ʚ ₊ 🐇 ໒꒱

[peskyfirefly]

iris by goo goo dolls really is insane though. I'd give up forever to touch you? you're the closest to heaven I'll ever be? all I can breathe is your life? and I don't want the world to see me cause I don't think they'd understand? when everything's meant to be broken I just want you to know who I am? does anyone hear me.

[interloved]

obsessive!aerion targaryen x sister!reader

description box; aerion was born with a twin sister, whom he sees not only as his other half, but also stakes absolute claim and control upon. you, the most gentle and sweet out of your lot of siblings, are helplessly under his thumb.

warning; heavy nsfw warning, porn with a bit of plot, i think aerion targaryen is his own warning, smut under the cut!, the usual targcest, reader is a bit of a bimbo / oblivious, i watched akotsk and loved aerion and now i cannot stop thinking abt him lol, i love my insane targaryens, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

you love your twin brother aerion. and while the two of you could not look more alike, your personalities are worlds apart. you’ve always been a gentle soul, warm-hearted and good-natured, a lover of the peaceful nature and landscapes you were blessed to be born in, and a mediator through and through. you’ve always shied away from crowds, hated conflict, violence and fights, and never liked being put in the spotlight. some might say you were the most delicate of the dragons, the most docile one. always going along with everything, never complaining, never angry, never cross. on the other hand, aerion was everything you weren’t, a blazing fire compared to your soft spring sun. but in a way, you were one.

in comparison, aerion was the one leading you everywhere. while you were content to simply follow, aerion had this pathological need to dominate, which showed in him demanding all of your absolute attention and devotion, always having to be the one in control—the one making the decisions, the one arranging the plans, the one choosing activities. the older the two of you grew, the more the activities changed. but you were happy to let him do it, you had no interest in scheming and planning mischief anyway; you preferred to play the harp, to go and explore the lands riding on horseback or leisuring in the garden. but more often than not, aerion would drag you out of your room or garden to spend time with you. he’s always had a knack for finding you, wherever you were.

aerion is violent, cruel and arrogant most of the time. there is something within him that burns with the intensity of a thousand fires, something bright and powerful, but as bright and powerful it was, it also showed a certain type of hunger and greed for greatness that could not be controlled. you’ve always admired his confidence and passion, wishing you could be more outgoing—whereas you shrunk in attention, fleeing like a deer, aerion bathed in it, enjoyed it even. but he loved basking in your attention the most. back when he used to get into all sorts of fights as a boy, he would get all kinds of injuries. but under your attentive and loving care, they always healed quite nicely and quickly. he loved having you fuss over him, and when it was time to sleep, he enjoyed burying himself next to you, all cooped up in your tender embrace. his favourite moments were when you were running your fingers through his hair, carefully massaging his shoulders, wrapping your fingers around his muscles. he kept visiting your chambers, even when it outgrew childish behaviour and was frowned upon, considered inappropriate. but he didn’t care, and sought your bed every night anyways, and you didn’t complain. you liked having him close, enjoyed being in his presence. there was something strangely grounded in having him near you. for aerion, separation has always been something he has struggled with. if he could, he would just chain you to him for eternity, or lock you somewhere he knew was safe. but he supposed you would be severely cross with him for that, seeing as you loved your fresh air and all.

but aerion is controlling. always has been, but especially when it concerns you. he has this constant, obsessive need to know where you are, what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. he most definitely has someone monitoring you, following you around when you’re not with him. you’ve never caught the man who was your shadow, but you were certain there was one, even if you couldn’t exactly prove it. you sometimes feel a little uncomfortable knowing you’re being watched at all times, but brother knows best! and honestly, you’re a little flattered aerion would go such lengths to protect you and keep you safe! and in a way, it was necessary. you grew up protected and sheltered, and it created a sense of lingering innocence in you. you always saw the best in people, just like you did in aerion.

does NOT handle it well AT ALL when your attention is somewhere else. ever since you were children, he would break your toys if you dared to prefer your dolls over his company. you learned very quickly it was best to just follow his whims—most of the time, he could not be reasoned with. but as you grew up, his self-control grew and with that, his ability to hold back. nonetheless, by then the habit to simply obey him had been so ingrained into you it was nothing more than a mere unconscious reflex. you would always take his side, and even if he did something wrong, your forgiving nature would be taken advantage of mercilessly. you never could hold grudges, especially not against your dear brother.

the two of you have always been close. closer than what was normal, and to the point it was hard to tell which parts of you were his and which parts of him were yours. your kindness and sweetness had bled into him, made him a little softer around his edges sharp enough to cut. but he reserved this tenderness, this softness, only for you. no one saw this side of him that you saw, and people mostly thought you stupid for it. because while aerion was foul, cruel and a menace to others, he never treated you badly. in fact, he liked to spoil you with sudden gifts. it never occurred to you that he liked gifting you pretty dressed and jewellery because he liked seeing you in it—all covered in his things. things he chose, things he bought; you were utterly and entirely claimed by him. although you, oblivious little girl, never noticed, only always beaming ear to ear when aerion stood in front of your chambers with yet another present.

his fingers wander. he’s always been touchy, slept embracing you, but as you blossomed into a woman, his touches grew… inappropriate. or well, you suppose they weren’t, since aerion said they weren’t! you’re not sure when it started—perhaps when you were showering together again, and he had started noticing your breasts. it was purely experimental back then, when he had pinched your pliant flesh, wrapped his hands around them. but the older you became, and the more your body started to mature, so did his. his body began to parallel somewhat that of a god, where his stomach used to be soft and warm, there were now muscles hard enough to be carved out of marble, and arms that were strong and veined; and while once his arms around you had felt light, they were now heavy. whenever you woke up early and found yourself in his arms, you were usually trapped. moving his arm felt like moving a kilogram! but even now, he likes to bury his head in your breasts before sleep, enjoys fondling the perky flesh of your arse. aerion says it makes him feel at peace, and you don’t mind. you like having your brother at peace! but sometimes he puts his hands between your legs, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing, and that feels… you’re not sure how to describe. aerion says it’s supposed to help you, make you comfortable, but it makes your belly all tingly and… feels good.

men flock to you, of course they do. aerion hates it more than anything. he is a prideful man, but he is also a jealous man. and while him staking his claim over you in childhood might have fended off suitors off successfully enough, it was not enough anymore. now, being of age, the interest in you had strengthened again, from all sides. and father was determined to marry you off, ship you off somewhere. somewhere away from aerion. obviously, he had a fit about it, he reasoned with father, argued with father, and even threatened to burn any man who dared to ask for your hand alive. you had chuckled when he had stormed into your room at night then, all angry and hissy, foul words directed at your father spilling from his lips.

“aeri, sooner or later it would’ve happened anyway,” you shrugged, fairly unconcerned, as you kept brushing your hair. you were sitting in front of your vanity, carefully removing all the fancy jewellery. “besides, father means to find a suitable wife for you as well. soon, i imagine.”

aerion scoffed, still pacing around, chest heaving and violet eyes glittering in dissent. “i have no need for a wife. i don’t want a wife. and you will not be married off to some lowlife scum.”

you lifted an eyebrow, watching him through your mirror. “aerion. it’s always been my duty to serve our house—through marriage, with my life. it is your duty, also. you mustn’t be cross with father for this. in fact, i am grateful—”

“grateful?” aerion spit in rage, “grateful for what, selling you like a cow to the highest bidder?”

“—grateful that he has waited this long. he could have found me a husband when i turned five and ten, but instead he waited,” you interrupted calmly, rising from your chair now, unaffected by his moods by now as you approached him, lacing your fingers into his angrily spasming ones, “and gave me three more wonderful years with you.”

you gave him a chase, innocent peck on his cheekbone. “but all good things must come to an end. we mustn’t forget our responsibilities.”

aerion’s eyes darkened as his gaze trailed off to your lips, clinging onto the sight of them like sticky honey.

“no. i won’t allow it, you’re mine,” he drawled grimly. his anger had cooled down, like it always did when you initiated him. aerion had always had a fierce temperament, one that he had learned to rein in by now but still lost control of sometimes. in moments like these, only you were ever able to tame him. or, not afraid to get burned—most people standing in his wrath or being his subject of anger tended to not do… well. but aerion, for all his temperament, was always his calmest with you. you were the most even-tempered, amiable targaryen there was, balancing out the unstable moods of the most hot-tempered targaryen there was. in fact, it was considered strange that you were so amicable and docile. most targaryens had an attitude similar to aerion’s: proud, cocky in a lazy, self-assured way that came from the sureness of superiority, and were getting used to always getting what they wanted.

you were different. you were humble, never thinking yourself to be above others simply because of your heritage or lineage, although aerion always pointed out that dragons were above the common people—lions and wolves and roses. while you privately did not fully agree, you did think aerion was magnificent. he had always stood out in a crowd, perhaps only to you, but he did. but you never did disagree with him openly, god forbid, knowing he might take it the wrong way.

“my darling, it is not upon us to choose,” you hummed, hand finding its way to aerion’s cheek, leniently caressing it, “we must listen to what father says. i should like to think he’s secured me an age-appropriate match, at least. i should like to hear who he recommends.”

you let your fingers run through his pale hair, nostalgically reminiscing all the times you had did that in the past, and turned your back to him with a soft smile dancing around your lips. “how exciting, don’t you agree, aeri? a new chapter of my life is going to start soon. i hope he will treat me kindly…”

aerion’s eyes started darkening again. with one stride, he was in front of you, something deep in his eyes shimmering with promise.

“you will not leave me,” he repeated. “i will not have it. i would sooner kill father than have you shipped off like a broodmare to someone below our station.”

“aeri—” you pleaded in shock, placing your hands on his chest in your stupor. it’s treason to say such things, you wanted to say, but something in your heart warmed at the thought of your brother being so protective over you. always my knight in shining armour, you thought fondly.

“i mean it,” he rumbled coolly, “no one. takes you away from me. a dragon… deserves someone of the same station.”

he placed his hands down to your, big, veined hands sliding over your smaller ones, as he placed chaste kisses on your knuckles.

“and who would that be, dear brother?” you laughed, “there is barely any true velaryon blood left—well, i suppose our cousins could qualify. valarr, and the lot.”

aerion’s face twisted with a visible disgust. “their blood is polluted, my love. no, it must be someone like us.”

he lightly tilted his head, representing somewhat a hawk sizing up its prey, as a sharp smile tugged on his plush lips. “the only befitting mate for a dragon… is another dragon.”

would be the type to ruin your prospects and rather kill your father and hide behind the claim of wanting you because of “keeping the blood pure” because openly confessing it would mean actually acknowledging this thing between the two of you. it was left usually unspoken, unsaid but known, a subject untouched. to open this can of worms, it was not a good idea. regardless, he had put ideas into your head you weren’t opposed to—you could marry your brother. it might be a little frowned upon, but targaryens have married their siblings for ages, and one could argue no one else but you would last with aerion targaryen as a husband. but your father disagreed, and when aerion asked him for your hand, he refused it. you were to be married to someone else.

aerion would definitely kill your spouse. he would NOT care whether your status and reputation would be affected, he would NOT care about making you a widow. he would, however, take you for himself. aerion is selfish like that. he never claimed to be someone else.

he is absolutely intrigued by you, fascinated by your nature. not just because he obsesses over you, but simply because of you as a person. aerion has seldom met people with so much love to give, and so much love to give freely. since you two were babes, you had given him your loyalty and attention and affection and respect unconditionally, always staying by his side. although your other siblings thought you stupid for always taking his side, they also knew how blinded you were by aerion. he may be the worst person around, but never around you. you never experienced his cruelty, rarely even heard of it. and when you did, you turned a blind eye—surely aerion wouldn’t do that! he’s not that kind of person! time passed, and your siblings gave up trying to show you who aerion really was. well, was to them. again, he treated you entirely differently.

there has always been darkness in aerion, but you knew that. it was tied to this… insatiable hunger. the first time you slept with him, you noticed that he was a mean lover. he takes more than he gives, but when he gives, oh does he give. he likes seeing you squirm and hearing you beg, relishes in the power he has over you. as much as he loves being rough with you, he loves taking his time. spreading you open, rubbing and tugging against your clothes, fingers dipping into you, mouth claiming your lips as his. he loves coaxing out the little gasps, shy whimpers and soft moans you always try to suppress; in fact, he makes it a point to draw these small sounds out of you. he thinks they’re delightfully delicious, and when he sinks into you, it’s like the two of you are finally whole.

aerion is the kind of crazy that wishes to be so obsessively close to you he wishes he could crawl into your skin and sink his claws into your heart.

occasionally, aerion has his moments of tenderness and affection, and it reminded you that his love for you was buried deep within him, intertwined with his soul, as much as your love for him was. you supposed it had always been like this, your worlds were always circling around each other rather than the sun. for example, he has these moments at night, when he’s drawing moons and stars on your skin, whispering soft praises into your ear, complimenting your hair, your eyes, everything about you.

definitely fantasises about putting a dragon into you. he would never admit it, but simply the thought of you pregnant, his seed having taken root in your round belly, it arouses him terribly.

but all this fairytale ends when your father reaches a decision, and you’re to be married off.

sorry for dropping off the face of the earth lol… this is my apology? i promise to never vanish like that again hahaha. you guys interested in part two?

[alexablissmark]

fame is a gun, i point it blind || Chapter 3 (Jealous!Aerion Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

when you shame me, it makes me want it more.

warnings: aerion cruelty, smut, pinv, oral, house ashford hates reader, tourney at ashford meadow, threats and violence, platonic relationships with duncan and valarr, envy and jealousy, semi-public sex, breeding kink, aerion whimpering 😍

- aerion wants you to shut up

a/n: i might end the series here. thanks guys!

Aerion was sleeping at the other side of the bed, soundly and with his back to you.

You felt anything but sound.

Your hair was greasy and somehow frizzy and knotted at the same time. The nightgown was sticking to your skin. Your hands were clammy. The dirt and dust from the meadow casted a tint over your skin, and you did not smell pleasant at all.

You really needed a bath.

Smoothing your hair and masking the smell the best you can, you trudged your way to Ashford Castle. The Meadow was quiet in the early morning, only the rustling of the leaves and quiet murmurs from the other early birds.

Going into the castle, you found a small group of maidservants in the kitchens, preparing breakfast. They seemed to not notice your presence, until you spoke.

“Can one of you run me a bath?” you asked, prompting them to all turn towards you. They all looked at each other—silently judging you in unison. Apparently, it was a strange request.

“A…bath, m’Lady?”

An older maid spoke after, “Our Lord Ashford has reserved certain hospitality for members of this House and the crown, only. I’m sorry, my Lady.”

How lowly are your titles, if you can be denied a hot bath by servants? Not that it was their fault. They’re only doing their job, and here you are—interrupting them.

“Oh, okay…” was all you managed out, solemnly.

The older maid sighed, “Here, take these,” she said, and handed you two buckets with a rag. “You can take these down to the river and bathe there.”

A humiliated thank you left your lips, as you turned with your head bowed. Heavy buckets in hand. You struggled carrying them back to Aerion’s pavilion, all the way to the far corner, where he had stuffed your travel-chests. You opened one, and started digging for a gown. Perhaps you had packed some herbs…frustration building as you struggled to find anything remotely suited for a bath. Soap, herbs, flowers, anything.

Tears pricked your eyes, and you started to cry silently. It was a childish thing to cry over. You shouldn’t have assumed Ashford would extend their hospitality to you so willingly. You were only the daughter of their liege Lord and married to a Prince. How silly of you to think you could take a bath there.

The noise woke a sleeping dragon.

“The fuck is your problem?” Aerion asked, rubbing his eyes and annoyed you had awakened him so early.

“They refused me a bath,” you said through sobs, looking and sounding like a bratty child.

He sighed as you hiccuped your way through the sentence, “A bath? You’re crying…over a bath?”

“All I want is a hot bath,” you pouted, “I feel and look disgusting. I’ve been overwhelmed since the minute we arrived, suffocated. and I just wanted to find peace. And to be denied, by a servant of all people! I just…” you trailed before the sobs took over you again.

“You sound absurd.”

“They said it was Lord Ashford. Hot baths are only reserved for Princes and members of their house,” you said, “They told me to bathe in the river. The river, Aerion!” you exclaimed, motioning to the buckets next to you on the floor.

“How dreadful,” Aerion commented.

“How would the other Lords and Ladies take it, if your wife was seen naked, bathing in the river? Why can you never stand up for me? Defend me? Must it always be sarcastic replies and mockery?”

A sharp silence followed, “This is less about the bath, Aerion. More about dignity. I’ve been treated as less than and little, since I’ve been here. By House Ashford, by your Father. Why must you rub salt into thy wound?”

“You feel disrespected,” he said, “Is that it?”

“Insulted,” you corrected, remembering what he said yesterday.

He sighed again, “If I get you a bath, will you shut up?”

The words hung in their air, as they usually did. Cruel and dismissive.

Aerion pushed himself off the edge of the bed begrudgingly. He searched for his tunic.

“Of course, my Prince.”

“Then, I want no more of your complaining, no more tears. I mean to enter the lists today, and I’ll not have your face soiled by tears. Understood?” he demanded, gaze locked onto yours.

“Understood,” you said, looking up at him from the floor, like a lost puppy. It almost made his expression soften.

“Good,” he nodded, “Stay here. So you won’t disgrace me further.”

The tent flapped snapped shut as he went, but you managed to catch the look on his face. One that wasn’t going to fetch a bath, but make someone regret denying one.

His voice was already barking orders before he took a full step outside.

A maidservant with teary eyes came to fetch you half an hour later. She curtsied nervously, her eyes darting to you and then away, as if uncertain of how to address you. Her eyes were red, face flushed, and her hands trembled.

Finally, she managed to find her voice. “My Lady,”she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your bath is ready.”

You lifted your chin, pleased and slightly arrogant, “Thank you.”

She curtsied once more, clearly relieved that you had not lashed out at her. She then turned and held open the tent flaps for you to exit, gesturing for you to follow her.

“This way, my Lady,” she said, her voice still tinged with nervousness. She led you out into the bright sunlight, guiding you towards the baths.

You grabbed your gown, one you had chosen specifically.

Delicate golden flowers embroidered onto blue cloth from the waist to the top hemline. The cloth itself a light fabric, easy to pick up and stay cool in. It was sleeveless, but a cape would over your shoulders, the same blue as the rest of the dress. The shoulders were made of gold, in the shape of dragon scales. A chain ran across the chest, holding it all together.

Draping it over your shoulder, and following the maid, you thought of the dress less as a gown and more as a statement. You would look strong. Armored. Everyone will see you, remember your standing. Who you were.

Your brows furrowed, as you realized you were sounded a bit too much like your husband and not like yourself in your head.

You shook your head, as if shaking the thoughts out. You were nothing like him. Right?

When you made it into the bathing chambers, you stared at the steaming bath in front of you. Petals floated atop milk-white water, and the air was thick with jasmine and honey. No sharp citrus or orange or lemon. Just warmth, sweetness, and care.

The maid took your gown and draped it over a chair.

How did he know? Aerion never listened to you. Only mocked and ridiculed. Somehow, he remembered. How you preferred florals and vanilla to citrus and musk. Your skin always smelt like it, and you turned away citrus soap when a servant brought it once.

He noticed.

For once, you didn’t feel like Aerion’s shadow, or your Father’s burden. You felt…seen. How long had he been secretly watching, masked underneath fire and arrogance?

The water embraced you as you slipped beneath its silky surface. Its warmth melted the tension from your muscles, the petals drifting gently over your skin.

You didn’t want to linger on why. Why he remembered. Why he cared. It was easier to blame it all on the heat, the petals, the jasmine—to tell yourself it was a quirk of nature or chance. But when you closed your eyes and drifted in that milky calm, you knew it wasn’t true.

Aerion had chosen this. All of this. Especially the lack of citrus.

Exiting the bath, you stood and dried yourself gently. You would wait until your hair was dry to style it. Back to the pavilion, you were dressed like a Princess, and smelled like one. You were clean, your skin was soft, and you felt seen and pretty and noble. Brushing out the knots in your halfway dried hair, everything was calm.

It was short lived, as Aerion voice hit the canvas from the outside, commanding and unmistakenable.

“No, that is wrong!” he yelled from outside the tent, “I told you—no lemon. She does not tolerate it, and I will not tolerate you any longer! Run her bath with lemon tomorrow, and I’ll slice you open and ring the juice into your wounds.”

The tent ripped open. For a moment, Aerion seemed taken aback, his anger momentarily stunned into silent admiration. Just for a moment. He quickly regained his composure, his face schooled into a harsh expression once more.

“Is…everything alright? I thought you were to enter the lists today?” you asked.

“I am,” he snapped, “Once the rains stop.”

The rains? Oh, it was raining. You were so at peace you had hardly noticed.

“Who do you mean to challenge?” you asked.

“What does it matter? They’ll fall to the dragon anyway…” he trailed off, “What about that…impudent little hedge knight? I hear he somehow got into the lists.”

“Ser Duncan, you mean?” you asked, a little worried. “No, you mustn’t.”

“Why not? Are you fond of him, now?”

You chose your words carefully. “No, I—I mean only it would be a weak showing,” you said, “A win against a lowborn is nothing. Challenge a great Lord, or your cousin.”

You’d rather die than Aerion find out you had vouched for Duncan. It would mean catastrophic consequences for you both.

“A dragon does not need prove himself, against common flesh,” you added, “It would be beneath you.”

“Hmph,” he tilted his chin, and looked away. Something he did when he reluctantly had to agree with you.

But his gaze averted back to you, and followed the fabric of your gown. His eyes were silent and judging, “Those colors are horrendous.”

“They are the colors of my house…”

“I’m aware,” he rolled his eyes, “Doesn’t mean they’re not horrendous.”

Here we go again.

“What would you have me do?” you quipped, “Burn them all in favor of gowns in drab black and hideous red?”

“Red would…wash you out,” he said, “But black, yes, you’d finally look halfway presentable in it.”

“Black is for mourning.”

“Oh,” he raised his eyebrows, “So you’re no longer mourning the maidenhood I took…?”

“I thought of Valarr the whole time you did,” you shot.

It was untrue, but you wanted a reaction out of him.

“Lying to a Prince is treason,” he warned.

You shook your head, “I reckon he would fill me much fuller than you.”

Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes. “You think he could satisfy you the way I can?”

“You don’t even satisfy me at all…” you trailed off.

His lips ghosted over yours now, close enough to kiss. Or crush.

“I have yet to try,” he said.

“Would you like to?” you challenged, “Or, are you simply incapable?”

He was torn between wiping off your sly smile with a slap, or making you dizzy from kissing it. Claiming it.

“Are you inviting me to bed, after you’ve insulted me?” he murmured, “Taunted me with the thought of that fool between your legs.”

“Kiera tells me Valarr is quite skilled with his mouth,” you told him, “You seem to only be skilled in using it to lie and insult.”

“A Prince should never kneel,” he said. “Yet, I find myself tempted to make an exception. I could show you just how skilled I am, with my mouth,” he continued, “Perhaps mine own would shut yours up.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as his hand touched your throat, arousal and desire now taking over any common sense you once had.

“Please, Aerion? Show me. I want to feel the dragon’s mouth grace me, today.”

There was a predatory glint in his eyes as he followed you, his body sitting you on the edge of the bed. He pressed his knee against your core, trapping you between him and the mattress.

“You want to feel the dragon's mouth, do you?”he murmured, his free hand trailing up your waist, his fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“I wonder just how many whores have felt your tongue inside of them,” you pondered, “No wonder you cannot satisfy me. You’ve been soiled by far too many.”

“You think too much, about my past. Why does it matter? I’m here with you, now. You’re the one asking me to kneel.”

Aerion continued, getting on his knees, “So, if you’re set on satisfying the dragon’s appetite, stop thinking of the whores who’ve come before. Focus on me. Focus on what I can do for you.”

For you.

You didn’t expect him to say that.

For you.

There was almost a vulnerability in his gaze.

“For me?” you asked, quiet.

He swallowed, regretting what he had said already. Because now, he has no other choice but to admit his true feelings. “For you,” he uttered to quietly, the words almost got lost in the tent. “I want to please you. I want to claim you. To make you forget every ounce of stress and worry, and replace it with only the feel of my tongue and the sound of my name being screamed from your lips….”

“Of course you—”

“….shut up, so I can fuck you.”

Aerion gave you no room to argue or speak further. His hand darted up, to start rubbing circles at your clit. Already wet with desire for him. A need, after all of this arousing arguing.

Then, he pushed up your skirts. His eyes slightly worried before his head was fully engulfed by them. You could tell you were the first he’d pleasure this way, from that look and the way his fingers trembled.

He started to lick at your cunt, sending shivers down your spine and small whimpers here and there. Small, discovering licks turned into conquering laps as he claimed you fully with his mouth.

Your hips rolled into his face, back arched. Needing to feel him deeper, closer. And Aerion was happy to oblige.

You thought he was going to start eating you, bones and all, from how sporadic and commanding he was.

“Y/N,” he uttered, “Gods you taste so good. Like fire,” he said.

He kept going, even after you came in his mouth. The taste too addicting and the smell too intoxicating. His nose flicked at your clit and his tongue continued to work on you. Now, his name was all you could say.

“Aerion,” you moaned, “Oh, Aerion. Gods, I—”

“Fuck,” he interrupted, “Oh, fuck!” a whimper escaped him as you came again.

He lapped it all, and came up from kneeling on the floor. Pushing you fully onto the bed, he pulled at his trousers and the laces. Inserting his cock, with a grunt.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, as his mouth came crashing down onto your neck. Leaving not only bites and bruises but the slick from below.

One of his hands dug into your thigh, the other sliding under your back, holding you close. Much more intimate than usual.

Aerion’s breath came fast, and hitched with each thrust. A harder one always following the previous. You were happy he found a satisfactory pace faster this time.

“Fill me with your seed, Aerion,” you begged, “Please, get me with child. I want to feel it, your son growing inside of me.”

Pregnancy actually scared the living shit out of you. Terrified you’d meet the same fate as your mother.

But you knew that kind of talk is what kept Aerion going in the sheets.

“My fire, my blood,” Aerion chanted, “In your womb, where it belongs. I’ll give you—” he stifled a moan.

His hand slid up to your jawline, gripping it tightly, forcing you to look at him. He leaned in, his eyes dark with a barely controlled desire.

“You will be mine. Your body, your heart…” his gaze flicked down to the mark on your neck, a flash of possession in his eyes. “Your fucking soul, Y/N. I will take you in every way possible. Again, and again, and again. Until you are completely, and utter mine and mine alone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my dragon,” you moaned both in pleasure and in agreement. “Yours, and yours only.”

Aerion came inside you, and the feeling of it made you cum as well.

He waited to compose himself, before pulling out. Doing so nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just proclaim ownership over your soul, and more like you were a whore in a pleasure house.

He turned his back to you, to tie up his trousers.

“Do you still care for Valarr?” he asked.

You giggled, catching your breath, “Jealous, much?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The rain had stopped, and it was almost time. Aerion was first in the lists today, so you got up and helped him with his armor.

“It looks very good on you, my love,” you said as you clipped the cape into place, “Like a flame itself.”

“Yes,” he said. “Like you. My little flame.”

“Thank you,” you said, “For earlier. The bath—how I like them drawn.”

“Ugh,” he rolled his eyes, but a small smile formed on his face, “Do you not know what shut up means?”

You gave him a kiss and left for the viewing box, and he alongside his squires to the jousting field.

[teamhelaena]

My Frail Sister (part 2)

Rhaegar x sister reader

Part 1

Thank you to the anon who asked for a continuation with Dany being their child <3

{tw- smidge of smut, targcest, pregnant reader, cheating (Rhaegar/elia), childbirth, character death}

little changes to ages (Aegon/Rhaneys/Viserys) - love the idea of dreamers being able to talk to others if they tried hard enough so a little bit of that with baby Dany! (Broke my own heart with all the angst but I do have a part 3 idea (focusing on Dany and Rhaegar with reader haunting the narrative. so lmk if you guys would like to see it <3)

The whispers began when your sickness worsened. Rhaella noticed first. The way her daughter couldn't keep broth down, the breathing that seemed to get harder for your frail body to keep up with. Your personal maid, a silent shadow named Marna, saw the blood-streaked cloths hidden beneath the bed. Rhaegar still came to your chambers some nights, playing the loving brother, bringing books or lyre songs. But his visits always ended the same.. with hands trembling as he lifted you onto your back, climbing over you with desperate reverence. He'd move inside you with agonizing slowness, whispering apologies against your throat, while you clung to him, savoring the forbidden warmth despite the pain. Each time left you weaker, coughing into linen sleeves-stained pink.

After Elia gave Rhaegar his son Aegon, he stopped bedding her entirely. The princess accepted this with quiet dignity, pouring her affection into little Rhaenys and the babe. Yet Rhaegar's visits to your chambers grew more frequent, more urgent. Until one morning, you woke retching bile, your ribs aching as if cracked.

That night, when Rhaegar slipped through your door, you barred him with a hand. "No.." you whispered, voice frayed as old silk. "Not tonight please..." His violet eyes darkened with something feral. "Why?" he demanded, fingers curling against the doorframe. "I've just... been feeling worse than normal and I'm not sure if you can catch it." Your voice was a mumble and your body moved to curl up while a deep breath escaped, almost as if it had been too hard to get the breath even out.

He pushed past you anyway, the scent of wine clinging to his silver hair. "You're always worse" he muttered, pulling you against his chest. His touch felt like shackles. When his hands slid beneath your shift, you stiffened. "Rhaegar, don't—"

"Shh" he breathed into your hair, his voice thick with need and despair. "Just let me hold you." But his hands were already roaming, possessive and rough, tracing the sharp jut of your hips you’d tried to hide. You flinched as his thumb brushed the tender swell low on your belly, it was a place that hadn't been there before. His hand stilled. His breath stopped.

"Gods" he murmured, pulling back just enough to stare down at you. Moonlight caught the wild hope flaring in his violet eyes. "You’ve gained weight." His palm pressed flat against that subtle curve, gentle now, reverent. "Here." A smile broke through the wine-haze and grief, bright and terrible. "You’re getting better. Stronger." He kissed your temple, his lips trembling. "See? The maesters were wrong."

You blinked, confused. Marna’s hushed words from that morning echoed—like a quickening, my lady, low in the belly—but Rhaegar’s certainty was a warm tide washing over you. His thumb stroked the tender flesh beneath your shift. "Stupid grey rats" he muttered against your hair, voice thick with conviction. "Always whispering doom. We’ll grow old together, you and I. Watch the dragons return. I’ve seen it." He lifted you easily, carrying you to the bed as if you were made of spun glass. "You just needed time. Patience."

His hands moved with feverish tenderness, tracing your collarbones, your ribs, that strange new curve. You wanted to believe him. Gods, how you wanted it. So when he kissed you, slow and deep, you let yourself sink into the fantasy. His lips trailed down your throat, worshipful. "See?" he breathed, sliding your shift higher. "Stronger." But when his palm pressed flat against your belly again, a sharp cramp twisted deep inside. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He froze instantly. "What is it?"

"Nothing..." you whispered, forcing your muscles to relax. "Just… tired." Marna’s voice echoed - "The bleeding stopped, my lady. Two moons now. Could it be?"

Hope, treacherous and sweet, bloomed beneath the ache. Rhaegar’s eyes searched yours, violet pools reflecting the single candle’s flame. His thumb rubbed soothing circles. "Rest then" he murmured, pulling the blankets over you both. "Just rest with me." He settled beside you, one arm possessive around your waist, his cheek pressed to your hair. "The maesters know nothing of dragon’s blood," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and conviction. "We are fire made flesh. You will live. We will rule. Grow old…" His breathing deepened, the wine finally claiming him.

You lay awake, his warmth seeping into your chilled skin. His hand remained splayed protectively over your belly. The cramp had dulled to a faint throb. Gained weight. You traced the subtle swell yourself. Was it… possible? Had the gods granted this miracle? Rhaegar’s faith felt like a shield against the whispers of doom. Maybe the maesters were wrong. Maybe this weakness wasn't death, but preparation. Hope, fragile as spun glass, began to solidify. You drifted into uneasy sleep, dreaming of Three beautiful dragons soaring over a green land.

At dawn, Rhaegar slipped away with practiced silence. His footsteps were ghosts on stone. He eased the door shut just as Rhaella’s shadow fell across the threshold. He vanished down the corridor, leaving only the lingering scent of wine and dragon dreams. The Queen entered, her expression unreadable. She didn't call for Marna. Instead, she settled into the chair beside your bed, her embroidery frame untouched in her lap. She watched you sleep, her gaze heavy with unspoken questions. The room held its breath.

You woke to the sharp tang of ginger tea and the Queen’s cool fingers brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. "You slept late my love" Rhaella murmured. Her eyes lingered on the rumpled sheets beside you, the faint indentation on the pillow. "You seem flushed." Her gaze dropped pointedly to your nightdress, riding higher than it should. You tugged it down, fingers trembling. "Just a dream, Mother" you whispered, voice thick with sleep and deceit. "A restless night."

Rhaella didn’t move. "Dreams rarely leave such warmth behind and they certainly don't have your brother sneaking out of your chambers at dawn…" She reached out, not for your hand, but for your belly. Her touch was clinical, pressing beneath the thin silk. You froze, breath catching as her fingers explored the subtle swell Rhaegar had worshipped hours before. Her expression didn’t flicker-no surprise, no anger. Only a weary understanding that settled like stone in the pit of your stomach. "How long?" she asked, her voice unnervingly calm.

You shook your head and struggled to sit up yourself, weakly clutching the sheets. "I'm getting better because of having Rhae near! See?" You pressed your own hand over hers, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "I'm gaining weight! He says the maesters were wrong. That dragon’s blood is stronger. That I’m stronger." The words tumbled out, desperate, fueled by Rhaegar’s fervent whispers and the fragile hope they’d spun. "He says we’ll grow old together. Watch the dragons return. He’s seen it, Mother!"

Rhaella withdrew her hand slowly, her gaze fixed on your face. The weary understanding hardened into something colder, sharper. "He says" she repeated, her voice flat as slate. "And what do you say, child? When you wake gasping from cramps? When you retch your breakfast? When your legs tremble walking to the privy?" She leaned forward, her eyes boring into yours. "Is that strength? Or a fever dream fed by a man who wants what he cannot have?"

You flinched, pulling the sheets tighter. "It's different now! He feels it.. he feels the life coming back to me. His warmth makes it grow!" The words sounded thin, childish, even to your own ears. You pressed your palm against the slight swell beneath your nightdress, willing it to feel like proof, not betrayal. "See? It’s firm here. Not like sickness."

Rhaella’s gaze didn’t waver. It held the terrible clarity of centuries. "Life?" Her voice was a whisper sharp as Valyrian steel. "That’s not your life returning, child. That’s his life beginning inside you. A new fire, fed by yours. And it will consume you." She leaned closer, the scent of faded roses clinging to her gown. "I endured your fathers madness, his fists, his cruelty... all to shield you. To give you time. Not so you could throw it away on Rhaegar’s desperate dreams!" Her hand shot out, not touching your belly this time, but gripping your wrist with surprising strength. "Look at me. Truly look. Your skin is the color of parchment left in rain. Your breath rasps like a rusty hinge. Is this your strength? Or is it the last flicker before the candle gutters?"

You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. "He loves me! He sees me—""He sees a prophecy!" Rhaella hissed, cutting you off. Her eyes, violet mirrors of your own, swam with unshed tears. "He sees dragons in the sky and a crown on his head. He doesn't see you gasping for air beneath him. He doesn't see the blood Marna scrubs from your sheets." Her voice cracked, raw and ancient.

"I was forced into my brother’s bed. Bound to Aerys like a beast to a stake. And you? You love yours. Crave him. And he takes you, knowing it kills you slowly. The irony would be poetic if it weren't so cruel." She released your wrist, the ghost of her touch burning. "You think this ends with a babe in your arms? It ends with you in a shroud, girl. While he mourns you and that child!"

Her words struck like ice shards. You curled inward, clutching your belly. Hope, so bright moments before, curdled into cold dread. The slight swell beneath your palm felt alien now... like a parasite, not a promise. Rhaella rose, her silhouette stark against the grey dawn light creeping through the window. "The maesters will know by week’s end" she stated, her tone flat, final. "They’ll examine you. They’ll see." She paused at the door, her back rigid. "Pray it kills you quickly. Because if Aerys learns his heir planted his bastard in his frail daughter…" She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The silence screamed of wildfire and screams.

You stayed frozen long after she left. Marna crept in later, eyes red-rimmed, bearing broth. She didn’t speak, just smoothed your hair. The broth tasted like ash. You pushed it away. "Is it… truly?" you whispered, your voice cracking. Marna’s hand stilled. She nodded once, her lips pressed into a thin, sorrowful line. "Aye, my lady. Quickening. Two moons gone." The confirmation landed like a blow. Rhaegar’s fervent whispers of...

