The cruelty is right there on the surface, frantic and hungry. He is waiting for the panic. He is starved for it.
You lift your hands, you don't claw at his arm, you don't try to pry his forearm off your throat. You only bring your hands up and grip the sides of his face.
Your thumbs trace the sharp line of his cheekbones, your calloused fingers bury themselves in the thick, sweat-dampened silver hair at his temples as you hold his head exactly where it is.
Aerion freezes. The pressure on your throat stops escalating, though he doesn't pull away. The sheer confusion in his eyes is a physical stutter in the dark.
"If you want to bruise me," you say, your voice barely a rasp under the weight of his arm, "you don't have to threaten me with the lords of the court. You just have to do it."
His breathing hitches. A short, sharp intake of air that rattles in his chest.
"But you don't get to do it like a coward," you continue. Your thumbs press harder into his cheekbones, forcing his gaze to remain entirely locked on yours. "You don't get to press me into a wall and pretend you're a monster to see if I'll scream. If you're going to put your hands on me, you do it on purpose. You do it because I let you."
You drop one hand from his face, slide it down his chest, and grip the thick muscle of his forearm where it pins your throat.
You don't push it away, you pull it closer. You press your own throat harder against his arm, deliberately cutting off your own air supply for two seconds, letting the heavy gold ring break the skin over your collarbone.
A tiny line of heat trickles down your chest. Blood.
Aerion lets out a sound that is half-snarl, half-groan, he drops his arm as if the skin of your neck burned him. He steps back, his chest heaving, his hands flexing at his sides, he looks at the drop of blood welling against your pale skin, and the control he has been clinging to for three days completely shatters.
He catches you by the waist and throws you onto the mattress.
You hit the heavy velvet coverlet hard. You don't scramble backward, you don't try to sit up. You stay exactly where you landed, sprawled on your back, the leather bodice restricting your breath, watching him.
He follows you down. He doesn't climb onto the bed; he throws his weight over you, his knees caging your hips. His hands drop to the thick leather lacing of your bodice. He doesn't fumble with the knots. He grips the edges of the stiffened leather and violently yanks them apart. The reinforced linen laces snap with a sharp, cracking sound that echoes in the quiet room.
He rips the leather off your shoulders and tosses it blindly onto the floor. You are left in the thin linen day-shift. It is no barrier at all against the oppressive heat of the room or the crushing weight of him against you.
Aerion grips both of your wrists. He drags them up above your head, pinning them against the mattress with one massive hand. His grip is bruising, his rings grinding directly against your wrist bones.
"You arrogant, frozen bitch," he breathes, his gaze locked on yours.
He leans down, his mouth hovering an inch above yours. You can feel the frantic, ragged exhalations of his breath against your lips. He waits.
"Bite," you tell him.
He crashes his mouth down on yours.
It’s not a kiss, he is too violent. His teeth clash against yours, hard enough to send a shock of pain up into your jaw. He bites down on your lower lip, scraping the tender skin until he tastes the copper tang of your blood. You don't turn your head, you open your mouth and meet the aggression right in the face.
You twist your wrists under his grip, not trying to escape, but shifting the angle so your own calluses scrape against his bare skin. You arch your back, lifting your hips directly into his heavy, crushing weight.
A low, guttural noise tears out of his throat. He lets go of your wrists.
Both of his hands drop to your hips, gripping the thin linen and the flesh beneath it. His fingers dig in, bruising your skin, anchoring you to the mattress as he drags his mouth off yours and buries his face in the curve of your neck.
His teeth scrape down the line of your throat. He finds the small, shallow cut his ring left on your collarbone. He presses his open mouth over it, his tongue hot and wet against the broken skin, sucking the drop of blood away.
Your hands are free. You don't push him off. You bury your fingers in his silver hair and grip it hard, pulling his head back just enough to expose his throat.
"My turn," you whisper.
You pull him down. You sink your teeth directly into the thick muscle where his neck meets his shoulder. You bite down hard, grinding your teeth into the flesh until you feel him shudder violently against you.
Aerion gasps, his hands tightening on your hips until the pain borders on blinding. He doesn't try to pull away from your teeth. He presses deeper into the mattress, forcing his heavy thighs between your legs, grinding his hips down against yours in a stuttered rhythm.
The friction is agonizingly hot. The thick velvet of the coverlet burns against the back of your thighs where the shift has ridden up. His linen breeches are rough against your bare skin.
He releases your hips and slides his hands up your ribs. His palms are burning hot. He finds the neckline of your shift and tears the delicate fabric downward, exposing your chest to the suffocating heat of the room.
He looks down at you. The flawless Targaryen prince is entirely gone. His hair is a chaotic silver mess. His mouth is wet, stained slightly red from your lip. There is a dark, distinct bite mark bruising rapidly on the pale skin of his shoulder.
He traces the line of your collarbone with two fingers, the heavy gold of his rings dragging cold against your heated skin.
"You want to command me," he whispers, his voice dropping into a register of pure, dark obsession. He presses his thumb directly over your hammering pulse. "You want to hold the leash. Tell me what to do."
He isn't mocking you. He is asking. The realization hits the center of your chest like a physical blow. The sadist, the cruel prince who breaks horses and cripples servants for sport, is kneeling between your legs, entirely ruined by the fact that you aren't afraid of him.
He needs you to tell him how to be a monster.
You reach up and grip the open collar of his shirt. You twist the fine linen in your fist, pulling him down until his face is inches from yours.
