[a-rome-of-ones-own]

the letting go

paddy mayne x f!reader

part one + part three

masterlist

wc: 8.5k

summary: termoli, 1950. over the course of one night, two former lovers attempt to make sense of war, trauma, and the lives they never expected to escape with.

warnings: brief mention of domestic violence (it’s complicated); wartime violence; some medical gore; ptsd; mental illness; alcoholism; very minor spoilers for season two of SAS; slow burn-ish; hurt + comfort; friends to lovers to exes to …?; french and italian poetry with english translations (i am trilingual and making it everyone's problem)

notes: part 2 of 2 with a happy ending, for my own sake. reader is addressed as female, but no specific appearance or ethnicity. if you feel moved to like, reblog, or comment, i will kiss you on the mouth !! anyway, go watch the before sunrise trilogy NOW

poems mentioned: 1944-1947 (Franco Fortini, 1963), Epitaphs (Countee Cullen, 1925), bon bon il est un pays (Samuel Beckett, 1949ish), and Da Dio mandata, angelica mia scorta (Vittoria Colonna, c.1538)

You discovered the sea at night, some places green, some wine-dark. A strip of seaweed floated midwater. A destiny can change like that, unseen.

The first time Paddy kissed her, the tank had only just stopped firing.

A grenade, thrown across the piazza in a desperate last attempt to stop the German advance, had rolled with divine precision under the Panzer just in time for detonation. In one moment, eardrums were burst and the vehicle erupted into smoking metal.

Y/N lay under the captain, who was shielding her body with his own and cradling her skull in the crook of his arm. The pair were strewn out behind a wall of sandbags already shredded to bits, with no guarantee of any protection against the shrapnel dislodged in the blast. And yet - by divine providence or stupid luck - the doctor and the captain were both untouched. For a moment, they stilled, breathing heavily and looking at each other in awe. The world was quiet, the enemy felled.

“I told you to stay in the church,” he mumbles, looking her over.

“You were hurt,” she replies, still shaking.

Indeed, a bullet is currently lodged in his shoulder and the wound is spilling hot blood onto both of their uniforms. But he’s Paddy Mayne - it won’t kill him or likely even slow him down. And she isn’t worried enough to crawl out from under him, to face the aftermath of this firefight.

He leans in to press his forehead against hers. Lingers there, as if to gauge her reaction. He knows the stillness will be gone soon, knows they’ll return to camp, back to all the clamour and chaos of a military operation.

Pulling away, his eyes fix on her mouth with a look of devastating want. Y/N knows, though, she knows he won’t move unless she does. He acts like such a deviant, such a barbarian and yet he really is just a tired poet who yearns for softness.

So she moves.

She cranes her neck up to brush noses. Hesitating for a moment, she breathes into his mouth, allows herself to savour this momentary intimacy. Anything could happen tomorrow but right now, Paddy Mayne has breath in his lungs and so does she.

He closes the distance and meets her lips with a kiss so gentle it nearly makes her cry.

“There was one night, Paddy, the last night. You don’t remember it, you were asleep. But I woke with your hands around my neck.”

Her words are a punch to his throat.

He moves to speak but she cuts him off with a soft hand.

“I’ll tell you what happened, but you have to let me finish. Yeah?”

His gaze is haunted but he manages to nod.

“I’m alright. There was no hospital or anything. No lasting damage.”

He breathes out as a tiny sliver of relief blooms in his chest. Y/N wraps herself in a tight little hug, shivering despite the body heat and familiar cologne still clinging to the faded leather.

“You were not there. I saw your eyes and they weren’t yours. And I know you were looking down at me and seeing some little German boy. Maybe a face you recognized, maybe one that still haunts you, I don’t know. Well, you’re very strong, you know that. I thought maybe I stood a chance if I could reach over and get you over the head with the lamp. I tried but it was too far. I accepted that I would die, then, that you’d be the one to kill me. You were sobbing. I tried to say something, I tried to wake you, make you understand it was me, that you were hurting me, but I couldn’t. It felt as though there was nothing I could do. I just waited to die.”

His hands are shaking. He’s crying - when did he start crying? - hot, incredulous tears rolling down his cheeks. His face is slack but he looks as though he is going to be sick.

“But just before I passed out, I jabbed you in the eye, hard. I s’pose it hurt and you woke up. You were so lost, so disoriented and confused, you were still sobbing. I held you. I could barely breathe but I held you, I know you must have been so scared. I held you until you fell back asleep.”

In the privacy of her own mind, she’s rehearsed these words so many times. Now that she’s speaking them aloud, her voice takes on an emotionless tone as she recites them from memory. Words have power, they both know that. Paddy deserves the right ones.

She shuffles, digging her toes into the sand, face flushed.

“But I had to leave, then, Paddy. You wouldn’t talk to me, you wouldn’t talk to the doctor, you were drinking three or four bottles a night just to fall asleep, starting all those stupid fights in town, and there was nothing I could do.”

Y/N looks him in the eye.

“I left. I didn’t want you to see the bruises. You would have killed yourself, I think. I really do believe that would’ve done it.”

He can’t move. There is hot air blowing through where his thoughts should be.

Still, she continues.

“You know I would’ve died for you. You know, in any other case, that I would’ve chosen your life over mine. But I needed you to want to get better and you didn’t. So I left. I’m sorry I did it like that, but I wasn’t thinking. I just had to go.”

So there it was: the atomic bomb that had been rotting her from the inside for years.

Now it's in the air, corroding the both of them.

She pants, breathing heavy from the exertion. His eyes are screwed shut, arms hanging limp at his sides. They shake and twitch like he's finally understanding that his hands are still weapons.