You’re stronger, dragon’s blood, we’ll grow old

the words felt like cruel delusions now. He hadn’t seen life returning but seen his own desperate prophecy taking root, blind to the cost. You’d chosen to believe him because the alternative of a babe growing inside you, stealing your breath, your strength, your life... it was a death sentence whispered by every maester since your first bleeding. Your mother’s harshness wasn't hatred... no, it was the raw terror of watching her daughter embrace the very thing that would destroy her.

Days blurred. Rhaegar came again, slipping past the guards Marna now subtly stationed outside your door. He brought sun-warmed peaches from Dorne, his smile tentative. "You look brighter" he murmured, fingers brushing your cheek. "The color in your face…" You flinched away. His hand dropped. "What is it?" His confusion was genuine, piercing. "Mother knows of your visits." you rasped, staring at the tapestry of Aegon the Conqueror on the wall. "The maesters will examine me soon."

His face paled. "Knows… what?" You turned, meeting his violet eyes, so full of misplaced hope. "That it’s not my life returning, Rhaegar. It’s yours. Inside me. A babe." The word hung heavy. He recoiled as if struck. "No" he breathed, denial sharp. "They said… they said you couldn’t…" His gaze dropped to your belly, hidden beneath layers of silk. Horror dawned, slow and sickening, replacing the dreamy certainty. "The maesters… the warnings…" His voice trailed off, the prophecy… a third head. His third child. He hadn't known. He'd refused to know.

Your anger, a brittle shield, faltered. "You… did not know?" you whispered, incredulous. "Truly thought I was… only getting better?" The absurdity of it choked you. He sank onto the bed beside you, his shoulders slumping. "I saw you… stronger" he mumbled, staring at his hands, hands that had touched you with reverence, hands that had seeded death. "The swell… I thought it was flesh returning. Hope." He looked up, his eyes raw with sudden, terrible understanding. "Gods… I thought they were wrong. Not me."

His horror mirrored yours now, stripping away the prophecy's glamour. He hadn't been blind, he'd been willfully, desperately deluded. The Prince Who Knew Everything hadn't known this. "Three heads. Three children." he stammered, voice thick with self loathing. "It will.. kill you, I wont sacrifice you for it.." He trailed off, unable to voice the selfishness beneath the starry eyed conviction. His dream of dragons and crowns had eclipsed the simple, brutal truth, your fragile body couldn't sustain life. His hand hovered near your belly, trembling, but didn't touch. It wasn't a miracle anymore... it was a sentence.

Suddenly, he jerked upright. "You cannot have it" he rasped, the words sharp as shattered glass. His eyes, wide with panic, darted around the room as if seeking escape. "No… you mustn't." He began to pace, boots clicking a frantic rhythm on the stone floor. "Moon tea" he blurted, stopping abruptly. "Or something… anything! Marna must know… she can brew…" He spun towards you, desperation twisting his handsome features. "When the maesters examine you… they'll offer it. They must." His voice cracked. "Take it. Please."

The plea hung heavy, suffocating. You stared at him, this prince who spoke of destiny and fire, now trembling like a boy caught stealing sweets. "You begged me to believe" you whispered, the words scraping your throat raw. "You swore the maesters were fools." You pressed a hand against the slight curve beneath your nightdress. It felt like betrayal made flesh. "You called this hope."

Rhaegar flinched, his pacing halted mid stride. "It was hope!" he cried, the sound jagged in the quiet room. "Hope that you would live! Hope that we…" He choked, unable to finish. His violet eyes, wide with dawning horror, locked onto your belly. "Not like this. Not costing you. Gods, I’m a fool." He sank back onto the bed’s edge, burying his face in his hands. Silver hair fell forward, obscuring his features. "A selfish, blind fool." His shoulders shook with silent, shuddering breaths. "Moon tea" he mumbled into his palms, the words muffled, desperate. "Marna knows herbs. She can brew it strong. Quick. Before…" He lifted his head, his face ravaged by grief and panic. "Before it roots deeper. Before it steals more of your breath."

You stared at him, the prince who sang of destiny, now pleading for its destruction. The fragile hope he’d nurtured inside you withered, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. His desperation was palpable, thick as the scent of fear sweat clinging to him. "You ask me to kill your prophecy?" Your voice was brittle ice. "The third head you dreamed?"

Rhaegar flinched. "I dreamed you alive!" He seized your hands, his grip bruising. "Not this… this slow murder." His eyes, wild and violet, searched yours. "Moon tea. Tonight. Marna can fetch the herbs. Pennyroyal. Tansy. Quietly." His thumb rubbed frantic circles on your wrist. "Painless. Quick. Like passing a clot." The clinical words felt like knives.

You pulled your hands free. "And if I refuse?" Your voice surprised you for it was steady. "If I choose the risk?" Hope, treacherous and frayed, flickered. His child. Our dragon.

Rhaegar recoiled. "You can't." The panic sharpened. "It's not bravery, it's madness! Elia survived Aegon, but she—" He froze, horror dawning. You saw it click... Elia's frailty after birth, her whispered confinements. His prophecy demanded three children, but two had nearly broken his wife. You were far weaker than Elia, she herself can run and walk far while you get winded even while sitting. "You'll die, The babe might die!" his voice was breaking and, hollow. "Slowly. In agony. While I watch." His gaze dropped to your belly, then snapped back, pleading. "Please. Don't make me have to burn you."

You flinched at the bluntness. "And if the babe lives? Your third head? Your dragon?"

Rhaegar’s face twisted. "Dragons are fire made flesh. This…" His gaze dropped to your belly. "This is flesh made coffin." He stood abruptly, pacing again, fingers raking through silver hair. "Moon tea. Tonight. Before the maesters come." His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "Marna will bring it. Drink it. End this."

You curled tighter, the slight swell pressing against your ribs. "And if I want this child?" The words felt foreign, dangerous. "Your blood. My blood. Together."

Rhaegar stopped pacing. His face crumpled. "It's not a child sweet one!" he rasped, voice raw. "Not yet. It's a… possibility. One that steals your breath with every beat of its heart." He knelt beside the bed, his violet eyes desperate pools. "Elia walks the gardens daily. You struggle to sit upright before noon. How will you bear a birth?" His hand hovered near your belly, trembling. "It's not courage, sister. It's suicide dressed in dragon dreams."

Outside, the distant screech of an owl echoed from the castle owlery, a mournful sound slicing the tense silence. You met his gaze, the fragile defiance hardening. "Then it's my suicide to choose" you whispered, pressing your palm firmly against the swell. "Not yours to command."

Rhaegar recoiled as if scalded. His composure shattered. "Stop it!" he hissed, voice cracking like dry parchment. He surged forward from his kneeling position, grabbing your wrists with bruising force. "Stop talking like that! If you have this child... and if it even lives and you don't... then I'll hate it!" His words were jagged, raw, tearing through the quiet chamber. "I won't be able to love it! It would be a monster that clawed itself out of you… out of the only woman I've ever loved!" He buried his face against your lap, silver hair spilling across your thighs like molten moonlight. His shoulders trembled violently… not with tears, but with the sheer, visceral terror of losing you. His grip on your wrists loosened, sliding down to clutch your hands instead, fingers interlacing with yours in a desperate, crushing hold. His breath hitched hot and damp through the thin silk of your nightdress. "Please" he muffled against your thighs, the word thick with despair. "Don't make me have to light your pyre."

You froze, stunned by the venom in his plea. His hatred wasn't directed at you, but at the life growing inside you. The life he’d unwittingly created. His shuddering breaths felt like tremors running through your own bones. The slight swell beneath his cheek seemed to pulse in response, a silent counterpoint to his anguish. You slowly lifted a trembling hand, letting it hover above his bowed head. The instinct to soothe warred with the icy dread his words invoked. Monster. The word echoed, chilling the fragile hope you’d clung to. His prophecy wasn't just shattered, it was poisoned.

Three days crawled by, thick with unsaid words and Rhaella’s watchful silence. The summons came. The Grand Maester and his grey robed attendants. Your chamber felt colder, smaller, filled with the rustle of robes and the sterile scent of herbs. Rhaella perched rigidly on the edge of your bed, her hand clutching yours with surprising strength, her knuckles pale against your parchment like skin. Her gaze was fixed on the canopy above, avoiding the scene unfolding at the foot of the bed. The Grand Maester, Pycelle, his chain clinking softly, knelt between your legs. He’d already prodded your belly with cool, impersonal fingers, murmuring measurements to an acolyte scribbling notes. Now, his expression impassive, he slid oiled fingers inside you. The intrusion was clinical, efficient, devoid of any reverence Rhaegar had shown. You squeezed Rhaella’s hand tighter, focusing on the rough texture of her rings, the sharp scent of mint clinging to her gown, anything but the probing sensation and the low hum of Pycelle’s assessment.

"Heavy" Pycelle murmured, withdrawing his fingers with a slick sound that echoed obscenely in the quiet room. He wiped them meticulously on a cloth held by an acolyte. "The womb sits low. Positioned deep." His rheumy eyes lifted to yours, devoid of warmth. "Possibly many months for a belly so small." He addressed Rhaella, not you. "The princess’s constitution… the strain is already evident. The breathing difficulties worsen. The pallor deepens." His pronouncement hung in the air, a death sentence confirmed. Rhaella’s grip tightened further, her jaw clenched. She didn’t look at Pycelle. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, seeing nothing, absorbing everything. Aerys, informed earlier, had merely waved a dismissive hand, muttering about "wasted flesh" and "a pity to lose a daughter for nothing." His indifference was colder than Pycelle’s touch as he turned on his heels and rushed out.

Rhaella finally moved. She leaned close, her lips brushing your ear, her voice a low, furious rasp only you could hear. "Do you see now? Do you see?" Her breath smelled faintly of the mint tea she’d been forcing down your throat. "Not a blessing. A burden. A thief." Her gaze dropped pointedly to your belly beneath the thin sheet. "He doesn’t even fight for you. Where is your prince?" The accusation was sharp, laced with bitter triumph. "Hiding." She squeezed your hand painfully. "He begged you to destroy it. He knows."

Her words struck like tiny needles. A few hot tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, blurring Pycelle’s retreating back as he shuffled towards the door with his acolytes. You shook your head weakly, the movement sending a wave of dizziness. "No" you mumbled, the sound thick and unconvincing even to your own ears. "No, he… he cares." You swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. "Moon tea" you whispered, louder this time, your voice cracking. "Grand Maester? Please. Can… can you brew moon tea? Strong? Fine… fine herbs? Pennyroyal? Tansy?" The plea sounded childish, desperate.

Pycelle paused at the threshold, turning slowly. His rheumy eyes held no pity, only weary resignation. He shook his head, the heavy links of his chain clinking softly. "I am sorry, Princess" he murmured, his voice flat as worn stone. "The quickening is pronounced. The womb is settled, the babe anchored deep. You are very likely far too far along for such remedies to take root effectively… or safely." He glanced pointedly at your mother, then back at you. "Attempting it now would pose significant risk to yourself, potentially hastening…" He trailed off, the implication hanging heavy and foul in the air. "Without guaranteeing success." He bowed stiffly. "Rest is the only counsel I can offer." He turned and left, shutting the door with a soft, final click.

That night, Rhaegar heard it all from his mother’s lips in his solar, delivered with icy precision. How you’d clutched at his desperate solution... the moon tea... only to be told it was futile. How Pycelle’s clinical pronouncement echoed, too late, anchored deep, riskier than the birth itself. How your small belly hid a babe Pycelle judged many months grown. Rhaella’s final barb struck deepest.

"She begged for your poison, my boy. When hope failed, she reached for your despair." He sat frozen long after she left, Pycelle’s words and your plea twisting like knives in his gut. The prophecy’s third head wasn’t a triumph... no... it was a death warrant signed in his own blind hope.

He slipped past the drowsy guards, a shadow in silver silk, and entered your chamber unannounced. Moonlight pooled on the floor, illuminating your form curled beneath thin linen. Your breathing was shallow, uneven. He didn’t wake you. Instead, he sank into the chair beside your bed, elbows on knees, and simply stared. The faint swell beneath your nightdress seemed impossibly small for Pycelle’s grim assessment. His gaze traced the sharp angle of your cheekbone, the veins becoming more visible beneath translucent skin. Anchored deep. The words mocked him. He’d planted this seed, watered it with delusion, and now it clung to you like a strangler vine.

You stirred, eyelids fluttering open. Violet met violet in the dim light. No greeting passed your lips. Only a weary recognition. "You heard" you whispered. It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t move from the chair, slumped like a broken harp. "Mother told me." His voice was stripped bare, hollow. "You asked Pycelle. For… the tea." The word tasted foul. His gaze dropped to your belly, the slight curve beneath the linen. "He said it was too late."

You shifted weakly, the effort pulling a gasp from your lips. "Small" you murmured, pressing a hand against yourself. "So small… yet he says many months." Confusion warred with despair. "How can it be?"

Rhaegar didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward in the chair, his posture collapsing inwards. "Because you were fading" he said, the words thick and slow, dragged from some dark place inside him. "Your body… wasting. Hiding the growth." He lifted his head slightly, his eyes catching the moonlight, reflecting pools of anguish. "I saw flesh returning… I thought it was you coming back." He choked. "It was this… this thing feeding on you instead." The venom in his voice startled you though wasn't directed at you, but at the life he'd created, the prophecy he'd cherished. "Anchored deep" he echoed Pycelle's grim words. "Rooted in your weakness. Stealing your strength."

"You speak as if it's some creature" you mumbled with a small huff of a laugh before coughing and struggling to sit up. The effort pulled taut the fragile skin over your ribs. "It's an innocent babe." You pressed a trembling hand against the slight swell. "Your innocent babe."

Rhaegar surged forward, catching your shoulders before you could fall back. His touch was fever hot. "Innocent?" he rasped, easing you against the pillows. His eyes burned violet in the gloom. "It's draining you dry. Look at you!" His thumb brushed the hollow beneath your collarbone. "Each day you fade more. Each breath comes harder. Because of this." His gaze dropped to your belly, his expression twisting. "I thought… I truly believed…" He choked, unable to finish. The delusion lay shattered between you.

You gripped his forearm, your fingers weak as twigs. "You thought the prophecy stronger than death" you whispered. The truth tasted bitter. "Stronger than my frailty."

He flinched. "I was a fool." His admission hung heavy. "Blinded." His hand hovered over your belly again, trembling. Not reverence now. Horror. "I won't watch it kill you."

A month crawled by, thick with Pycelle's grim pronouncements and Rhaella's watchful silence. Rhaegar became a constant shadow at your bedside, his desperation shifting into a frantic, fragile optimism. He brought books of Valyrian poetry, played his silver-stringed harp until your eyelids grew heavy, and insisted on feeding you honeyed figs himself, ignoring your trembling hands. You were nearing six months, Pycelle claimed, though your belly remained slight, barely rounded beneath layers of silk... a cruel deception of your frailty.

One crisp evening, Rhaegar arrived carrying a bundle wrapped in tissue thin cloth, his eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness. Rhaella trailed behind, her expression unreadable.

"Stand" Rhaegar urged softly, his voice thick with forced cheer. He draped the bundle over a chair. "Lean on me." His arm was solid beneath your elbow as he helped you rise. The world tilted momentarily, your breath catching painfully before settling. Rhaella stepped forward, unfolding the bundle. It wasn't just silk... it was gossamer, impossibly light, the vibrant crimson of House Targaryen woven through with threads that shimmered like dragonfire. A wedding dress. Tiny rubies winked along the delicate neckline.

Rhaella’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she guided your trembling arms through the sleeves. The silk whispered against your skin, cool and weightless. It draped loosely, disguising the slight swell beneath. Rhaegar steadied you from behind as you faced the tall mirror. His reflection met yours, violet eyes burning with desperate intensity. "There" he breathed, his fingers brushing your shoulder. "I wish to be with you eternally." The dress hung beautifully, a cascade of red and black making your pallor seem almost ethereal. "How pretty you look."

He turned you slowly, carefully, to face a small altar he’d arranged near the hearth. A septa you didn’t recognize stood waiting, her face impassive. Rhaella remained a silent sentinel by the door. Rhaegar took your hands in his. His were warm, yours ice cold. The septa’s low murmur filled the room with vows hastily spoken, binding words about fire and blood, duty and eternity. Rhaegar repeated each phrase fervently, his gaze locked on yours. When it was your turn, your voice was a threadbare whisper. As the final vow faded, the septa produced a slender ribbon of crimson silk. She wound it tightly around your clasped hands, binding wrist to wrist. "One flesh." she intoned. "One heart. One destiny."

Rhaegar leaned in. His kiss wasn't gentle. It was desperate, sealing the vow. He pulled back just enough to draw a small, ceremonial dagger of Valyrian steel, sharp as a dragon’s tooth. With swift, practiced movements, he nicked his own lower lip, then yours. A shared sting, a bead of crimson welling. He pressed his bleeding lip to yours again, mingling their blood. "Now" he breathed against your mouth, the metallic tang sharp on your tongue. "Now we are wed. Truly. Before gods and fire." His eyes held a feverish certainty.

A dumb smile tugged at your lips, sudden and unexpected. Relief? Delusion? The sheer absurdity of the secret ceremony? You stumbled slightly against him, the gossamer gown swirling. "Apologies" you murmured, the words thick. Rhaella watched from the doorway. Her own smile was thin, a ghost of triumph curling the edges. Her daughter. Her son. Bound now, officially, in a union Aerys deemed impossible and obscene. She was the sole witness to a truth that could shatter kingdoms. She watched, silent, as the exhaustion hit you like a wave. Your knees buckled, a sudden, terrifying weakness stealing your legs. You pitched forward into Rhaegar's chest.

You slumped against Rhaegar’s chest, the gossamer gown suddenly heavy as chainmail. That dumb smile still clung to your lips as if a reflex born of exhaustion and the sheer, dizzying absurdity of it all. Married. Secretly bound to your brother while Pycelle’s death sentence hung thick in the air. The ribbon binding your wrists felt like a shackle, not a promise. Rhaegar’s arms tightened around you, lowering you gently back onto the bed. His fingers fumbled with the crimson silk knot binding your wrists, the Valyrian steel dagger clattering to the floorboards beside you. "Rest" he murmured, his voice thick with forced calm, though his hands shook. "You need rest."

Your eyelids fluttered shut as he worked the ribbon loose. The cool air kissed your skin where the silk had pressed. You felt him lift you slightly, his touch hesitant as he peeled the gossamer gown away. It pooled on the floor like spilled dragonfire. You were too spent to protest, too weary to feel shame. The only garments you’d worn for weeks were nightgowns. Rhaella moved silently, fetching a fresh one that was soft, white linen, and smelling faintly of lavender. She draped it over Rhaegar’s outstretched arm without a word. He eased it over your head, his knuckles brushing your collarbone, the touch lingering a beat too long. As he smoothed the fabric down your sides, covering your slight swell, you sighed. The cool linen was a relief. "Love you, Rhae…" The words slipped out, slurred and feather light, carried on a wave of bone deep fatigue.

He froze, his hand still pressed against your hip. You didn’t see his expression. How his eyes squeezed shut against the candlelight... but you felt the tremor run through him. His silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, a choked sound escaped him, half sob, half gasp. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, silver hair spilling across the linen. You felt the dampness seep through the fabric... hot, silent tears. His shoulders shook violently. No words came. Only ragged breaths and the crushing weight of his grief against your frail frame. Rhaella watched from the foot of the bed, her face carved from stone, her own knuckles white where she gripped the bedpost.

The tears stopped as abruptly as they’d begun. He lifted his head, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. Violet eyes, red rimmed but burning fiercely, met yours. "And I love you" he rasped, the words raw, stripped bare. "More than prophecy. More than thrones. More than this." His gaze flickered down to your belly, a flicker of anguish quickly masked by desperate resolve. "You will live. Do you hear me? You will." He squeezed your hand, his grip almost painful. "I'll find a way. A maester from Essos… Valyrian texts Pycelle ignores… Something." He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your clammy forehead. "Sleep now. Dream of us. Only us." He pulled the blanket up, tucking it around your shoulders with meticulous care, then settled back into the chair beside your bed, his gaze fixed on you, a silent, brooding sentinel. Rhaella finally moved, extinguishing the candles one by one until only moonlight remained.

His words were having an effect… almost a soothing balm against the terror Pycelle’s pronouncements had carved into you. You nodded mindlessly, just agreeing as exhaustion pulled you under. Your eyes closed heavily. Sleep claimed you instantly, deep and dreamless at first. Then, slowly, images formed, a little silver haired girl, perhaps 12 years old, clutching three dragon eggs, the colors of black, cream and green held tight against her chest. She walked barefoot through tall, cool grass, her steps unsteady but determined. Ahead loomed a towering pyre, its logs stacked high and already licked by hungry orange flames. The heat washed over you, intense but not painful. The girl didn’t hesitate. She walked straight towards the fire, her small face serene, her violet eyes wide and unafraid. The flames seemed to part for her as she stepped onto the burning logs…

"Stop!" Your own voice ripped from your throat, raw and panicked. You weren't asleep anymore. You were kneeling in the grass, the scent of damp earth and burning wood thick in your nose. "Child! Stop!" You scrambled forward, ignoring the weakness in your limbs, the ache in your belly. You had to reach her before the flames consumed her!

The pyre roared, a sudden, violent explosion of heat and light that slammed you backwards onto the grass. Embers rained down like dying stars. Through the blinding glare, a small figure emerged. Not consumed. Walking out of the heart of the inferno. Barefoot, naked, untouched. Silver hair plastered to her skull by sweat and ash, skin gleaming like pearl in the firelight. Clutched tight against her chest were three squirming shapes… a black dragon, a cream dragon, a green dragon, their tiny wings flapping weakly, their high pitched mewls piercing the crackle of the flames.

"The fire is mine…" The girl's voice was soft, matter of fact, muffled by the dragons' cries. She walked towards you, stepping over smoldering logs as if they were pebbles. Her violet eyes, impossibly ancient in her young face, locked onto yours. She knelt in the damp grass before you. Her small, warm hand touched your cheek. A shock ran through you. It was not pain, but pure, radiant life. The constant ache in your bones vanished. The crushing fatigue lifted. You felt… whole. Strong. Happy. Tears streamed down your face, but they were tears of bewildered joy.

"Father used to tell me how pretty you were" she murmured, tilting her head. Her dragons squirmed against her chest, their scales shimmering. "Though sickly." Her gaze swept over you, curious. "You don't look it, Mother." The word struck like a bell. Mother. Confusion warred with the overwhelming sense of well being flooding your veins. Who was she? Before you could speak, her head snapped sharply to the left, as if hearing a distant shout. Her expression shifted, the ancient wisdom momentarily replaced by youthful irritation. "I have to go" she sighed, clutching her knees tighter. Her dragons hissed softly. "I enjoy dreaming of you…" She looked back at you, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "But I must wake up now. Viserys needs me. We are going to get my father's throne back.."

The world dissolved. The damp grass beneath your knees vanished. The roaring pyre snuffed out like a candle. The girl, the dragons, the impossible strength had all ripped away. You gasped, bolting upright in your bed. Sweat plastered your thin nightgown to your skin. Moonlight still streamed through the window, painting Rhaegar’s slumped form in silver where he slept beside you. The phantom warmth of the girl's touch lingered on your cheek, a cruel contrast to the familiar ache settling back into your bones. The dream's vividness choked you. Mother. The dragons. Viserys... your youngest brother? Father’s throne. The fragments spun wildly, nonsensical yet terrifyingly real. You pressed a trembling hand against your belly, the slight swell suddenly feeling alien, charged. Was it prophecy? Madness? Or merely the desperate conjuring of a dying mind? Even so a small kick hit your hand upon the contact your hand left.

Rhaegar stirred instantly, his violet eyes snapping open, alert and bloodshot. "What is it?" His voice rasped with sleep, laced with immediate dread. He pushed himself up, reaching for you. "Pain? Are you—?"

"No" you gasped, struggling to draw air. Heavy breaths tore through you, ragged and shallow, leaving your mind hazy, the dream's vividness clinging like cobwebs. You shook your head violently, trying to dislodge the image of the girl walking from flames. The sudden motion sent a sharp, twisting pain shooting low through your belly, stealing your breath entirely. You cried out, clutching yourself, doubling over. "Ah!"

Rhaegar was instantly awake, his arms catching you as you sagged. "Easy! Easy!" Panic edged his voice. He eased you back against the pillows, his hands trembling as they smoothed your sweat dampened hair from your forehead. "Where? Show me where it hurts!"

The sharp twist subsided as quickly as it came, leaving behind a dull, deep ache and a fluttering sensation low in your belly. You pressed your palm against the spot, breathing shallowly. "Not… pain" you managed, your voice thin. "Just… sharp. Deep." You felt it again... a distinct, muffled thump against your palm from within. "She's kicking, is all" you mumbled, the words slipping out automatically, your focus entirely on the strange, internal movement.

Rhaegar froze mid stroke, his hand still tangled in your sweat damp hair. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. "She?" The word was a whisper, sharp as broken glass. He tilted your head gently but insistently, forcing your gaze up to meet his. Violet eyes, wide and raw in the moonlight, searched yours. "You called it 'she' for the first time."

Not 'it'. Not 'the child'. She. The word hung between you, charged and fragile.

You blinked, the haze of pain and exhaustion momentarily lifting. Had you? The dream rushed back to the silver haired girl, the dragons, the impossible warmth of her hand on your cheek. Mother. Your palm still pressed against your belly, you felt another distinct thump against your skin that was stronger this time. Purposeful. "Yes" you breathed, the certainty settling deep, bone deep. "A girl." The declaration felt like truth, undeniable. "Your daughter."

Rhaegar still only shook his head, his expression hardening into familiar anguish. He didn't see a child, a daughter, a promise. He saw the thief stealing your breath, the parasite anchored deep in your frailty. "Don't" he rasped, the word rough with suppressed grief. "Don't name it. Don't give it hope. It may not live." He huffed, a sharp, frustrated sound, and gently but firmly guided your shoulders back down onto the pillows. His touch was careful, avoiding your belly entirely as if it burned him. "Rest" he insisted, tucking the blanket around you with meticulous, almost frantic care. "You need stillness. Quiet." He smoothed the linen over your arms, his gaze fixed on the hollows beneath your collarbone, not the slight curve beneath the covers.

"She will." you corrected softly, though you didn't fight him as you snuggled weakly into the pillow, your breaths shallow but steady. The phantom warmth of the dream girl's touch still lingered, a fragile shield against Pycelle's grim pronouncements. You turned your head slightly, catching Rhaegar's haunted violet eyes in the moonlight. "And I hope you love her… like your other children." The plea hung fragile in the air. "Please… just promise me." You needed that anchor, that sliver of hope binding him to the life within you, not just the death he foresaw.

Rhaegar stared at your face, pale as milkglass against the pillow. His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the skin. For a long moment, silence stretched taut. Then, a shuddering breath escaped him. His hand, hovering near your shoulder, slowly descended. Not to your belly, but to rest gently over your own hand where it lay protectively curved over the slight swell. His fingers trembled slightly against yours. "I promise" he whispered, the words raw, scraped from a place deeper than prophecy. "I will love her. As fiercely as I love Rhaenys. As Aegon." His gaze remained locked on yours, the desperation shifting into something heavier, more solemn. "I swear it. By the old gods and the new. By fire and blood."

It may have been a small lie but its what you wished to hear. In truth he believed he could never love something that killed you.

His vow settled over you like a warm cloak, chasing some of the chill from your bones. You drifted into a shallow doze, lulled by the rhythmic rasp of his breathing beside you.

Hours passed. Moonlight gave way to the grey wash of dawn. You woke to a low murmur. Rhaegar stood near the window, silhouetted against the pale light, speaking quietly to Pycelle. The Grand Maester’s expression was pinched, his fingers nervously twisting the chain around his neck. "…cannot sustain it much longer, my prince" Pycelle murmured, his voice barely audible. "The babe grows stronger, demanding more than her body can give. It drains her reserves… like a candle burning at both ends." Rhaegar’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn. He merely nodded, a sharp, jerky motion. Pycelle bowed stiffly and retreated, leaving the scent of dried herbs and dread in his wake.

Rhaegar turned back to you. The haunted look had returned, sharper now. He forced a smile, brittle as old parchment. "He worries too much" he said, crossing the room. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours. "You are stronger than he knows." His thumb brushed your knuckles. "Elia talked with me. She wishes to visit. To bring Rhaenys." His voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes searched yours, gauging your reaction. "She… understands little, of course. Only that her aunt is unwell." The offer hung there and offered a glimpse of normalcy, of the other life he led. A life that included a healthy wife and children, worlds away from this sickroom.

You swallowed, the phantom warmth of the dream girl warring with the image of Rhaenys’s bright, curious eyes. "I would like that" you managed, your voice thin. Seeing your niece, Rhaegar’s living, breathing daughter, felt suddenly vital. A counterpoint to Pycelle’s dire whispers. "When?"

"This afternoon" Rhaegar said, relief softening the tension in his jaw. He squeezed your hand. "I’ll ensure it’s brief. Quiet." He rose, already moving towards the door. "Rest now. Gather your strength."

You drifted again, the dream girl's dragons flickering behind your eyelids. When you woke, weak winter sunlight slanted across the floor. Rhaella stood by the window, adjusting the drapes. She turned, her expression unreadable. "Elia is here. With the child." She smoothed your pillow, her touch impersonal. "Try not to weep. It exhausts you."

The door opened softly. Elia Martell entered, her Dornish grace muted by the somber room. Her dark eyes held a complex mixture of pity and profound exhaustion. Behind her, clinging to her skirts, peered Rhaenys. The little girl’s dark curls bounced as she took in the unfamiliar chamber, her large brown eyes wide with hesitant curiosity. She clutched a small, stuffed dragon toy, its red velvet worn soft.

Instinctively, you pushed a stray strand of silver hair back from your damp forehead. Your fingers trembled slightly as you smoothed the wrinkled linen of your nightgown against the slight swell beneath. A weak smile touched your lips, an effort to seem less frail, less terrifyingly breakable before this vibrant child. "Hello, sweetling," you whispered, your voice raspy but warm.

Rhaenys peered from behind Elia's skirts, her dark eyes enormous. She clutched her stuffed dragon tighter, knuckles white against the red velvet. Slowly, drawn by your voice or the strange stillness of the room, she took a hesitant step forward. Then another. Elia watched, silent, her own expression a careful mask of weary compassion.

"Go on, sweetling" Elia murmured softly, nudging her daughter gently forward. "Say hello to your aunt."

Rhaenys hesitated, her dark eyes darting between her mother and the pale figure on the bed. Then, with a sudden burst of toddler courage, she scrambled onto the plush mattress. Rhaegar tensed instantly, a low warning rumble starting in his throat as he leaned forward, hands outstretched to intercept her before she could land too heavily near your fragile form. "Carefully now, little dragon" he cautioned, his voice tight.

Elia gave you a fleeting, weary smile as Rhaenys settled cautiously near your knees. "Good practice" she mumbled softly, shifting the sleeping bundle of Aegon in her arms. She held the infant up slightly, his tiny face serene beneath a soft woolen wrap. "For when you have yours." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. It was a practiced gesture, brittle with unspoken tension.

Rhaegar heard it. His head snapped towards Elia, a sudden, dark scowl twisting his features. His violet eyes narrowed, sharp as Valyrian steel. He remembered the child... their child, Aegon, born healthy and strong just months ago, while Pycelle whispered doom over yours. He remembered Elia’s exhaustion, yes, but also her resilience. The contrast was stark, brutal. His jaw clenched tight enough to grind bone. The memory wasn't of joy, but of a bitter counterpoint to the death sentence swelling beneath your nightgown. His gaze flickered back to your frail form, then to Elia holding their son out towards her, and the scowl deepened into something venomous.

Before he could speak, perhaps to order Elia away or snatch Aegon back, you moved. A surge of unexpected strength that was perhaps borrowed from the dream girl’s phantom touch, or propelled you. You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the protest in your bones. As Rhaegar leaned forward, his hands instinctively reaching out, perhaps to shield you or to grab Aegon himself, you swatted his hands away weakly but firmly. "No" you breathed, your voice thin but clear. Your gaze locked onto Elia, pleading. "Let me."

Elia hesitated, her dark eyes flicking from your determined expression to Rhaegar’s thunderous scowl. Then, slowly, carefully, she leaned forward and placed the sleeping bundle into the cradle of your arms. The weight was negligible, yet it anchored you.

Aegon stirred faintly, a soft puff of breath escaping his tiny lips, his silver hair like spun moonlight against the wool. You adjusted him instinctively, your frail arms finding an unfamiliar steadiness. A profound stillness settled over the room.

You looked down at the perfect curve of his cheek, the tiny lashes fanned against his skin. He smelled faintly of milk and lavender. A sigh escaped you, long and tremulous, carrying the weight of weeks of terror and Pycelle’s doom. But it ended in a genuine, radiant smile that briefly chased the pallor from your face. "He’s perfect" you whispered, the words thick with awe and a sudden, fierce ache for the daughter you carried. Your fingertip traced the impossibly soft skin of his brow. "So perfect, Elia."

Elia watched you, her own exhaustion momentarily softened by a flicker of shared wonder. "He is" she murmured back, her voice warm despite the tension radiating from Rhaegar. "They both are." She glanced fondly at Rhaenys, who was now patting your knee with her stuffed dragon.

The kindness in her eyes, the simple acceptance despite the monstrous unfairness of it all. Rhaegar stealing moments with you while she bore his heirs, the cruel prophecy hanging over you both had hit you like a physical blow. You didn't mean to cry. The tears welled hot and fast, blurring the perfect curve of Aegon's cheek. A choked sob escaped you, muffled against the soft wool of his wrap. You felt pathetic, weak, drowning in envy and gratitude all at once. Here was Elia, enduring her husband's divided heart, holding your hand across the chasm, offering you her newborn son to cradle. And Aegon was so little, so impossibly small and warm. You'd likely never see your own daughter like this...never hold her sleeping, never smell that milky sweetness on her skin. Pycelle's grim whispers echoed.

"draining her… candle burning at both ends…"

The sound jolted Rhaegar from his frozen fury. He saw your shoulders trembling violently, heard the desperate, shallow gasps tearing through you as you clutched Aegon tighter, tears dripping onto the soft wool wrap. Your face was contorted, struggling for air against the tide of grief and envy.

"Out" Rhaegar commanded, his voice cracking like a whip. He surged forward, not waiting for compliance. He scooped Rhaenys off the bed in one swift motion, ignoring her startled squeak, and thrust her towards Elia. "Now, Elia. Take them." His violet eyes, blazing with panic, locked onto the nearest maid hovering near the door. "You—help her!" The maid scurried forward, her face pale.

Elia reacted instantly, gathering Rhaenys close, her own expression tight with alarm. She didn't argue, didn't hesitate. Her gaze met yours in a fleeting moment of shared, desperate understanding before she turned, ushering the confused toddler towards the door, the maid swiftly taking the sleeping Aegon from your weakening arms. The sudden emptiness where the warm weight had been felt like a wound.

"Breathe!" Rhaegar rasped, already beside you, his hands gripping your shoulders. He eased you back against the pillows as your body shuddered violently with sobs that stole your breath. "Look at me! Breathe!" Panic sharpened his command. Your vision swam, the room tilting. You felt lightheaded, disconnected, the frantic gasps tearing at your throat doing nothing to fill your lungs. The phantom warmth from the dream girl vanished utterly, replaced by icy terror. Pycelle’s words echoed once more.

"cannot sustain… draining reserves…"

You gasped again, a desperate, shallow sound. Your eyes squeezed shut against the spinning room, the crushing weight of Elia’s kindness and your own impossible envy. Never hold her… never smell her… The darkness behind your eyelids deepened, pulling you down. You fought it, clinging to Rhaegar’s frantic voice, but the pull was too strong.

Then, stillness. Cool, damp air brushed your skin, smelling of salt and wet rope. Your eyes flew open. Gone was the stifling bedchamber. You stood on worn, creaking planks beneath a vast canopy of swirling grey clouds. Before you, sitting hunched on the damp deck of a large ship, was a little girl. Silver gold hair tangled around her tear streaked face. She was tiny… a toddler, probably a little older than Rhaenys was now and wrapped in a simple woolen shift. Her violet eyes, red rimmed and enormous, fixed on you with startled confusion.

The crushing weakness, the desperate gasping for air...it was gone. You felt… whole. Solid. You smiled tentatively. "Hello" you murmured, your voice clear and strong. "What’s your name? You ran off last time…"

The little girl sniffled loudly, wiping her nose with the back of a pudgy hand. She tilted her head, brows knitting together. Her lips moved, forming words, but they dissolved into meaningless sound, like bells heard underwater. "…Tha’s my name..." she mumbled finally, her voice high and lisping. She wiped her eyes again, smudging grime across her cheek. "Wha’s yours?"

you answered softly telling her your name, kneeling on the damp deck planks to meet her gaze. The wood felt solid beneath your knees… it was real in a way the sickbed never had.