"Take the shirt off," you command, your voice flat, hard, entirely devoid of mercy.
Aerion doesn't hesitate. He grips the unlaced collar, the thick, twisting veins of his forearms standing out sharply under the skin as he rips the linen over his head and discards it onto the floor.
Without the heavy fabrics of the Crown, the reality of his build is laid bare. He doesn't possess the blunt-force bulk of a brawler. He is built like a whip. He is lean, tightly coiled muscle pulled taut over defined ribs and the sharp, arrogant jut of his collarbones. A smattering of dark moles stands out starkly against his pale chest, slick with a fine sheen of sweat in the firelight. Even perfectly still, his body hums with a highly strung, violent kinetic energy.
"Now," you say.
Your eyes lock onto his, the heavy brow ridge casting his violet gaze in predatory shadow. You slide your hands down his bare chest, your calluses scraping deliberately over the hard ridges of his ribs until you reach the heavy leather belt of his breeches.
"Take mine off."
He grips the torn edges of your shift. He doesn't pull it gently. He rips the linen entirely down the center, parting the fabric and exposing you completely to the stifling air of the room. He doesn't look away from your face, he tracks the slight dilation of your pupils, he watches the way your chest rises and falls.
He slides his hands down your ribs, down the curve of your waist, his thumbs tracing the sharp jut of your hip bones. His touch is no longer frantic. It is deliberate, heavy, claiming the territory with the slow, terrifying precision of a conqueror mapping a newly taken city. He slides his heavy hands down your bare thighs, gripping the backs of your knees. He pulls your legs forward, opening you wider, hooking your knees over the outside of his waist.
The intimacy of the position is suffocating. He is pressed so tightly against you that you can feel the heavy, erratic thud of his heartbeat against your own ribs. You can feel the hard, thick heat of him pressing desperately against the rough linen of his breeches, right at the juncture of your thighs.
He leans down, his mouth brushing the bruised skin of your jaw.
"Are you going to bleed for me, little wolf?" he murmurs, his lips dragging against yours.
You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together at the base of his spine. You pull him in, eliminating the last fraction of space between you.
"I'm going to make you bleed for me," you say against his mouth, sliding your hand down to grip his length over the cloth of his breeches, he fumbles to get himself out of his clothes as fast as he can while keeping his face just an inch from you.
As he springs free from his personal jail, you take in the sight of him, his chest stained with a blotchy red that blemishes his usually pale marble skin. He takes himself in his hand and jerks himself off slowly, his gaze locked with yours as he uses his other hand to wrap it against the plump of your breast, his fingers grazing your pebbled peak.
You huff, “Are you done taking your time?” you snake your legs back to where they were initially, locking your ankles behing his back, pulling him back into you harshly, his cock nestled between your folds with a sick squelch.
Aerion groans, a raw, defeated sound, and drives his hips up and down, the friction maddening as he sucks marks into your neck, his hands everywhere on you. The head of his cock catches around your clit with each thrust, and you can’t help but shudder at the contact.
“Fuck off, put it in already.” you mumble, your voice with a dash of roughness you’re trying so hard to hide from him.
He is beyond words now, Aerion is just capable of sneaking a hand between your bodies and placing the tip at your entrance, groaning with restless energy. With a last look at you he drives in.
The heat of the room disappears, swallowed entirely by the friction. His hands are everywhere, heavy and bruising, his rings leaving dull, red indentations on your skin. He doesn't make love to you. He fights you for every inch of flesh, he bites your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft curve of your breast.
But you fight back. You rake your nails down the smooth expanse of his back, leaving four long, angry red welts. You drag his head down and bite his lip again, tasting your own blood mixed with his.
It is a violent, grinding rhythm, the heavy mahogany bed frame groans under the sheer force of the impact. He uses his weight to pin you, but you use your leverage to guide him, digging your heels into his lower back to pull him deeper, setting the pace, demanding the cruelty he is so desperate to give.
He is gasping, his breath hot and wet against your neck. The flawless control he values above all else is completely decimated. He is entirely at the mercy of the friction, his hips driving in a frantic, punishing rhythm that borders on desperate.
He hooks one arm under your lower back, lifting your hips off the mattress to change the angle, driving himself so deep you feel the impact at the base of your spine.
You let out a sharp, fractured breath.
Aerion hears it. He catches the sound in his mouth, kissing you violently, his tongue sweeping past your teeth. He uses his free hand to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the hinge, holding your face exactly where he wants it while he takes you apart.
The heat spikes, sharp and blinding. The muscles in his back lock completely tight under your hands, he tears his mouth off yours, throwing his head back, a raw, choked shout tearing out of his throat as he drives down one final, agonizingly deep time.
He collapses against you, his seed deep inside your cervix, exactly where he wants it to be. His weight crushes you into the mattress. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat, his heart hammering against yours like a trapped bird. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing loud and ragged in the heavy silence of the room.
You don't push him off. You let your legs fall open, your ankles unlocking from his spine. Your arms rest loosely against his back. The air in the room is still suffocatingly hot, smelling of burnt wood, sweat, and sex.
You stare up at the crimson canopy of the bed.
Aerion shifts slightly, his heavy gold rings scraping against the sheets. He doesn't lift his head. He turns his face slightly, pressing his mouth against your pulse point.
His teeth scrape lightly over the bruised skin, you swat the back of his head, softly this time.