“The cigarette,” he mumbles. “Y’jumped when I touched you.” His eyes open to reveal red vessels.

She nods slowly, sadly, hanging her head.

He falls like his legs can’t support the weight of the revelation. His shaking hands float over her knees.

“Can I- I just wanta- please, can I hold you? You can tell me no, just tell me no, I’ll fuck off. Swear to God I’ll fuck off, please, I- fuck, please?”

After a beat, she nods, trembling not from fear but from exhaustion, from the interminable ache their discord has caused.

Slowly, he cradles her thighs in his arms, his touch gentle and featherlight. She runs a soft hand through his hair and it cracks him in half. Everything pours out. He sobs into her lap, choking out broken and desperate apologies, bordering on nonsense.

Y/N has never seen him like this in her life.

“I hurt you, I hurt my girl, I hurt you- I coulda killed you, I’da followed you meself, I swear to God, if I’d killed ya I’da done it right there in our room, the moment I realized, I’da fuckin’ followed ya, I’d follow you anywhere, anywhere, I- I’m so sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, I love you, I love you more than anything swear to fuckin’ Christ I love you more than life, fuck- I’m sorry, I hurt my girl, I coulda killed you, my girl my girl my girl-”

She tries to soothe him, crying quietly, rubbing circles on his shoulder.

“I’m alive, Paddy. It is what it is.”

“I coulda killed you.”

“You didn’t.”

She kneels down to look at him.

His eyes are narrower, still wild, scanning her neck and shoulders as if seeking the evidence of his crime.

“I’m sorry, can I- could I hold you, properly? S’okay if not, s’okay, s’all okay with me…”

“Yeah, Paddy. It’s okay.” Her voice is quiet, shaky. Like she is allowing herself to grieve. He wraps her in an embrace, drawing her into his chest but leaving enough room for her wiggle out. He’s still mumbling, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Yer a smart girl. Smart girl. Hurt me like I taught you. You take care a yerself, always do, dontcha? Smart girl. I’m so proud a you. You hurt me good, you saved yerself. Tough girl. Brilliant girl. But I shoulda been takin’ care a you. Should’ve been my job. But I made it worse, didn’t I?”

He babbles like he's trying to calm an injured animal.

“I scared ya. You’d’ve been so scared. My girl. So scared a me. Spent all those years lookin’ out for each other and I let you down, didn’t I? I’m sorry, dovie, I’m so sorry. And yer apologizin’ to me like you did anything wrong. You never stepped a toe outta line, you know that? You don’t ever say yer sorry again. You never say that to me again, you never apologize for a fuckin’ thing, yeah? Fuckin’ sweet girl scared out of her mind’n still takin’ care a me. Shoulda killed me.”

She's crying now, too, sobbing into the crook of his neck as he presses desperate kisses into her hair and strokes her loose curls.

“Know I needed help, yeah, know I still do. Know I needed th’doctor. You knew it, did’yer best but you needed help. I shoulda helped you, shoulda helped myself. I was livin’ for you, still am. I love you. Fuck - love you so much it's killing me all over again.”

She leans back to look at him.

“Paddy, I-”

Y/N knows shell shock. She’s seen it in its nastiest forms, all empty gazes and tremors and hallucinations triggered by backfiring cars. Treated men who haven’t slept in days, vomiting and shaking from the voices who won’t grant them rest.

Still, she is unprepared for the look in Paddy’s eyes when they meet her own.

“I don’t blame you.”

His reply is quick, too sharp: “You should. The fuck s’wrong with you?”

She narrows her eyes.

“Fine. Maybe I resent you. A little. I suppose I think about it often enough. If you’d just listened to me, gone to the doctor, if you’d let me in, if you’d done it differently. ‘Stead of being so fucking proud.”

He hangs his head low, nods in shame. He is too quick to anger. Men like him fall back on rage when the other emotions are too big to feel. He knows it. Knows better.

But she continues: “I don’t know, though. Maybe it wouldn’t’ve made it a difference. Maybe it would’ve happened just the same. If I start to think about the what ifs - I mean, it doesn’t really help.”

He gazes at her, absorbing the words.

“He told me not to do that - the doctor in London, I mean. Said to not let myself get lost in what could have been instead of accepting what is. Makes everything so much worse.”

He makes a little sound of agreement.

“You just end up torturing yourself.”

“But it’s all torture anyway, though, ain’t it? All th’time.”

Y/N shakes her head.

“Fine, sure. Maybe if you’d done all that, taken me seriously, then things would be different. But if I start down that path then where does it end? Like - I don’t know - what if you’d dodged the draft? What if I’d never signed up? What if we’d never volunteered for the SAS? Fuck it - what if the war had never started? What if Hitler’d never been born? What if - ha! - what if they never shot Franz Ferdinand? What if the Russian Revolution never happened? Oh my god, and on and on…”

She’s almost smiling now, head in her hands, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh, everything could’ve been different. We could’ve been so different. Life could’ve played out in so many ways but it hasn’t, and we’re here, and we’re tired and sad and hurt and a little drunk and we’re in Italy for a fucking wedding. It is what it is. We’re alive and we’re here.”

She looks over at him. His eyes are shining with something like pride.

“Aye. We are.”

-

The first time an SAS soldier had died under her care, Y/N did not sleep for three days.

For three agonizing hours she operated on his shredded torso, having recruited two officers to hold the man down as he thrashed and wailed. It was too late, though. The bullet had ripped through his lung and he died just after midnight.