When your name left your lips, the little girl gasped. Her violet eyes widened impossibly, recognition flaring like dragonfire. With a sudden cry that was a half sob, half shout as she scrambled forward, launching herself into your arms with surprising force. "Mommy!" she mumbled, her small face buried instantly against your neck, her tiny arms clinging fiercely. Her voice was muffled against your skin, thick with tears and certainty. "Daddy always tells me about you! He says you're brave. He says you're sleeping."

The impact should have knocked you off balance. It didn't. You held her easily, instinctively, her small body warm and solid against yours. Her silver gold hair tickled your chin, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and sunshine that was nothing like the sickroom's stale herbs. Her words echoed strangely.

sleeping. Not dead. Sleeping. And Rhaegar… telling her. Your arms tightened around her, a fierce, protective surge flooding you. "Daddy?" you breathed, your voice thick with disbelief and sudden, desperate hope. "He… tells you?" You pulled back slightly, gently lifting her chin so you could see her face... her small nose, her wide violet eyes, so like Rhaegar’s, filled with tears and earnest trust. "What else does Daddy say?"

She sniffled, scrubbing at her eyes again. "He says you're brave and perfect" she repeated, her lisp softening the words. "He says you're… strong." She tilted her head, a frown puckering her brow. "He says you fighted the bad sleepy. He says…" She paused, searching for the word. "…he waits. He waits for you." Her small hand patted your cheek, sticky with tears and grime. "Don't cry, Mommy."

"He said he'd come back. He promised." Fat tears welled again, spilling over her cheeks. "I hope he comes back for me and Viserys soon…"

Her words dissolved into heartbreaking sobs. "Mommy!" she wailed, her small frame shaking violently against yours. Her arms shot out, fingers clutching desperately at your shoulders, your hair, as if you might vanish. "Don't go! Don't leave me alone!" The plea was raw, primal terror echoing in the damp air. Her violet eyes, wide with panic, locked onto yours. "Don't—!"

Rhaegar's frantic voice sliced through the fading echoes of her cries

"Breathe! Gods, breathe!"

You gasped, a harsh, ragged sound scraping your throat. Cool linen pressed against your cheek instead of damp ship planks. Salt air vanished, replaced by the cloying scent of fever sweat and crushed herbs. You were back in the stifling bedchamber, crushed against Rhaegar's chest. His arms locked around you, trembling, his frantic heartbeat a drum against your ear. His words, thick with terror, poured over you.

"Stay with me! Don't leave me! Not like this… please…" His ragged breaths, heavy and desperate, stirred your hair. You took a few shallow, trembling gulps of air yourself, trying to anchor yourself in the oppressive reality. Weakness washed over you like a tide, a sickening dizziness replacing the phantom strength of the ship. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, burying your face against his doublet, fingers clutching weakly at the embroidered dragons on his shoulder. The girl's desperate plea.

"Don't leave me alone!"

still echoed in your skull, mingling with Rhaegar's terror.

"Don't… don't…" you mumbled against the velvet, your voice muffled and thin. You felt impossibly cold despite the chamber's warmth. "She was… lost… Viserys…"

Rhaegar paid no mind to the fragmented whispers. He only tightened his hold, pressing you deeper into the shelter of his arms. A shuddering sigh escaped him of half relief, half agony as your shallow breaths steadied into a fragile rhythm against his neck. "Hush now" he murmured into your hair, his voice rough. "Just breathe. Stay with me." His fingers traced frantic circles on your back, as if trying to knit your spirit back into your frail body. The dampness on his collar wasn't just your tears but his own silent weeping soaked the fabric where his cheek rested against your temple.

Another week crawled by, thick with silence and exhaustion. The dream girl didn't return. No phantom ships, no salt air.

only the oppressive stillness of the sickroom and the relentless drag of your own failing strength. You slept through most days and nights now, a deep, drugged slumber Pycelle insisted was necessary. The babe grew heavier, a constant, demanding presence that seemed to leech warmth directly from your marrow. Each waking moment felt brittle, fractured. Yet Rhaegar never left. He read prophecies aloud in his low, melodic voice... Valyrian scrolls, Essosi texts, anything promising salvation. He bathed your face with cool cloths, coaxed spoonfuls of broth past your lips, and held your hand as you drifted back into oblivion.

Today, however, felt different. A fragile clarity pierced the fog. Weak sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching the dust motes dancing above your bed. Rhaegar watched you intently, his violet eyes holding a cautious spark you hadn't seen in weeks. He traced the sharp line of your jaw with a trembling thumb. "You seem… stronger today" he murmured, hope threading his voice. "Your eyes are brighter." His gaze dropped to your lips, then flickered away, a familiar heat mingling with his desperate worry. The unspoken need hung between you. A yearning for closeness deeper than prophecy, a desperate affirmation of life against the encroaching shadow.

You managed a weak nod, your own longing a quiet ache beneath the exhaustion. "You really think so?" you breathed, the words barely audible but charged with meaning. You didn't resist as his hands, infinitely gentle, slid beneath your thin shift. His touch, feather light on your fevered skin, sent a tremor through you that wasn't entirely pain. He moved over you slowly, carefully, his weight settling onto the mattress beside you rather than directly atop your swollen belly, mindful of Pycelle’s dire warnings. His lips found yours and was not demanding, but seeking, a fragile connection against the void. You lifted trembling arms, draping them weakly around his neck, fingers tangling in the silver strands at his nape. His scent of parchment, dragonstone, and him had filled your senses, momentarily banishing the sickroom herbs.

His kisses trailed down your throat, each touch a spark against your chilled skin. You gasped, arching slightly despite the deep seated fatigue. His hand slid lower, exploring the taut curve of your stomach with reverence before slipping between your thighs. His fingers were deft, knowing, coaxing a faint warmth to bloom where only numbness had been. A low moan escaped you, muffled against his shoulder. It wasn't the fierce passion of before, but a desperate tenderness, a reaffirmation of life clinging to him. He moved with agonizing slowness, his own need held fiercely in check, focused solely on your fragile pleasure. You clung to him, your breaths shallow gasps mingling with his, finding a fragile rhythm amidst the weakness.

"Rhaegar…" you breathed, your voice a threadbare whisper against his ear as he pushed your shift up and gently moved your legs to unlace his pants. His name was a plea and a prayer. He understood. His hips shifted carefully, pressing against you, seeking entrance. There was resistance like a tightness born of exhaustion and the babe’s crowding presence but he eased forward with infinite patience, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. The joining was achingly slow, a shallow claiming filled more with shared sorrow than fire. Yet, it was connection. His forehead pressed against yours, violet eyes wide, searching yours. "You see?" he rasped, his voice thick. "You're here. With me." Each deliberate thrust was a fragile anchor, pulling you back from the precipice of oblivion, a silent vow whispered through touch.

You clung to him, fingers digging weakly into the tense muscles of his back. The pleasure was distant, muted beneath layers of fatigue and the babe’s restless stirrings deep within your womb. It wasn't ecstasy. It was affirmation. A desperate clinging to life, to him. Tears escaped your closed eyes, tracing paths down your temples into your hair. "Don't stop" you gasped, the words catching. "Please." His rhythm remained measured, careful, yet intensified, driven by your plea. His breath came in ragged bursts against your neck, mingling with your own shallow pants. The bed creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. You felt him trembling, yet not with passion, but with the sheer, terrified effort of holding onto you. His arms tightened around you, crushing you against him as if he could physically fuse your souls together against the inevitable pull.

He cried out your name, a raw sound torn from deep within him, collapsing onto you fully for a shuddering moment before quickly rolling to his side, pulling you half onto him. His chest heaved violently beneath your cheek. Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by your labored breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart against your ear. His hand slid slowly, possessively, over the taut swell of your belly, fingers splayed wide. "She moves" he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with awe and anguish. "She knows her father." You felt it too… the distinct flutter, stronger than before, beneath his palm. A fragile smile touched your lips. "She knows you" you breathed, exhaustion washing over you like a tide. Your eyelids fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the comforting solidity of him beneath you, the lingering warmth between your legs, and the faint, stubborn pulse of life beneath his hand.

You drifted, floating somewhere between sleep and waking, anchored only by Rhaegar's steady heartbeat and the scent of him... salt and sweat and desperation.

Time blurred. Then, a sharp, grinding cramp seized you low in your belly, twisting deep. You gasped, clutching instinctively at Rhaegar's arm as a wave of pain shot through you. He stiffened instantly beneath you. "What?" His voice was sharp, alert. "What is it?" Before you could answer, a warm, wet rush flooded between your thighs, soaking the thin shift and the sheets beneath you. Not blood. Water. Clear and sudden. Your eyes flew open, meeting Rhaegar’s widening violet gaze. Panic flared in them, stark and immediate. "No" he breathed, the word choked. "It’s too soon. Pycelle said you have another moon—"

Another cramp, fiercer this time, stole your breath. You curled inward, a low moan escaping you. "Rhae…" It was a plea, thick with fear. He was already moving, scrambling off the bed, shouting into the corridor, his voice raw with command. "Fetch Maester Pycelle! NOW! And the midwife! Move!" His orders echoed down the stone hall, urgent footsteps scrambling away.

The pains came faster, relentless waves crashing against your fragile body. Pycelle arrived, his face grim, followed by a flustered midwife. Rhaegar hovered, his violet eyes wild, fingers digging into the bedpost until the wood groaned. He tried to stay, tried to hold your hand as the midwife pushed your shift up, exposing your swollen belly and trembling legs. But when the next contraction tore through you, a scream ripped from your throat. His name, raw and desperate and something in him shattered. He flinched violently, tearing his hand from yours.

"No" he choked, stumbling back. "I cannot—" He fled the room, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him. You screamed again, the sound chasing him down the corridor. Outside your chamber, pressed against the cold stone wall, he slid down until he sat hunched on the floor. Your screams echoed, sharp and terrible, punctuated by frantic gasps and Maester Pycelle’s low, urgent commands. Each cry of "Rhaegar!" was a knife twisting in his gut. He jammed his palms over his ears, pressing hard, trying to drown out the agony he’d authored. He’d made you his second wife, claimed you before gods and men, loved you with a fire that consumed reason. Yet now, faced with the monstrous consequence of that love tearing you apart, he couldn’t bear to witness it. He’d placed this horror inside you, this thing draining your lifeblood onto the sheets.

Footsteps rushed down the hall, swift and light. Rhaella, wrapped hastily in a velvet robe, her silver hair loose and wild, rounded the corner. Her eyes, wide with sleep and dread, instantly found her son crumpled on the floor like discarded parchment. He didn't look up and his eyes were squeezed shut, knuckles white against his temples, his entire frame rigid with anguish. "What is it?" Rhaella gasped, crouching beside him, her hand hovering near his shoulder but not daring to touch. Her voice trembled. "Is she alright? Has she—" The unspoken horror hung thick in the air at her thoughts.

Has she already gone?

Another scream tore through the heavy oak door, it was raw, guttural, and filled with agony. Rhaella flinched violently, her gaze snapping towards the sound. Confusion warred with dawning horror on her face. "It is early…" she breathed, her voice barely audible above the echoes. "I thought she had another moon?" The words were a plea for denial. Maester Pycelle had been adamant that the princess couldn't possibly carry to term without perishing herself. This timing was catastrophic. Her eyes flickered back to Rhaegar, still frozen against the wall. "Rhaegar?" she pressed, sharper now. "Answer me!"

He lifted his head slowly. His violet eyes were hollow, haunted pits. "The waters broke" he rasped, the words scraping his throat raw. "It… it started." He gestured weakly towards the door as another choked cry filtered through. "I couldn't… I couldn't stay." Shame washed over his features, stark and undeniable. He, the Crown Prince, the prophesied savior, had fled his wife's side as she fought for her life. A life he had endangered.

Rhaella stared at him, a cold fury replacing her initial panic. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "You fool" she hissed, the words sharp as Valyrian steel. "You selfish, reckless fool!" She pushed herself up, ignoring his flinch. "You filled her head with dreams of destiny while filling her belly with death!" Her gaze swept over him, crumpled and useless. "Get up." Her command cracked like a whip. "Get up, Rhaegar Targaryen. You will not hide here like a whipped dog while she bleeds for your prophecy!"

Another scream, weaker this time, choked off into a terrifying gasp. Rhaella’s resolve hardened. She strode to the door, flung it open, and vanished inside. The sounds intensified of frantic murmurs from Maester Pycelle, the midwife’s urgent instructions, the wet, tearing gasp that followed another contraction. Rhaegar remained frozen, the Queen Mother’s condemnation echoing louder than his sister-wife’s agony. Selfish. Reckless. He’d traded her fragile life for the ghost of a promised prince.

Inside the chamber, chaos reigned. Sweat plastered silver gold hair to your temples as you arched against the pillows, your face contorted in a silent scream. The midwife’s hands pressed firmly on your swollen belly. "Push, Princess!" she commanded, her voice strained. "Now! Harder!" Pycelle hovered near the foot of the bed, his expression grim, holding a basin and cloths already stained crimson. The metallic tang of blood filled the stifling air, thick and cloying beneath the scent of herbs and fear. Rhaella rushed to your side, grabbing your flailing hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, anchoring.

"Rhaegar…" you gasped out, your voice a shredded whisper lost in the guttural groan tearing from your throat. Your vision swam, the room tilting violently. The pain was a living thing, grinding and relentless, stealing thought, stealing breath. You clung to Rhaella’s hand like driftwood in a storm. Your eyes, heavy as lead, fluttered shut. Your legs trembled violently, muscles screaming, then abruptly went limp beneath you, utterly spent.

"Stay awake!" Rhaella commanded, her voice cracking with fear she couldn't hide. Her fingers tightened bruisingly around yours. "Look at me!" Through the haze of agony and encroaching darkness, you forced your eyelids open. Your mother’s face swam into focus. She was pale, terrified, yet fiercely determined. A fragile, delirious smile touched your cracked lips. She’s here. Holding me. The thought was a flicker of warmth in the icy pit of despair with a mumbled "Mommy..." leaving your lips before your gaze drifted past her, searching the doorway, the corners, for silver hair and violet eyes. "Rhaegar…" you breathed again, the name a plea woven into the fabric of your pain.

"He waits" Rhaella lied swiftly, her voice thick. "He waits just outside. He hears you. He knows how brave you are." She brushed sweat soaked strands from your forehead. "Now push, my love! For your child! Push!" Her words ignited a final, desperate surge of strength. You bore down, grinding your teeth against the scream that ripped through you. Something tore. A gush of warmth flooded beneath you, mingling with the amniotic fluid. "Good! Again!" the midwife barked, her hands pressing, guiding. "I see the head! Crowned!"

The pain crescendoed into a blinding white agony. Your eyes squeezed shut, wishing only for oblivion, anywhere but this blood soaked bed. The pained noises escaping you were barely human. And so you willed it, or perhaps the desperate child within you did and the world dissolved once more.

The familiar scent of parchment and dragonstone filled your nostrils. Soft babbling noises drifted from a crib in the corner. You stumbled, disoriented, the heavy wetness of blood soaked skirts clinging to your legs. Rhaella’s furious voice cracked through the air and startled you. "Would you just look at her! She's your daughter!" Your gaze snapped to the bedchamber's center. Rhaegar stood rigidly facing the hearth, his back a wall of silver hair and black velvet. "It killed her!" His voice was raw gravel, shaking violently. "I can't… I can't love it!" He refused to turn.

"Your sister died for her! For your child!" Rhaella roared, her face flushed with fury and grief. She strode forward, the tiny bundle squirming in her arms wrapped in cloth white as snow. "And you sit and ignore her these past weeks!? Hold her! " Without waiting, she thrust the infant forcefully into Rhaegar’s unprepared hands. He gasped, instinctively clutching the sudden weight. A choked sob tore from his throat as he finally looked down.

The baby was impossibly small, skin translucent as parchment over delicate bones. Wisps of silver hair, finer than spider silk, crowned her head. Her eyes were open and wide, unfocused pools of Targaryen violet, blinking slowly at the sudden shift in light. She didn't cry. She simply stared up at him, her tiny mouth working silently. Her fingers, miniature and perfect, curled instinctively around the edge of his velvet doublet.

"My…" The word was a choked whisper, barely audible over the crackling hearth. His thumb, trembling, traced the curve of her cheekbone, impossibly delicate beneath skin like thin silk. Her violet eyes, wide and unfocused, blinked slowly, catching the firelight. They held no accusation, only a profound, unknowing stillness. "My sweet sister…" The phrase tumbled out, thick with grief and bewildered wonder. He stroked her face again, the gesture clumsy, reverent. "…died for you." The truth of it settled upon him like ash and you stumbled forward wanting to comfort him in any way but the only one who noticed you was your daughter who let out a little giggle. she was so small, smaller than most babies and yet so perfect.

"What are you looking at, little one?" Rhaegar murmured, his voice thick. He glanced back towards the corner again, seeing nothing but shifting shadows. A sigh escaped him, heavy with exhaustion and lingering grief. "Ghosts?"

The baby gurgled, a soft, bubbling sound. Her tiny arm strained upward, fingers splayed towards the empty space near the hearth. Her violet eyes, impossibly alert for a newborn, seemed fixed intently on something Rhaegar couldn't perceive. A strange certainty bloomed in your chest, warm and fierce. She wasn't staring at ghosts. She was staring at you. Her lips parted in a silent 'O', then she cooed softly, her reaching hand opening and closing as if trying to grasp air.

Rhaella watched her son cradle his daughter, the rigid lines of his grief softening into bewildered tenderness. He traced the baby's cheek again, transfixed. A small, hesitant smile touched the Queen Mother's lips and it was the first true warmth since the screams had faded. Seeing that fragile hope reflected in her weathered face, a sudden, profound calm washed over you. The name surfaced effortlessly, perfect and clear, like a pearl from deep water. "Hello…" you whispered, the sound a mere breath against the crackling fire, yet carrying a strange weight. "…Daenerys."

The next second, a blinding agony tore through your belly, it was a brutal, grinding cramp that shattered the vision. You gasped, arching off the sweat soaked pillows, reality crashing back. The scent of blood and fear choked the air. Pycelle’s urgent murmurs, the midwife’s barked commands, Rhaella’s bruising grip on your hand and it all flooded back, sharp and terrifying. You were back in the birthing bed, drowning in pain.

But now, Rhaegar was there, kneeling beside you. His face was pale, etched with terror, violet eyes damp and shimmering. One hand clutched yours fiercely as the other trembled while he brushed sweat plastered hair from your forehead. "Shhh, my love" he murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears, rough against the backdrop of your ragged gasps. "You’re doing so well. Just breathe… breathe with me." He inhaled deliberately, deeply, urging you to follow. "You’ll be okay" he whispered, leaning close, his lips brushing your temple. "You and I… we grow old together. Hair no longer white as snow but grey. we'll have wrinkles… watching dragons soar…" His voice cracked. "We have more than one babe… we have daughters… sons… a whole brood of silver haired terrors…" He squeezed your hand, desperation bleeding into his forced optimism. "We—"

"Daenerys" you cut him off, your voice a breathless, shaky rasp that cracked like dry parchment. Your body felt utterly spent, a hollow vessel drained of strength. The grinding agony that had consumed you moments before seemed to be… fading? Retreating like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind a strange, heavy numbness. You felt detached, floating.

"What?" Rhaegar mumbled, confusion etching lines onto his pale face. He blinked rapidly, wiping at stray tears with the back of his wrist, smudging dampness across his cheekbone. His violet eyes searched yours, frantic and bewildered. "What did you say?"

"Her name…" you breathed again, the words scraping raw against your throat. The pain wasn't just fading, it was evaporating, leaving behind a profound, eerie numbness. Your limbs felt impossibly heavy, yet strangely weightless. The frantic sounds of the room of Maester Pycelle's muttered incantations, the midwife's sharp commands, Rhaella's choked encouragements... they seemed to recede, muffled as if heard through thick wool. You couldn't feel the contractions anymore. You couldn't feel Rhaegar's crushing grip on your hand. Only a deep, spreading coldness seeped inward from your extremities.

Rhaegar stared, confusion deepening into dawning horror. He saw the unnatural stillness settle over you, the frantic arching cease. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, drifted past him towards the canopy overhead. "I don't care of her name!" he echoed, his voice cracking. He leaned closer, shaking your shoulder gently, then urgently. "Stay with me! Look at me! Push!" Panic sharpened his commands. He whirled towards Pycelle. "What's happening? Why has she stopped pushing?"

The maester pushed past Rhaegar, his wrinkled face grim as he pressed fingers to your throat. His own breath caught. "The pulse… it's fading" he murmured, the words thick with finality. "She's going cold." He pulled back the blood soaked sheet covering your legs. Below your swollen belly, a terrifying stillness reigned. The frantic struggle had ceased entirely. Only a terrifying pool of crimson spread steadily beneath you.

Rhaegar froze. The world narrowed to the awful pallor of your skin, the unnatural slackness of your jaw. Pycelle's pronouncement echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence that followed your ragged gasp. Fading. Cold. Rhaella let out a choked sob, her grip on your limp hand tightening convulsively. "No!" Rhaegar roared, the sound raw and primal, tearing from a place deeper than prophecy, deeper than crown or duty. He shoved Pycelle aside, his body shielding yours. "She breathes! She spoke!" His trembling hand cradled your icy cheek. "Look at me!" he commanded, desperation cracking his voice. "Fight! For her! For Daenerys!" He pressed his forehead against yours, his tears mingling with the sweat on your skin. "You promised me wrinkles and dragons! You promised!" His whisper was a ragged plea against the encroaching stillness.

"Pull the babe out" Pycelle rasped, his voice thick with urgency, cutting through Rhaegar's anguish. He pushed past the prince's protective hunch, his wrinkled face grimly stoic as he looked down at you.

Your eyes stared fixedly at the canopy, unblinking, unseeing, utterly detached from the frantic energy swirling around you. A choked sob escaped Rhaella in the corner, a sound of utter despair. She moved swiftly, pushing aside her own grief. Her hands, surprisingly strong, replaced Rhaegar's frantic clutching, gently but firmly guiding him back just enough to give Pycelle and the midwife space. "Do it" Rhaella commanded the midwife, her voice thick with tears but laced with steel. "Now. Save the child." Her gaze flickered to your face, a silent apology etched in her eyes before she focused on the grim task.

The midwife nodded, her expression grimly determined. She didn't hesitate, her experienced hands sliding down your limp leg, positioning herself firmly at the foot of the bed. Pycelle pressed a folded cloth against your lower abdomen, bracing. There was no response from you, no gasp, no flinch, only the terrifying stillness. With a practiced motion, the midwife reached inward, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. Rhaegar watched, frozen in horror, his violet eyes wide and damp, fixed on the midwife's hands as they vanished beneath the blood soaked sheet. He saw the midwife brace her shoulder, her muscles straining visibly beneath her simple tunic. A low grunt escaped her lips as she pulled, guided by Pycelle’s murmured instructions.

"No!" Rhaegar roared, the sound tearing from his throat like shattered glass. He surged forward, his hand clamping violently around the midwife's wrist, trying to wrench it away. "Stop! You're hurting her! Stop!" His voice cracked, raw with terror and grief. He couldn't bear the thought of them tearing into your unresponsive flesh, violating you even as life fled. "Leave her!"

Rhaella moved with startling speed. She threw her weight against her son, her own grief hardening into steely resolve. Her arms locked around his chest from behind, pinning his arms momentarily. "Hold him!" she barked at Pycelle, her voice thick with tears but sharp as a dagger. The Grand Maester hesitated only a heartbeat before grasping Rhaegar's other arm. Together, they hauled the Crown Prince back, away from the bed, away from you. Rhaegar fought, a wild animal trapped, his boots scraping uselessly on the stone floor. Rhaella hissed fiercely into his ear, her grip iron tight. "Please, Rhaegar! For her sake let them save the child she bled for!"

"Save her!" Rhaegar screamed, his voice raw and breaking, straining against their combined strength. He twisted violently, trying to lunge back towards the bed where you lay utterly still. "Not that thing! Please! Gods, save her!" His violet eyes, wide and frantic, were fixed solely on your pale, slack face. "She spoke! She breathed! Don't touch her!" He kicked out, catching Pycelle's shin, making the old man gasp. The midwife flinched at the commotion but didn't stop. Her hands remained buried beneath the crimson sheet, her face a mask of grim concentration.

Rhaella tightened her arms like iron bands around her son's chest. "Hold him!" she snapped again at Pycelle, her voice thick with her own tears but sharp with command. The Grand Maester, grimacing, renewed his grip. Rhaella pressed her cheek against Rhaegar's sweat-dampened hair. "She's gone, Rhaegar," she hissed, the words a brutal truth forced through her own agony. "She's gone. Let them save her child. The last piece of her." Her voice cracked on the final word.

Rhaegar sagged against her, a choked sob escaping him. His frantic struggles ceased, replaced by a terrible stillness. He stared past Pycelle’s shoulder, his violet eyes wide and vacant, fixed on the canopy above the bed where you lay. The silence stretched, broken only by the midwife’s grunts of effort and the slick, wet sounds beneath the sheet. Pycelle murmured low instructions, his hands pressing firmly on your abdomen, guiding. The midwife pulled again, her shoulders straining. A final, sharp tug.

And then... a thin, reedy wail pierced the heavy air. High-pitched and indignant, it filled the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls. It was the sound of life, raw and demanding, utterly incongruous with the deathly stillness around it.

Rhaegar crumpled. The sound hit him like a physical blow, buckling his knees. He hit the cold stone floor hard, the impact jarring up his spine. For a heartbeat, he stayed there, hunched, the triumphant cry of his daughter echoing around him while everyone surged towards the midwife and the squalling bundle she lifted, bloody, squirming and far too small. Pycelle rushed forward, Rhaella releasing Rhaegar to join the flurry around the newborn.

"No…" The denial was a ragged gasp. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, ignoring the sharp pain in his scraped palms, ignoring the chaos swirling around the infant. He hauled himself back up to the bedside, grabbing the edge of the mattress, pulling himself half onto it beside your still form. His fingers, trembling violently, found your cheek. It was cold. Waxen. "My love?" His voice cracked, high and desperate. "Hey… hey, wake up…" He stroked your face, frantic swipes across skin that felt like chilled marble. "It's me… it's Rhae." Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked, dripping onto the blood soaked sheets. "Look at me. Please. Just blink. Just blink for me." He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm against your chilling skin, trying to will life back into you. "Daenerys is here. She's crying. She needs you. I need you."

Slowly, inevitably, the chaos subsided. The midwife cleaned Daenerys with efficient hands, wrapping her tightly in fresh, warmed linen. Her cries softened into hiccups, then faded into exhausted, rhythmic breaths. Pycelle murmured something low to Rhaella about the child's fragility, the need for constant warmth. Rhaella nodded, her gaze flickering between the sleeping infant and her son, still hunched over your body. She moved silently, the tiny bundle cradled securely in her arms. She approached the bedside, her steps hesitant. "Rhaegar" she said softly, her voice rough from tears. "Your daughter. She needs her father." She held Daenerys out slightly, the infant's tiny face barely visible within the folds of cloth, her silver white hair like spun moonlight.

Rhaegar didn't turn. His cheek rested against your cold temple, his own tears drying in tracks on his pale skin. His fingers, stained crimson from clutching your hand, continued their slow, rhythmic stroking of your hair, untangling strands matted with sweat and blood. Your eyes were closed now that he had gently lowered the lids himself, unable to bear the vacant stare. He held you close against him, one arm wrapped possessively around your shoulders, the other hand buried in your silver hair. He breathed shallowly, inhaling the fading scent of you beneath the overwhelming metallic tang of blood and the sharp sting of antiseptic herbs Pycelle had used. Your stillness was absolute, a terrifying void where fierce life had been moments before. Rhaella’s words seemed to skim past him, meaningless noise against the roaring silence in his head.

"Rhaegar" Rhaella repeated, her voice firmer now, thick with unshed tears but edged with command. She stepped closer, the bundle in her arms shifting slightly. Daenerys made a tiny, mewling sound, a kittenish whimper muffled by the swaddling cloths. "Look at her. Your daughter. She lives. Look." She shifted her arms, angling the small face towards him. The infant’s features were impossibly delicate, her skin translucent, her silver-white lashes fluttering against cheeks still flushed pink from her violent entry. A miniature fist escaped the linen, waving weakly in the air.

Rhaegar flinched as if struck. His hand, still tangled in your cold, sweat dampened hair, tightened convulsively. He didn't turn his head. His gaze remained fixed on the hollow stillness of your face, the pale lips slightly parted, the unnatural peace that had settled over you like a shroud. He traced the curve of your ear with a trembling, blood stained thumb. "She's sleeping" he mumbled, the words slurred, thick with denial. "Exhausted. Leave her be." He leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering as if trying to share his own warmth. "Just resting."

Rhaella stepped closer, the tiny bundle shifting slightly. Daenerys emitted a soft, mewling sound, a fragile whimper that seemed impossibly loud in the heavy silence. The Queen Mother's voice was low, insistent, cutting through Rhaegar's fog. "Rhaegar. Look at her. See what she gave you." She angled the infant towards him, forcing the small face into his peripheral vision. The baby's features were impossibly delicate, her skin almost translucent, her silver white lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Her miniature fist waved weakly in the cool air.

"Get it away," Rhaegar rasped, his voice thick and slurred. He didn't turn his head. His gaze remained locked on the unnerving stillness of your face, the pale lips slightly parted. He stroked your cold temple with a trembling, blood stained thumb, his touch feather light. "She's tired… exhausted. Can't you see? Leave her be." He leaned down again, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering as if his own warmth could seep into the marble chill. "Just resting. Deep sleep after… after the effort." His arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling your limp form closer against his chest, shielding you from the intrusion of the living child.

Rhaella didn't retreat. She edged the bundled infant closer still, the tiny face now directly in his line of sight. Daenerys whimpered again, a fragile, hiccuping sound. Her miniature fist waved blindly. "She is resting, Rhaegar" Rhaella stated, her voice low and fierce, cutting through his denial like Valyrian steel. "Eternal rest. And this" she shifted the bundle, forcing the infant's impossibly small features towards him, "this is her legacy. Her triumph. Look at her." The baby’s violet eyes, startlingly bright and aware despite her fragility, blinked slowly. They seemed to focus, not on Rhaella, but past her shoulder and towards the bed, towards you.

Rhaegar’s breath caught. His gaze, dragged unwillingly from your cold face, locked onto those eyes. They weren't the deep indigo of his own, nor the soft lilac shade yours had been. They were a startling, luminous violet, like amethysts catching dawn light. And in that instant, staring into that newborn gaze, he didn't see a thief of life. He saw you. He saw the fierce longing in your eyes when you held Aegon, the desperate hope in your whispered dream of a silver haired girl. He saw the ghost of your smile reflected in the curve of the infant's tiny, pink mouth. A choked sob tore from his throat, raw and ragged.

His head shook violently, a frantic denial against the unbearable truth pressing in. "No!" The word was a guttural roar, ripped from a place deeper than grief. He buried his face against your neck, inhaling the fading warmth beneath the chilling skin, the lingering trace of you beneath the iron tang of blood and herbs. His arms tightened convulsively around your limp shoulders, pulling you hard against him, as if he could shield you from the finality, absorb you back into his own flesh. "Get out!" he screamed, the sound muffled against your skin, thick with tears and fury. "Everyone out! Can't you see? She's trying to sleep! Leave us be!" He pressed frantic kisses against your jawline, your temple, your closed eyelids, whispers lost against your stillness. "Just resting… deep sleep…"

Rhaella stood frozen, the squirming bundle in her arms forgotten for a moment. She saw the raw, animal desperation in her son, the terrifying break from reality. Pycelle exchanged a horrified glance with the midwife. The Queen Mother took a slow, shuddering breath. Her own heart felt like shattered ice, but duty, cold and sharp, pierced the fog of her grief. She looked at the tiny, fragile life in her arms – your life, paid for in blood. Then she looked at her son, clinging to a ghost. "Out" she commanded Pycelle and the midwife, her voice low and hoarse but brooking no argument. "All of you. Now. Leave them." Her gaze swept the horrified servants clustered near the door. "Go." Reluctantly, shuffling, they obeyed, the heavy chamber door thudding shut behind them, leaving only Rhaella, Rhaegar, the silent infant, and the terrible stillness of the bed.

Rhaella hesitated only a moment longer. She approached the bedside cautiously, her movements slow and deliberate. She didn't try to hand Daenerys to Rhaegar again. Instead, she gently laid the tightly swaddled infant down on the broad, cushioned bench near the cold hearth. The baby whimpered softly, a sound lost beneath Rhaegar's ragged breathing against your neck. Rhaella straightened, her eyes lingering on her son's hunched form, then on your peaceful, pale face. A fresh wave of agony threatened to overwhelm her, but she clamped it down. "I'll send for clean linens and water" she murmured, her voice thick. "She… she shouldn't lie in this." She didn't wait for a response Rhaegar wouldn't give. Turning swiftly, she slipped out, pulling the door closed with a soft, final click. Outside, she leaned against the cold stone, pressing a fist to her mouth, stifling a sob before turning to the waiting servants, her voice regaining its steel. "Fetch warm water. Fresh linens. Immediately. And silence. Absolute silence."

The latch clicked softly behind Rhaella. Rhaegar didn't stir. He remained slumped over you, his face buried against your neck, his shoulders shaking silently. Minutes crawled by. Then, slowly, his head lifted. His violet eyes, red rimmed and hollow, scanned the room. The discarded rags, the basin of pink tinged water, the untouched birthing stool. His gaze landed on the bench where Daenerys lay, a small, silent bundle. He looked away instantly, as if burned. He pushed himself up stiffly, his movements jerky, like a puppet with tangled strings. He stumbled to the heavy oak door, fumbling with the iron bolt. It slid home with a heavy, echoing thud. Locked. The sound seemed to sever something. He turned back to the bed, his expression shifting from numb despair to a terrifyingly focused intensity.

He moved with sudden, unnerving efficiency. He dragged the basin closer, poured fresh water from a pitcher, ignoring its chill. He ripped a clean linen sheet into strips. His hands, still stained crimson, trembled violently as he peeled back the blood-soaked sheet covering you. He flinched at the sight beneath the stark pallor, the cruel stillness but didn't pause.

With meticulous, almost reverent care, he began. He washed the sweat and tears from your face, the gentle strokes a stark contrast to the frantic scrubbing of your arms and torso, trying to erase the evidence of the ordeal. He cleaned the blood matting your silver hair, combing it back with his fingers until it fanned out on the pillow like moonlight.

He dressed you in a clean, soft shift he found in your wardrobe, pulling it carefully over your limp limbs, smoothing the fabric. He replaced the fouled bedding with fresh linens, tucking them around you with obsessive neatness. The entire process was silent, punctuated only by his ragged breathing and the splash of water. He worked like a man possessed, driven by a desperate need to restore order, to make you look… peaceful. Like you were merely sleeping. When he finished, he stood back, surveying his work. You lay pristine now, clean and pale, bathed in the soft light filtering through the high window. Only the unnatural stillness betrayed the truth.

He sank back onto the bed beside you, the frantic energy draining away as abruptly as it had come. He stretched out alongside you, carefully arranging himself so he didn't disturb the neatness he’d imposed.

One arm slid beneath your shoulders, pulling you gently towards him until your head rested against his chest. His other hand found yours, cold and limp, and he laced his fingers through yours, squeezing gently, as if seeking a response that wouldn’t come. He pressed his face into the crown of your hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender soap beneath the lingering metallic tang he couldn’t wash away. His body trembled against yours, a fine, constant shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. He whispered your name, a choked sound muffled against your hair. Then again. And again. Each repetition softer, more desperate, dissolving into broken murmurs against your scalp.

fragments of promises whispered in the dark, lines from songs he’d sung only for you, pleas for forgiveness that echoed unanswered in the silent chamber.

Outside, muffled footsteps approached, hesitated near the bolted door, then retreated. Rhaegar ignored them. His world had shrunk to the cold weight against his side, the unnatural stillness beneath his hand resting on your abdomen where life had stirred so recently. He traced the curve of your jaw with trembling fingers, lingering on the pulse point where no beat fluttered.

A low, agonized groan escaped him, vibrating through his chest and into yours. He pulled you closer, burying his face deeper against your hair, his shoulders shaking silently. He remembered the fierce grip of your hand during the worst pains, the desperate hope in your eyes when you’d whispered ‘Daenerys’. Now, only stillness answered him. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by his own ragged breaths and the faint, rhythmic snores drifting from the bundled infant on the bench across the room.

Time lost meaning. The light filtering through the high window shifted, casting long, cold shadows across the meticulously cleaned floor. Daenerys stirred, emitting a soft, mewling cry that pierced the quiet like a needle. Rhaegar flinched violently, his arm tightening around your shoulders. "Hush" he murmured against your hair, his voice thick and slurred. "Can't you hear? She needs quiet." He lifted his head slightly, his violet eyes wild and unfocused as they scanned your peaceful face. "See? She's resting now. Finally resting." He gently smoothed a stray silver strand from your forehead, his touch reverent. "You fought so hard, my love. So brave." His thumb brushed your cold lips. "Just sleep. I'll watch over you." He settled back, pressing his forehead against your temple, trying to share his warmth, to will away the creeping chill settling deeper into your limbs.

A sharp, insistent rapping echoed against the heavy oak door. Rhaella’s voice, muffled but firm, cut through Rhaegar’s murmured reassurances. "Rhaegar. Open this door. Now." The knocking intensified, rhythmic and demanding. Rhaegar squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face against your neck.

He smelled the faint lavender beneath the lingering iron tang, and suddenly, he wasn't in the death-scented chamber.

He was in the godswood at dusk, sunlight dappling through the ancient weirwood leaves. You were thirteen, flushed and breathless after racing him through the hedges, collapsing onto a mossy bank near the hot springs. You had not even ran, more stumbled breathlessly as rhaegar had always let you win seeing as you could not move much. Steam curled around you both. A stray strawberry from your stolen snack stained the corner of your mouth. He’d reached out, laughing, his thumb brushing it away. Your eyes, bright with mischief, met his. "Caught you" you’d whispered, your grin infectious. He’d leaned in, tasting the sweetness on your lips, the world narrowing to the shared warmth, the rustling leaves, the bubbling water, and your soft sigh against his mouth. It was innocence, stolen and perfect.

Daenerys’s thin wail pierced the memory like shattered glass. It started low, a kittenish mewl, then escalated into a piercing, rhythmic cry of primal hunger. Rhaegar flinched, his arms tightening convulsively around your cold shoulders. "Hush" he hissed against your hair, his voice thick and slurred. "Can't you hear? She needs quiet. She's resting." The knocking on the door became a thunderous pounding. "Rhaegar Targaryen! Open this door!" Rhaella’s command was sharp, edged with panic. He ignored it, focusing on the ghostly warmth of your imagined breath against his skin. He traced the shell of your ear, cool as river stone now. "Just sleep, my love" he murmured. "I’m here."

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate. Another memory. Sharp, bright. Dragonstone’s library, rain lashing the obsidian windows. You were fifteen, curled in a window seat, reading a crumbling scroll about Valyrian dragon taming. You had only been allowed out of your chamber so much and when you were rhaegar was near to protect you if you'd gotten too light headed. A draft blew out the candle beside you.

"Rhaegar!" you’d gasped, startled. He’d crossed the room, chuckling softly. "Afraid of the dark, little dragon?" He struck a flint, the spark illuminating your face, eyes wide, lips parted in mock indignation. "Only when you’re not near" you’d whispered. He’d leaned close to relight the candle, his hand brushing yours. The scent of parchment and damp stone mingled with the faint lavender oil you wore. He’d lingered, his breath stirring your hair. "Then I shall always be near" he’d promised, his voice low. You’d smiled, a flicker of pure trust in your violet eyes before turning back to the scroll. The intimacy was a quiet ember, glowing safe and warm.

[ofcrowsandravens]

--- Blind Courage: Aerion Targaryen (blind female reader)

Requested?: Technically, yes, just not on Tumblr. My friend saw the trailer and we collectively fell in love with Finn Bennett, why do all the best faces go to the insane targs (looking at you Ewan Mitchell)? Anyway, the blindness prompt was a randomised idea. I sometimes use a randomiser wheel of prompts to get my writing started.

Let it be known that Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen is not a kind man. Not even his closest relatives are spared from his cruel acts.

Any vulnerability is exploited in his wicked games.

Unfortunately, you find yourself with a grave vulnerability.

Having been born blind, the world is a constant exercise in caution.

Aerion, in particular, was a constant threat. One that you learned to navigate.

In some ways, you were lucky.

As a child, Aerion knew he couldn't hurt you too badly, you were his sister Daella's favourite Lady-In-Waiting. Selected herself at a young age. You'd grown up around the Targaryen princes and princesses.

Perhaps Aerion was somewhat human and didn't wish to harm someone he'd known for years. Mayhaps, he didn't wish to deal with the fallout of harming you (considering how he treated his brother, Egg, the latter was more likely).

He never said much in the early years, his cruelty was thoughtless, the kind that came easily to him. A shove, a cutting remark, a sharp laugh when you would trip or mistake one voice for another.

Age had sharpened him. He'd become a man with purpose which arguably made him all the more dangerous.

For a time, his barbs had grown more deliberate and caluclating.

The court often whispered of the way he targeted you, they never cared enough to notice how you learned to match him.

You answered softly when he raged, held your composure when he attempted to provoke you.

Perhaps, for anyone else this would've led to even greater viciousness from the prince. Though no one would even admit it to his face, barring his siblings on an off chance.

Over time, it appeared to unnerve him, how little his actions could provoke you.

There were rumours, of course.

That Aerion's interest in tormenting you had shifted into something else entirely.

You pretended not to hear them but even you couldn't ignore the strange quiet that fell over him sometimes when he entered a room, or the way his voice softened a fraction when he spoke some insulting nickname he'd made for you years ago.

The gardens of the Red Keep were never truly quiet.

Servants passed through with baskets of herbs and courtiers murmered between themselves.

You sat a stone bench with your embroidery project in your lap, somewhat struggling to figure out where to place the needle as you'd lost your place.

You were using one colour to create the base, usually another lady would be with you, guiding you and telling you what colours you should use to make the image 'make sense'.

You wanted to try do it on your own for once, you were good at differentiating objects with touch alone. You had to be.

Aerion's footsteps were unmistakable: quick, heavy, and with notable irritation.

"Still pretending at gentility?" He drawled when he reached you, standing just out of reach. The silken tone failed to hide the edge beneath it.

You smiled faintly, careful not appear as though you were mocking him. The last thing you needed was an enraged Aerion. "Some of us must, my prince. The rest of you make the court look savage."

His laughter was sharp and sudden, but no more than it was when he arrived.

"Careful there. I might prove your point."

"I don't think you will." You said simply.

The pause that followed told you he'd probably tilted his head, surprised at your certainty.

"You think I wouldn't?"

"I think you would, if you were particularly wroth that day," you said, folding your embroidery under your hands as to not look as though you were ignoring him. "I also think the King loathes scandal. And that you'd rather not be sent to Summerhall again for losing your temper."

Another silence.

Then the sound of him exhaling through his nose, half amusement, half annoyance. "You speak to freely to your Prince, my lady."

"I have since we were children, but I can change that if it truly annoys you." You replied.

You think he might've moved closer as the faint smell of him filled the air. He was certainly watching you, perhaps deciding on your punishment.

The moment stretched before a voice from behind broke it, a young knight spoke greeting the Prince appropriately before turning to you to deliver a message for the princess.

He greeted you politely, perhaps too politely. His hand grasped yours so that he could place the scroll directly into your hand.

You felt Aerion's mood change before he spoke.

"Do mind where you put your hands, Ser." Despite his calm words, you could feel the danger behind them and the glare that was no doubt being directed towards the knight. You heard the knight's breath catch.

"I - of course, my prince, I meant no discourtesy-"

"Then don't act as if she's yours to touch," Aerion said.

You reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his tunic. You wouldn't dare touch him without permission, that would be a step too far even for you.

"Aerion."

The single word appeared to be enough, the tension didn't bleed out of him like you'd read in some other book but he backed away from the knight and you realised the Prince had actually taken a few steps closer as if to place himself between the two of you.

The knight stammered an apology and left quickly.

Once gone, Aerion's voice dropped, low and mocking yet again though there was something else there. "You collect admirers like cats collect fleas."

You wouldn't claim the the incident wasn't your fault, it wouldn't change a thing. "Kindness can do that to people."

"Kindness," he repeated, as if it were a foreign word. "You shouldn't trust it."

"I don't," you said. "Not entirely."

He made another voice in his throat. "You've learned something at least."

You heard the scrape of his boots against the gravel as he began to pace, the faint rustle of his cloak following.

“Tell me, little dove,” he said after a long silence, “do you ever wonder how easily the world might swallow you whole if I stopped watching?”

You tilted your head. “You’re saying you watch over me, my prince?”

He gave a low, humorless laugh. “Don’t mistake interest for mercy.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Something in your tone made him stop pacing. The air thickened again; you could feel the heat of him only a step away.

“You’re bold when you can’t even see what stands before you.”

“I see enough,” you murmured. “You forget that I’ve known you longer than most. I know what you sound like when you’re about to burn everything down.”

That earned a genuine, startled breath - half amusement, half disbelief. “And what do I sound like now?”

You let the faintest smile curve your mouth once more. “Contained. For now.”

Aerion was silent. Then, softer than before, “You should go inside. The sun’s too harsh for delicate things.”

You rose, smoothing your skirts. “As you wish, my prince.”

He made no move to help you find your bearings, only watched as you figured out which way the hall was.

His voice reached you when you were several steps away—low, almost thoughtful. “Remember what I said. The court will eat you alive if I ever tire of keeping its jaws shut.”

You paused but didn’t turn back. “Then I suppose I must hope you never tire, Aerion.”

For a heartbeat, nothing. Then a soft, dangerous chuckle followed you down the path.

It's been literally years since I've written anything like this, and why is that it's anyways the crazy characters that make me wanna write?

I have no clue if Aerion here is in character, I've never read the novellas but I know he's basically the Joffery Baratheon of the Targaryens so trying to get the balance between him being genuinely cruel but also someone I can make a fanfic about is so difficult.

I imagine I'll write anything with Aerion in as him being out of character since I would need him to be somewhat likeable as a romance option.

If you wanna request anything I'm into HOTD, GOT, I'll do A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms as well 'cause I can already tell I'm gonna like it. I'll do a post about anything I'll write for and so on soon. So if you wanna help me out with a request just send one in.

[quietlyvigilantdream]

Can you maybe write something about Aerion and his relationship with a Twin sister? Someone that actually understands him, ty!

TWIN FLAME.

Aerion Targaryen x twin!reader

Authors note: of course I can anon <3 to explain my thought process here; we know of Targaryen’s and their customs, I think Aerion and his twin would simply be as one, whole, together. If this makes sense? but because Aerion is Aerion he loves in the only way he can through obsession and control. At least that’s how i interpret it! anyways, enjoyyy ♡

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Aerion Targaryen loved his twin sister in a way that had no proper name.

It was not the love sung of in ballads, nor the kind whispered between lovers in shadowed halls. It was older than that. Quieter. Dangerous in its depth.

They had shared a womb. Shared breath. Shared the same fire burning beneath pale skin.

Aerion Targaryen did not love his twin sister gently.

He loved her the way one loves a shadow—inescapable, ever-present, entwined with his very being. Where she ended and he began was something even Aerion could no longer distinguish.

They had been born together. Breathed together. The maesters said twins often shared a bond, but none of them understood the depth of it. Aerion did not merely understand his sister—he felt her. Her moods echoed in his chest. Her pain rang through his bones.

When she laughed, something in him loosened.

When she was threatened, the world narrowed to a single, lethal point.

No one else was allowed that closeness.

As children, when she scraped her knee, Aerion struck the boy who had pushed her hard enough to break skin.

“She fell,” the septa said sharply.

Aerion, blood on his knuckles, only stared at his sister—wide-eyed, shaken.

“She cried,” he replied flatly.

That was enough.

From that day on, everyone learned: harming her meant invoking him.

As they grew older, whispers followed them.

Too close.

Too intense.

Too devoted.

Aerion did not care.

He positioned himself beside her at court without question. Chose chambers near hers. Watched every suitor who dared look at her with interest, assessing, measuring, memorizing weaknesses.

“You don’t own me,” she told him once, when she caught him glaring at a lordling who had smiled too warmly.

Aerion’s expression didn’t change. “No,” he agreed. “I guard you.”

The distinction mattered to him.

When Aerion fell in love with another woman, it did not lessen his fixation—it sharpened it.

He loved his wife fiercely, devotion bordering on worship. But his sister remained constant, immovable, the axis around which everything else turned.

His wife noticed it immediately.

Not jealousy—but unease.

Aerion could be vulnerable with his sister in ways he was with no one else. He did not soften around her—he unarmored. Letting only her see the thoughts he buried too deep for even his wife.

“You don’t look at anyone else the way you look at her,” his wife said once, carefully.

Aerion answered without hesitation. “Because no one else knows what I am.”

His sister did.

She had always known.

There were nights when Aerion woke restless, rage simmering beneath his skin for no clear reason. Those nights, he would find his way to her solar without knocking.

She never asked why.

“You’re spiraling,” she would say quietly, handing him wine. “Sit.”

He obeyed.

Her presence anchored him. Her voice steadied the fire in his veins. Without her, Aerion knew—knew—he would have become something monstrous.

“You keep me human,” he told her once, the admission raw.

She met his gaze steadily. “And you keep me safe.”

It was a pact older than words.

Some bonds were not meant to be understood.

Some loves were not meant to be named.

Aerion Targaryen did not desire his twin.

He claimed her as part of himself—

and woe to anyone who dared try to sever that bond.

The court noticed before anyone dared to speak of it.

At first, it was dismissed as nothing more than twin closeness—unusual, perhaps, but not unheard of. They stood too close. Spoke too quietly. Aerion’s attention always found his sister before anyone else in a room.

But then patterns emerged.

No decision was made without her counsel.

No slight against her went unanswered.

No celebration passed without Aerion watching the room as if calculating who did not belong near her.

Whispers followed silk skirts down marble halls.

Too devoted.

Unnatural.

Dangerous.

The first lord to speak openly paid for it with exile.

“I merely meant,” the man stammered before the Iron Throne, “that it is… unseemly. The prince’s attachment—”

Aerion rose slowly.

Every sound in the hall died.

“My sister,” he said coldly, “is not a subject for your speculation.”

The lord swallowed. “The realm watches, my prince. They..whisper.”

Aerion stepped down from the dais. “Then they should learn to whisper more carefully.”

By dawn, the lord’s lands had been seized and his name struck from court records.

The whispers did not stop.

They multiplied.

Servants began crossing themselves when the twins passed. Septas prayed more fervently. Mothers pulled daughters aside when Aerion’s gaze lingered too long on a man who looked at his sister with interest.

Suitors stopped coming.

Those who tried… disappeared from relevance.

One was sent to the Stepstones.

Another lost favor overnight.

A third was found begging forgiveness for an offense no one could name.

“You’re frightening them,” his wife said one evening, voice cautious but calm.

Aerion did not look up from his goblet. “Good.”

“She doesn’t need a cage,” his wife continued gently. “And neither do you.”

His jaw tightened.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “They would consume her if I let them.”

His wife studied him then—truly studied him—and felt something chill settle in her chest.

“She is not fragile,” she said.

“No,” Aerion replied. “She is valuable.”

The breaking point came during a feast.

Wine flowed freely. Music softened tongues. A drunken knight—new to court, foolish with ambition—laughed too loudly and spoke too freely.

“They say,” he slurred, “that the prince burns hotter for his sister than for his own wife.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Aerion did not shout. Did not rise.

He simply turned his head.

“What did you say?”

The knight paled. “I—I meant nothing—”

Aerion stood.

Chairs scraped back as courtiers retreated instinctively. His sister rose as well, placing a hand on his arm—not to stop him, but to anchor him.

“Aerion,” she said quietly. “Not here.”

The knight was spared death.

He was not spared ruin.

By morning, his vows were stripped, his name disgraced, his family cast from favor. The realm understood then: words alone could destroy you.

The Faith took notice.

So did rival houses.

Letters were written. Alliances questioned. The word mad began to surface—carefully, cautiously, always behind closed doors.

“The prince’s love is… misdirected,” one septon murmured. “Such obsession breeds rot.”

Aerion heard of it.

That night, he paced his sister’s chambers like a caged dragon.

“They want to take you from me,” he said flatly.

She met his gaze, unflinching. “No one can.”

“They will try.”

“Let them,” she replied. “They’ll fail.”

But for the first time, doubt crept into her voice.

The court was no longer merely watching.

It was afraid.

Afraid of Aerion’s silence.

Afraid of how quickly a whisper became a sentence.

Afraid of the twin who stood unmoved at his side, neither encouraging nor discouraging—simply present.

They began calling her the tether.

Without her, they believed, Aerion would burn the realm.

With her, they feared, he might decide to cleanse it.

And somewhere between paranoia and prophecy, the court realized the truth far too late:

Aerion Targaryen’s greatest vulnerability was not his sister.

It was that nothing—no crown, no wife, no god—would ever come before her.

[quietlyvigilantdream]

I'd DIE on the grumpy x sunshine trope, absolute masterpiece. Grumpy Aerion x sunshine!wife!reader, everyone thinks Aerion is cruel even to his wife and kids when infact he literally worships her. Always yearning for her whenever she has to travel or when they're separated more than a minute.

I love your writing by the way! Makes me joyous whenever you drop another fanfic.

THE DRAGON & HIS SUN.

Aerion Targaryen x reader

Authors note: ONE OF MY FAVVV TROPES OMG. This was so cute to write, thank you for your lovely recommendation! And 🥹🥹 i appreciate that so much! ♡ plenty more is on its way hehehe thank youuuuu : )

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆𐦍⊹₊ ⋆｡˚

They say Aerion Targaryen does not love.

They say his wife learned early to keep her eyes down, her voice soft, her joy dimmed to survive him. That his children flinch when his boots echo through the hall. That the dragon’s blood runs too hot in him for tenderness.

You hear it all with a smile.

Because the truth lives in the spaces no one sees.

It lives in the way Aerion’s hand finds the small of your back the moment you enter a room, grounding himself as much as guiding you. In how his voice, sharp as Valyrian steel with the court, lowers when he speaks to you—careful, deliberate, as though every word is something sacred he might break if mishandled.

It lives in the fact that when you are gone, even for an hour, the world tilts wrong.

Aerion stands at the window of the Red Keep like a man awaiting sentence, jaw clenched, fingers tight around the stone sill. You are riding with your ladies through the city, laughing too loudly, sunlight caught in your hair—and he is here, restless as a caged dragon.

“Your Grace,” a guard says carefully, “the council awaits.”

Aerion does not turn.

“They can and will wait,” he answers, cold enough to frost glass.

Because the council is nothing. Politics is nothing. Power is nothing when you are not within reach.

He remembers the way you kissed his knuckles this morning, bright-eyed and unafraid. I’ll be back before you miss me, you’d teased.

You were wrong.

He misses you the instant you’re gone.

The court sees only the mask: Aerion the Cruel, Aerion the Mad, Aerion with his sharp tongue and sharper temper. They notice how you sit beside him, radiant and warm, and mistake his stillness for indifference.

They do not see his knee angled toward yours, the way his cloak is always draped so it shields you first. They do not hear the quiet “Are you well?” murmured only for you, or feel how his thumb traces slow circles against your skin during long, dull feasts—anchoring himself to your presence like a man clinging to shore.

They whisper that he ignores you.

They do not know that he watches you more than anyone else in the room.

You return near dusk, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with stories. The moment you step into his chambers, Aerion is there—too fast, too close, hands already framing your face as if to reassure himself you are real.

“You’re back,” he says, breath rough.

“I told you I would be,” you laugh, reaching for him without fear. “It was only the afternoon.”

His forehead drops to yours.

“You should not be gone so long.”

Anyone else might hear a threat.

You hear the truth.

“I’ll take you with me next time,” you promise softly.

His grip loosens, reverent now. As though he’s ashamed of how tightly he held you.

That night, when you sleep curled against his chest, Aerion lies awake long after. One arm wrapped around you, the other fisted in the sheets like he might lose you if he relaxes too much.

He thinks of all the cruel things they say about him.

How easily the world believes he is a monster.

Let them.

Monsters do not worship.

Monsters do not memorize the sound of your laughter, or ache when you’re beyond arm’s reach. Monsters do not kiss their children’s brows with a gentleness so careful it borders on prayer, all because you once asked him to be soft with them, like you are with me.

As dawn seeps through the sky, duty calls. Another council meeting, but as always you’re there. Ever dutiful by his side.

No one speaks too loudly then.

Because Aerion’s hand rests on your knee, and one of the children has his finger hooked through Aerion’s, small and trusting.

They think the children are brave.

They do not know the truth: the children do not fear him at all.

Your youngest tugs insistently at Aerion’s sleeve, utterly unconcerned with the cold looks he’s giving the council.

“Papa,” they whisper loudly, “Mama said you’d tell us the dragon story.”

Aerion exhales through his nose—something dangerously close to a smile.

“Later,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb brushing over the child’s knuckles. “You should listen to your mother.”

Your eldest leans against him, cheek pressed to his arm, half-asleep already. Aerion adjusts without looking, shifting so the child is more comfortable, cloak folding around them both like a shield.

You watch him with fond amusement.

The man they call cruel counts his breaths so he doesn’t wake his child.

When night falls, the four of you are tangled together in his chambers—children sprawled across the massive bed, limbs everywhere. Aerion sits propped against the headboard, one child asleep on his chest, the other curled between you.

You brush your fingers through his hair, soft and familiar.

“They adore you,” you murmur.

“They are yours,” he answers immediately, like it’s obvious. “How could I not love them?”

Later, when thunder cracks and one of the children wakes crying, it is Aerion who rises first. The door barely has time to open before he’s already pacing the chamber, murmuring Valyrian endearments, pressing kisses into sleep-tangled hair.

“You are safe,” he whispers fiercely. “I am here. Nothing will touch you.”

You watch from the bed, heart aching in the best way.

The court sees a dragon.

You see a man who memorized lullabies because you once said the children liked them. Who sharpens his temper into something frightening so the world never dares aim its cruelty at you or your babies.

When you must travel, even briefly, Aerion becomes unbearable.

He walks the halls with a child on each side, hands locked tight, eyes scanning every shadow. Your absence weighs heavier when the children ask for you, small voices asking when is Mama back?

“She will return,” he tells them, certainty like iron. “She always does.”

And when you finally step through the doors, dusty from the road, Aerion breaks.

He drops to one knee so the children can reach you first, watching with naked longing as they crash into your arms. Only when you look up at him—smiling, alive, home—does he stand, hands trembling as they frame your face.

“You’re back,” he says again, like the world has righted itself.

“I promised,” you whisper.

That night, when the children sleep between you again, Aerion presses his lips to your temple, voice barely there.

“The common folk think me a monster,” he says.

You smile into the dark, reaching for his hand.

“Let them,” you reply. “Monsters don’t love like this.”

Aerion tightens his grip around you and your children, fierce and unyielding.

Let the world fear him.

He has everything he’s ever wanted, right here in his arms.

Aerion Targaryen would burn kingdoms without blinking.

But you?

You are the one thing he kneels to.

And if loving you like this is another sin the world wants to pin on him—

Then let history write whatever lies it wants.

He will still be yours.

[pencil-n-pen]

—couldn’t make it harder

masterlist | buy me a coffee!

rick grimes x fawn! reader summary: rick grimes vs. the care and keeping of a fawn like, doe-eyed girl. (Spoiler alert: He wins.) tags/tropes: girl who has very obviously sculpted her entire life around avoiding conflict and being yelled at and a man who dives headfirst into trouble, so yeah it’s just gooey and fluffy a/n: you all begged, cried, pleaded, asked politely, and shouted in my inbox, comment sections, AND reblogs for several months, and i feel bad for being on such a long hiatus, so this is my treat to ya’ll <33 if you see inaccuracies/plot holes no you don't title taken from Couldn't Make It Harder by Sabrina Carpenter, aka this fic (and blog's) anthem!

۫ ꣑ৎ

You have a target on your forehead. Rick’s pretty sure you know it’s there. 

You've always had the special and particular talent of being aware of every single possible and present danger all the time. On high alert— always ready to bolt.

It makes you shy. Makes you quiet, prone to self-isolation. But you're different; special in a way that sets you apart from everyone else who's developed hyper-vigilance after the shitty hand life's dealt them.

You're soft. Sweet. Fucking kind.

And he isn't really sure how he managed to lure you under his arm, but he did. And he's determined to keep you there.

Which, at times, honestly seems too easy. He thinks it should be harder. That you should give him a harder time. That you should ask for more, maybe give him shit every now and then.

The first time he tells you, you look at him strangely. Like he'd just suggested you run naked into a hoard instead of (what he believes) to be a pretty reasonable request. Then you'd given him awkward smile (that had no right to look as cute and pretty as it did) and said 'sure.'

Like you were placating him. 'Sure, Rick. I'll get right on that.'

The second time isn't as direct, but it does end in another awkward smile. You'd both been fairly busy all day. You, on a supply run —He doesn't want to toot his own horn when he says that he made a good decision making you a runner, but damn, you're good— and him doing day-to-day problem solving, scouting, decision making, and all the other exhausting shit he wishes he didn't have to do.

So you'd both been lying on the couch, just kind of taking each other in, and he asked you:

"What do you want to do tonight?"

You'd lifted your head from where it was pillowed against his shoulder, eyes a little wider than usual. You'd stared at him for a beat too long to be considered normal, like you were looking for something in his face. An answer.

And then you'd asked him: "What do you want to do?"

And it wasn't really the answer he was looking for, but it did make something kind of click, in his head. He didn't remark on it out loud or make any sort of indication that something relatively important regarding you and your relationship has just occurred to him.

Instead, he said: "I'm pretty content right here."

And you'd smiled, but it wasn't quite right. It was just a little off. Like you were waiting for something.

He files it away for later.

—

Later happens to be much sooner than he thinks, because now he can't really stop himself from noticing all the myriads of ways that you just... don't ever state your opinion. There's a part of him that preens when you automatically defer to his judgement, especially when it involves giving you a command or order, and he gets to see that glassy look in your eyes, but the other part of him, that part that twinges uncomfortably when he can't manage to wrangle a clear answer from you about what you wan't for breakfast, kind of thinks that there might be layers to the whole fawn thing you've got going on.

It's honestly kind of confusing. On one hand, he knows that if he were to ever really cross a line, you wouldn't hesitate to stab him in his sleep. Or poison his food, or maybe just slap the shit out of him, plain and simple. You're not harmless or defenseless. You wouldn't have survived this long by yourself if you were. So it doesn't really make sense when you simply just... never interject or say "I don't want to do that."

He honestly doesn't think he's ever heard you say no to him before. Which makes him feel extremely slimy and gross, and he vows immediately the moment the thought occurs to him that he has to put a stop to this.

"Sweetheart," He says one morning, having finally worked the courage up, "I got a little something."

You rush over to him immediately, eyes sparking and your body practically vibrating with excitement.

"Is it a new water bottle? Cause I know mine is gross—"

"Slow down," He chuckles, though makes a mental note to add a water bottle to the list of things to do for you, "It's not that exciting I'm afraid. Just... a little treat."

From behind his back, conveniently hidden on the counter behind him, he pulls out a box of your favorite tea. Nothing crazy- he'd happen to spot it on a run-slash-get-away with Daryl, and he knew he could use it to enact a certain plan of his.

It feels so cruel, but he needs to test it. To make sure. And to see the severity of what he's dealing with.

Sure enough- you gasp, hands immediately reaching out for it.

So he interrupts you before you can speak. "It's Maggie's favorite. I know you and her have started to get closer, so I thought you could give to her as a gift."

Watching you falter and retreat into yourself is physically painful. This was a terrible idea. Rick feels awful.

"Oh. Yeah, I think she'd like that."

Rick sighs, full-bodied, and leans back against the counter and gently grabs you by the arms, pulling you forward.

"Baby," He says, voice pitched low and a little soft, just for you, "I did not get that for Maggie. I got that for you."

"Oh," You say again, voice too quiet for his liking, "Then why did you say you got it for her?"

"Because I wanted to see if you'd tell me no."

He waits for you to respond, maybe defend yourself, or something like that, but you don't. You just look at him, eyes a smidgen wet, expression carefully blank.

He raises his hands slow, slow, slowly, because he knows you, and if you're quiet that means two things: Content or scared. And you're definitely not content right now, and he doesn't want to give you a reason to bolt.

You don't though. Run, that is. You freeze in place instead, which almost feels worse, and close your eyes when his hand grows close to your face. He watches your whole body tense, he watches you suppress a small flinch when he finally touches your jaw, your cheek.

"Angel," He brings his other hand up, and your eyes flutter open, "I want you to say no to me. I want you to ask for things and I want you to give me shit. Can you do that for me, baby?"

You scrunch your face up, hesitant, and take your bottom lip between your teeth and nod.

"Uh-uh," He presses on your lip, tugging it free from your merciless bite, "None of that. Come on, use your words."

"I'm... not good at that," You admit, tone hushed, "And... I don't want to. I like it when you decide things, because then I don't have to think about decisions and it's not as stressful. I don't want to go back to stressing all the time."

"Can you honestly say you haven't been stressing this whole time? About what you thought I would do or say if you spoke up about something?"

Your silence is telling.

"If I ever, and I mean ever, raise my voice to you when it's not an emergency, or if I get mad at you for disagreeing with me or voicing your opinion, you have my full permission to slap the shit out of me. Or ask Daryl to do it."

You giggle a little. "That's not fair. Daryl would do that if I asked right now."

"He'd do it for free," Rick amends, a smile tugging at his lips. "But I'm serious. Ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you if you tell me what you want for breakfast."

"I dunno," You shrug, "I might spontaneously explode."

He snorts, then opens his arms and beckons you forward. You collapse against him without a second thought, a little whine expelled from your lungs and muffled by his chest.

"I know, I know," He coos at you, half-mocking half-serious. "But you were so brave, and brave girls get treats."

"Like tea?"

"Yes, like tea."

You hum against him, easily placated, and he thinks that you really aren't difficult at all.

—

A few weeks go by, and you really do make a concerted effort to speak up. For him only, of course. You still have the habit of keeping to yourself, and you seem to just be quiet by nature. Which is fine, because he's taken an awful liking to having such a cute and quiet little thing around him. And your effort is adorable.

Still, though, it's not without it's hiccups.

You got home from a supply run a little bit ago, and you've been avoiding him. Not so glaringly obvious that he feels like he has to say something, but. You definitely are. You just seem on edge. Skittish. Like you were when you first got here.

So he goes about making dinner, cause he's not the kind of man to expect his girl to do everything for him. Especially you, because he knows you would if he asked. You would do anything if he asked. Which really only makes him want to make you do less. Sweet little thing like you shouldn't worry about things like that.

Except here you are, in the kitchen, hovering, and very obviously worrying.

"Sweetheart," He says, absentmindedly flipping a pancake —you've never said it out loud, but he knows breakfast for dinner is one of your favorite meals, "Sit down."

You comply- and quickly at that. But in the absence of hovering near him, you begin bouncing your knee and staring at him, so he dishes up a single pancake and slides it to you.

"Eat that. And when you're done, I want you to tell me why you're upset."

"I"m not—"

"Didn't I tell you to eat first?"

You do actually grumble under your breath a little, much to his satisfaction.

Once you've finished wolfing down the pancake, you tap your fork on your plate, staring at the silverware and clearly avoiding his gaze.

"I've been trying harder to speak up."

"Mhm. You have. I've noticed."

You start chewing on your lip.

"Am I... Am I not trying hard enough?"

Rick's eyebrows furrow. "Why would you think that?"

He quickly flips the last pancake, plops it on the stack with the others, and carries it to the table where you're nervously fidgeting.

"You haven't- um. Usually, you..." He watches you clench and unclench your hands, body tense like you're two seconds away from skittering right out the door, and when you speak, it's hushed and mumbled. "You usually tell me I'm doing good."

Oh. Oh you poor thing.

"Oh baby," He murmurs, sitting down on the chair next to and patting his lap, "Come here,"

You rise from your chair slowly, your eyes briefly flickering from him to the door, and then back to him. Weighing your options. A prey animal weighing comfort over safety.

In the end, comfort wins out, cause you gingerly shuffle forward and plop yourself into his lap, burrowing your face in his shoulder. It doesn't seem like a comfortable position, with you all scrunched up like that, but he's not going to fight that battle right now. Not when your hands are shaking with their grip on his shirt.

"My poor baby," He coos, rubbing up and down your back, "Have you been stressing this whole time? You been worrying? Thinkin' you ain't good?"

"Mhm." You mumble, voice dejected.

"Oh, sweetheart, that ain't true, not one little bit, alright? You've been doing so good, haven't you? Yeah you have. Working so hard to be good on top of being the best runner here, ain't that right?"

You nod into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think you weren't doing good. I'm so proud of you, you know that?"

You make a little wounded noise, kinda soft, kinda whiny.

"It's true. I am. I don't like that you were stressin' this whole time. Defeats the whole purpose, don't it? You know why I wanted you to start speaking up for yourself in the first place?"

Your breath hitches a little before you speak.

"Why?"

"Cause I could tell it was making you worry. And if you have anything to worry about, then I'm not doin' my job properly."

"It's your job to make sure I'm not worried?"

"Yes ma'am," Rick lets his hand come up to rest on the back of your neck. "Sweet things like you shouldn't have anything to worry about. You're too kind for that."

"You think I'm kind?"

"Course I do." He says, readjusting his grip, one hand squeezing your hip, just a tad possessive, It's too hard to resist, when you're clingy like this.

You pull back, bottom lip jutted out and the perfect shade of bitten-pink, entirely irresistible. He doesn't even try to stop himself from kissing you, soft and deep. You've earned it.

"Now," He says, a touch breathless, "I reckon you've worked up a bit of an appetite with all that worrying. And it looks like someone made your favorite dinner."

You give him a quick kiss on the nose. God, you're adorable.

"You're too good to me."

"No," Rick mouths at the side of your neck, lazy and slow. "M' just giving you exactly what you deserve. My pretty girl."

—

After that, he makes sure to praise you each and every day. Honestly, it's as much for him as it is for you. On several occasions, he has to pull you aside from your daily chores just to kiss you, to hold you, because you're just too enticing, all sweet and kind and so happy when he tells you 'good job' or calls you 'good girl'. You're a menace to his blood pressure.

Watching you slowly bloom is a special treat, though. Kind of intoxicating, if he's being honest. Because now he knows with absolute certainty that when he gives you an order, a command, you comply because you want to. You want to listen to him.

It's a miracle he manages to leave the bedroom every day.

You'd confided him one night, curled up into his side that you'd been worried that you'd be difficult to handle. That he'd get tired of putting up with you and your skittish nature.

"Sweetheart, I fuckin' love handling you."

He spent the rest of the night putting your fears to rest. You both sleep through your alarms the next morning.

He's pretty sure it was worth it.

۫ ꣑ৎ

[bambisworlds]

reunited

Rick thought he knew what true, unconditional romantic love felt like with Lori. She was his first love, the mother of his child. But that was nothing close to what he felt with you. You had the ability to turn him into the most deranged man alive, someone unrecognizable and downright psychotic when it came to protecting you. You could also bring him to his knees and turn him into a puddle at your feet. He could be the softest, gentleness man to exist if you wanted him to be. You were his, and he was yours. Simple as that. When he woke up in the hospital to find the world had ended there were only two things on his mind; Carl and you. He needed to find you. (3,587 word count)

content warnings, mdni 18+

f!reader, established relationship, some angst but not really, age gap (reader's her in mid 20s), rick is down bad for reader, rick is so in love with reader it's crazy, munch!rick, oral (f. receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), use of "good girl", consent check, let me know if i forgot anything x

my masterlist

~

Rick was exhausted and he felt terrible. Not just physically but emotionally. The guilt of leaving Merle on the roof and the horrors he’d endured gnawed at him but he tried not to let it show. The only thing that took his mind off of it were thoughts of you. God he missed you. And he was so afraid of what could’ve happened to you, or what could be currently happening to you. The wondering of if you were alive, if you were hurt… it was unbearable. So much so he felt like he had some sort of object plunged into his heart that was slowly rotting and decaying while simultaneously spreading throughout his body, leaking poison  and black goo into his bloodstream. So, he hardly felt any relief when he arrived back at Glenn’s camp. 

~

Y/n quickly walked up to Glenn as he got out of the sports car, pulling him into a hug as he arrived back at camp. The two had become pals when she joined the group, Glenn was a genuinely nice guy, “Thank God you’re alive.” she chuckles, releasing him from her grasp with a soft pat on his back, “That’s quite the car you got there.”

“How did y’all get out of there anyway?” Shane asks, walking over to the two of them with his rifle that he never seems to let go of. Y/n’s smile faded from his presence, she couldn’t figure out what it was but Shane gave her a bad vibe.

“New guy. He got us out.” Glenn answers with a smile, relieved himself that he made it out. 

“New guy?” Shane asks, skeptical, and Y/n sends him a look. Shane was always an asshole to newcomers, even if they helped save someone in the group.

“Yeah, crazy vato just got into town. The guy’s a cop like you.” Glenn tells Shane and Y/n’s ears perk up, her eyes widening with a glimmer of hope.

“A cop?” she asks quickly, “From where? What’s his name?” she quizzes frantically, looking in the direction of the van that had pulled up behind Glenn. She could feel the pounding of her heart in her chest as the door to the van opened and Rick stepped out. Her ears rang as if she was in some altered plane of consciousness, her lips parting in disbelief. “Oh my God,” Y/n and Rick both mutter in sync as they stare at each other, both frozen in shock.