In the aftermath, it was a combination of amphetamines, black coffee, and rum that kept her functioning well enough to look after the other survivors. She delayed writing the letter home to the man’s parents - her hands shook so badly that she could barely grip the pen. It was clear that the rest of the regiment lamented the loss, but it was far from the first time they’d lost a comrade in the line of fire. After a song and a drink in his honour, they more or less carried on.

Paddy didn’t know what to do with her.

Any other soldier, he’d deliver some harsh speech about death being the natural fate of an SAS man, that the only thing to do was to carry on and hunt down the cunts who’d killed their brother. Oftentimes, that was the sort of thing they needed to hear. On occasion, the gruff captain could manage a little extra softness, offering up swigs from his personal stash of quality liquor or quietly approving an extra few hours of rest.

But Y/N was different.

He didn’t know what she needed or how to provide it. Every instinct in his body screamed to show her kindness, to relieve her of her burden - frankly, to put in a call to GHQ and have her removed from the fight, removed from Italy, fuck, removed from the continent altogether. And even if it turned out that she responded best to harsh speeches barked out in anger, he could never bring himself to shout at her.

Without words, she asked so much of him, challenged him to be so much more. He was discovering, slowly, that there were secret parts of himself that had been lying dormant for as long as he’d been alive. Hidden nooks that were sweeter, more earnest, more human; crannies that activated in the presence of undemanding love. Suddenly, he was aware of a new imperative superceding all others, operating from a new set of rules: be everything for her.

So when he returned to camp a few nights later, Paddy made a beeline for the medical tent.

Only, it was empty. Bloody rags littered the dirt floor.

He tried the informal mess hall next, asking the men he passed if they’d seen the doctor. No, they said, and come to think of it, it’s been a while since we have. Alarm bells began to ring in his mind. He jogged over to his own tent, nervous thoughts racing, planning to grab a torch and search the woods beyond.

But he found her, though, curled up on his bed, back turned to the entrance, sniffling quietly.

“Ah, come on, then,” Paddy whispers, dropping his bags.

He takes a moment to still his anxious heart, takes a breath. Shrugging off his jacket, he crawls into the bed behind her. Instinctively, she curls into him, welcoming his touch and letting him wrap an arm around her. He presses a kiss to her shoulder and waits. There’ll be time for talking, he thinks. Right now, let her rest.

For a good hour, she says nothing at all. Her eyes are closed but her chest still rattles. Paddy just waits, brushing the hair from her face and tracing patterns on her arm. Life in the camp is often so loud - so unpredictable, so messy.

In her presence, though, he worships the silence.

“I’m so fucking tired, Paddy,” she finally breathes, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Know y’must be, girl. How many nights you been up?”

“Haven’t slept at all. Not once.”

“You have to, sweet- no, don’t cry, I know you know. I know yer tryin’. I know it’s hard. I’m sorry. I know.”

She sobs again, curling her arms over his own and drawing them into a desperate grip. He kisses her neck.

“I don’t understand. I- he’s not the first person to die, I… I’ve lost so many, so many back home and they teach you to handle it. Why can’t I handle it? Why him? What’s happening to me?”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t know, dovie, I really don’t. Only there’s no sense in it. This here’s the world of feelings, yeah? Not science. S’not logical, s’not somethin’ to decode. It is what it is. Y’just need to feel it.”

She inhales shakily, squeezing her eyes shut. He breathes into her hair for a long moment, rests his head atop hers.

“You n’ I, we’re poets, ain’t we? Seein’ the world in a different way. Feelin’ it all too much.”

“You think?”

“Aye, we are. Not made fer killin’. Not made fer war, us. Nah, we’re witnesses, sweetheart.”

“Witnesses,” she repeats, half-delirious.

“S’right.”

“Witnesses to what?”

“Life, I s’pose. Whichever form it takes.”

Slowly, her breathing grows steady. He matches her pace on the exhalations.

“I want a poem, please,” she asks, her voice soft as anything.

“Y’think you can just summon one on demand, like?” he murmurs, nuzzling her cheek. She nods.

“My man’s a poet, apparently.”

His heart explodes at her use of the possessive.

“Fair enough, s’pose he is,” he smiles. “Dealer’s choice?”

“Yeah, you have good taste.”

Oh, he’s grinning like a lunatic. He takes a breath, lowers his lips to her ear:

“My days were a thing for me to live, for others to deplore; I took of life all it could give: rind, inner fruit, and core. […] To men no more than so much cover for them to doff or try, I found in death a constant lover; here in his arms I lie.”

She’s silent, considering his choice of poem and the words within, the depth of them. And then:

“I don’t think I know that one.”

“S’an American. Cullen.”

“Oh.”

She pauses.

“But you can’t stand Americans.”

He barks a laugh.

“Aye, begrudgingly, I grant that they know a thing or two about arranging lines of verse.”

She giggles, cracking through the tracks of long-dried tears. He grins again, runs a finger down the bridge of her nose.

“Ah, there she is.”

Still nestled on the sand, Y/N rests in Paddy’s arms. They’re tangled up in each other, indistinguishable, like two Romans twisted together for eternity in ash. It’s so late in the night that it’s now early in the morning. Maybe that’s a little hint of dawn on the horizon, or maybe it’s just her imagination.

“Y’know, I’d always wanted to swim here properly.”

He peers down at her, amused.

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, I never had a swimming costume and the men were always around. Just wanted some privacy. A couple times they invited me to join, but…”

“But?”

“Well, I’d seen enough of their anatomy already.”

He laughs.

“Aye, so you want to go for a swim, now, s’that it?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Nah, y’implied it.”

“Ok,” she concedes. “Yes. I could go for a swim.”