Before Y/n could even grasp what was happening or let it register in her brain that he was alive, Rick had broken out into a sprint towards her. He crashed so hard into her the two nearly fell to the ground, his arms wrapping around her tightly with a slight tremor in his limbs. Finally the world had gone quiet for Rick. The unbearable rotting in his heart had ceased, a stem of flowers and sunlight growing in its place. Rick released a choked sob, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck as he held onto her like a lifeline. His eyes nearly rolled back as he breathed in her familiar scent, waves of relief and downright euphoria crashing over him.

Unable to resist, he pulled his head back and kissed her with a type of passion that couldn’t be replicated, as if he was trying to bind their souls together through the gesture. Rick moaned into the kiss unabashedly, one arm wrapping around her waist to keep her pressed against him while the other cradled the back of her head in an almost protective manner.

“You’re alive,” he murmured in between kisses, barely giving Y/n the chance to respond before connecting their lips again. The kiss was sloppy and desperate, a physical representation of longing and love they both were feeling. The two barely registered the other people around them, too lost in each other, “C’mere,” he grunted out, moving his hands down to grab onto the underside of her thighs. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, choking out a laugh of disbelief and unadulterated joy as he spun around once with her in his arms. She smiled bigger than she had in weeks, her hands resting on either side of his face.

“You’re alive,” she echoes with a broad smile.

“I’m alive,” he repeats, his smile matching hers. The glimmer in his eyes that had been missing since he woke up in the hospital had returned. Rick nearly dropped her as a smaller figure came crashing into him; Carl. Rick’s eyes widened in shock and he carefully, but quickly set Y/n down, pulling Carl into his arms next as another round of sobs escaped him. Y/n smiled down at the two of them, sobbing and laughing at the same time. She didn’t reach for them, wanting them to have a moment of their own. Rick lifted his head slightly to catch sight of Lori, another wave of relief washing over him knowing Carl had been with his mother this whole time. Rick smiled again, his face growing sore from how large his smile was as he held Carl. Rick rose to his feet, wrapping an arm around Y/n and Carl both. His heart was full. Nothing else mattered, nothing at all.

~

That night Rick naturally stayed with Y/n in her tent, unable to be away from her for even a moment.

Rick could hardly believe this was real. Even after he recited what had happened to him around the bonfire with Y/n and Carl in his arms, it still felt too good to be true. Like a dream.

“I still can’t believe it,” Rick says with a small smile as he sits down on the raggedy mattress inside of Y/n’s tent. Y/n smiled softly, finishing dressing into comfier clothes for the night. 

“Me neither,” she sighs, walking over to him to straddle his thighs. Rick’s hands instinctively moved to rest on her hips, like his hands had done countless times before. His eyes catch on a glimmer of a gold chain peeking out from beneath her t-shirt, glowing from the low lamp light. His smile grew slightly as he gently plucked the chain out from beneath her shirt. It was the golden, heart locket he had given her on their first anniversary. It held a picture of the two of them that was taken at her 22nd birthday party. She was smiling in the picture with Rick’s arm wrapped around her waist as he kissed her on the cheek. They both looked so happy.

“You still have it,” Rick mutters with a nostalgic smile, tracing his thumb over the locket. 

“I know it’s morbid, but I was scared if I never saw you again I’d forget what you looked like,” she practically whispered, her voice cracking slightly, “This is the only picture I had left of you, I wasn’t about to lose it.” she smiles sadly. 

“You wanna know somethin’ stupid?” he asks with a grin, lifting his bottom off the mattress slightly to grab something out of his back pocket while keeping a firm hold on Y/n with his free arm so she wouldn’t fall off his lap. Y/n watches him with furrowed eyebrows, unsure of where he was going with this. “I went back to the house after I woke up and the first thing I grabbed was my wallet,” he chuckles, holding his leather wallet in his hands, “It’s kinda pointless to have it now, except for one thing in it,” Rick opens his wallet to reveal a picture in it of him, Carl, and Y/n, “I wasn’t about to lose this either.”

“Rick…” Y/n mutters with a smile as she traces her finger over the picture. It was taken at one of Carl’s holiday parties at his school. It meant so much to her when Carl had asked her to go, saying he wanted his whole family there, not just his parents, “I guess we had the same idea then.”

“I guess so,” Rick grins, setting the wallet down on the crate beside the mattress that served as a makeshift nightstand. His hand returned to rest on her hips, slipping beneath the band t-shirt she wore to feel her bare skin, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to be able to touch you again?” Rick asks huskily.

“I have some idea,” Y/n mutters, resting her hands on his shoulders. 

“I dreamt of you every night. Every goddamn night. Like you were some ghost haunting me, or an angel,” Rick’s fingers thumbs rub soothing circles on her sides, “The dream would last long enough for me to think it was real, then when I woke up…” he sighs, looking down at Y/n’s lap. 

“I’m sorry… it must’ve been terrifying when you woke up in the hospital.” Y/n’s heart clenches and she rests her hands on the sides of his face, encouraging him to look back up at her.

“When I went back to the house and nobody was there… I’d never felt so devastated in my life,” he explains and Y/n nods sympathetically. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again, resting her forehead against his, “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. Rick sighs, closing his eyes as the lingering ache of that awful day faded, a sense of contentment overpowering it. 

“None of that matters anymore. All that matters is you’re alive, you’re safe,” Rick pulls back slightly, tilting her chin up towards his face with his thumb, “I love you more than anythin’,” Rick says firmly, “You and Carl… you’re my whole world. I don’t care if the rest of it is in shambles as long as the two of you are happy and alive.”

Y/n smiles softly, closing  the distance between them to nuzzle her nose against his before kissing him. Rick sighs contently, immediately melting into her familiar embrace as his hand falls back to her hip. His hands gripped her hips, squeezing the soft flesh there with a slight moan. Y/n’s hands snaked from his shoulders up his hair, tugging slightly. Rick smirked against her lips, lifting her up off his lap and turning them so he could lay her on the mattress.

“Didn’t realize how much I would miss feeling you yankin’ on my hair like that,” he grins down at her, bracing his hands on either side of her head. Just as Y/n was about to respond with a smart remark he lowered his head to press open mouthed kisses on her throat. Rick groaned, sucking and nipping at her skin. He lowered himself down to brace himself on his elbows instead of his hands, wanting to be as close to her as possible. Y/n’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting with soft breaths. 

“I missed you so much,” she breathes, her hand resting gently on the back of his neck.

“Mmm, I missed you too,” he mumbled against her skin. He supported his weight on one elbow, his free hand caressing and groping any part of her he could reach, “Need to get reacquainted with this body of yours,” Rick smirks. 

“I think I’ll allow it,” Y/n says with a slight smile. She slips her hands beneath his t-shirt, smoothing her hands over his sides and abdomen. Rick’s smirk grows as he captures her lips again. 

“Don’t know how in the world I’m gonna keep quiet,” Rick smiled against her lips, “Might have to build us a cabin in the middle of nowhere so I can be as loud as I want.”

“Miss me that much?” she asks with a grin of her own, their noses bumping against each other.

“You got no idea,” he mutters, yanking her shirt off in one swift movement. Y/n gasped softly followed by a slight chuckle of surprise from the brisk action, but her chuckle faded as Rick bent down to capture one of her nipples between his lips. Y/n sighed contently, combing her fingers through his hair as he lavished attention on her breasts. Rick was moaning and groaning as if he was tasting the most delectable desert imaginable. 

“People are gonna hear you,” Y/n giggles quietly.

“Don’t care,” Rick mumbles in response, hastily kissing down her stomach as he yanks off her sleep shorts. Once they were discarded he nuzzled his nose against the crotch of her panties, his eyes rolling back with a low moan. If it hadn’t been so long since she’d last seen him, Y/n might’ve been embarrassed by his display, but she missed him too damn much to feel bashful.

Rick placed an open mouthed kiss on her dampening panties, his tongue poking at the fabric before peeling them down, his face so close to her cunt his nose bumped against her panties as he pulled it away. The minute he had them shimmed down to her ankles he was pushing her thighs apart, his eyes darkening at the sight of her glistening folds that had been practically engraved into his memory since the first time he saw them. He nuzzled his nose against her clit, his eyes fluttering shut again, “God damn,” he mutters reverently before opening his eyes once more, looking up at Y/n’s face. 

The look in his eyes sent a shiver down Y/n’s spine, it almost made her want to get up and run from how hungry and dark his gaze was, but she’d rather get bit by a walker than go anywhere else right now. She needed him just as much as he needed her. 

Rick suctioned her clit between his lips, holding eye contact with Y/n, but once her familiar flavor touched his tongue his eyes rolled back and all coherent thought was lost. He devoured her as if he hadn’t eaten in months, which he might as well hadn’t considering how long it’s been since he’s last tasted her. He hastily yanked her further down the mattress so his face was smushed against her pussy, haphazardly shoving her legs over his shoulders as he ate her out like some starving animal. 

“Oh shit,” Y/n gasped, her head falling back against the meager pillows as her back arched off the mattress. 

“Mhm,” Rick hummed against her cunt, barely even bothering to glance up at her as he focused on her cunt. He lapped over every inch of her sex as if trying to memorize it, periodically sucking on her clit and pumping his tongue into her hole. His hands gripped her hips tightly, keeping her firmly in place for his ministrations.  

“Rick I’m gonna cum,” she mutters frantically, nearing her peak at record speed after weeks of aching for him. 

“Do it,” Rick mumbles against her folds, his voice vibrating against her sensitive flesh. Y/n whispered and mumbled profanities, covering her mouth with her hand in hopes the people in the tents around theirs wouldn’t overhear, or worse a walker. She released a choked moan, her back arching off the bed as she came and Rick lapped at her cunt eagerly, moaning in delight. He didn’t seem to have a problem with anyone or anything overhearing him. 

Y/n shivered and jerked as he continued to lap at her clit with no sign of stopping, she eventually pushed him back by his forehead as it became too much. Rick looked up at her with hungry eyes, his lips pink and puffy and chin slick with her arousal. He began to yank her back to his mouth when she tugged at his t-shirt, pulling him up to her face. He begrudgingly let her tug him where she wanted him, but not before he had the chance to strip off his own clothes in a flash. 

“Need you so bad,” Rick mumbled against her lips, their teeth clashing from the desperation of the kiss. Y/n made a needy sound of agreement, enjoying the oddly erotic taste of herself on his tongue and lips. Rick quickly gripped onto her thighs and wrapped them around his waist, rubbing his cock against her folds to coat himself in her juices, “Sure you want this?” Rick double checks, his restraint holding on by a string, but a lot could change in 6 weeks. He didn’t know all of what she’s been through. He needed to make sure she truly did want this, want him, no matter how much he loved her and craved her.

“Yes, please, please,” she begged eagerly, bucking her hips up against his cock. Rick felt as if he heard angels singing briefly at her desperate reply. He slowly slid his cock into her, a choked moan escaping him. He nearly collapsed on top of her like some teenager losing his virginity, he had missed her so damn bad he nearly came before he was all the way in. 

“Christ,” Rick grunts as he bottoms out, a shudder running through his body, “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered to himself, his chest heaving. He tried to remember all the things he used to think about when he was younger when he tried not to cum fast, like brick walls or sweaty balls or something, but being with her again felt so damn good. 

“You okay?” Y/n asks him breathily, her chest heaving as well.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rick pants, beginning to move, “Fuck,” he moans loudly as he begins to roll his hips, his head falling back.

“Rick!” Y/n scolds, reaching up to cover his mouth with her hand. He grins behind her hand, mumbling a ‘sorry’ against her palm. 

He let his head fall forward again, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck, “You just feel so damn good, baby,” he mumbles against her neck. Y/n lets out a hushed moan in agreement, tangling her fingers in his hair as she keeps her legs firmly locked around his waist. Rick pants, his moans muffled against her skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. His hands gripped the sheets on either side of her head with the effort of holding himself back. Y/n mewled and whimpered quietly in his ear, her eyes fluttering shut in enjoyment as she clung to him. 

Rick found the strength to lift his head up to look down at her, her gorgeous features furrowed from pleasure only adding to his arousal, “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he mutters, beginning to pound into her with renewed vigor. Y/n’s jaw dropped and her eyes flew open from the change of pace, a shaky moan slipping past her lips. 

“F-Fuck, Rick,” she gasps, both their breathing growing heavier.

“That’s the plan,” he chuckles, snaking his hands underneath her to lift her ass off the bed and maneuvering her ankles onto his shoulders in search of that special spot inside her. He knew he’d found it when her back arched off the bed followed quickly by a high pitched cry. Rick smirks devilishly, “That’s the spot.”

Y/n frantically reached for Rick’s discarded shirt beside them on the bed, holding it over her mouth in an attempt to stifle her moans. Rick immediately shakes his head in disapproval, yanking the shirt from her grasp, “No hiding that pretty face from me.” he grunts, “If you gotta moan then moan, I wanna see my girl's face when she cums.”

Jesus he’s so hot. Y/n thinks, “Gonna cum,” she whimpers, her face contorting.

“Mhm, cum on my cock,” Rick encourages, his thrusts precise to keep hitting that special spot inside her with each snap of his hips.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Y/n repeats on a loop, her eyes rolling back and body convulsing as she cums.

“Yesss that’s it, that’s my good girl,” Rick praises triumphantly, not relenting his movements. Y/n sobs in pleasure, her hands flailing on the bed for something to hold onto. Rick quickly positions her legs back on either side of his hips, grabbing onto her hands to intertwine their fingers on either side of her head, “You’ve got one more in you, I can feel it,” he pants, “Be a good girl and give it to me.” Y/n shakes her head slightly with a shaky whimper, but she could already feel another orgasm building within her, “Yes you can, you’re gonna cum again. Three’s nothin’, I’ve given you eleven in one night before.” Y/n’s body begins to melt into the mattress and her grip on his hands loosen, her jaw going slack as she cums again, “There we go,” Rick mutters almost to himself as he feels her walls begin to clench and quiver around his cock again, her face the image of pure bliss.

Rick’s thrusts began to falter, struggling to keep himself up as he neared his peak. With a jerk of his hips and low groan he cums as well, burying himself as deep as he could as he grinds against her, “Fuuuck,” he moans, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm. He moans in satisfaction, his body turning to jelly as he collapses atop her, holding himself up weakly on his forearms. He rolled his hips slightly, prolonging both of their pleasure as he captured her lips in a slow, languid kiss.

He pulls back enough to where their noses bumped against one another's, his voice firm with no room for argument, “I’m never losing you again.”

if you have any requests including the people on my masterlist please comment them below any of my posts or in my submissions!! (check here: about my blog  to see what things i'm not comfortable with in regards to requests <3)

[jsooly-deactivated20260222]

DEATH IN THE FAMILY (8) / sully family x human!daughter/sister!reader

synopsis, you and tarsem get along pretty well. too well.

/

A younger Tarsem occupied your dreamscape. Recollections of curious glances, teasing words, and romps in the mud resurfaced, reminding you that for every uncomfortable memory you had of your childhood, there were five great ones.

When the clan children were very young, they didn't try to hide their interest in your existence. You looked different, but you did the same things: hunted, spoke, and ate like them. For a few years, they treated you like any other Na'vi child. As you grew and they began to understand the threats facing their people, they separated themselves from you.

Humans had forced their way onto their planet, and even the "good ones" were held at a distance by the clan. You couldn't blame them for their animosity. You, like the other humans, were a reminder of what they had lost. It weighed your frustration and sadness with a guilt you couldn't shake. But it wasn’t about you—not really. It never had been. Reminding yourself of that fact was the only way you navigated living with the Omaticaya.

You thought you'd be fine living out at the lab on your own, but... home is home. And home was among the clan, for better or for worse. Tarsem's invitation became increasingly tantalizing the more you thought of it.

Your comm buzzed, snapping you out of your thoughts. You sat up abruptly, paging through. "Spider?"

You were met with silence despite the initial connection. You continued on. "The plan didn't work. Someone got in the way, but I can—"

"Don't worry about it." His words cut through yours.

You paused, brows scrunching in mild confusion. "Don't... what? Try again?"

"I appreciate your help, really. I do. I've heard the last few times you tried to call me, and I'm sorry I didn't respond, but you don't have to check in on me anymore. I'm not in any immediate danger, and... I'm doing fine, actually."

What? "Spider, I don't—" The line dropped, but you still called out to him. "Spider?"

No response.

You frowned, removing your fingers from your comm. Don't need rescue? Doing fine? Without intel on his whereabouts, it would be nearly impossible to keep track of Quaritch's covert team. You sighed and massaged your temples. You had tried your best for Spider, but if he didn't want to help the rescue efforts, there was little you could do.

You made a promise to continue to check in on him despite his instructions. Quaritch understood people. If they could be manipulated, he was on it. A kid like Spider was especially vulnerable to offers of comfort and belonging. Evidently, he'd been getting comfortable.

You groaned and rose to your feet. You eyed your weapons satchel.

Well, Tarsem, you thought as you slung it over your shoulder. You win this time.

You informed Norm of your departure before seeking out Katir to return to High Camp.

. . .

Seems you didn't really think this through.

Under no circumstances would you trust Katir around the clan's banshees—those were like low-hanging fruit snacks to the big guy. You two were still learning each other, and one thing about him was that he was always hungry. He was growing, after all.

Speaking of growth—you weren't sure High Camp had the space to support him. The cave spaces the people inhabited were narrow enough for ikran, but not for a slotsyal.

You pursed your lips as you stewed in thought. Katir warbled underneath you, voicing his confusion at your continued cruise through the air. You rubbed his neck. "Hang tight, Kitkat. You'll be okay on your own, yeah? A few days just hanging around?"

He chirped.

"Let's set down over here." You guided him to a floating mountain a couple of minutes out from High Camp. With another firm pat, Katir lowered his head to allow you to dismount.

His eyes followed you as you stretched, then constricted upon hearing the war cries of Na'vi approaching from the skies. Your head shot up, peering at the descending ikran and their bonded partners, spears and arrows poised for attack.

"Wait!" you yelled, waving your arms to make yourself visible. Their flight stuttered, reflecting the confusion of their riders at your proximity to a Stormglider without being... you know, eaten.

You gently nudged Katir's head down from his defensive position, like you've seen Jake do with direhorses when they grow agitated. His breath puffed from his nostrils in an angry rhythm as he shook his head in frustration. You whispered soothing words to him as the Na'vi landed on the flat mountaintop in front of you.

"(This is the rogue Stormglider,)" one rider snapped in Na'vi, bow still pulled taut. "(What are you doing?)"

You held up your hands to placate them. "(He is tame.)"

"(How would you know?)" they retorted.

You rolled your eyes lightly. "(I've spent a couple of days with him. Trust me, if he wanted to harm me, he had many opportunities to do so.)"

"Mawey." Tarsem's ikran came shrieking down from its bird's-eye perch, landing between the scouts and you. He slid off, pushing down his people's bows. "(She speaks the truth. The Stormglider is tame by her own hands.)"

You let out a shaky breath when you saw the surprise paint the scouts' faces. They stepped back with a nod. With their weapons lowered and holstered, Katir no longer perceived a threat and relaxed. He turned into you, nuzzling his snout into your side. You smiled and stroked the crest of his head.

The scouts observed you, and you swore you saw something close to respect in their gaze. You bowed your head slightly, a small smile on your lips. When they smiled back, you had a feeling that everything was going to be okay.

. . .

With Katir protected from the clan's hunt, you left him to roam freely in his natural habitat high above the forest.

You rode to High Camp on Tarsem’s ikran. Thank the Great Mother you were sitting behind him, because you don’t know how you’d deal with that smug smile of his. He probably thought he was so persuasive to get you to come back home after just one day of talking to you.

You scoffed but couldn’t stop your smile. "I can tell you want to say something."

"Like what?"

"I told you so?"

"Risk gloating in front of you?" Tarsem glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "I learned my lesson yesterday."

"Yeah, and what’s that?"

He pursed his lips in thought. "You are stubborn, like your father. Headstrong, like your mother. I have seen elders go up against them and get a mouthful. I can say now that I share that experience."

You shook your head, laughing softly. "Good or bad experience?"

"You're coming home, are you not?" He smiled to himself, happiness seeping into his tone. "Unlike those elders, it seems I got the last word against a Sully. I will be remembered for generations."

You giggled. "Don't get used to it."

"If this is the only thing I win from you in our lives," he continued, softer, "I will die a happy man."

You fell quiet, letting the breeze speak for the remainder of the journey.

With a squawk and a fluttering of wings, Tarsem and the scouts landed back in High Camp. The passing Na'vi did not pay much mind to their arrival—after all, regular patrols were a part of life now that the RDA was back.

Tarsem adjusted his loincloth as he dropped to the ground, offering his hand. You raised an eyebrow, finding his behavior amusing. Tarsem was always popular. He was strong, quick, masterful with weapons—a real prodigy if there ever was one. When whispers that he might be the next Olo'eyktan spread through the clan, betrothals were offered up left and right. He was always sought after, and you had personally witnessed some attempts yourself.

Seeing the other side of it—him seeking you—was a pleasant surprise. He didn't have parents that would make him feel as though he needed to be threatened by you, making him the closest thing to a friend outside of your own family. From childhood to adolescence, you believed his fascination with you was childlike curiosity.

But you weren't children anymore. And what lingered between you was no longer curiosity. It was interest. Intent. The kind of attention that was far from innocent.

Your hand slipped into his and you jumped off his ikran. He cleared his throat as he walked through the camp. "I have a place for you to stay. Quiet, far away from the chatter of the clan."

You smiled appreciatively. "Thanks."

"Close to my tent," Tarsem continued, while his eyes tracked those who passed you with odd looks. "If you have problems, you can come to me."

"As I demonstrated yesterday, I'm sure I can handle myself."

"I agree with you," he replied, glancing down at you. "I only suggest that you do not have to do it alone."

I don't want to. It’d be nice not to, seemed like the perfect thing to say. But you opted for another smile instead.

He led you to your designated tent. It was just like the one you had shared with your siblings months ago: beads and designs woven into the threads of the canopy, crates for belongings, and a computer for updates.

"This is perfect," you praised. "Thank you."

"This is your home. You have no one to thank," Tarsem said firmly, but his kindness was not lost on you.

. . .

Days and days passed without much excitement. The news of your feat with your Stormglider spread like wildfire. When you decided to roam the camp grounds, you were no longer met with odd looks. There was a respect around your name, and it seemed as though your clan was finally accepting you as you were. As one of them.

You visited Mo'at and gave her updates on the family: where they were, what they were up to, what you'd seen with your own eyes. You regaled her with the story of pseudo-bonding with Katir, cocking your head when she smiled widely, a soft chuckle on her lips.

"I told you Eywa does not make mistakes," she hummed, brushing your hair. Your mind traveled back to the day your family left, recalling the first time a woodsprite made its way up to High Camp. "Your father echoes in you."

Your father.

Another thing you were soon coming to terms with. Now that your reputation was growing among the people, you were learning that many thought of you as an extension of Jake Sully. The only difference between the two of you was that you had no avatar—otherwise, the physical prowess and risk-taking were practically identical. You were the last remaining Sully in the clan, and they treated you as such. The name—your name—carried a weight they couldn't ignore.

You and Tarsem often flew together. When it became hard to communicate atop Katir given his size, he improvised and took you out on his hunting trips instead. You were a clean shot, after all. After handing off the game to the clan, you would both crash. More often in your tent than his, after you got an unwelcome surprise visit from a scout one time and rumors spread.

He talked a lot. You figured with his new responsibility as Olo'eyktan, he didn't have many people to talk with anymore. Everyone looked to him for the answers. He had to be strong, for their sakes. Your tent was special to him for that reason—a place where he didn't have to be strong. You understood what he was going through; you had seen your mother console your father many times with varying results. Even the greatest leaders feel small sometimes.

After another successful hunt, you and Tarsem made your way through the sleeping camp to your tent. He dropped against the wall with a groan, rolling his shoulders as he shrugged off his weapons. You chuckled at his antics, setting your bow and arrows down as well.

You sat beside him, offering some water you had collected on your night out. He accepted it happily. Tarsem observed you with a careful eye. He pulled at your clothes. "You need new things."

"Hm?" You glanced down. Your clothes were in rough shape. Every branch you ran into and every puddle you splashed in added up, and it was strikingly obvious. "I guess so. I'll stop by the lab tomorrow to—"

"No. Get rid of this sky demon attire. Wear the people's clothing."

"Omaticaya dress?" you asked incredulously.

"Yes."

You laughed dryly. "Yeah, sure."

"Sarcasm?"

"Yes."

He rolled his eyes, sitting up straighter and unintentionally towering over where you sat. "I am serious."

You gave him a weird look. "Get rid of this sky demon attire? You're forgetting what I am."

"The body does not always reflect the soul," he countered with a shrug. "Your father is proof of this."

You snorted, pausing to study him when he didn't even blink. He really was serious, and for some reason, that made you laugh harder. "You're serious."

"I said I was, yes."

"Do you want everyone to see me naked?" you whispered urgently, disbelief on your tongue.

"I do not understand. Naked?"

"Without clothing."

He scoffed, gesturing to the sky in exasperation. "Silly tawtute concerns. This is normal."

"Normal for you," you shot back. "Not for me!"

"It will become normal," Tarsem retorted as though you were being unreasonable. When he heard you laughing, his frown deepened. "You make fun."

"No," you insisted slowly, though the grin on your face was undeniable. "I'm just not sure people need to see all that. I won't be able to move like I do if I'm worried about flashing everyone."

"Flashing?" he repeated confusedly.

Your mouth hung open for a moment. You knew that nudity wasn't even an issue for Na'vi. As such, you quickly realized they had no concept of things like ‘flashing.’ To Tarsem, you were just babbling on with no good reason to reject his idea.

"Flashing is like... exposing myself," you explained weakly.

You expected him to continue to argue with you. But his eyes flickered, and a slow smile spread on his lips. "Move how you want, ngatsyìp. Nothing about you should be hidden. Nothing."

Your hand shot out to swat his arm, the grin on your face failing to cover up your flustered state. Your cheeks were warm, fueling the fire that allowed you to curse, "Skxawng!"

He laughed brightly, gathering your wrists in one hand and tugging you to the floor beside him. He easily held you down, but then again, you were only half-heartedly resisting.

"I will find beads and feathers for you. You will try them."

"Is that an order?" you teased, a challenge in your tone.

Tarsem matched your taunt with one of his own. "You love to test my authority, ngatsyìp. Push me and see that I know how to handle you."

. . .

In Awa'atlu, Jake couldn't sleep. Fatherly instincts, perhaps?

. . .

thanks for reading! lmk if you wanted to be removed from the taglist :)

© jsooly ‘25

[little-kikisdream]

The same bunny.⋆.𐙚 ̊

Dark!Neteyam x innocent! Na'vi reader

Summary⋆.𐙚 ̊<The one where you and Neteyam grew up impossibly close to eachother, but as you reach adulthood you drift apart that is until things go horribly, terribly wrong. And neteyam has to draw you back to where you belong.>

Warnings⋆.𐙚 ̊<size difference, choking, dom/sub, rough, gaslight, manipulation, stalking, oral fem!receiving, squirting, sir kink,fingering, degradation, fear kink, corruption>

Neteyam did not remember a time when she did not exist.

His earliest memories were not of bows or blood or the weight of a spear in his hands—they were of a small, soft presence always just behind him, fingers clutching the woven band at his wrist as she tried to keep up with his longer strides.

She was always there.

Their families kelku stood close together, the shells angled along the trees. The Sullys’ home and hers were joined by a long lasting respect, love and trust from Neytiri's bestfriend. A trust that had been passed down into her daughter and through Neytiri's eldest son-Neteyam.

Every morning, without fail, Neteyam and Jake would make their way over to the neighbouring hut and knock three times.

Jake’s voice followed, deep and warm as usual.

“Can we steal our doll today?”

And every time, her parents laughed.

She would peek out first, with her big eyes, soft smile, and her hair never quite tied back right.

Jake had called her doll from the moment she could walk. Not because she was fragile—though she was—but because she had that comfort about her.

The same comfort that little girls put into their toys.

That was found in her.

Neytiri loved her as her own. She was the closest thing to a neice that she had-though not by blood, she would do anything to protect her bestfriend's daughter and they would do anything to protect her children. She braided her hair with reverence, painted her markings with gentle hands, scolded the boys if they played too roughly around her.

And Neteyam—

Neteyam watched.

Always watched.

They played at the waterfall together even then. Lo’ak splashed farther out than he should have, whooping when the cascading water knocked him sideways, convinced he was invincible even then, erupting laughter out of all the kids as he scoffed in embarrassment. Kiri drifted along the water, pausing often to watch the leaves shuffle on the trees.

Spider lingered nearby, pretending he wasn’t paying attention, skipping stones and glancing up every few seconds just to make sure everyone was still there.

She stayed closer to Neteyam.

It was better that way, if she stayed near him he wouldn't go complaining to his parents that she went to far into the water, Lo'ak wouldn't get overly excited and accidentally hurt her, kiri wouldn't try to teach her to hold her breath for a whole minute resulting in a near drowning situation.

She was happy this way, she laughed when the water lapped at her calves as a result of Lo’ak’s franctic splashing, reaching for his hand when a fish surprised her, and he let her hold on without comment. Sometimes she tugged him toward the rocks to show him water flowers she liked. Sometimes she followed him without thinking, matching her steps to his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Neteyam slowed for her without her ever realising it.

Lo’ak teased her, endlessly. He poked at her reactions, stole her things, laughed when she would pout and go stomping to Jake and Neytiri.

But he would throw punches for her without thinking.

Kiri adored her softness for it reminded her of the way of Eywa and she often dragged her into meadows to talk about Eywa and spirits.

Spider treated her like she was made of glass. Always offering her things, and always watching Neteyam carefully when he stood too close to make sure he didn't trigger a reaction.

Smart boy.

She was not like the other Na’vi girls. They climbed higher, ran faster, laughed louder. They were edged and fearless, born knowing Pandora would either make you strong or swallow you whole.

She was soft.

Her laughter was quiet. She asked too many questions and trusted the answers too easily.

Pandora loved to eat girls like her.

Neteyam learned that early.

So he taught her fear.

Not in a brutal way.

Just enough to keep her safe.

He would crouch beside her even when they would still young to warn her about the consequences of not listening.

“You must never wander too far” he would say. “There are things waiting for something like you.”

Her eyes would widen. She would nod fast and grip his arm in fear when he would purposefully step on a branch-pretending that it came from the bushes.

When they grew older, when his training intensified and his body hardened, so did his mind. He became mature and brave. He became even more of a protector than he was before. She stayed the same. Taller, yes. Older. But still gentle and soft spoken.

He became Olo’eyktan-in-waiting. A future leader. A mighty warrior. His future was layed out on a silver platter infront of him.

By the time he was twenty-two and she was eighteen, the world had shifted.

Pandora no longer felt infinite in the way it had when he was a boy because he had seen the horrors of this world.

Twenty-five.

That was the age etched into him long before he was even born.

That was the age that the heir of the Olo’eyktan would take his place if he is ready and deemed worthy.

He accepted it, and he embraced it. And along with that came the change. He rarely laughed anymore for happiness is weakness. He rarely spoke for the more you reveal the more liabilities you make.

And with all of that came a mate.

The clan chose his future mate with absolutely no concern for how he felt about it.

Which was odd considering the fact that everything else was chosen for him.

She was strong, had a sharp-tongue, and was independent- she was built to rule beside someone like him.

On paper, she was perfect.

In reality, she made his jaw tighten every time she spoke like she commanded everything, every time she pushed instead of balanced. Neteyam was dominant by nature, and having someone that relentless at his side didn’t feel powerful—it felt violent.

But the level of submission that he would break her down to-might just strip his title away from him before he even got it.

He knew that the clan didn’t need two voices clashing for control.

When she turned eighteen, the shift was immediate, and honestly unbearable.

She didn’t change who she was—she just grew into herself, and that was the problem. Her body softened and filled out in ways that caught the eye whether Neteyam wanted it to or not, curves settling where there had once been angles, her breasts filling out in a way that was so rare for Na'vi women-but she was never like the other women. She still laughed softly, still trusted too quickly, still felt like Pandora. The Pandora that he once knew.

The magic, the wonder it all flowed back when she was here.

So he pulled away. Because he now had an arranged mate. And he could no longer push how he felt towards her down.

He stopped walking her home, stopped sitting beside her during gatherings, stopped offering quiet guidance or watchful presence, and started choosing distance instead.

She noticed, obviously.

But she didn’t confront him.

She too accepted the distance with that same quiet grace she accepted everything with, even though confusion sat behind her eyes-she accepted it.

Neteyam told himself this was discipline, that this was what leadership demanded, that protecting her sometimes meant removing himself from her world entirely—but distance didn’t stop him from watching.

He still tracked her movements through the village without thinking about it, noting when she left, who she walked with, how long she was gone, and whether she came back with the same relaxed posture she left with. He followed her into the forest whenever his duties allowed, staying far enough back that she never sensed him, but close enough that nothing else ever got the chance to.

Most nights, he slept outside her kelku, close enough to hear her breathing through the woven walls. When a predator wandered too close once, drawn by movement or scent, it never made it past the treeline, and she never even knew there had been a threat to begin with.

Pandora was no longer magical to him. But you'd be damned to think he wouldn't let it keep being magical to her.

He made sure of that.

When he noticed even a single drop of loneliness or sadness from her. He sent one of his most trusted female warriors into her life under the excuse of friendship, reporting everything she said back to him.

It was better this way. Neteyam was sure of that, until...the reports came back.

She told herself she understood.

That was the easiest lie to live with. Of course he didn’t have time anymore to wander through the forest with her and his siblings to wander around.

Of course he didn’t.

She told herself that growth meant distance, that this was natural, that this was what happened when people stepped into their futures while others stayed where they were.

She told herself that it didn’t hurt because it wasn’t personal, because Neteyam had never once been cruel to her.

So she accepted it.

She smiled even when she saw him and he looked past her. She stepped aside when he entered a space like she had learned to do instinctively, making room for the weight of who he was becoming.

She assumed he was just busy.

That belief lasted right up until the day it didn’t.

The announcement came without warning infront of the whole clan in celebration.

Neteyam and Laïloui were to be mated, and everyone around her reacted the way they were supposed to—with approval, pride, excitement.

She felt nothing like that.

What she felt didn’t have a name, because she had never felt it before, not once in her entire life.

She had known joy, warmth, safety, and curiosity, but this was different. This was nothing like any of those.

That was when everything changed.

It was when she realised that he wasn't busy. And it wasn't an excuse.

Without Neteyam’s presence hovering quietly at her side, without the unspoken understanding that she belonged with the Sully's.

The village stopped making room for her. Conversations closed when she approached. Laughter softened, then stopped.

She was too soft.

Too quiet.

Too unnecessary.

The friend groups she had always drifted within shut her out. She was left out of gatherings. Not given anything to eat during shared meals.

And she took it.

Because she always did.

She woke up every morning with a heavy strain in her chest, and she went to sleep with the same pressure still there, curling around her heart.

She too stopped laughing.

She too stopped talking.

For she had no one to make her laugh. And she had no one to talk to.

Her chosen family had moved on without her.

Neytiri was always busy now, tending to Laïloui with the same care she had once given her. Jake spent his days training Neteyam. Lo’ak chased his brother’s footsteps, desperate to prove himself, while Kiri wandered deeper into Eywa’s pull, searching for her purpose.

And she was still there.

She didn’t blame them. That was the worst part. She understood why they were busy, why their lives were full, why there wasn’t room for her softness anymore in a world that demanded strength.

She remained gentle.

Remained kind.

Remained alone.

By the time the morning came, she had already come to the realisation that she was no welcome here.

So she moved carefully and gathered her things.

She didn’t look toward the Sullys’ home once she stepped outside.

She couldn’t.

If she did, she knew she’d hesitate, and hesitation had never saved her before.

Her father’s absence still lingered like a wound that never closed properly, his death still too recent, and her sweet mother lay sick at the loss of her mate.

She had watched Eywa take pieces of her life one by one, she had started to believe that maybe she was cursed.

It would only be a matter of time before her mother was taken too.

And then what?

She would be alone anyway.

She slipped into the forest just as the sky began to lighten, the familiar paths already feeling foreign beneath her feet.

She had been something people loved when it was convenient, when it was easy, when she asked for nothing—but the moment she needed a connection, protection, belonging, she had been quietly set aside.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been walking until the forest began to change.

The forest grew denser as the daylight faded. And for the first time since she’d left, she felt something other than grief take hold.

Fear.

By the time night fell, it wrapped around her completely.

The forest after dark was nothing like the place she’d known her whole life, nothing like the gentle paths she’d walked with Neteyam and the others when laughter came easily and danger felt theoretical.

She slowed, then stopped entirely, her breath shallow, and her ears straining as the memory hit her all at once.

Never go into the forest at night pumtsyìp

Neteyam’s voice lived in her head like it always had. His voice getting deeper everytime he said it to her as he had over his many years.

And now she was alone.

Truly alone.

She hugged her arms around herself, and for the first time since she’d left, regret bloomed heavy and bitter in her chest.

She wished, stupidly, desperately, that he were there.

Not the future Olo’eyktan, not the warrior everyone admired, not the man who had learned to look past her like she didn’t exist anymore, but the boy who used to slow his steps so she could keep up, the one who had taught her fear so she would survive, the one who had always been there when the forest felt too big.

She sank down at the base of a tree eventually, exhaustion winning out over fear just enough to make her legs give, pressing her back against the bark as she curled in on herself, trying to make herself smaller.

Neteyam had been right.

About all of it.

And somewhere deep in the forest, there was something that was waiting to pluck up a little thing like her.

The sounds of claws and growls echo through the forest, causing her to push herself impossibly closer to the tree as a lone tear left her eye.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Based on the fact that he knows this forest back to back, Neteyam knows it must be a small pack of grody grueller's. And he decides that it's best to have her scared than hurt.

Neteyam lowers himself down slowly, his muscular arms flexing with the movement. A large hand grabbing her by the back of her neck.

“What did I say.” Neteyam murmurs, his voice low and gravelly as he draws it out from his chest.

She gasps, her breath stuttering violently as recognition slams into her, and when he eases his hand away just enough for her to breathe, she twists around so fast she nearly trips over herself. Her eyes find him immediately, blown wide and shining in the dim bioluminescent light, and for one humiliating, overwhelming moment, all she can do is stare at him like he’s something unreal.

“Teyam—” His name breaks in her throat,

and before she can stop herself she takes a step toward him, hands lifting like she needs to confirm he’s actually there.

His gaze flicks over her, sharp and assessing, taking in the few scrapes on her, the dirt streaking her calves, the way she’s shaking so hard from the cold that she can’t hide it, and his jaw tightens in a way she recognizes immediately.

He straightens slowly, his presence filling the space between them until she feels small without him even trying.

“Where were you going” he asks, his tone calm but she knew better based on the way it rumbled out of him.

Her mouth opens, then closes again as another sound carries through the trees, the unmistakable purr of the grody grueller's echoing closely, causing her fingers to instinctively curl into the fabric at his side.

“Mawey” he says quietly.

“I just thought—I thought no one would noti—” She blurts out in a whisper. Cutting herself off when shame came crashing down hard enough to make her stomach twist, and she swallows thickly before whispering, “How did you even find me?”

“I didn’t,” he says simply.

Before she can ask what he means a grody grueller crawls out of one of the bushes, and reality finally kicks in fully as she scrambles back a step, but she doesn’t get far before Neteyam’s hand firmly snaps around her, pulling her back into his space with ease.

The bushes shift again, and this time she freezes completely, her nails digging uselessly into his arm before she abandons the effort altogether and moves behind him instead, pressing herself against his back like instinct alone knows where she’s safest.

Her face pressed into his mid back, breath hitching as the sounds grow louder.

You might be scared, but he needs you to remember why you must depend on him for everything, even after all these months. Why you owe him your submission.

“Remember when Lo'ak came home, scrapped up by one,” he says, humming as if amused by the memory.

"You think you would fight them better than Lo’ak?" he asks as a shape slips through the brush ahead, then another, and she lets out a broken sound.

“Neteyam,” she whimpers, fingers clutching desperately at his waist. “Please.”

A vicious snarl erupts from the side and she stumbles hard, barely managing to keep her feet as she presses herself against him again, her quiet scream muffled against his back.

He exhales slowly, as he tsks.

He coos at your little pleas. “Have you come back to reality pumtsyìp, hm?”

You nod frantically as you whimper out your response through pushing down a dob. “Yes”

They circle you with hunger in their eyes now, stepping closer.

Neteyam knows that a sudden motion from him-a mighty hunter that they have come to recognise would be enough to scare them off.

But you didn't have to know that.

“Oh but you didn’t listen to me”

“I didn’t,” you sob, “I’m sorry!”

"Are you?”

You grab his face, prying his eyes to look at yours, and whatever expression crosses his face causes your tears to finally fall from your eyes as a pout settles on your lips "I'm sorry" you sob.

It is so satisfying to him to watch your natural submission after so long. It reminds him of when Lo'ak would tease you and you would come crying to him even as a child, and even now. You still come crying to him.

“Mawey, pumtsyìp. Your Teyam is here, here aren’t I?” No response is given, instead just a gasp as another creature inches closer and you dash into his arms. This time he wraps one arm around your small frame.

He lets out a low, warning hiss that cuts clean through the night causing the pack to whine then scatter off into the woods.

And then he shushed you, as a large arm tightens to pull you even closer.  And Neteyam basks in the moment, a weight shifting off of his chest as he realises that you still long for and need his protection.

Maybe if you actually listened to him then you would now that he has always protected you-thus why he followed you here. Just like he follows and watches you in many places.

However, you’ve always had the most addictive way of begging so why would he ever stop such a pretty sound.

Neteyam lifts you into his arms and you let him, the familiar motion calming all your nerves.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Boy, did Neteyam want to corrupt your innocent little head tonight, but he still kept in mind that you didn't understand sexual acts. But that just fueled his desire even more. Though a part of him wonders if you still blindly trust him like you used you-a part of him knew that your curiosity outweighs your fear.

He needed you to find comfort and protection in him again. And though he admits that he fucked up by ignoring you these past few months-he has also come to realise that he has sacrificed everything he is to become Olo'eyktan.

But you-you were the one thing that he would give up his title for.

And he would be damned if you thought otherwise, so tonight he would make it up to you.

He wanted you to have something that would constantly remind you that you need him. Wether it's his seed growing inside of you, a leaking little pussy so full of him cum that it drips out of you pretty little hole, or his scent marked on you.

He would get it through your pretty little head that you have always and will always need him.

Now that he has brought you to his kelku (house), he moves your body to his preference, making you straddle him.

The dominance of his action causing a blush to run across your cheeks as you nibble on your lips, keeping your eyes down to pick at your hands.

His large hands caressing your body so calmly that it has you cooeing at the motion.

“You do understand why you must always come to me. Don’t you pumtsyìp?” keeping his voice low, as his eyes follow the goosebumps on your arms.

His finger tips trail to the back of your neck, his large hand pulling your hair into his grasp, exposing your delicate neck to him.

“I thought you were smarter than that.” His other hand cradles your face, large enough to span the entirety of your head and tilt it upwards. It gives him the perfect view of your expression when both hands smooth up towards your hairline before parting and dragging along your scalp. Lips parted and eyes fluttered closed, he knows he has pressed the right button, pulling a mewl out of you.

"I-I am Teyam" you whispered, you face leaning into his touch.

"Then you would know that a pretty little thing like you should never be in the forest without me"

“So many bad, bad men waiting to take you away.” he gravelled out, tugging your hair at the scalp, pulling a whiper out of you.

He always knew you were too innocent for this world. And submitting to him for atleast a comforting hug from him, proved him right.

“Away from me” His low voice vibrates through you, opening your eyes to find his lips mere centimeters away from your own. 

And just as you lean in, his grip on your hair tightens, keeping you in place.

“You wouldn't want that to ever happen” he ensures, “for you to be taken away from me” He continues, rolling his long tongue out to lick up the side of your face, tasting your dried tears with satisfaction.

“Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” You answered, with the smallest whisper as you try to learn forward for more. He tutts in disapproval, shaking your head with his grip in your hair. “yes... sir.” You correct yourself and like bleeding infront of a shark, the intoxicating scent between your thighs reaches his nose once more. He so badly wants to see if your juices have spread onto your thighs yet.

And he was so so delighted to see that you still give him the authority that him and lo'ak give to his father. You always made him felt like more than he is. You gave him respect long before he was near the title of Olo'eyktan.

“There’s ma good girl.” He purrs.

His lips hovered near her ear, his breath scalding against her skin.

"You didn’t think I had truly abandoned you, did you?"

She let out a small exhale as she tilts her head down, remembering how betrayed and confused she felt.

"You...left me"

"I never left you pumtsyìp. I was with you every day. They gave me a mate before I could chose the one I wanted. I was waiting for the right time but I'm done waiting now."

"...I wish you and Laïloui all the best" she whispers as she lifts her leg to get off of him, only to have him grip her thigh and plant it back down.

"Laïloui is not the one I want."

"But-"

"Laïloui is no longer here"

Her eyebrows furrowed as she took in his words.

"I needed time to get rid of her, Mawey. That is the only reason I stopped talking to you"

"Rid of her?" She draws out slowly trying to understand what he means by that.

Neteyam tilts his head to the side in satisfaction at the memory of him shoving Laïloui off the cliff right before binding their kuru. It was a wonderful plan really-the Sully family would break their attachment to you so that Laïloui wouldn't retaliate. To keep her in an illusion that they cared for her. To make her trust them. And to draw her attention away from the one that they truly do care about-you. The clan had already chosen Laïloui before Neteyam had gotten the chance to ask you to be his mate-he had been planning it since he was 18 but Jake ensured him that it was best to wait until he was older and the title of Olo'eyktan was in arms reach. So as a result of guilt for ruining his son's lifelong plan. The sullys joined together to help craft this plan. And thus resulting in Laïloui's "disappearance". And with Neteyam’s assertance of dominance by going against the clan's orders and mating with you-that would be the final act of preparation and he would at last be given the title of Olo'eyktan.

He just needed Laïloui out of his way for good. And he needed you to not be seen as a threat in the meantime to keep you safe.

"Don’t worry your little head about that pumtsyìp."

"You should go be with your chosen then Net-"

"I already am."

She barely processed his words before his teeth grazed her earlobe, biting down on it before bringing it into his mouth to suckle on.

“You don’t get to decide my future for me.”

That did it.

Neteyam went still.

And Eywa knows that was worse than anything he could've said.

His grip tightened in her hair, tugging at it to force her face up to meet his eyes. He leaned back just enough to look at her properly, his golden eyes darkening, as his jaw tightened.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

She hesitated. “Netey—”

“I said,” he cut in, his voice growing impossibly deeper, “say it again.”

Her heart thudded painfully. “You don’t get to decide my future.” She replied meekly, casting her eyes down as shyness crept over her body.

A slow breath through his nose.

Then a low, humorless laugh.

“Decide?” he echoed. “No, pumtsyìp. I don't need to decide anything. I just need to remind you.”

He leaned in, foreheads touching, voice dropping into her mind like poison wrapped in honey.

“Who was there when you were alone.”

“Who taught you how to walk these forests, how to hunt, how to climb trees, how to swim.”

“Who made sure no one touched you, no one claimed you, no one took what was always meant to be mine.”

Her lips parted. “You don’t know wh—”

“I know everything,” he snapped, suddenly fierce, eyes blazing. “I know every man who looked at you too long. Every whisper behind your back. Every risk that vanished before it ever reached you.”

Her pulse spiked. “But you ignored me.”

His hand slid up, fingers curling under her chin—not forcing, just guiding until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” he admitted without shame. “I had to Mawey. But not for one second did I want to. I had chosen you long ago...but I just wanted to be worthy enough for you to chose me too...I was waiting for my title. But the clan chose before I could. And I had to let Laïloui think I chose her to keep you safe. Because the moment the she realized how much I wanted you—how much I need you—I would have gotten rid of her in public.”

His voice lowered, as he cradled her small face in his large palm.

“And now I’m Olo’eyktan,” he said. “No one can tell me no.”

Her breath hitched. “You’re scaring me.”

Good.

His lips curved into a smirk as he squeezed her cheeks together.

"I need you to help me get my title Mawey. I need a mate. And I will not chose one that is not you. The future of our clan rests in your hands."

“I said you’re scaring me net-"

“You’re scared because no matter how much you fight it,” he whispered, “you were never going to be anyone else’s.”

Elaila let out a soft, involuntary sound, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his robe as his mouth found her ear again.

"Such pretty sounds."

His hands explored further, mapping every curve of her body as he tilted her head back with a firm tug to her hair, exposing the fragile line of her throat.

"You'll chose me right?" he murmured, leaving open-mouthed kisses to her throat, the sloppy sounds of the action filling the chamber as he smacked his lips against the skin there before letting his spit drool down her neck just to slurp it up again. "For the sake of your Olo'eyktan."

She barely had time to catch her breath before his teeth sank into her skin to place a claiming bite.

She gasped, her fingers digging into his chest, but he didn’t relent. His tongue flicked over the mark, soothing, then biting again, harder.

"You taste divine," he rasped against her throat.

"May you please move your knife," she replies as she wiggles slightly in her attempt to sit straighter. The movement presses her body further against me

"Fuck" he whisper under his breath. "Not a knife,"

"Oh? Then what is it?"

"Keep squirming and you'll find out"

The hand on her face tilted her head slightly, guiding her gaze to his.

When his lips finally met hers, it was soft at first, but that quickly changed as each kiss became deeper and wetter.

His lips moved against hers with a desperate hunger as a low, growl of satisfaction rumbled in his throat.

When his tongue brushed against the seam of her lips, she parted for him, and he took it as an invitation, his tongue slipping past to lick up her very essence, as his tongue moved against hers in deliberate strokes, coaxing her to meet him, to match his intensity.

The sound of their kiss filled his kelku, soft and wet, mingling with the faint hitch of her breath and the steady growl that vibrated in his chest. Saliva slicked their lips, adding a slight sheen to the movements, their mouths sliding together with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

He tilted his head to deepen the angle, his teeth grazing her lower lip before sucking it gently, a flick of his tongue soothing the sting. His hand shifted, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling just enough to expose her to him fully. The kiss grew sloppier, more urgent, as though he couldn't get enough, couldn't pull her close enough to satisfy the ache inside him.

Her hands pressed lightly against his chest, a feeble attempt to put space between them, but he only responded by tightening his grip. His fingers tangled deeper in her hair, tilting her head back as his lips chased hers, refusing to let her go.

"More," he murmured, his voice rough, breathless, lips brushing against hers as he spoke. "More."

He pleaded as his hand slid to her waist, fingers pressing into her skin as he pulled her flush against him, swallowing the shaky breath she let out.

When they finally pulled apart, threads of saliva connected their lips, breaking only when he leaned back to look at her, his eyes dark with unrestrained desire. Her lips were swollen, glistening, and he stared at them as though already planning the next kiss.

"I'm scared...and confused" she admitted, her soft voice contrasting against his deep one as she kept her eyes strained to the floor.

His other hand came up, rough fingertips tracing along her soft jaw before tilting her face up to his.

"I know Pumtsyìp...I know" he answered lowly as his large hands that layed on her waist gently swayed her side to side.

"Open for me," he growled against her lips as he dived back into the kiss.

Neteyam pressed himself against her wetness with no pretense of restraint. The hard, unmistakable evidence of his arousal grinding against her core.

“Do you feel that?” he snarled against her lips. “This is what you do to me"

Suddenly, he placed her on the wall next to him and dropped to his knees, but he didn’t just do that, he yanked her thighs apart with brutal force, making her momentarily stumble back to grab the wall.

He pulled her hips forward until she was perched right on the edge of his mouth, her back arching instinctively to keep balance.

The sight of him there, his broad, muscular shoulders between her trembling legs made her breath hitch.

Without hesitation, he bent forward, his mouth descending on the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. His lips latched onto her soft skin, his tongue dragging over the delicate curve before his teeth sank in just enough to leave a mark. The sharp sting made her gasp, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, but he didn’t relent. His mouth moved upward, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses, saliva smearing her skin as he worked his way closer to her center.

"What are you doin-?" She gasped as she tried to gently push him away by his shoulder, which obviously failed...

Once he finally reached there, he bared his teeth and clutched it onto her loincloth, and slowly dragged it down. He took a deep breath as he took in the sight of her wet, dripping pussy, all pure and ready for him to claim.

He latched onto her, his tongue pushed between her folds as he dragged it through her arousal, his face burying into her, making her cry out and gasp. The wet slurp of his mouth filled the air as he devoured her, sucking and licking without restraint. His nose pressed against her, his jaw moving with relentless fervor as his saliva mixed with her arousal, dripping down his face and onto his hands, which were still gripping her thighs like a vice.

"Y-ou can't do that, that's dirty!" She squeeled in potest, only to have his tongue circled her clit in response, alternating between flicking it in quick, teasing strokes and pressing flat, broad strokes that left her trembling. He groaned against her, before shaking his face against her wetness making her hand instinctively shoot out to grip his hair as she took a step back, trying to move away from his overwhelming touches, his jaw was slick with her as he pulled back a string of her juices connected his mouth to her core.

“Stay still,” he growled, pulling back

His hands shifted, sliding down to grab her hips and yank her even closer to his face, making her yelp and grab onto his jaw for balance. One hand slid lower, gripping her ass roughly as the other shoved her leg over his huge shoulder, locking her in place. The angle left her completely open to him, and he took advantage, his tongue plunging into her with a ferocity that made her moans bounce off of the walls.

Neteyam growled in satisfaction "Atta girl", the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through her. His lips wrapped around her sensitive bundle of nerves, his teeth grazing it lightly before his tongue swept over it in fast, messy circles. He sucked hard, his mouth wet and sloppy as he alternated between rough suction and flicking his tongue in maddeningly erratic patterns. Saliva coated her, smeared across her thighs and dripping down to the stone floor as he growled against her.

“Neteyam" she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair, trying to push him away when the pleasure became too much. But he was relentless, snarling against her as he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to her sides with a single hand.

He pulled her closer, pressing his face against her harder, his tongue diving deep as his nose pressed against her swollen bud. The wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth echoed in the kelku, louder with every desperate flick of his tongue and every rough suck of his lips. His free hand slipped lower, two fingers thrusting into her without warning, making her yelp out and whimper as he stretcher her as he worked them in time with his mouth.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding as he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his lips slick and swollen. “Look at me while I make you mine.”

Her big, innocent doe eyes locked with his cold, stoic glare, and the sight sent a shiver down her spine. His eyes were feral, dark and wild with possession, his jaw and braids glistening with her arousal.

"I-I'm going to pee get off"

She gasped as she tried to close her legs.

But Neteyam dragged his tongue darted out to lick his lips, as he held her gaze.

"No you're not."

Then he was on her again, his mouth rougher, sloppier, hungrier than before making her throw her head back in ecstasy as she grinded her hips, sensually rubbing her core against his mouth in desperation.

Not long after, the coil in her belly snapped, her release crashing through her with violent intensity as her cries filled the air. Her legs shook, her body arching, her fingers tugging roughly at his hair as waves of pleasure overwhelmed her, but Neteyam didn’t stop. If anything, her climax only spurred him on, his tongue and fingers working her mercilessly as he coaxed another release from her overstimulated body.

Her second orgasm ripped through her, her thighs clamping around his head, trying to stop him from continuing as she screamed his name. He growled, prying her legs apart with a brutal force, and he didn’t stop until her knees buckled and she was gasping for breath, her body utterly spent and slick with sweat.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, his lips and jaw a glistening mess. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before licking off the essence that trailed on it.

"If you ever try to hide your moans from me again, I'll fuck you by the fire where everyone will hear how good I make you feel,” he growled into her ear.

[demigoddessqueens]

save me sexy priest with a kind heart, save me

[illbegottenfaith]

theodore nott + mattheo riddle incorrect quotes insp

[iniquitousyearning-deactivated2]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

fuckfest. the slytherins — groupsome / drunk sex.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: malfoy manor is a great place for drinks, laughs, and…. orgys?

warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUTTTTTT, porn with negative 100 plot, literally just sex and mentions of alcohol, group of uni students that love to consensually gangbang when they have the chance (sorry i’m cackling at that), pansy and reader kiss a few times, multiple orgasms from some of the boys, anal sex, fingering, oral.

Habits are simple, predictable things, slipping into your life without much thought. Some are reckless, some harmless. And some, well—some come with the taste of someone else's lips.

You're not sure when kissing Pansy Parkinson became one of them. What started as a drunken dare, a little more fun than you'd planned for, has now undoubtedly turned into something else—something almost close to ritual. With every night that stretches long, every round of drinks that comes too fast, it's inevitable that your lips will find hers at one point or another, like clockwork.

And a habit is just a habit, but this one—this one you never feel like breaking.

"You ever try body shots with tequila?" Pansy whispers, breath warm against your lips as her smirk hooks you, the same way it always does.

"Plenty of times." You grin back, your mouth barely brushing hers. "What, you want me to lay back for you, Parkinson? Shirt pulled down—or off?"

Theo whistles, and Pansy giggles. They've seen this before, watched it unfold in countless variations, yet it's still equally as entertaining every single time.

"Pull it down, take it off, whatever gets me there faster." She's already moving, grabbing lime and salt with hands that are too steady for how much you've all been drinking. "You know I won't complain either way."

You pour her a shot, liquid gold catching the dim light in the room. You feel the weight of every inebriated gaze on you—Draco, Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo, Theo—all of them watching, same way they always do when you and Pansy put on a show.

You blink and she’s back in front of you, lime and salt in hand. You feel bold, drunk on the moment as you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, leaning into her kiss only to break it as you pull the fabric over your head. The boys shift around you—more whistles—and Pansy's hands find your face, greedy and gentle all at once, barely giving you a moment to toss the shirt aside before she nudges you onto your back.

"You're so fucking hot," she purrs, slinking between you and the boys who are seated around the table, grinning. "Tilt your head, that's it—here—"

She nestles the cool shot glass between your tits while sprinkling the salt on your neck—then, the lime slice is between your teeth before you can even register it, and now you're staring straight at Blaise—his dark eyes roving over you like a feast, lips parted just enough that you can imagine the feel of them pressed against your own.

Your thighs tense, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"The boys wanted a show," Pansy whispers as she pulls off her own shirt. "They'll get one."

You hum in agreement and she works like she's done this a hundred times— shot glass disappearing between her lips, tossing the tequila back before she sets it aside— warm tongue dragging along the line of salt on your skin, moving up to suck juice from the lime between your lips. She meets your eyes for what feels like a split second before the lime is yanked free and her mouth is on yours, lips tasting like tequila and salt and something wild—

You close your eyes against the flood of sensation—the alcohol, the heat, the spinning of the room—and kiss her back with equal fervour. Her lips crush yours, sloppy and wild, a thousand impulses spinning through your mind and inevitably, you're too weak to fight them, tugging her closer as a result.

Pansy huffs, fingers curling into your hair as she crawls on top of you—straddling your hips on top of the table as one hand slips down to your chest. The boys are muttering things that you can't hear as the kiss is frantic now, teeth grazing, tongues tangled, the taste of lime and tequila lingering in each exhale.

"Gods, Pansy," you gasp into her mouth, hands sliding down her waist, digging into the fabric of her skirt. "You're insatiable."

She pulls back just enough to smirk, breathless, her dark eyes glinting. "I could say the same about you, babe."

You feel the tension in her greedy fingers as they curl against your scalp, her weight pressing you down into the table, and suddenly—all the teasing, all the playing at flirting feels too far away—you need her closer, need to take control back, need to feel her beneath you instead of towering over you—

"Pans—" your hands find her hips, gripping tight as you push against her, trying to flip her onto her back—but in your haste, you misjudge the edge of the table and before you can stop her she's tumbling forward, off the side, straight into Draco's lap. "Oh—shit—"

Everyone gasps, the room pausing for a moment and you're vaguely aware of Blaise's hands clutching your waist, pulling you steady into his lap as you teeter off the table too, the tequila making your head spin. Pansy is sprawled over Draco on the floor, skirt hitched high enough to give the rest of you a perfect view of her ass—to which everyone in the room is admiring. Shamelessly.

It's a spectacle—and the boys have always loved a fucking spectacle.

"Merlin's sake—" Draco grunts as Pansy slumps over him, straddling his waist. You catch the way his hands grip her thighs, fingers flexing like they don't quite know what to do with themselves. "Always the bloody dramatics with you two.”

"I'm not even sorry." Pansy grins, unrepentant as ever as she leans into Draco's neck, teasing like nothing's even happened, like she's perfectly content to remain there, straddling his lap. "You make a good seat."

Draco scoffs, and Theo snickers from across the table.

"You're a menace." The words from Draco's lips sound a lot like praise, and something about the way his eyes flutter shut when Pansy's tongue finds the sensitive skin at his throat makes your mouth go dry. "You're alright, though?"

"Fine," she murmurs, though her tone suggests she's thinking of anything but her well-being. "Totally fine." Her fingers brush over his chest, tracing the buttons of his shirt. "Are...are you fine?"

"I'm—" his voice catches when her fingers undo the first button. "I'm fine."

"You are," she agrees, voice a little hoarse, as she undoes the second, then the third. "Very, very fine."

Draco's face flushes, and there's a sheepish edge to his smile as his hands—almost without thought—begin to slide higher, fingers trailing under the hem of her skirt, pulling it just a little further up her hips. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second as he settles over the curve of her ass, and there's a spark, a shiver of something between them—

Your gaze flicks to Blaise, feeling his presence at your back—solid, grounding, the warmth of his chest pressed against you as you lean into him. You don't have to see him to know he's watching, though you find the confirmation anyways, his dark eyes tracing every movement, every shift between the two heated Slytherins on the floor.

When you glance back, you see the boys are all watching, too—Theo, Enzo, Mattheo—all glued to the sight, silent in their anticipation.

Pansy grinds down, and Draco's head tips back, eyes closed, hands clinging to her hips, her ass, anywhere he can find—

"They don't waste any time, do they?" Blaise murmurs, words a tickle at your pulse, the sound of his voice pulling you back into your own body, your own skin.

You shiver as his fingers trail lightly up your ribs, teasing the edge of your black lace bra—you tilt your head and you catch Theo's gaze sliding over you, flicking back and forth between Pansy's legs and the way Blaise's hands have begun their slow exploration along your sides. You grin as you meet Enzo's eyes next, his lip pulled between his teeth, fingers tracing the rim of his cup—

"You could take notes, Zabini," you murmur, the words catching in your throat as his lips graze your shoulder—so close, too close.

"Me? Take notes?" He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the spot just below your ear. "I've already got it down to a science, baby.”

"Yeah?" You hum, lost in the feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his fingers are edging dangerously close to your breasts. You can feel Mattheo's gaze, burning into you from across the table, but you don't dare look, you'd crack if you did. "You sure about that?"

"Quiz me if you'd like." As if to prove his point, he pushes past the fabric of your bra, long fingers finding a nipple, and your hips twitch of their own accord, a gasp leaving your lips.  "I'll pass any test you give me."

"Cocky." There's a slight edge to your voice as you roll your hips, meeting his heat with your own—just to distract him, of course. "You're gonna' make the others jealous."

"They'll have their fun," his finger toys with the clasp of your bra, now. You feel him undo it. "I want you first."

"Oh," you gasp at the sensation of cool air against bare skin as he yanks it off your arms, exposing your tits to everyone at the table. "Cocky and greedy."

"You'd expect nothing less, baby." He practically growls.

You choke on a moan. "Blaise-"

"That's my name," he's groping, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you squeak. "I know you're real familiar with it."

Pansy's moans, soft and breathy, fill the space as Draco works her out of her skirt, mouth moving between her thighs. You clench—seeing them—her fingers in his hair, her gasps growing louder and more frantic—your pulse quickens—

"Jealous?" Blaise's taunts, having caught you staring.

You shake your head, but—Merlin, how could you not be? You'd give just about anything to relieve the heat between your thighs. To feel the heat of all the eyes watching you right now against your skin. Mattheo, Theo, Enzo—

"Not jealous." Even you can hear how breathless you sound. "Just impatient."

"Patience is a virtue," Blaise says, all mock-virtuousness, squeezing your tits again, as if to punish you for being impatient. "One I'm happy to reward—"

Mattheo is the first to snap, shoving the half-empty bottle of alcohol aside and standing up, chair scraping across the floor. Theo considers doing the same, you can tell, eyes still glued to your half-naked body as he drains his cup in one gulp. Your eyes flick to Enzo, who's merely staring, his lip still being bitten to death between his teeth.

Merlin help you.

Mattheo strolls around the table—eyes roaming as he moves, stopping just behind where you sit on Blaise's lap, breath warm on the back of your neck as he murmurs in your ear—

"I've been patient." You think it's to Blaise. "Where's my reward."

Blaise snorts, and then Theo stands up.

"We've been patient." He's looking at Blaise, lips just starting to grin. "Real, real patient."

Enzo laughs as he rises, too—all three of them forming a loose semi-circle around you and Blaise. You can almost taste the testosterone—hot and eager and hungry—as their eyes rake over you.

Blaise tugs you closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I'm feeling outnumbered."

"You're outnumbered," Theo agrees, smirk growing as his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you off Blaise's lap and to your feet. "You're also outvoted. You think we're going to just sit around and watch?"

"Not a chance in hell," Mattheo growls as he moves behind you, calloused hand running up your thigh.

Blaise grunts from where he's still seated, watching you with molten eyes, "you lot are animals, you know that?"

You almost laugh at that, considering he had your bra off in minutes.

"We're just—eager." Theo whispers, leaning in just enough to breathe against your neck, kissing a path up your jaw while Mattheo's hands work at undoing your skirt. You're so turned on you're not sure how you're not dripping down your thighs. "I wanted to be inside you three fucking hours ago."

You whimper at his words, the thick air of the room suddenly too much as Mattheo's hands push your skirt down your legs.

"Three hours is generous." Enzo's moving now, but he isn't looking at you—his eyes are locked on Pansy as Draco slams into her—the two of them locked in a trance. "My head's been filled with filth since this afternoon."

"Filth?" Blaise cocks an eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Filth," Mattheo husks, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat—lips pressed to your ear. "All I've been able to think about for the past week."

Your hips twitch at the pressure against your throat—and you moan louder than Pansy. "Gods—if one of you doesn't fuck me in the next minute—"

"Told you," Blaise chuckles, watching Mattheo's hand around your throat like a hawk. "Animal."

"Then what?" Mattheo ignores him—fingers pressing against your pulse just a little harder as he pulls you flush against him, teeth finding your ear, and you feel Theo's fingers trail down your front, teasing your slit. "What're you gonna do?"

"Fuck," you mutter, breathless, hips jerking toward the touch. "I'll die—"

"Oh, that's not good." Enzo's looking now, circling around to stand on your free side, his gaze traveling from your face, down your body, to where Theo's fingers are centimetres from pushing into your soaked cunt. "Is it our responsibility to prevent that?"

"Probably. It's only the right thing to do." Mattheo's cooes against your neck. "Can't have you dying on us, now can we?"

"Mm. Not the only," Theo murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he pushes a finger inside you. "I can think of a dozen things to do right now."

"A dozen?" Blaise scoffs. You're starting to hate the sound of his teasing fucking tone. "Only a dozen?"

You can't even reply—any words you possess are swallowed by another moan as a second, then a third, of Theo's fingers push deep into you. Even his fingers are long, you think. You forgot just how big—

"Merlin, Theo—fuck—"

"That's the idea," he grins against your lips—you moan again when his fingers curl deep.

"You like that?" Mattheos hands are all over you—your tits, your ass, the press of his chest against your bare back—and you think that you need to see his face, need to see his eyes. "You need more?"

"Yes." You're not sure if you're speaking to Mattheo, or Theo, or Enzo or Blaise, or all of them. "Yes, please—please—"

"Oh good," Blaise muses. "She's polite."

"Of course she is," Theo groans as your cunt clenches around his digits—your slick sounds filling the space between you, mingling with the sound of skin smacking from a few feet away. "So good for us."

"Mm," Mattheo adds, teeth scraping over your shoulder, squeezing your ass to make you gasp. "Very."

"A real angel," Enzo purrs, still circling like a fucking shark, eyes flitting over to Pansy and Draco again as her moans grow louder, more insistent. "Especially when she's begging."

It's all too much—Theo's fingers pumping deep, his thumb swirling your clit, the sounds of Draco and Pansy and the feel of hands and lips and intoxicated eyes everywhere—

Your head falls back against Mattheo’s shoulder. "Oh, please—fuck—please—"

"What're you begging for, Bellissima?" Theo murmurs, drawing your eyes back to his. "Wanna use your words?"

You gasp as his fingers move faster, deeper, as if he's trying to pull the words out of your throat. "Need—"

Blaise snickers. "Yes?"

"Need to cum—" you cry out, hysterical as Mattheo pinches your nipples, groans against your neck. "Need to be—fucked—"

"And I'm the greedy one." That's Blaise again, insufferable as ever.

"We like greedy," Theo grins against your mouth, fingers crooking, and your knees buckle. "Right, boys?"

"We do," Mattheo growls.

"We like it a lot," Enzo agrees, his eyes finally meeting yours. "We love it."

"Then what're you waiting for," you gasp, unable to take much more of the heat building, twisting, every point of contact sending a new wave of need through your body. "Give it to me—"

"Give you what?" It's Blaise again—God, he's driving you fucking insane tonight. "You gotta be more specific, babygirl."

"Give—ohh—" your orgasm is right there. Right. Fucking. There. "Give me your fucking dick, Zabini—fuck—you called first—"

"Oh I did, didn't I?" Blaise still hasn't moved from his seat, but you can see the way his trousers are straining. "Guess it's my lucky day."

Theo lets loose a groan, and you can feel his hips jerking in rhythm with his fingers. "Thank Merlin for small favours."

"Lucky for all of us, really." The corner of Blaise's mouth twitches, almost with the suggestion of a smile. "Don't you think, Enzo?"

Before you can even comprehend Enzo's response, Theo curls his fingers just right, thumb rubbing your clit just right, Mattheo groping your chest and kissing your neck just fucking right—and then you're there—climax charging you, release spilling all over Theo's fingers—

"Oh, fuck—yesyesyes—"

You cry out and shudder forward, only being held up by Theo and Mattheos hands, and you're barely back on earth before you feel Blaise's fingers under your thighs—urging you back and laying you out across the table as if you're a fucking feast for him—

"Patience," Blaise grins down at you, hands finding your thighs, squeezing hard enough to drag you back to reality and realize he's got his trousers undone. "Is really such a virtue."

"Right," you mumble, still breathless as you look up at him. "Too bad I'm fresh out."

Blaise chuckles at that. "I can tell."

Fuck this—

"Blaise—if you don't fuck me right now—" you push up from the table, urging him back into the chair he was sitting in. "I will let everyone else fuck me first and make goddamn sure you watch."

There's a flicker of surprise in Blaise's eyes as he slumps back in the chair—Mattheo snorts behind you and for a second you wonder if you may have just gone too far—

"Not a chance," he smiles, his words coming out in a growl that's all heat and lust and something just a little dangerous. "We'll have none of that."

And then, he's on his feet again. But this time, when he touches you, it’s firm and fast and not at all gentle. He directs you around the table before bending you over it, and you hear someone—Theo, you think?—groan like they're in pain, the sound swallowed by a desperate moan that you know for certain is Pansy's.

Your eyes flutter when you hear it—you just don't know where to look—

"No, look up. Up." Blaise's hand is in your hair, forcing you to look up from the table, and you realize where the sound came from. "I want you to watch."

Your head's spinning in a way you're sure is not entirely from the alcohol, and it only intensifies when your eyes focus on the scene just across the room—Draco and Pansy sprawled on the couch, now, Pansy riding him while stroking Enzo's insistent dick, his glossed eyes glued to yours, watching, just watching—

Blaise's hand is still in your hair. "That's it. Watch."

Enzo smiles at you, cheeky and fucking taunting before Pansy tightens her grip while jerking him off and his head tips back—

"Gonna' be good for me," Blaise murmurs against your back—his tip pressing against your dripping entrance. "Gonna' take it all for me?"

"Yes," you gasp, catching a glimpse of Mattheo and Theo just off to the side of you, sharing a smoke. "Fuck yes—"

"That's it, baby. Just relax," he cooes, and then he's pushing into you. "Relax and enjoy it—"

There's a sting as he stretches you, and keeps stretching you until he's bottoming out far fucking deeper than you'd remembered—there's a moan from you that gets tangled between your teeth, a gasp from infront you, a moan from someone else, and—gods, if Blaise doesn't start moving—

"Blaise—oh, fuck—"

Blaise gives a low moan as your walls flutter around him, a swear under his breath that's punctuated with a hard squeeze of your hip. "Good—god—Merlin—"

He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, shameless—and it melds with Pansy's from across the room.

"Shh," Mattheo steps infront of you, blocking your view of Pansy and Draco and Enzo. "Let Blaise feel you—"

—and suddenly, Mattheo's hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back, coaxing your eyes to his. His other hand disappears, down past his belt, and you moan again—wet walls squeezing Blaise as he slowly starts to rock into you.

"I wanna' fuck your throat," Mattheo murmurs, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. "Badly."

"So needy," your words are a breathless moan, but Mattheo doesn't seem to mind—he just grins as he unbuttons his trousers. "Can't even watch for five minutes without—"

"I know, I can't," he interrupts, and his hand's back at your jaw, gripping hard. "You've got me too fucking hard."