“Not shy anymore, r’you? ‘Round me?”

She mumbles something, grateful he can’t see the bashfulness on her face.

“Speak up, dovie, s’only to make sure you don’t mind catchin’ a glimpse of my own…anatomy.”

Y/N barks an incredulous laugh, quickly sitting up from him.

“Jesus, Paddy!”

He just cackles and sits up as well, leaning back on his hands. He watches with rapt attention as she stands, fumbling with the straps of her gown.

“Don’t stare too hard, now.”

“Can’t promise a thing, sweetness. I am, as you so coarsely implied back at the soirée, an animal.”

She snorts, letting the silk drop from her shoulders. To his credit, Paddy maintains eye contact.

“Y’coming?” she calls out, turning towards the surf.

“’Course I am. Go on, girl.”

She steps into the water, hissing slightly at the cold sting of it. Behind her, she hears the sound of clinking metal and fabric dropping. Paddy follows her from a respectful distance and they walk until their feet fail to reach the bottom.

The poets float together in the shallows, letting the waves bob them like any one of the buoys or dinghies out there on the vaster sea.

She dunks her head under the surf, too dark to see anything, using the opportunity to scrub the sand from her hair. When she surfaces, Paddy is watching her. She can’t decipher the look in his eyes and wonders how anyone who ever loved another this fiercely could ever turn them to a stranger.

There is one last question that still needs answering. She treads water, turns in circles, summong the courage to finally ask it.

“What happened after I left? I- um, what happened to the cottage?” she chokes out. Her voice is sheepish, guilty, and so soft he almost wonders if he’s heard wrong.

He purses his lips, blows out a long, slow breath.

“Jesus…”

“No! I mean, it’s fine, you don’t have to-” She shakes her head furiously, struggling back to where her feet touch the sand. “I’m sorry.”

“No, nah, just caught me off guard there, s’all.” He floats beside her, his voice deep and calm. “No, ‘course I’ll tell you.”

“I felt so awful. I still do.”

He looks her square in the eye, blue eyes burning.

“You’ll stop that, now. No apologizin’. No guilt. None a that. You give that to me, yeah? That’s mine, now.”

“It’s not yours-”

“Aye, it is. Mine to do with as I like.”

She pauses, a slight smile on her lips.

“Fifty-fifty?”

“Nah, dovie, I’m just too greedy,” he grins. “C’mere, then, if you like.”

Y/N leans into him, folding her arms around his neck.

“You tell me to fuck off n’I will, yes?” he repeats, low and gentle in her ear. She nods against him.

“So…” he begins. “Well, I s’pose I woke that mornin’ with my head on fire. Worse than usual. Looked over at you and the bed was empty. S’always the way I’d start my day, up before the sun, lookin’ at you, sleepin’ there tucked up into me, lovely as anythin’. Only I didn’t see you, figured you must’ve gone lookin’ for a glass a water.”

He draws a deep breath, steadies himself, begins tracing idle lines up and down the length of her spine.

“Only, y’weren’t anywhere. Went down into the kitchen and nothin’. I began to spiral, convinced meself you’d been stolen away in the night. And oh, I tell ya, not even the worst days a that war can even begin to compare to the panic I felt right then.”

Paddy laughs, no emotion.

“I was rantin’ and ravin’ in the dark, hyperventilatin’ like. Wasn’t till I turned on the light and saw your…handiwork on the table that I came to understand the situation. Truth be told - not sayin’ it to be mean, m’sorry, girl - but I swear t’God, when I understood you’d left on yer own, I almost wished you’d been taken. ‘Least then I’d have a hope of gettin’ you back.”

Her eyes well.

“’Least then it wouldn’t’a been of your own volition, leavin’ me. Ah - but Christ, that’s fucked, though, isn’t it?” He digs his hands against his eyes, rubbing into them hard.

“Paddy, I’m so sor-”

He blinks, shaking his head. “Ah, y’don’t finish that sentence.”

She sighs.

“Anyhow, y’don’t need to know what I did next. T’wasn’t good for me, all I’ll say. Since then: been drinkin’ too much, mainly. Still go walkin’ sometimes. As fer the cottage, well, she’s still there. Haven’t touched her. She’s yours, too, yers and mine. Didn’t feel right to sell her. Myself, I moved up north, middle a fuckin’ nowhere. Suits me just fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am. All that time in the desert had an impact, turns out: I hate civilization.” He says it proudly, matter-of-fact. She laughs.

“No, you don’t.”

“Au contraire, dovie, I find I cannot stand it.”

“Oh, you’re so dramatic!” Y/N launches into a poor imitation of his Irish lilt: “O tortured poet, o Byronic hero, save me from the perils a plumbing n’human contact-”

He cackles, poking at her ribs. She shrieks in surprise. In a blink, he’s removed his hands completely, like they’ve burned her. She touches him lightly and he relaxes.

“S’the worst accent I’ve heard in my life,” he mumbles.

“Probably.”

Y/N and Paddy float quietly a moment. She closes her eyes, brings her forehead to lean against his. The memory of that first kiss runs through them like a live wire.

“I miss home,” she whispers.

In Y/N’s estimation, the only natural wonder to rival the blue of the Mediterranean is the green of Ireland.

Upon her first visit, she’d discovered natural hues that seemed to exist nowhere else on this earth, every landscape a revelation. She could not believe that Paddy had grown up in a place such as this, a place as idyllic, as beautiful. Having only ever lived in large cities, Y/N had nothing to compare it to but the illustrated pages of a fairy tale.

“I understand you, now, Paddy. Living here, the only sane response is to become a poet or a painter.”

They’re huddled together on a dune overlooking the wine-dark sea below them, only a few hours from his hometown. The sky is grey but it doesn’t matter - if anything, a blue sky would seem out of place here. There is an ease in this gloom, no pressure to seize the day or to make use of the daylight hours. No, today is a day for rest.

He laughs, drawing the wool blanket back over her shoulder from where it’d begun to slip.

“Oh, we’re lucky, us.”

Y/N sips gingerly from her cup, the still-hot pekoe burning her tongue.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be a tea drinker, though.”

“Trust me, mo chroí. You just give it time.”

She looks over at him, amused.

“You call me that, sometimes. What is that?”

“Mo chroí? S’Irish.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I assumed as much. But what’s it mean?”

“Means my heart.”

“Ah.”

“R’you blushin’?”

“No.”

“’Liar.”

“Fuck off.”

“So unladylike, y’are.”

She performs a rude gesture she’d picked up in Naples. He barks a laugh and hands her a biscuit.

The gulls glide through the air above the lovers, soaring high and swooping low to snap at the surface of the sea. Roiling waves provide ambient noise, a constant hum against the shrieking of the birds. The stalks of the reeds flit softly in the breeze, kissing Y/N’s cheek every now and again.

“Oh! Reminds me,” she smiles, setting down the cup. “I have a new one for you.”

“Yeah? Go on then, sweetness, see f’I can guess it.”

She sits up straight, serious, turns to face him. Clears her throat, miming an opera singer. He shakes his head and pokes at her cheek. She swats his hand.

“Alright. Ma solitude je la connais, allez, je la connais mal - j’ai le temps, c’est ce que je me dis, j’ai le temps. Mais quel temps, os affamé, le temps du chien - du ciel pâlissant sans cesse, mon grain de ciel.” *

Y/N sits back, satisfied with her performance.

He grins, so hopelessly in love, and claps slowly. She pretends to bow.

“Thank you kindly.”

He looks up, places a finger on his chin, pretending to ruminate.

“S’pose that’s an Irish poem you’ve memorized for me? S’only one Irish poet writes in French.”

She nods, sighing, sitting back on her hands. Knows he’s already got it.

“Beckett, then?” he asks. She nods again, rolling her eyes. He draws her in, kisses her deep. “Good girl.”

“You’re too good at this,” she mumbles against his lips.

“Yes, I am.”

“Gosh, and so humble.”

-

The cottage they purchased in the hills was described by the estate agent as “in theoretically liveable condition”. Translation: four walls, a roof, and passable plumbing.

By SAS standards, a palace.

Neither of them had much of a talent for interior design, so they filled their home with anything that happened to catch their eye: mismatched furniture, a dusty Persian carpet rescued from someone else’s bins, secondhand paintings of landscapes and people they’d never seen, postcards from friends around the globe, and whatever else they managed to find along the way. There was always a fire going, always a warm cup of tea (for him) and coffee (for her), and they quickly found that they didn’t need much by way of anything.

No, the simple, perfect luxury was this: delighting in each other’s company every day, week after week, month after month, with no threat of violence, no demands on their time, nothing to do, nowhere to be. A warm bed to share, endless pleasures to delight in. Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books, old and new and fiction and poetry and history and philosophy and even a few dirty romances. Dry clothes, freshly mended. Out the window, rolling green grasses as far as the eye can see.

What else would they need?

In the beginning, Y/N had been hopelessly optimistic. The war was over. Fascism had supposedly fallen. Her and Paddy were free. This, she thought, this was her old dream of escape coming true. No, it was even better: in the SAS, she’d met her equal, the love of her life, the only person who’d ever truly seen her. Together, they found themselves at the beginning of a new chapter, co-authored and co-enjoyed.

And it was good.

At first, there were no nightmares. Both she and Paddy found it odd to wake up every morning well-rested and at ease. They were nearly delirious with excitement at their newfound luck and took full advantage of it, filling their days with long walks, morning swims, construction projects, poetry readings, and journeys to the pub in town. It was good.

So good.

But then the voices returned.

Oh, it was gradual. A few times a week, one of them would wake in a cold sweat, crying out at some phantasmic act of violence. The unaffected party would soothe the other, coax them back to sleep. It wasn’t pleasasnt but it was to be expected. As Dr. Y/L/N well knew, the lingering effects of war were well-documented.

Then, once the night terrors had sunk their teeth into each lover’s respective psyche, a race began to identify an efficient coping mechanism. Poetry never worsened the situation but it never cured it, either. Promenades in the fresh air weren’t so bad, neither were cold plunges in the sea. Sometimes they ran up and down the hills for hours, or lifted heavy things until their muscles burned. They both tried so very hard to ignore the lure of the more dangerous strategies: the drinks, the drugs, the self-inflicted pain.

Paddy was the first to fall victim.

It was liquor, for him, like it’d been during the war years. He didn’t touch it very often, not anymore, but there are only so many sleep-deprived press-ups a man can do before he gives up and tries something else. As it worsened, Y/N wanted to chastise him but found she couldn’t, intimately familiar herself with the singular agony of going days without sleep.

She could only watch as he fell apart.

He resisted her every plea to visit the doctor - declined to stop drinking, failed to stay sober for more than a few hours at a time. Most days, he was a ghost: sleeping, rambling, smoking, imbibing, and fighting - then waking the next morning and doing it all over again. It became their evening routine: her, eating alone, reading alone, bathing alone; him, coming home and falling drunk into bed without so much as a hello, dovie.