You're about to reply with another smartass comment, but Theo saddles up next to his fellow Slytherin and before you can blink his hand is on the back of your head, tangling in your hair, angling your lips toward Mattheo's now-exposed cock—

"Don't worry about the smart mouth," Theo leans down close to you, every intention of cutting off your reply. "We have other uses for it."

You'd probably roll your eyes at the phrase if it wasn't for Mattheo's dick pushing past your teeth and hitting the back of your throat so quick you gag— eyes squeezed shut as Blaise bottoms out, again and again.

"That's one of them." he adds with a smirk, watching you choke on his best friends dick.

You can't even think. Every thought that enters your head is immediately replaced with another moan, another sensation, another need, another—

"Draco! Fuck!" You hear Pansy cry out from the couch.

"Keep going, Pans," Enzo grunts, his voice sounding choked. "Just like that."

"She taking you good, Blaise?" The question comes out in a moan of his own—you think it's Draco—and you wonder idly who's doing what over there now. "Tight as I remember?"

“Tight and wet and—fuck—" Blaise's voice has taken on a new level of strangled, desperate, need that's almost too raw to hear it, and— "she's—good. She's good."

"That's it," Draco grunts again, like he's pleased to hear it. "She's an—oh, yes, Pansy, fuck—"

The noise from the couch is too much—you're not able to think past the fullness—the desperate, overwhelming heat that's consumed you, and that's when you feel a pair of lips at your ear—

"Does it feel good?" Theo's words are barely louder than a whisper, your gagging sounds almost drowning them out. He grabs your hand, slowly bringing it to his crotch. "Having us like this?"

Your fingers are clumsy, shaky as they wrap around him and try to push his trousers down—it's hard to see past the water in your eyes but once you do you're rewarded with a gasp and a low swear under his breath that sounds so damn good you want to hear it a million times more.

"Mmmfff." You moan around Mattheo as Blaise's fingers find your clit, coaxing you towards a high you're not sure you can handle—

"That's it," Theo whispers, moving your hand just the way he likes it. His fingers are tangled with yours while his free hand finds your hair again, shoving you closer to Mattheo. "Fuck. That's it."

Everything is spinning and whirling in the best way, the best possible way, and you know you're there, so close, but it's so hard to think, so hard to do anything—when—

"You gonna' cum for us, baby?" Another pair of lips at your ear, not Theo's voice, but Blaise's—ragged with his deep thrusts. "Gonna' cum for us good and hard?"

Your response, which most likely would have been something along the lines of: "yes" or "please" or "gods yes fucking please," is completely smothered by Mattheo—his hand at the back of your head alongside Theo's, fingers tangled in your hair, cockhead slamming the back of your throat over and over and over—

"Then do it," Blaise knows your answer anyways. His fingers rub quicker, his hips piston faster. "Now."

And it's in this moment where you lose yourself completely—the world narrows down to your body, every sensation flooding through you, and the fucking sounds—Pansy's moans, Theo's groans, Blaise's pants, Mattheo's swearing, Draco's whimpers and Enzo's fucking grunting—where you can't do a goddamn thing to stop it, not that you even wanted to. You do what Blaise told you, cumming so hard you see stars behind your eyes, and for one blissful, everlasting second—you feel nothing but pure unadulterated pleasure, until it all comes rushing back with force.

You think you hear Theo say "good girl" as your body tenses—shaking, trembling, clenching around Blaise so hard his pace falters and his hips slow and his thrusts turn erratic—and then you feel it—the result of his pent up passion as he slows to to an absolute standstill—spilling his cum deep into your cunt while he shudders against you, gasping out a curse that might have been your name.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, slowly—carefully—and you feel him pull out of you just as Mattheo moans, hands tightening in your hair, spilling his own release down your throat. "Oh, sweet Merlin."

It takes a moment for reality to filter back in, and you try to catch your breath in a way that's probably not very dignified. You're not quite sure what to do with yourself—and quite frankly, you're not given the chance to figure it out as Mattheo pulls out too and Theo slips up behind you—

"Come here, Bella," he murmurs, his lips at your ear again—he sounds like he's trying to catch his breath, too. Through the fog you remember that at one point you were jerking him off—and you feel the confirmation of his need still hard against your ass as he pulls you up against him. "There we go. Easy now."

You try to speak—you're not sure what you would even say—but your voice is as shaky as the rest of you, and all that comes out is a soft moan.

"She's—" Blaise's still trying to steady his breath as he slumps into his prior chair, trousers still half undone. "—she's on mars."

"I've a feeling we all are," Theo mutters, holding you against him. His fingers skim down your stomach, almost like he's mapping out the aftershocks. "Some more than others."

You can almost feel the way his eyes flick across the room with that—noting the way Draco's splayed out on the couch next to Pansy who's now riding Enzo and jerking a still half-hard Mattheo—

"Oh, relax," Draco scoffs, eyes shut and head tipped toward the ceiling. "I'll rejoin the land of the living in a moment."

"Sure, Draco," Mattheo huffs, and you can practically hear the roll of his eyes from here. "We'll be here when you do."

"Mm—fuck, Pansy—"

Enzo's moan cuts through their bantering and it's at that moment where Theo finally decides he's waited long enough—he grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the table, directing you to the couch where he slumps down and drags you into his lap, your thighs on either side of his—throbbing, leaking cock pressing against your cum soaked cunt.

You moan, and Pansy moans beside you.

"I think," Theo murmurs into your neck, his words as thick and as needy as his hardness, "I could get used to this."

"S'that right?" You try to keep your words cool, to be as unaffected as you'd like, but—there's no hiding the way your breath hitches, the way you move your hips just the slightest in his lap. "I can't say the same about your size."

"Take me at your own pace." He husks, a smirk you're sure is attached to the words. "I'm halfway there already from that handjob."

You'd laugh at that if you weren't still so breathless and shaky from before, so instead the laugh comes out as a needy moan as you slide forward, shifting in his lap until you feel his tip brush up against your already sensitive clit—

"Gods," you breathe out the word, bracing your hands on his shoulders. "Such a gentleman."

"Always," he replies, completely sincere just before his hands grab your hips and in one quick motion—he's guiding you down onto him. "Always for you."

You'd reply—you'd probably even say something that might be sweet, if you could, if the rest of the world didn't fade into a sort of pleasurable blankness as you sink down—down until the moan that leaves you is so unbridled that it should have been embarrassing if the whole fucking lot of you weren't so far passed embarrassment—because just the head of him is so thick and you're suddenly thankful Blaise stretched you out so deliciously because otherwise you think it'd be too much, too quick and—fuck.

You're still sensitive, and you know he can tell—

"Oh, she's tight." Theo's voice is low in your ear, his lips tracing your jawline. "Too much?"

"Never," you gasp out, offering some weak shake of your head. "Never too much."

He grins against your pulse, teeth scraping across your skin—

"Good."

He punctuates the word by sinking you down a bit more, the stretch of his shaft drawing out a moan from deep in your chest—

"And when it is?"

—he pauses, tightening his grip on your hips to pull you up slightly before sliding you back down—

"Tell me."

You're only half able to form the thought at this point—the other half of you is so preoccupied with the feeling of his hands holding you, his lips against your skin, his voice in your ear—you nod, anyway, and there's another moan from somewhere in the room—Enzo again, and it's more of a whimper than anything else.

"That’s it, Pansy, so good—"

"Feels good, Enzy?" Her response comes through gasps. "You like it like that?"

Blaise answers for them both—you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, slumped back in his chair with a new drink in hand. "Keep that up and he'll never leave that couch again."

"He's not the only one." Theo's words vibrate through you, and while you're not sure if it's the meaning behind them or the way they're sent deep into your neck with a hint of teeth, either way you have to swallow a moan before you can respond.

"Is that so?" You reply, doing your goddamn best to keep your voice steady as Theo's hips roll up into you again.

"It is so," he murmurs. "You think you can handle staying on this couch all summer?"

Summer. Hardly a week away. You think of the days and nights you're going to spend in this manor, in this room—in this room on this fucking couch—

His hands slip to your ass, guiding you up and down. "You think you could last another hour?"

"Mmm," you manage to get the sound out before he rolls up again, the perfect angle to hit that sensitive spot somewhere deep inside you and that's all you have to say before all other higher level thinking goes out the window. "Oh, Theo, you’re fucking deep—"

"I know," he replies, his breath harsh against your throat, his words lost between the moans you can't seem to keep from slipping out. "I know, bella, I know—"

Cocky bastard.

You lean down, pulling his head against your chest with hands in his hair and he follows. You'd think he'd try to pull back, just to say something witty with a smirk on his face—but instead he groans, his tongue flicking over your nipple and that's when you hear Mattheo grunt from somewhere beside you—

"Fuck me." His voice comes out as a gasp that he's struggling to keep from sounding strangled. Pansy's still lazily stroking him, multitasking while riding Enzo. "I'm so fucking hard again."

If you could manage a proper response, you might have said that was the idea—you'd probably have said something very clever about how you wouldn't mind letting him down your throat again.

You can still think, but the thought is a struggle, so all you manage is a breathless—

"Matt—“

"Mmm?" Hardly a hum—and for some reason it's so much more attractive than it probably should be. "Yes, princess?"

The way you shiver at the pet name is something you're going to have to examine at some point—not now, though, because if you have to put any more thought into any single thing you're going to explode.

"You—you—"

Theo interrupts before you can finish the sentence. "Fuck her, Riddle."

If Mattheo's surprise at Theo's apparent order is evident, it's masked by the moan he lets out as Pansy does something that must have felt especially good.

"I, fuck—I already fucked her throat, Nott. If you'd finish gatekeeping her—"

"She's got another hole, Riddle," Theo replies, with that self-assured tone that's too goddamn cocky to be legal and you wonder absently if he knows what it does to you as he gives a sharp, deliberate roll of his hips. "She can handle it, can't you, bella?"

You try to moan out an answer—you're sure there's a sound there—anything to let him know that yes, you not only can but that you're not sure there's anything you'd rather do—yet the words die before you can get them out as Mattheo is already moving—rough hands finding your ass, spreading your cheeks as he leans down to press a kiss to the dimples on your lower back. The sensation catches you off guard but you don't have time to think about that before you feel something wet—his saliva, you think—slick between your cheeks and then his fingers are there, rubbing and massaging against your tight hole—

And then, he's pressing a finger into you. "Oh—"

You're not even sure if your gasp is a reaction to Theo's movement or Mattheo's—all you know is that for a moment it all just combines into a whirlwind that seems to just drown all the oxygen out of your lungs completely—

"I know," Theo's breath is as laboured and rough as yours—the rumble of his words vibrating against your chest, your collarbone. "God, I know—"

"Jesus," another moan, strangled and needy, and it's not from you or Theo or even Enzo—it's from Mattheo. "Oh, this ass is tight—"

That's not something you're going to be able to get over—hearing that coming from him. "Oh fuck, Matt—"

"Mmm?" There's a smile in his voice—and you'd see it on his face if you were facing him, if all of his focus weren't so decidedly somewhere else. "You want me to fuck this perfect ass, don’t you?"

With that he pushes another finger into you while Theo wraps his arms around your waist to hold you steady to his chest. His hips cant up into you, and you swear you're on fire—Mattheo chuckles.

The sensation is so much you’re crying out again, his teasing turning infuriating. "You're a goddamn—ah—bastard—"

"Maybe so," he replies, with a smack to one of your asscheeks. "But a bastard that's going to—"

He stretches you out, pumping and scissoring slow, just as deliberate as everything else he does—and the moan you let out is enough to drown out whatever witty, dirty words you're sure he was going to follow that with—

"Fuck—fuck," the word is all you can manage as you brace your hands against Theo's shoulders, nails digging into his skin— "oh, fuck—"

Mattheo groans against your back and you swear it's intentional because he has to know what all of this is doing to you—what it's doing to Theo by association.

"Fuck, she likes that—" Theo's gasp hits you like a punch in the gut. "I should have—"

It's like there's a whole sentence, some snarky, perfectly articulate statement he had in mind, but whatever words it was comprised of are lost in the way he shivers—in the way his hips jerk more erratically due to how tight you're squeezing him—due to the way your walls spasm as Mattheos fingers keep pumping, stretching—

"Should have what?" It's a miracle you manage the words, and you're feeling particularly proud about the way it's more of a challenge than a question, even if it's half mumbled.

Whatever it is, he can't say it, and whatever retort you had for that is interrupted by the sound of a grunt—Enzo. His face is screwed up in pleasure, his breath is coming in ragged, uneven pants and there's a look in his eyes that looks distinctly broken.

Mattheo groans and pulls his fingers free. You feel the tip of his dick replacing them. "Can’t fucking wait any longer."

Enzo's eyes meet yours, then, and they're absolutely wrecked. "I'm going to—"

Pansy grins and moans out her reply. "Yeah, you are."

There's little else you can say—not that you'd have the words even if you weren't as lost as the rest of them. You just have a flash of thought about how you've never seen Enzo look like that before, open and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of whatever bliss he's riding right now, but then there's another feral moan escaping your lips—

"Oh, Gods, Mattheo!—"

Theo groans into your neck as Mattheo presses in and it takes merely two seconds before your eyes roll back—the way he sinks into your ass is a level of fullness you weren't sure you could reach, and even that's a thought that's too complex for you to process as your head drops, forehead pressed to Theo's shoulder.

There's a hiss from his lips, another muttered curse that you half catch as he bites at your collarbone, his hands moving back to squeeze your hips—

"Fuck, yes," Mattheo's voice sounds more strained than you've ever heard it. "Jesus Christ, that feels good—"

"Don't think the saviour would like you taking his name in vain," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room. "Not in this scenario at least."

No, he wouldn't, you think, but there's no way you've got the wherewithal to speak now—any focus you had is lost now that you're impaled on not one, but two cocks and it's like your entire nervous system's been turned over to the sensation of being so fucking full, so surrounded—of not being able to do anything except try to remember how to breathe.

It's not working very well.

"Mm," Theo's moans, fucking up into you nice and slow. "I think he'd understand."

"I think that's a rather blasphemous stance to take," Blaise replies. "Then again, given the scenario, perhaps that's not the most shocking revelation I've had of you all today."

"Blaise," Enzo groans, his tone somewhere between pleading and demanding. "Are you really going to try and have a conversation right now?"

"Just making an observation," Blaise says casually, and you swear that part of your brain that still functions can see the smirk plastered on his face in your mind. "Merely commenting about the depravity on display."

"Your commentary is duly noted," Mattheo breathes, his words punctuated by a low moan as he smacks your ass. "And dismissed."

There's a grumble of agreement through the room at that, including one from you, but all your words come out as a gasp—

Theo loves you like this. You can tell he's fucking savouring it. "That's it, bella. You don't need to do more than that."

Part of you wants to protest the statement, wants to argue that you have it in you to contribute more, but no matter how hard you try—and you do try—all that comes out around the moans is an inarticulate mess.

"Yeah, that's it," Mattheo groans, and you'd be embarrassed about how utterly ruined by all of this you are if you could focus on anything other than the two dicks pumping you in rhythm. "Just let me and Nott take care of your—mmf—tight fuckin' holes."

There's a whine that worms its way out of your chest and through your lips at that, and you don't know what it's begging for—just that it's begging, and all your mind cares about right now is that Theo and Mattheo understand that.

Theo's response is a moan of his own and a hand finding the back of your neck, his fingers wrapping around your hair. "So fucking wet—tight—"

"And taking us so goddamn well," Mattheo adds as one of his hands grab your ass again, spreading you open. "Fucking hell—I'm so close—"

"So are we," Theo responds for you, and the words are harsh and desperate and make your whole body shudder. "So—ah—so are we—"

The realization that he can feel how close you are makes you clench—walls fluttering around the both of them as they fuck you tempered—it’s only a few more seconds before you're seeing stars so bright you hardly register the sounds of Enzo and Pansy reaching their climaxes next to you—the feeling of Pansy crashing her lips to yours as she cums and moans into your mouth propelling you further over the edge, into your own ecstasy—

And if there were a way to describe it, you're sure you'd think of it later, but right now it's all just fire and lightning—pleasure wracking your body until you're certain you're not going to come down for hours. You can't really hear anything—just the rushing of your own blood pulsing in your ears—but as it starts to subside, your vision returns and the sound follows—your lips still pressed to Pansy's as Theo moans underneath you, spilling his release into your cunt while Mattheo is still thrusting slow—

"Oh my god," you gasp as you break the kiss, all of you breathing so hard you're sure it's going to take a while for the oxygen levels in the room to return to normal. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

"Mmm," is about all Theo seems to be capable of currently.

It’s a rare thing for him to be rendered speechless—and you'd grin at the knowledge if it weren't for Mattheo still thrusting deep in your ass—leaving Theo trapped inside your cunt, his length still twitching and throbbing within your walls.

"Still with us, princess?" Mattheo's chuckle is somewhat strangled, and the hand he's not gripping your ass with finds your hair again, tugging your head back to expose your neck. "You aren't done already, are you?"

If he expects—or even wants—an actual answer to that question, he's going to be very disappointed because all you can manage is a strangled half-moan that's a decent representation to how you're feeling right now—

"I think she's lost her words," Mattheo murmurs—and then it's like he realizes something. "Maybe we should test that."

"Wha—"

It's not a proper word, but you don't even have the chance to fully get it out before his hand in your hair is pulling your head back even further and you realize that at some point Pansy had gotten off of Enzo and he's now kneeling on the couch in front of you with his cum covered cock aimed directly at your lips—

"Clean me off."

It's another demand you'd probably be inclined to respond to with a snarky reply if you were at all confident in your ability to do anything other than open your mouth and let him press the tip to your tongue—

"Good girl," Enzo says, and the praise is delivered with that voice that sounds like it came from some dark place inside him, the one that's only ever really appeared in the privacy of these walls and with this group of people. "Taste your bestfriend on me, hm? You like that?"

It's a question you'd probably deny a few months ago, but that's not the case anymore—and you know that the answer would be obvious regardless, given how you've just proven you're more than happy to share them with her. So instead you give an answer that's a better representation of how you feel without having to admit it, and it only comes out as a hum of agreement as you taste her.

"I know you do," Enzo replies, and he's got that same smirk he usually has when he's got the upper hand, the one that usually makes you feel at least mildly put out—now it just makes you shiver. "Little slut."

Theo, who's still trapped underneath you and still half hard inside you, moans at that.

"Mmmm-" yes, you want to say, but you can't and the noise you manage instead, around the taste of your bestfriend on your tongue, comes out more like a whimper that has absolutely no business doing as much to you as it does.

Mattheo growls with a deep thrust into your ass, and the whimper turns into a whine as Pansy moves closer to you.

"You look pretty," she murmurs, her mouth pressed against your hair as Enzo pushes his dick deeper down your throat. "You look so fucking pretty right now."

There's something about that, the way her voice caresses the words, that makes something warm rush through you, wrapping around the bliss and squeezing until you're almost overwhelmed again.

Your eyes water, as you gag. "Mmgh—"

"Mhmm," her lips move down your cheek, next to your mouth where Enzo is still slowly fucking it, and it's like the action is deliberate—a way to show, without saying it outright, just how wrecked you are. "And you say I'm insatiable."

That's fair, because right now you're fairly certain you've never wanted something to continue forever quite as much as you do this, regardless of the fact that you know it's not practical.

"Ah, fuck—" Mattheo grunts with a messy thrust. “Oh, fuck—"

He's not the most loquacious person in the world but even he is having a hard time getting words out—and you're not much better, with the only sounds you're capable of making completely indecipherable even for you, let alone the rest of the room.

"Fuck—" with a final curse, he spills his release deep into your ass and Theo groans from under you as you clench as a result. "—yes."

The feeling of him twitching and spilling inside you makes you moan around Enzo, and he groans too—one hand tangled in your hair and the other tangled in Pansy's to keep her close—

"Mm, yes," Enzo moans now, jerking his hips toward your face. "Feels good—so good—“

—and close is an apt word because they're all close to you, all surrounding you—even Blaise and Draco's exhausted presence are felt in the background.

"I'm pretty sure she's gonna be sore for days after this," Pansy says, the words whispered. "I hope you all know—"

"I think she'll be thanking us for that," Theo replies before anyone else can. "In a day or two at least."

Pansy giggles, a sound that's soft and familiar and comforting even in this current state of being surrounded and overwhelmed, and her cheek brushes up against yours as the two of you peer up at Enzo—

"You're probably right." She whispers.

Enzo grunts, pulling his cock from your mouth and offering it to Pansy who greedily takes it in her own—

"Selfless generosity," Theo murmurs from directly under your chin having just witnessed that, and his tone suggests he's got his signature smirk in place. "How noble of us."

"Very selfless," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room again—and even as you're lost in pleasure you know that statement borders on sarcastic. "Absolutely nothing in it for any of you."

"Nothing at all," Theo replies, the same amount of sarcasm in his voice as Blaise's. "It's all self-sacrifice."

"Mm," Mattheo murmurs against your shoulder, before he pushes himself off you and finally pulls out. "Not even a shred of personal satisfaction."

You're still collapsed on top of Theo, as boneless as a human being can be, and a quiet whine escapes your lips at the loss before you can stop it.

"See," Theo murmurs, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "We've practically made a martyr of ourselves here. Selflessness at its finest."

"So humble," Blaise says, and you swear you hear the eyeroll that's almost certainly included. "I think this calls for medals and a parade through the streets. A holiday, maybe. Selfless Slytherin Day."

Enzo huffs—you can tell he's considering telling Blaise to shut up before he ruins his orgasm but as Pansy drags her tongue along the underside of his shaft, he seems to forget about it—

"Absolutely," Mattheo says—and if you had the strength to lift your head and look at him there'd likely be a smug smirk on his face. "I'd volunteer to be parade marshall, personally."

Enzo pulls out of Pansy's mouth with a gasp—and it's all but two seconds before he sprays sticky jets of cum all over your face and hers, his head tipping back as he does—

"I'm sure you would," Blaise says dryly, his voice coming from closer now than before. "I'm sure you would also volunteer to accept the medal, and then offer a speech about how humble you are."

"Mhm,” Mattheo sounds unbothered. You know he is. "Obviously. Someone's got to make sure the truth is told."

Pansy giggles against your face, then, before her tongue drags across your cheek, collecting some of Enzo's release. "Well, it's no good if you all are going to keep doing a poor job at the selflessness part.”

"I think we're well past the point of pretending we're doing this selflessly," Theo mutters dryly as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "If we were capable of that level of pretending, we'd all be in Ravenclaw."

Your hands find Pansy's hair, holding her close to you as you lick Enzo's cum off her chin and jaw.

"You're welcome to switch houses if you'd like," Blaise responds dryly. "Some of us were sorted to our houses for reasons other than self-satisfaction—"

"Oh, shove it, Zabini," Enzo says as his breath comes back. "You're acting like a bloody dad."

Blaise opens his mouth, presumably to offer some kind of sharp retort, but before they have a chance, Pansy cuts in. "If you're all quite finished with the pissing contest—“

"We've been done for minutes," Theo replies quickly, hand now stroking through your hair. "Now we're just bickering for the sake of it, as usual."

"Which means we've got at least another half an hour to go," Blaise mutters—before apparently giving up all attempt at sounding cool and collected and flopping down on the nearest open section of sofa.

"At least," Mattheo agrees. "Maybe an hour, if we're lucky."

Next to you, Enzo grunts out a laugh as he starts trying to fix himself back to modesty. "Lucky is one word for it—"

"I think lucky is an excellent term for the current state of things," Theo replies, his voice all smooth and silky and perfectly at fucking ease. "In fact, I'd be hard pressed to think of anything more lucky than getting to experience this."

Everyone is in agreement, at that.

[xplicitviewz]

“Who’s calling?” Your husband, Nanami, huffs from above you, his hips snapping into you. Your teary eyes glance at your phone while you let out small whimpers. “I-it’s our son.” You breathe out, your thighs tremble beneath his hands holding them down beside you.

Nanami groans and stuffs his dick fully into you, a whine escaping your lips as he picks up the phone. Between his work schedule and your 4 kids, there isn’t time for you and your husband to partake in a your shared activities other than the few times you guys got creative.

There was this one time you guys had your oldest watch the kids while you guys went to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine, which ended in a quickie in the dark parking lot before heading home.

Or the other time you guys had a pool day and you went inside to start getting the snacks ready. Nanami followed shortly after to have himself his own quick snack. Both of your days are pretty busy, but Nanami never fails to make some time for you and your pussy. You can admit sex hasn’t really been a priority, until tonight. Upon realizing all the kids would be gone, you immediately called Nanami to be sure he brings his ass home when he is off and not do any overtime- yes you used your mom voice too. Nanami agreed not wanting to be scolded.

When he did get home, he noticed a few things, there was any tv on, or music blasting from your two oldest rooms. There weren’t toys scattered in the living room or the dining room table from your two youngest, no yelling or screaming from all of them in general, it was just quiet. He smelt food in the air, he usually does every night he comes home but it’d be already eaten, or everyone will be eating at the dinner table (he insists not to wait for him because he often stays late) but since he left early from work, it isn’t ready just yet. He quickly rushes up the stairs, starting to feel the panic seep in just a bit, all the kids rooms are empty.

He opens his shared bedroom to see you just laying on your stomach, in the silky robe he got you, reading a book. He calms down because if you were okay, surely, the kids were too. His eyes gaze down your figure, your feet are in the air crossed, while you read. The robe sits at your upper thigh, and since it’s so thin, your ass pops out in the most desirable way possible. “Honey?” He eyes you suspiciously, taking a breath as he starts to settle down, “Where are the kids.”

You heard the front door shut, squeezing your thighs together, feeling the arousal hit you even more. The book you have been reading had been in your mind, and hearing your husband come home really made you ready to take him, full. You had dinner cooking in the oven, almost ready to serve for just Nanami and you. Your oldest son is at a movie with his friends and they are going to go eat after. Your second oldest daughter is spending the night with her best friend, and your two youngest are sleeping over with their grandparents. To say you were practically rushing your oldest son to leave already, since he was the last one to go, was an understatement.

“They are busy and safe.” You closed the book and turn your body towards him, your eyes hungry before you looked at him, but damn near starving when you did. That damn suit and tie. You explained where they all were as you sat up in the bed, impulsively pushing your chest out as you leaned back on your arms. Nanami didn’t ignore the lustful look in your eye, the way your nipples perked against the thin fabric, only assuming you had nothing on underneath. He quickly put a few things together, why you called him to not do overtime. He knew what his wife wanted, at least he thought so.

When your sweet loving husband started off kissing your neck, waiting to use the few hours to just worship your body, you, your hands cupped his chin and looked him dead in the eye, “Honey, I love you so much and I know that you do but tonight-right now I need you to fuck me like you don’t. I want y-“ His eyes darkens more at your plea, how desperate you were truly. How can he ever say no to his gorgeous wife. He cuts you off with a kiss before he started fucking you every way loose. Yes exactly what I said. But of course no matter what time it is, you guys are parents after all….

“What?” Nanami answers the call, still buried deep inside you, grinding against you as his thumb circles your clit.

“..Oh Hey dad, where’s mo-“

“She’s busy, are you okay, why are you blowing up her phone?” Nanami cuts your son off, his eyes focused on you squirming around, biting your lip to keep any lewd sounds hushed while he was on the phone with your son. He speeds up his movements on your clit, softly sucking in a breath when you clench tightly around his dick.

“I wanna buy some snacks and get some food after the movie, mom said she’ll send me m-“

“How much?” Nanami asked wanting him to get to the point so he can get back to his wife. He slowly pulling out before pushing himself back in. Your hand quickly covers your mouth as you shut your eyes. Your legs were shaking crazy. Your husband wasn’t one to always be rough in bed, but the times he is, you would feel it for days, in the best way possible. (He has that dog in him😞) Nanami definitely isn’t holding back, not when it’s been this long you guys were kid free for a few hours and together at that. Nanami was making up for lost time, fingering you until you couldn’t talk properly, eating your pussy like it personally offended him, fucking you left, right, up, down, diagonal, all up until your phone kept blowing up.

“Like about $40.”

“Okay, give me a moment.” Nanami grunts, as he bottoms out again, the way you squeezed his dick nearly knocked him out cold. He feels his dick throb inside you and pulls the phone away from his ear, breathing heavy.

“Thanks d-“

Nanami hangs up the phone and tosses it beside you before leaning in closer to you, peeling your hand away from your mouth and pulling it above your head. “Tell me something honey.” He hums kissing your swollen lips.

You whimper as he fucks you again, slow but rough this time, ”y-yes?” You gasp as he hits your cervix.

“When the kids ask for money, do you send it to them from my account?” He looks into your eyes, sweat dripping down his head watching your reaction to his question really his dick.

You’re screwed. Both literally and physically.

“Not alwa- o-ooh shit.” You moan, his hips moving faster than light. Nanami absolutely hates when you use your own money, hell, even when you were working. When you guys first started dating he already knew you were going to be his wife. Nanami would always say you didn’t need to work but you didn’t want him to be the sole provider. Eventually, you guys moved in together and you were still working. Though, he convinced you to work less hours and took you out on a date when you agreed. It wasn’t until you got pregnant with your first baby, did his wish come true. Shit, he was more excited when you both went down to your job to quit than he was to see the 2 pink lines.

“All the hours I work, being kept away from our family, my perfect wife -ngghh- my perfect wife’s pussy. And you still insist on usi-fuck- using your own money when you have access to my money- no our money, shit your money.” He moans grabbing your other hand and pulling it above your head with your other.

“Y-you pay for e-ever-“

“I’m supposed to baby. I want to.” He interrupts you, lifting your legs to his shoulders, and grabbing your phone with his free hand and sending your son $100 from his account. “Why must you make things complicated, love. I am the man, it’s my job to take care of you, our family. Let *thrust* me. Use my money for the kids, the house, the cars, whatever it is, I have enough, more than.” He kisses your lips softly, opposite to his thrusts. “Use your money I give you for you, whatever you want for you- shit for you. Everything I do is for you, everything I make, it’s yours, ours on paper, but it’s all yours. All for you.” He grunts into your ear, as if he’s teaching a lesson. Technically, he is.

“Don’t let me find out you aren’t using my money first again, okay hun?” He hums at you, a moaning teary mess.

“Now where were we?” He smiles before pulling out and flipping you on your stomach, lifting your ass up and spanking it. “Oh, right.” He chuckles as he spreads your cheeks apart, seeing your drooling sensitive pussy, clenching on air.

*edited but not proofread*

More:

Pussywhipped!Choso | part 2

Married!Eren x Maid!Reader

Ex-husband!Eren

Sylus mini

Nerd!Armin x reader x boyfriend!eren

Best friend!jean x reader

Boss!Hiromi

[tonycries]

F*CK EVERYTHING! - G.S.

Synopsis. Your all-new, high-powered rose toy can vibrate, suction, and even…turn human? And why is he so hot?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, Date Everything AU, rose toy!Gojo, objects turning human, slight crackfic, oraI (fem rec.), extra long tongue, fíngering, spítting, manhandIing, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, stopping you from escaping, he’s BIG, making it fit, “just the tip” (fails), tummy buIges, chokíng, rough s, p sIapping, GOJO’S POWERS, víbrators, squírting, he lives to please you, creampíes, cúmplay, breaking the bed, marathons, headIocks, overstím, making Gojo whímper, Sukuna cameo, pet names. swéaring.

Word count. 8.2k

A/N. Not sponsored I swear-

It had arrived.

Finally, that cute lil’ toy you’d seen splashed across your social media. It was all the rave reviews, the discreet packaging, and the promises of utmost pleasure that’d reeled you in. And after a long, hard day of much too many shifts, you just couldn’t help but click that ‘Add to cart’ button.

After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

Well, it was too late to regret it now. Because only a day later and suddenly a large, glitzy, hot-pink box was plopped right in front of your doorstep.

You hadn’t even heard the delivery drivers come up- if you had, then maybe you’d have been able to interrogate them on what that second package was…A mysterious, taped, lil’ cardboard box - one you didn’t even remember ordering. 

It had no title, no images, not even an address. Just your name.

Sighing, you quickly carry both deliveries inside before any of your neighbors could snoop. Eyes catching on the toy’s name—‘The Strongest’

At least it sounds promising, you muse. And that second delivery must be a freebie, perhaps something promotional. It’s with that thought in mind that you find your feet heading straight for your bedroom, ready to give your newly-acquired product a little test run.

It was bigger than you thought once the packaging had come off. 

Curved. Lengthy. As vibrantly pink as the box. With the cutest rose petal-shaped features, and an electric tongue that stuck out from between them. Right in the middle was a snug lil’ hole you guessed was for suction, and according to the website this toy also had the ability to vibrate. 

Oh, you find your mouth drying at the thought. You better check whether this alleged ‘strongest’ really lived up to its name or was going to be forgotten in a box under your bed…

Limbs shaky, you’re mindlessly placing the other banged-up cardboard box on your bedside table and sprawling out on the mattress. Stripping down to nothing but your t-shirt n’ panties, thighs squeezing ever-so-slightly, hands holding the toy up to the light. You stick your anticipating thumb onto that power button and-

Nothing. 

“Ah, fuck-” You’re checking the battery indicator - zero charge. Of course. In slight embarrassment you’re chucking the toy towards the foot of the bed and springing back into the pillows. “Should’ve known.”

The charger probably came with the box- and just as you’re scanning your room for any signs of it, your eyes lock onto another little package. The one you’d forgotten on top of your bedside drawer.

What else did you have to lose? And you were quite curious about what promotional products the company might have sent you, so you find yourself picking it up idly. Pushing apart the layers of duct tape and cardboard to find…a pair of rose-colored sunglasses?

Stylish, with the word ‘dateviator’ branded on the frame.

Grumbling, “This definitely wasn’t on the site.” You put on the damned thing. Nothing special, all it did was tint your vision with a slightly romantic filter of pink.

With slight amusement, you’re checking out the difference in your room. The curtains, the desk, the bookshelves, the towering naked man with white hair-

Wait what?

You’re gasping, eyes widening as you take in the sudden intruder. “What the-” In panic, some part of your brain can’t help but think that this must be one of those illusions. One of those…hollographic glasses? Yeah, must be it. So you’re taking them off-

He’s still there.

Putting them on.

He’s still there.

Taking them off-

“-fuck!”

“That is what I’m here for.” The stranger flashes you the brightest grin you’ve ever seen in your entire life. A tiny dimple at the end of it, sapphire eyes twinkling. 

Your bedsprings dip as he plants a - still very, very naked - knee on the edge of your mattress and you have to force yourself to stop from looking…down. 

“Oh, you can look.” He’s chuckling in a teasing voice, almost like he could read your mind. And you should scream- you should possibly even run, but it’s just so hard when he winks at you like that. “You can even- heh, touch.” 

Before you know it, he takes your dominant hand and gliiiides it down the ridges of his washboard abs. Warm. Strong. Humming, “No need to be shy. It’s what you brought me here for, isn’t it?”

Suddenly you throw the glasses at him - and they have the audacity to bounce off of one of his perfectly chiselled pecs. “Wh-who are you- get out!”

The man pushes his angelic, ivory locks away from his face. “Actually, I’m trying to get in.” And you close your opened legs with a snap once his gaze dips between them- fuck, you were still in your panties. “Oh, how rude of me. The name’s Gojo Satoru- AKA Satorose, The Strongest. Pleasure to meet who I’ll be giving pleasure to~”

He sticks out a hand and doesn’t wait for you to grip it before grabbing your own, pressing such a lingering kiss on the back of your palm.

And you can’t pull away, you can’t even breathe because it just registered - The Strongest.

You start, feeling slightly more unhinged with each passing second his lips peck up your arm. “You’re…you’re the rose toy?” To make sure you look over the edge of your bed where it could’ve fallen - nothing. 

“Mhm, and now I’m your toy, sweetheart. You can thank the dateviators for that—”

“I think I’m going crazy-”

“Oh, you will soon.” Gojo’s batting his long lashes with a promise. “So why don’t we skip the small talk and get to business? I know you’re all wet f’me-” Leaning in so close to whisper against your ear, goosebumps erupt at his tangy hot breath. “-I can practically taste it.”

That was enough to leave your panties dripping down your thighs. 

“Oh.” Your mouth parts. What the fuck was in those glasses? None of the reviews had ever mentioned this. 

And yet, your mind still tries to regain all the sense that you’ve lost in the past few minutes. “B-but what makes you think that I want your help?”

And, to that, Gojo only looks at you as if to smugly ask ‘really?’

Then down at himself: pale hair unruly, azure eyes glinting with something dark. A flush creeps across his handsome features, between his pecs, and down each muscle n’ divot of his sculpted body like he’d been crafted by the heavens. Or maybe an expert at a sex toy company. Gojo took up nearly the entirety of your bed and suddenly you’re remembering that you ordered the biggest size online.

To be fair, he was making a very good case.

And then there was that. 

You didn’t want to stare directly at it - but a happy trail of white leads down his abs, between his thick, meaty thighs. It ends in slightly unruly tufts where he was standing proudly erect-

Fuck. 