All those years of medical training, all of the frontline work, all that grace under pressure, all her talk of feelings and absolution - all of it evaporated into dust where her own lover was concerned. She, herself, was becoming a ghost. Paling into the absence of a person. Every field surgery performed with jagged cutlery, every agonized confession from a boy-soldier barely eighteen years of age, every sleepless night hopped up on drugs and alcohol - that pain couldn’t hold a candle to the fresh emptiness in her soul, to the rot and desperation in that cottage.

One night, after a raucous three-day binge, she forced him awake and dragged him into the bathroom.

“We can’t go on like this.”

She turns the handles of the tap. The old tub begins to fill with steaming water. As it runs, she turns to look at him. Paddy is wobbly on his feet, propped against the doorframe for balance. His clothes are rumpled - probably the same ones he’d worn the day before - and his hair is mussed. The bags under his eyes look like bruises. The real bruises are on his knuckles, though, the result of having done God knows what to God knows who. His beard is shaggy, his hair grown out. He looks every bit the desert bogeyman he used to be.

“S’fine,” is his measured reply. “S’all fine.”

Y/N scoffs, standing and stalking over to him. She brushes a hand over his cheek and he leans into the touch.

“It’s really not.”

Wordlessly, she begins the work of unbuttoning his shirt. She tugs it off, unbuckles his trousers, and lets them fall to the ground. He groans softly at the contact. She forces his arms up, pulling the faded wife pleaser off and over his head. He kicks his pants to the side. There is a throbbing purple bruise on his torso. Tenderly, she presses into it, assessing for damage. He winces, coughing, leaning into her for support.

“That hurts?”

“Well, yes, when you fuckin’ do that,” he wheezes.

“Good,” she mumbles.

She unbuttons her own blouse, shimmying out of it and tugging her skirt down her thighs. He watches her. Once bare, she reaches for his hand and he gives it, no hesitation.

“Get in.”

“Don’t think I want to.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Sure, alright, I do.”

She steps in and leans back against the side of the tub. He follows suit, sitting between her thighs.

“S’posed to be the other way ‘round, I think.”

“I’m taking care of you. Sit still and take it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles in reply, no real mockery in it.

She drags the damp washcloth over Paddy’s body. He’s so warm, and not just from the water. His body is flushed and pink. His head lolls back onto her shoulder as she hums quietly, lowly, just for him. It’s an old tune, an Irish one she’d learned one of those happier nights down at the pub. The one he’d grinned at, shouting at her over the din to express his fondness for.

She rubs rhymthic circles over his chest and arms.

“Paddy,” she whispers softly.

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement.

“We can’t both fall apart. We won’t make it.”

“I know, dovie.”

Y/N passes another cloth over his face, rubbing gently at the cuts, staining it with his angry blood.

“My old colleague at the hospital in Mayfair wrote us yesterday.”

“What’d he want?”

“Says they’ve got a new program for veterans. Asked if I’d consider it.”

He sighs, chuckling.

“S’a few days a drinkin’, sweetheart, I don’t need all that.”

“Well- no, actually. He was asking for me.”

Paddy turns abruptly, sending up a splash of hot water.

“Why? What’s- are you well?”

She shrugs, drops the cloth, folding her knees and resting her arms upon them.

“Dunno. No. Don’t think so.”

He nods, sobering, sits back against the tub. It’s like a switch has flipped in his brain. He grabs her hips and turns her body, coaxing her up against him, presses kisses to her wet hair. Wraps his arms over her chest.

“Tell me, girl.”

Y/N blinks, tears stinging at the edges of her vision.

“S’just nightmares, again, that’s all.”

“Go on.”

“Just…the ones who died. Like, sometimes the boys in surgery. A lot of times the kids. The, ah… the people in town. I see them every night, now, and I don’t sleep. Haven’t slept. Tried everything. Got into your stash of poitín.”

He nods solemnly. He remembers watching her out there, her fearless work, her singular dedication to saving as many lives as she could. She’d run out of medical equipment so many times, improvising aid in the field with whatever she had on hand. And at night, he’d hold her as she wailed about not doing enough, not being prepared enough, not being good enough.

“Y’can’t be doin’ that stuff, dovie. Can’t be livin’ how I do.”

She scoffs, temper rising.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” she mutters.

“Aye, I am. Don’t care f’I live or die so long as yer well.”

“That’s not fair, Paddy.”

“No. S’not.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

He thinks for a moment.

“Can I tell you somethin’, dovie?”

“Okay.” Her voice is small.

“I’ve never met anyone as brave as yerself. Yes, I do mean that. All that time I was terrified a you. Losin’ you. You were so devoted. Y’still are. You are a caretaker, s’what you do. And because of that, because of that tender heart a yours, you’ll never be satisfied in yer work. You’ll always imagine y’coulda done more. Doesn’t matter how much you’ve done. Won’t ever be enough.”

He continues.

“But I see what you’ve done. I know the lads who saw their mothers again cause a you. Children in school. Fathers livin’ long enough to become grandfathers themselves. All a that- it means somethin’, girl. Couldn’t begin to guess how much good you’ve done for the world if I tried.”

She sniffles, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“I’m sorry, mo chroí. I’ve been in a bad way. Didn’t even realize you’d been hurtin’.”

“It’s alright, Paddy.”

“T’isn’t, but don’t you worry, dovie, I’m here now. Never gonna leave you.”

“I love you.”

He tips her chin to the side, craning down to kiss her.

“Promise I love you more.”

The first rays of sunlight are finally breaking over the horizon. The clouds have cleared, and the daylight has sent the stars back into their hiding places. The world is turning golden before Paddy and Y/N’s eyes. The sea appears as brilliant, roiling quicksilver, nearly impossible to look at without wincing.