“Fine!”

It happens before you know it. Before the word is fully out of your mouth, before you can even blink- Gojo has his hands clawed onto your thighs and his brute strength forcing you halfway down the bed.

Like a ragdoll, like he’s about to rip you apart.

Something in his touch quivers- like he’s still holding himself back, kneeling against the frame of the bed. 

As you gape, his capped knees strike the floor with loud thuds - urgent, rapid. And Gojo’s barely even registering the pain before throwing your trembling thighs over his shoulders and pushing, pushing, pushing his face between your pussy—nose-deep.

Greedy. He’s pressing the point of his nose right against your puffy cunt and taking a deeeeeep inhale-

“Oh- oh, fuck. You’re filthy.” Pushing yourself onto your elbows, you can see every lecherous huff n’ puff of him drinking you in like the sweetest fragrance. You swear- once Gojo pries your sticky panties just to the side, his drunken eyes roll to the back of his head at the scent of your oversaturated folds. 

Gojo was starving. 

And he’s not even a shred regretful about it. Already starting to drool at the feast before him, Gojo purses his rosy lips and starts to blow his scorching air on your cunt. “Mmm, you know why m’such a best-seller, sweetheart?” 

Voice octaves lower. Husky.

It makes a bead of sap slip out of you, making him tighten his hold on your thighs and moan. Irises locked on yours. Head leaning closer to where you needed him the most. “Suction.”

It’s practically a frenzied, white blur- Gojo’s head shoves between your legs and he’s taking in every inch. Dragging his textured tastebuds up the sheeny slick that glues to your thighs, sticking the pinpoint of his tongue underneath your panties, first kissing your pussylips and groaning—

“Sweet.” It’s all he can get out through his own gluttony. Open-mouthed peck after peck, the underside of his tongue slurps up the gloss of syrup on your folds. Drag after drag. “So, so sweet.”

“Ngh- oh my, mm—” You half-want to throw your head back at the sheer primal bliss, but Gojo was just so feral that you can’t help but stare at whatever he did next.

Capturing his stare dead-on once he snags his pearly whites on your underwear. Apparently eating you out through your panties wasn’t enough for him anymore - he needed more. 

He’s pulling them to one side with his mere mouth, maw suctioning around your clit like it was his precise target. Gojo wraps his lips over that cute, perky nub and sucks- “Y’know I come with hah- modes, sweetheart?” 

That fuckin’ tease. He speaks directly over your pussy, just so that the vibrations of Gojo’s throaty bass would make zaps of electricity run up your spine. 

“I have a looooow mode.” And suddenly the tip of his tongue swirls over your swollen clit- he’s pushed in so deep that it was like he was trying to swallow you whole. Trying to make you dizzy with each sultry circle he was drawing, salivating. 

‘Round and ‘round. 

Gojo’s nostrils flare right against the top of your pussy, and he’s unfastening his mouth even further. “And medium.” So tough to talk with a mouthful, but he’s immediately back to work.

Faster, the velvety muscle of his tongue comes spanking down on your clit. Enough to send shockwaves, he’s tuggin’ on it just so primally that you can’t even think- “And high.”

“Fuh-fuck!” If you thought he was ruining you before, then you were practically shattered right now. Because Gojo’s suckling on your clit like his favorite candy lolly, so harshly that the insides of his cheeks hollow. 

Teasingly, he’s squeezing down on your sensitive nub and trying to drag that part of you ever-so-slightly. Soft taste buds rolling over n’ over, tickling you sensually. “And-”

Your voice cracks pathetically, “There’s more?”

“A special mode just for you, sweetheart.” And then he’s doing it- with a few loud slurps, some swooping patterns are drawn on your throbbing clit. Only seconds later are you realizing that he’s writing his very own name—your eyes widen, mouth dropping to moan-

Before Gojo winks his half-lidded eyes up at you and bites down gently on your clit. 

Snickering as you trill out shrilly, as your hips buck. Your hand comes slamming down on the crown of his clammy scalp and you find yourself pushing. “Just sh-shut up, and- ngh!”

“Mmm, being used.” Gojo’s crooning out, and if you didn’t know any better than you’d have said he was grinning - you could feel it. From end to end of your treacly cunt, he was grinning, smushing his soft lips over your own. 

The sensation only makes you bully his head downwards even more, making him salivate from the corners of his mouth. Rasping, “Exactly how I like it, sweetheart.”

And his tongue laps at you primally- now zig-zagging all the way from your clit down, down, down to where your puckered hole was. Knocking like he was about to enter through a door. He can only manage to slither in the very first inch of his wet muscle, rutting back and forth three times to slick himself up with all your sap.

That just makes it so much easier for him to keep on swirlin’ your tight hole, “Oh, mmm—” From this angle, you can see the way that Gojo’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp of your sweetened syrup. “You got the hah- the one with the tongue attachment, didn’t you?”

Practically in tears at the constant way his tongue was trying to stretch your entrance out. “Y-yes? Why- oh.”

“Exactly.” 

It’s all that’s said- the last time that Gojo Satoru even breathes before he’s thrusting the muscle of his tongue right between your pretty pussylips. 

You were stretching out so wiiiidely open around his prolonged taste buds, scouring every inch of you from the very moment that Gojo can feel your walls. “Sweet here, too.” He’s huffing, mouth overworking to plunge his spit-glazed tongue all back n’ forth at such a rapidfire pace. “What a lucky toy I am—”

Back n’ forth, back n’ forth.

Your toes simply curl at the feeling of him bashing his long, pointed muscle into your deepest spots. Extra, extra long just for you. “Fuck- oh my god, n-never felt anything like ngh- this before, Gojo-”

“Satoru.” 

“Satoru, fuck!” 

“Mm, we’re getting there—” Gojo’s playful lips were practically glued to the front of your pussy, and each sloppy drag itches such carnal parts of you. His tongue was just as flexible as it was lengthy, jerkin’ up into the spots where you were most tender. 

Barely even able to take the stretch, and yet you’re careening your hips up for more. 

“C’mon now, sweetheart-” But that wasn’t enough for him. And you think you see utter fucking stars once Gojo just grazes his textured tip almost near your g-spot. Grumbling, “Ya can use your toy more. Use me more. Harder. I’m ah- heavy-duty, I don’t break.”

You’re all shakin’ and crying out prettily for him, digging your nails into his swerving head. “Like- ngh, this?”

“Moooore—” Pouting, his tongue sloshes inside of you a few more times before reeling back out. “How m’I supposed to do my job- mmm, otherwise.” Your clit gets gifted with a cute squelching kiss, almost like an apology - a warning.

But you’re not ready at all before Gojo’s long, slender middle finger probes your dewy entrance.

 Feeling that tight, tight first ring of muscle, “Oh! But don’t tell the- ngh, manufacturers that m’giving you my fingers, too.” And it’s not just that - you’re suddenly being spearheaded by both his middle and his index finger with a deafening wet slurp. “I just like you a loooooot~”

Your geysering orifice is being filled up to the maximum, and you can barely even clench ‘round his dual digits. Rummaging around your slick insides, “Oh my god- oh, ngh-”

Thrust after thrust. The globular ends of his fingers pry apart your sticky walls so well, snagging against your most sensitive areas. Easily pecking your g-spot with his fingerpads once more, you let off such a sinful cry—

“Oh- I like you, too.” Coyly, Gojo grins whilst looking at you. And at this point you didn’t know whether he was talking to you or your poor pussy. “And I just know you’ll love this…”

Love what?—You want to ask. But you don’t get the chance to.

Because, just then, he’s shutting up every thought in your hazy mind by making the crowned tips of his fingers vibrate. Just like the toy. 

“You- you can do that?”

Giggling, “Anything for your pleasure~”

Such sensual tremors that made pleasure creep across every inch of your body, and Gojo was more than happy to have it filling up your cute innards. Jostling his digits over and over- he shovels himself till he’s knuckle-deep against your folds and rubbing his skin damn raw with friction.

It’s like having two elongated vibrators swabbing your insides, being bullied out and in again and again until your walls are oversensitive. 

“Just like that- ngh!” Angling just so to dig in until you’re sure the area of your g-spot is left with a bruise of his circumferences. “It feels s-soooo good, Satoru.”

“Oh yeah–? Ya like that, hm?” With a hoarse chuckle at the back of his throat, Gojo’s tongue starts to roll over your neglected clit in a repeated rhythm.

But if his tongue was methodical, then his mouth was just sloppy. Because the greedier he became, the messier he was with his sucklin’ kisses. Just wild, primal drags of his open mouth that leave you quivering- Gojo was slobbering over your clit like a man starved, and you were the only meal he’s come across in aaaages.

In loooong, dewy licks that glaze the corners of his sensual mouth with your sap. You could see it dribbling all down the front of his chin at this point, “Yes- mmpf- like it s’much, oh.”

“Ya like my fingers that much, huh?” 

Another bash of those vibrating, electric fingers on your g-spot. Slickly glissading down to tenderize any rare spot inside you that he hasn’t stroked just yet, “So much- so much.”

“That so—?”

“Yes-”

“Really really so?”

“Y-yes!”

His skin was all flushed, lips swollen, bangs sticking to his head with perspiration at just how harsh n’ thorough he was motioning his head. “Hmpf- well now m’getting jealous of myself.” Gojo’s snowy brows furrow, and you’re feeling his lips on your clit- downturning into a slight frown.

Before he unlatches his maw from your dripping wet pussy with a filthy plop! 

You’re lifting your head up in a daze, “Satoru, what are you…”

Only for him to surge his head back mere sultry centimeters and push the fat girth of his tongue back inside your pussy with a sluuuuurp. Licking you all up from the inside out, letting the rovering tip of his muscle battle against his fingers. 

Gojo’s ruining you from the inside, and he’s letting his greed do all the work for him.

“O-oh my god-” From the lewd crash of his jackhammering fingertips, to the way that his tastebuds were all there to soothe the sting. To lap up any ounce of sweet, sweet slick that his hands might have dared to leave behind.

Probing, he has his slicked tongue filling in your every crevice in a way that made your mind spin. Feeling the heat of your high nearing ever-so-closely-

Blearily, he whispers against your swollen folds. “Mmm, this is more like it.” Before the honed edge of Gojo’s tongue scrapes your g-spot once more. 

And his other hand? Oh, you didn’t think that he would just let one hand go resting, did you? 

As Gojo’s left hand starts to creep alongside the inner part of your thighs, you’re almost clawing his wrist to a halt. Scratching at his skin, keening in pure need once his left set of fingers come up to pinch your wettened clit. 

“Y-you’re almost-” You can’t help but buck, so hard that the bed frame sings in synchronization with you. The triple stretch of your hole driving you mad with stinging pleasure- “-almost- hck! too much—!”

“I’m built for your pleasure, sweetheart.”

And he was eating you out exactly like it. 

From three different angles, Gojo’s scouring every inch of you. Stuck to you like adhesive, the thrashing of his fingerpads make you feel a lump in your throat. 

You’re just bawling, “Fuck-” Thighs shaking, you can’t help but clench them around his ravenous face at the heat curdling at the pit of your stomach. Suffocating. Holding on for dear life. “Fuck fuck fuck, I don’t think m’gonna last-”

And it’s exactly what Gojo wants to hear - to feel.

You, with your cunt quivering and your hips wetly humping up to meet him - using him. You, with your pretty hole bawling as much as you were. You, crying out even more like his favorite song when his fingers somehow vibrate even harder. 

He glides his tongue teasingly along your bundle of nerves just to hear you sob out even more, making sure that the next few crashes of his roughened fingerpads are particularly hard. “Mmm, is that so? Must mean I’m doing my ngh- job right, heh.”

The loudest fuckin’ squelches depart at the drag of his knobbled digits, and Gojo’s just salivating alllll over you. Letting a puddle of drool slip below your thighs, where you were gyrating up impatiently. He’s groaning, “I better finish it off then and- oh, make you cum.” Teasing left hand scrawling out his very name on top of your slick-glossed clit. “Better leave my- oh, my girl satisfied then, hmm–?”

“Sa-Satoru! M’gonna-” You’re unable to stop your noises from reaching a fever point- because with a few more thorough strokes of his fingers, he has you tipping over the edge vulgarly. 

You’re seeing white, body taken over with electricity. 

Spurred on by the tickling patterns of his tongue, you’re finding yourself maddened by the way he had you like putty in his hands. To grope. To thrust. To ruin. To shovel all his lengthy inches of his digits inside until you’re thrashing sensitively underneath him. 

Babbling, spittle coats either side of your mouth- “Cumming- cum- ngh, cumming.”

Gojo coos kindly, “I already know, sweetheart.” And he doesn’t falter, doesn’t even slow down as he pummels your softened insides through each peak of your orgasm. “Told you I’m The Strongest for a reason. I’m reeeeeally good- hck!”

Blue eyes glazed, your sap taking over his mouth like a waterfall.

He drags out your high by carnally itchin’ at your g-spot, mumbling. “Really good.” Like a mantra, he’s burrowing his face oh-so-close to your body, letting the tips of his ivory bangs tickle your skin. “Really- hck! really good.” Letting his mouth prattle away little whispers each time he’s tuggin’ on whichever inch of your glistening cunt he could reach. Slick pouring. “Really- oh…”

“S-Satoru-” Somehow, by the time your orgasm’s turning into nothing but a few tingles from your puffy pussylips, you manage to crack your teary eyes open. And oh- oh, the sight below you is enough to nearly make you want to cum again. “Satoru, you’re p-pussydrunk!”

“Haaaah—?” He’s gurgling on a glittery wad of your slick, “How can I be pussydrunk when the- ngh, only thing I can ever even think of is your pussy anyway?”

As if to prove his point, he breaks off from your sultry pussy like he’s about to give you a good word or two about how addictive your cunt is. But it’s exactly that- he can’t part from your cunt.

Gojo Satoru was addicted. 

And he’s plopping his mouth right back down onto your pussy with a treacly sound, muffling out his groans between your folds. Looking just so pretty like this; your syrupy liquids gleaming from the apples of his cheeks and down to his collarbones, glassy eyes looking through his bangs, mouth a puffy red and downturning. “Oh fuck, I forgot to make you, mmm, squirt.” Shoving himself even deeper, “Need to- mmm, squirt-”

Harder. And you can’t help but let your throat rip free a yelp, feeling dizzy at the sudden overstimulation. “Fuck- ngh! But I want something else…”

“What do you want?” He’s begging, “What do you want, sweetheart? Anything- oh, I’ll get you anything-”

“Wan’ your cock, Satoru.” Almost shy at the intensity of his stare, your eyes dip down to where he was leaning over the edge of the bed. Where just the tip-top of his achingly hard bulge was bobbing with each movement, puddling out thick precum onto the sheets like a fountain.

“Oh.” He gasps, head snapping down to where you were looking. “Oh. So you got the wand attachment-”

“Just shut up and come here.”

You don’t have to ask him twice. And in only nanoseconds, Gojo’s gone from lounging at the base of your bed to nuzzling his slick-glazed face with your own, giving you the sloppiest kiss of your entire life. “Heh, come.”

You’re just about to roll your eyes- when you’re hit with the sound of a sudden rip-rip-riiiiip from below. And then you’re hit with the sudden, startling realization that Gojo Satoru had just torn your panties clean off of you. 

“That was- l-limited edition-”

With a cocky smirk, “I am limited edition.” You’re being flipped over so that Gojo’s broad back is pressed against the mattress. Your thighs straddling his toned hips, your pussy sitting on his cock.

And oh- were you looking now. You were ogling. 

Slidin’ back and forth on top of his swollen length, mentally counting one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight-

“N-nine inches!” You gasp, hands scrambling to find purchase on top of his beefy deltoids. You needed it just to stabilize yourself on top of him, and with the way your folds were stretched around his girth- oh, he was just so thick.

Decorated with numerous puffy veins that throbbed and twitched with each of your movements. His sheer size left you so aroused that you were just soaking him in all your juices. 

He grins, “Well, you did order the biggest size. Ya better just hope that it fits- heh.” 

“You’re s-soooo cocky.”

“Well I am the strongest~”

And it’s just then that you’re realizing why exactly the toy’s box was just the most sinful shade of pink- his tip. Big n’ bloated, it was blushing the prettiest color of that exact ruby pink. 

You’re in awe of the correlation when Gojo taps the side of his v-line, dragging your attention to his bulky muscles on one side of his hip - and more importantly, the cursive pink tattoo. Of your name.

“Like what you see? Told ya I belong to you.” Gaping, you can only watch as he twirls the drenched fabric of your panties in his hands. Gliding it down the middle of his abs and using it to jerk his aching erection a few times underneath you. “What? Always clean your toys after use. And…”

You don’t know where to look - that tattoo of your name, or his rock-hard cock. But Gojo makes the choice for you, pushin’ your cheeks together into a pathetic pout. Jostling your head down-

“Spit.”

And you do. 

A big, glittering glob of saliva that hits the globe of his cockhead, trickling down the side of his veiny length. It pools into Gojo’s curly white hair at his base, and he shivers, “Always lubricate your toys, too.”

“Fuck-”

“And then…”

And then he’s fucking up into you. He’s shoving apart your bloated lips to jut the uppermost inch of his cock inside-

“O-oh.” Gojo’s fighting to keep his head from throwing backwards. It was just so hot inside you, feeling like he was melting with each liquidy stream of slick slipping between down to his balls. “Wider, sweetheart.”

Your hamstrings scream as you once you’re spreading them further, “Like this-”

“Wider.”

He was just so big that it was maddening enough for him to try n’ fit inside. Slightly fucking up into you in feverish, needy ruts- half-movements even, just stretching out your entrance enough to take him.

Again and again. Every buck leaves him recoiling at the resistance, feeling like he’s about to fucking pass out at that elastic, clingy sensation of your cunt.

Tight. 

“Shit-” Your breath catches in your throat once you hear a sultry pop! Realizing just then that he’d managed to bully his mushroomy tip inside, it was oh-so-thick enough that the girth of him was swabbing your walls already. Up and up you were being driven. “At this rate s’only gonna be the- mmm, tip, Satoru.”

“Yes- yes, just the tip.” And you’re shocked - Gojo Satoru relents?

Snapping your head down till it hits your chest, you’re realizing exactly why - he was completely and utterly pussydrunk. Agreeing to anything you’re saying, just another inch of his length solidly sinks inside and Gojo’s gasping for air. “Uh uh, just the tip- fuck! Anything you want, just the tip-” 

Clawing your waist still, punching up his muscular hips. 

You’re seeing stars every time he’s squeezin’ his bulging erection inside, the sheer stretch so much that it makes you clench-

THUD!

It happens in split-seconds. 

Your back is being pushed into the mattress, you’re being shoved deep enough to touch the bedsprings. All you had to do was clench your pretty, dewy wet walls and Gojo was folding you neat in half like a lawnchair. 

Into a mating press. Your thighs on his muscular shoulders, his sweaty forehead meeting yours. 

He doesn’t even hesitate before gripping your neck with one hand and usin’ the force to push, push, push you down the prolonged length of his cock. “Just the middle now-” Spitting through clenched canines, you’re handled like a ragdoll. Taking his bulging cock with the most lecherous slurps- “Just a few more inches a few- hah, a few more-”

“Oh, please—!” You’re mewling, your hands clawing down his beefy biceps. You just couldn’t stop staring at them, flexing each time he’s pushing down on your airway to make you take it. 

“Just- fuck.” Before you know it, Gojo’s other hand swats down on the middle of your tummy and presses. Feeling his thick, probing cock inch its way inside your pussy- “Ya reeeeeally had to- hck! order the biggest size, didn’t you, nasty girl?”

The flats of his palm make it feel like his rovering was reaching your very lungs. Just the capped crown of his shaft slipping between your walls lewdly. “I-I- ngh-” 

“I-I-I—” He’s mocking, voice dramatically octaves higher in a way you definitely did not sound. Gojo tilts his head down at you, peering through thick lashes. “Look at you now, huh. Wanted the biggest size and now you can’t even, mmm, take it.”

So long that it was like it’s never-ending. Ever-probing, the sultry tip of his cock swabs into your most tender areas and leaves you squealing. 

And just when you think there can’t be more, there is.

Gojo’s only getting thicker towards the bottom, the most sinful right-leaning curve just like that part of the toy had been. And it’s perfect for fitting inside with scraping strokes, for pushing you up the bed with pap! after animalistic pap! of his hips driving into yours. 

“But m’built to p-please, sweetheart. To please you.” Still babbling away, you’re getting even tighter with each inch he’s stuffing inside. Bigger. Harder. “So don’t you dare hah- hold out on me. Just three inches more, th-three inches more.”

“Three inches more?” Something at the pit of your stomach twists at the way he was talking you through it - or maybe that was his hand pressing down even further. 

Smirking, “Mhmmm– three inches more. Two-” Head throwing forwards, mouth starting to water. “Two inches more.”

“Inches- ngh-” The more you were being filled, the more your throat was clogging. With tears upon whines upon need.

His thighs slam yours particularly hard- “Yeeees—say it f’me.”

“One more-” Until you’re ultimately saying- “M-more!”

Gojo hisses under his breath– before smashing forwards until his hilt pounds your pussylips. 

Until he was bottomed out - and still rutting viciously back and forth, trying to plunge even deeper inside. Your hot innards were exactly like heaven to him, and the slightest saturated clenched leaves Gojo stuttering. “S-say it again?” 

“More- oh.” Just to be rummaged with such a long, teasing thrust.

“Mmm—” Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip like strawberry bubblegum, looking at you with such a heady stare. “Exactly what a toy like me needs to hear.”

And he’s pushin’ you straight down into the rickety bed frame with looooong, vulgar strokes. Aiming from the crown of his bulging tip to the fat, luscious base of his cock - Gojo was impatient. He was needy. He was pulling out his pulsing cock just to spear you even more rudely. 

And any time you’re moaning in pleasure, that only makes him swell even harder inside of you. 

“Fuck- fuck! Please- more more more.” Like a broken mantra, you shrill. To make him lose his mind and to feel the scalding girth of his shaft get bigger. Snaggin’ on your walls-

“Yes- yeeees— say it like that.” Gojo’s azure eyes are widened, almost crazed. And his hand lifts off of your tummy to hold onto one of your free ones, guiding it to his chasing hips. Right where that lecherous tattoo was. 

The skin around it had turned rawly red by now with the impact, sensitive to the touch. You look on in slight confusion at his sudden movements and he only snickers. “You gotta, ngh, guide me, sweetheart. You gotta- ohhh yeah, use me just like thaaaat.”

Making you hold onto his hips, Gojo thinks he sees the pearly gates just as soon as you’re using what feeble strength you have left to move him ‘round.

To have him angling his flared cockhead, stubbornly mazing past your walls with the target of your g-spot. It only takes a few tries for him to suddenly budge your nerves with his length.

The round, strawberry-colored top of his tip striking your most favorite spot like a bullseye. Kissing. Snogging. “Heh, f-five stars if I do say so myself.”

“Satoru, are you fuck- pussydrunk—?” You didn’t even need to ask that - you knew he already was. And yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from nodding along to his nonsensical talking, just as lust-addled as the sopping wet squelches from your pussy. “What do you mean ‘five stars’-”

“I mean…”

And he trails off, leaving you wanting even more. Even though his bulging, pre-glazed cock certainly wasn’t.

So swollen n’ red, he probes his silvery slit along your walls. Making you squirm with each scratch of his cockhead, it’s almost teasing the way that Gojo reaches exactly for your g-spot once more and bashes that tender spot in. “See? One.”

Oh. 

You’re struck with both the realization and a second, primal hammering of his shaft. Into that very same bundle of nerves you love so much. 

“T-two-” 

“Oh my god-”

He’s gruffly groaning, heavy balls tightening at the slamming impact. But that still doesn’t make him stop, still doesn’t even make him slow down. He only scours your treasure trove of walls inside and maps out your exact g-spot again- “Three-” Again and again. “Four- five. Hah! Five stars.”

And now Gojo was fucking you like he hated you. Like he was trying to prove himself to you.

The most reverent worshipper of your treacly pussy, he was making you cry out with each deep-seated kiss to your every weepy orifice. Every nook and cranny. Gojo had been starving since he was out of that box, and he was taking it out on your poor hole.

“That’s m-more than five–!” You’re crying out after a while. 

“Oh? M’more than five stars, huh?” Purring- at least, you thought for a single delirious second that he was purring. Until you’re realizing that it was simply his vibrator-like fingers, once more attaching themselves onto your clit. “Why thank you.”

Throwing your hands over the bulky height of his shoulders, you pull him in close. Trying not to whine simply at the sensation of his firm, beefy abs glissading down your front - he was ripped. 

And he was pummelling into you like he was about to rip you to shreds, sensually dragging the drivelling orifice of his shaft straight down to your womb. You feel Gojo in your very throat, and he’s slowly but surely getting addicted to the spongy touch of your cervix. “Oh- I’m gonna bruise myself into this cunt, sweetheart.”

Bulging your insides like he was trying to prove it, a thick batter of precum slips n’ slides down your thighs as you squeeze them ‘round his waist. “P-please-” Bucking. Grinding. He only draws hearts on your clit harder, “Please it’s so much-”

And that makes mean, merciless Gojo flick your oversensitive nub and write out his damn name straight across it. S-A-T-O-R-U—“What’s that, spell—?”

“Satoru-” 

A light thwack! of his fingertips on your pulsing clit. “Nuh uh, your Satoru.” And you half-wondered whether his wrist might be aching with how fast they were toyin’ with your cute nub.

It almost hurt how good it felt. Forcing you to anchor your feet onto the bed and bow your body backwards in electric bliss-

“Ah ah-” You’re moving so much that Gojo has to dig his fingerpads into the skin of your neck and pin you, pushing you down with the front of his happy trail. No escape. “S-stop running-”

Somehow, he manages to choke out through the sheer pressure of his thrusts - taking such a sultry toll on him, as well. And all he can do is to wrangle you in his arms, folded until your ass cheeks were lifting clean off the satiny sheets. Until he was just drilling into you like he was frenzied, feverish. “Stop running- fuck! You know we sell handcuffs, too?”

The buzzing tip of his finger gently spanks your cunt and you squeal, “B-but I can’t help it-” Clawing red, red lines down his back. “Feels like m’gonna cum any- hngh, any second now.”

Just in that moment, he’s digging his plump, thickened circumference against your walls and you can see your vision shatter with tears. Oh-so-close now that it felt like he was just milking himself on your velvety pussy- 

“Yeah- Oh yeah? Y’know I only live to p-please you, sweetheart.” A wobbly smile graces Gojo’s handsome face, a thin trickle of sweat sliding down his forehead. “So why don’tcha be a goooood owner f’me and do what you have to do?”

Tearily, you blink up at his feral expression. “Wh-what’s that, Satoru?”

Instead of answering, he only increases the vibrato in his fingertips - each zap sending your body shaking, mind spinning. He only slams his hips so hard that your eardrums pop, sponged cervix giving way to his probin’ swabbing shaft. 

He only whispers in your ear, “Cum.”

And in that moment you can’t control it- you do. 

You think you almost might have even if it wasn’t for Gojo’s guttural, greedy voice. 

It’s just about the hardest orgasm of your life, you can barely even think- even breathe. Your walls constrict like they’re trying to hold back his vicious thrusts, g-spot now throbbing with slammed impact.

“Sa—fuck! Toru- I’m-”

“Cum. Cum- cum.” He’s uttering out like a mantra into the skin of your neck. And as if his rough cadence wasn’t enough, you’re being dragged down by the hand at your throat to further ram against his v-line. Ruinous. Reddening his skin.

You’re fisting desperately at the sheets, hips helplessly bucking with each white-hot shockwave of euphoria taking over your body.

Gojo feels you clampin’ away around him, trying to milk each peak of your high. The globular crown of his shaft glissades constantly down your walls and directly against your womb- making you see stars. “Cum- fuck! If you’re g-gonna cum then-”

You’re so sensitive at this point that just the burning intensity of Gojo’s stare makes you shiver, “Then what–?”

He grins sleazily, “Then you better make use of the fact that I’m water-proof.”

Oh, he wanted you to squirt. 

Barely even getting used to the constant adrenaline of your orgasm flooding your fuzzy brain, it’s then that Gojo’s vibrating fingertips slither their way down from the folds of your pussy. Down to hook inside your dewy hole–

“Sh-shit shit shit-” Your entire body shakes, every leftover ounce of rationality in you dissolving. You’re drooling so much by now that it’s forming an ocean of wetness on your pillow, “Wait- m’so- hah, sensitive.”

“I love it sensitive.” He’s giggling, doughy fingerpads starting to pump at the same rude tempo as his cock was. It’s just stretching you out so much, his vibrations making you so stupid. 

You’re just dragging your nails ferally down his back, feet pushing back against the mattress- almost like your body didn’t know whether you wanted to run from the carnal sensations or grind back in for more, more, more. 

To barely even have the chance to catch your breath from your last orgasm before Gojo’s plunging you into your next. Your third of the day - and, this time, you were squirting. 

Just like he’d wanted. 

Just like he’d dreamed of - in big, heaping splashes of your syrupy slick that drenched his tense core. It slipped down his massively rovering cock and almost made him jealous. 

So awestruck with your explosive high, he fucks his furious cock faster. “I can’t believe- hah! can’t believe you made me-” And you’re the one noticing his orgasm first, the fact that he was creaming your bruised insides white. “Toru- you’re cum—ing—”

Gojo looks down with a gasp, “Oh.” Noticing the ring of sleek white that was already starting to formulating ‘round his base.

He’s cumming just from making you cum.

Piling on his seed against your cervix, you can feel him webbing up your innards with all his ivory sap and it drives you crazy. Each buttery heap of cum being shot out with a lecherous sluuurp—“I did it- hah, I did my job well, didn’t I?” Gojo spits out, draaaaaging your pathetically escaping body back once more to dig his vibrating fingers between your pussylips. He sloshes around his slick cum inside like a mixer, “Did I make you feel goooood, sweetheart?”

“Y-ngh, yes- oh.” You can only gurgle out half-formed answers. Body uselessly tremblin’ all throughout your wave of high, it arcs like a crescent and makes you shake with bliss after each wire of cum streaking your walls. “Please- ngh-”

So sensitive. So fucking full. 

It feels like ages of skin-on-skin until you’re finally dropping from your orgasm, spent cunt letting off only a few more pearly beads of juices. 

And you’re mindlessly making to get onto your elbows, ready to have mercy upon your poor body and pull away when-

“Wh-where do you think you’re going?”

“Wha- oh!”

Being dragged back, you’re in the manhandling arms of Gojo Satoru once more. And he was gone- dazed eyes barely open, teeth snarling, pants labored. “Didn’t you read the- the package, sweetheart?” As if you could think of reading - or doing, really - anything right now. Gojo snickers like he already knew the answer to that question, “I can last for hoooooours~”

Oh, fuck.

And he kept his word. 

The packaging boasted about two to three hours of usage- but you’re fairly sure that Gojo was rock-hard and swollen for much, much longer. 

He was dragging you with inhuman stamina through a second and third round after that, until your poor g-spot was so sensitive that it’d brought you to needy tears. Then a fourth, where his sensual fingers were cramping up- but he’d still pumped them inside until you were falling apart on them. Then a fifth, where you’d completely been dumbified on his cock, your high nothing but some zaps of electricity that he was still proudly wrenching out of your overworked body. And finally…

“Ngh- ngh.” Gojo tries to muffle his lil’ whimpers by sucking on your tongue- failing. And it’s creating the most sinful songs, his fingertips weakly vibrating down your teary slope. “S-sooo good…”

Just the fact that you made The Strongest’s voice crack makes you gulp. “Toru- how are you still even going-”

And he doesn’t answer your question- not yet. 

Gojo had you bent on all sloppy fours; his ridged abs melting into your back, hips merely grinding- not even thrusting by now, his chin digging into the crook of your neck. And most sinful of all, he had you in a damn headlock. 

Angling your slobbering mouth into his, he’s urging you to spit between those pretty lips of his. “Because I can always- hah, recharge.” How absolutely filthy.

Gojo giggles - giggles. “Why thank you.” And apparently you’d said that last sentence out loud without even registering it.

And it was driving you mad, making you gyrate your hips back into his. So gone by now that tears were flowing freely down your cheeks n’ adding to the mess of saliva down on your pillows.

You’re fucking him in lecherous strokes, mere drags of your walls down his veiny length. Every zig-zagged line was simply coated in enough slick n’ cum to slosh around inside of you. You let out a mewl, “I don’t- oh please- I don’t think I even c-can cum, ngh.”

“You can, sweetheart- you will. M’making sure of it-” Snarling against the shell of your ear. Even on low battery, the tremors of Gojo’s fingers were fatal. 

Dragging out your clit, syncing with the honed strikes of his bulbous tip against your cervix. Just graaaazing you until you felt all raw. 

“I need to make you cum- need to-” He’s rolling his eyes to the back of his head, “Just get on your knees and I’ll- ngh, fuck, make you…”

“I-I’m already on my knees, Toru—” Crying out at the tightening of his headlock, beefy forearm restraining your airway. 

“Oh.” And by now you had no idea whether it was you or him that was more gone. Because Gojo’s completely drunk on the suctioning, heated feeling of your cunt. Already letting his pitch lilt octaves higher, breathy. You can feel the positively predatory grin on your skin- “Then cum, sweetheart~”

Whimpering, you can’t do anything but throw your head back and let your body listen to him. 

Like he could predict exactly when you were going to fall over the edge, you find white flashing behind your eyelids. Arms shaking, you can barely even hold yourself up as your nth orgasm of the night takes over you- but, luckily enough, you didn’t have to with Gojo’s headlock holding you up.

Keeping you in place for him to rover his hungry cock, thrust after thrust through your high. Just the way you looked so pretty cumming ‘round his length made him flinch, made him start to moan.

It only takes him one, two, three squeezes from your throbbing walls to let go, too. 

Moaning out your name like a mantra, one hand gripping the headboard, hips slamming—

Splat! Splat! Splat!

Something hot n’ wet hits your shoulder, and your breath catches. Looking behind you, you find your heart stuttering at the sight of Gojo Satoru, overstimulated, crossed eyes scrunching as he tears up. He whispers- “Cum- cumming. Did I do good, sweetheart?”

Gojo was crying at the blank bursts from the end of his shaft, you’d just made him cum dry. And he could do nothing but let the sudden bliss take over him, so much so that it was almost painful. 

CRACK–! Only later - hours and hours later - would you recognize that crack to be your poor bedframe. Shattering under his constant, feral strength - he’d broken the bed.

Again and again– by now he’d collapsed on top of you, pushing you so far deep into the bed. 

He looked so cute like this - bottom lip jutting out, eyes shuttered, grunting whimpers leaving his throat after each thrust. Oh-so-sensitive that it was making his entire body shake just to fuck you through your dual highs. “Can’t believe-” Gojo chokes, sounding agonized, “C-can’t believe- I- dry, oh. The thing you do to me.”

By the time you’re clear-headed enough to register his hazy words, the buzzing of his fingertips had died down completely. And he was instead using them to shovel in all the clingy wads of cum spraying out of your hole, overspilling.

As Gojo snuggles up to you from behind, he makes sure that not a single creamy drop gets wasted- sometimes slicking it over his fingerpads like glaze and sucking. 

“Mmm—” You’re hearing Gojo hum from behind you, “F-five stars, huh, sweetheart?”

Rolling your eyes in fondness, “Oh, shush.” 

“Can’t, I’m one of the loud types.”

And once Gojo simply occupies himself with making an even bigger mess of your dripping wet cunt, you find your eyes catching on something you hadn’t thought about in hours.

The glasses - the dateviators, to be exact.

They’d somehow found themselves on your bedside table during all your lecherous chaos. Without thinking much of it, you’re leaning over to grab them. Putting them on and-

“The fuck?”

Both of you snap your heads towards the commotion- the husky, mean baritone commotion. And both your jaw and the glasses clatter to the floor at the sight of a man more towering than Gojo. And somehow even more cocky.

Perhaps seven feet, maybe even taller. He had beady crimson eyes, and tattoos across nearly every inch of his muscular body - and that included all four beefy arms. Crossed rudely, a pink brow arches at the sight below him, “The King ends up in a fuckin’ box under this bed and some pathetic rose toy gets to play with ya, mama?”

Gojo snarls, “Oi- who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“Ryomen Sukuna, or Duomen Sukuna- tch.” Unimpressed, he stares down your other non-human companion, “The Strongest in history.”

“False advertising-”

“I’m going to kill-”

Your eyes inadvertently drop between Sukuna’s tattooed thighs; monstrously big, both long n’ mind-shatteringly veiny with a happy trail of pink. And almost instantly you know just what had just come to life - that one massive, double dildo from Bad Dragon that’d once been gifted to you by your friends as a joke.

A joke.

Though, you weren’t in much of a joking mood when you say-

“How about we settle this-” And they both look at you in curiosity as you grin, “-in bed?”

“We love the way you think…”

A/N. I find myself so amusing for that ending.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[jiimeniita]