It’s a fine day for a wedding.

Y/N is sore from the night spent in the sand and surf. She stands, slowly, peeling Paddy’s arms from their place on her shoulders. Her hair is damp and frizzy. He watches her, silent, unsure of their new rapport. Like one wrong move could send her running. She brushes off her dress, shakes out her hair.

“We should get moving,” she says simply. He nods, wanting to do literally anything else.

“Sure.” He stands as well, grabs his jacket.

“Walk me back? We’ll go through the gardens, if you’d like.”

“D’like that, yes.”

Paddy moves to walk behind her but she turns, offers him her soft hand.

He takes it like a lifeline, like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held. She tugs him forward to walk at her side. They move in tandem, watching as the town flickers to life all around them. The fishermen have already cast off. The bakery is full of people, the scent of warm bread wafting out into the street. Clotheslines creak as mothers reel them in. The campane ring six times, letting everyone know exactly how much time is left before they’re expected at mass.

“Never thought the world’d recover,” he remarks, sounding almost awestruck.

“Me neither.”

“We were so many of us, died here.”

She squeezes his hand.

“Don’t even know how many a them did, too.” He nods at the throng of townspeople milling about in the piazza. “S’pose I should.”

“A lot more of them are alive, though. I guess we did that. At least.”

“At least.”

They reach the gates of the little garden behind the old church. Paddy has made his uneasy peace with the Catholic establishment, agreeing to be on his best behaviour today only for Reg and Sofia’s sake. Despite the accusations, he isn’t opposed to God: he appreciates some version of Him, enjoys contemplating the meaning of life and the hidden forces that guide the workings of the world. And he loves nature - on that, himself and Y/N are agreed.

He believes that if God resides anywhere, in anything, it’s most likely in the quiet stillness of a garden. (As for Y/N, well - her feelings towards the sea are well-documented.)

He guides her to a little wrought-iron bench nestled between two trellises. Above and around them, bright pink flowers bloom into being. The fountain in the centre features a lively ring of cherubs, chubby-cheeked and shooting water out of their trumpets from the force of their blow. Y/N takes a seat, crosses her legs.

Paddy settles in beside her and awaits instruction. Taking his arm, she slings it over her shoulders. He breathes a heavy sigh, pulls her in close, brushes an errant curl away from her eye.

“I can see why Reg was so eager to come back here,” she says.

“Aye, she’s a fine girl, Sofia.”

She shakes her head.

“Not just her. This town is wonderful.”

He shifts in his seat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“S’a lot of things to a lot a people.”

“I know, Paddy. I remember.”

He sighs, fidgeting with a lock of her hair.

“At times,” he begins, voice low, “I s’pose I wondered if this world was even worth the salvation. What man’s done to his fellow man… futile, s’it not? S’entire generations, gone.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s families gone. Bloodlines gone. Half the world, it feels like. Gone.”

He continues, voice wavering: “And for what? Fer a few big men in capes n’crowns unsatisfied with their considerable lot? They turned us to monsters. Turned those people -” he gestures in the direction of the piazza - “to cannon fodder. Turned humans up north to cattle. Why? The world went to war and we’re all the fuckin’ worse for it.”

She nods, eyes closed, running a hand over his thigh.

“What was the purpose? S’all I need to know, s’the one answer I need,” he mumbles. Points at the cross atop the chapel. “Need that smug bastard to descend from his cozy castle in the heavens, look me in the fuckin’ eye and tell me the point.”

“I know. I get it. Sometimes, I feel the same way. But I think-”

Y/N is cut off by a gaggle of girls no more than six years old chasing each other into the garden. They’re matching in their white dresses and shiny shoes, gold jewelry clinking and glinting in the sunlight. They shriek and cackle, running around and around the fountain. One of them splashes another, causing the victim to cry out.

A stern shout from someone’s exhausted grandmother ushers them all out of the garden and back towards the street.

The lovers sit, silent. Then:

“I think that’s the point, Paddy.”

The wedding, Riley tells Y/N, is extravagant even by southern Italian standards.

The bride is resplendent in her gown. She’s adorned in delicate beadwork, heirloom pearls, and a permanent grin. The groom is awestruck, eyes fixed on his girl like he never imagined happiness so potent could exist on the same earth as him. The SAS fills most of the pews on the groom’s side of the aisle.

In the first row, the captain and the doctor sit side by side.

He rests a hand on her thigh, soft and reassuring. She cradles his hand with her own, rubs calming circles into the muscle of his palm. Her gown is a deep purple, nipped at the waist and spilling silk from her shoulders. His suit is dark and tailored, paired with polished shoes and hair properly slicked back.

That they’d managed to bathe and get changed in time for the service was an absolute miracle. The pair had collapsed after returning from the garden, still caked in sand and reeking of wine and sea salt. Stopping in the lobby, Y/N had requested a three o’clock wakeup call from the front desk.

“È stat’una lunga notte,” she shrugs, grinning at the clerk’s confusion.

In the room, she threw open the windows, welcoming the afternoon breeze into the stuffy quarters. Then, they fell asleep almost immediately: she in his bed, he on the floor. (His idea. He’d insisted.) When the phone rang at three, they sprang into action, the very picture of military precision. Once they’d each had their quick baths, Y/N insisted on shaving Paddy’s stubbly beard.

“Fuckin’ sit still, love.”

She stands between his open thighs, his tanned body reclined against the countertop. With one hand cradling the back of his head, she tilts his neck this way and that. His hands grip her hips, rubbing into the silk of her gown. His bare chest presses into her, sending a flush through her cheeks.

“Can’t help it, girl. Sight a you between my legs is somethin’ sacred.”

She rolls her eyes, bites her lip.

“You’re so excitable today.”

“Incorrect: s’all the time, mo chroí, wherever you’re concerned.”

“At ease, Captain.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mock-salutes, grinning madly.

She sets down the razor, inspects the skin of his chin.

“Missed a spot?”

She nods, leans in, runs her thumbs over his cheeks.

“Yes. I think so.”

She kisses him and he melts.

-

The party carries on into the wee hours of the morning.

The music is loud, the wine is flowing, the food is endless, and the dancing is downright bacchanalian. Y/N loses count of the number of times she ends up in a stranger’s arms, spinning and twirling and swaying to some folk dance she doesn’t know the steps to. Paddy watches her, always, smiling like he understands himself what Reg must be feeling.

When the music slows, everyone clears the way for the bride and groom. Their dance is tender, the song some old heartwrenching tune that Y/N swears she recognizes from somewhere, from some other time. Paddy finds his way to her, brushes her shoulder. She turns and smiles, takes his arms and leans into them. He rests his freshly-shaven chin on her shoulder.

Everyone watches as Reg and Sofia glide across the floor, lost in their bubble. Halfway through, a little boy in a cowboy hat - her brother? - interrupts them and lobs a spool of pink ribbon at the bride. He holds one end in his tiny hand and runs in circles around the couple, tying them together. The other partygoers take his bold transgression as permission and follow suit, weaving the lovers into an inpenetrable web of string and ribbon and laughing all the while. The couple struggles to move, laughing and shouting as they’re linked tighter and tighter.

After the first dance, once the song ends and floor is littered with strands of confetti, Sofia calls for all the lovers to join them. The band begins a new ballad. Y/N feels Paddy’s grip stiffen on her hips. She snakes her hands over his own.

“You’ll dance with me, yeah?”

He breathes, laughing softly.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

They take to the floor, ignoring the whispers of amusement and looks of utter confusion being thrown their way by the men of the SAS. Y/N snakes a hand onto Paddy’s shoulder, taking his other hand in her own. He draws her in close, pressing her into him. She scratches idly at the nape of his neck. They begin to sway, gently, moving in time with the tune, with the rhythm, with the bodies of their friends.

“Oh!” she smiles, eyes sparkling. “I’ve got a new one for you.”

He raises a brow.

“Still readin’ yer poetry, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lass.”

“But you won’t know this one. Swear to God.”

“Fixin’ to finally stump me, s’that it?”

She laughs, nodding.

“Well, by all means then, dovie,” he smiles.

She launches into that old routine, clearing her throat, furrowing her brow, straightening her spine. He chuckles, clicks his tongue. Voice low, she cranes her head up to his ear.

“Da dio mandata, angelica mia scorta […] sicch’alle nozze eterne non sia morta ogni mia luce; con lampa ardente chiamata dal Signor saggia, prudente. Aperta al giunger mio trovi la porta. E perché ‘l cor l’aspetti a ciascun’ora per gli incontro lietamente armato di puro santo amor, di viva fede; poich’hai di me la cura, ch’ei ti crede, mostrami i segni; quasi interna aurora, del venir del mio Sol chiaro e beato.”**

Y/N leans back and savours the look of confusion on his face.

“Old Italian,” he manages, after a long moment. “S’fitting, I s’pose, given where we are n’all.”

“Oh, just admit it!” She points a finger at him, grinning. “You’ve got no idea.”

“M’sure it’ll come to me,” he mumbles.

“No it won’t!”

“No,” he laughs, “it won’t.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, thanking him for his concession. The thing between them, she knows, is still precarious, as if the seeds of what they once shared are struggling to take root anew. But with every step, every gentle touch, every tender glance, the world is righting itself.

The flower blooms.

They continue swaying. When the song picks up, he twirls and dips her, draws her back into him. It must be be a fever dream for the soldiers, seeing their old warlord of a captain softly cradling and slow-dancing with their former field surgeon.

“I feel I must apologize, mo chroí.” Paddy’s voice drops, low and cracked.

“I told you- you were asleep, I don’t blame you.”

“S’not what I meant,” he protests, shaking his head. Pauses a beat. “Though, well. S’pose I should say it again. M’sorry for that, too.”

She nods, pressing her cheek into his chest.

“I should have listened, s’all.”

His words are simple. Too simple?

For a moment, he wonders if she’ll catch the depth and breadth of them, of just how much he has to be sorry for. But he realizes, with a sudden, familiar fondness, that he need not worry: she is a poet, like him, and the job of the poet is to know when to elaborate and when to let the small words breathe.

“Yeah. You probably should’ve.”

Paddy nods, letting his head fall forward against her own. He rests his arm on the small of her back, softly digging into the dimples there. Feeling the heat and substance of her in his hands. Luxuriating in the proximity he never imagined he’d enjoy again. The music shows no signs of winding down. The wine is still flowing. The air is suffocated with love.

“But,” she mumbles, “there’s still time.”

*my solitude I know it ah I know it poorly I have the time that's what I say to myself I have the time but what time famished bone the time of the dog of the sky ceaselessly paling my grain of sky (bon bon il est un pays, trans. by me, just now)

** Beside me is an angelic presence sent by God […] from our eternal bond this light may not die, that when when my Lord comes He may find me waiting at the door, a knowing wary woman, with my lamp steadily burning. I await him, tense, breathless, expectant. I arm myself joyfully with sacred love, absolute faith to meet this encounter, I feel you care for me and my soul trusts to you. So give me a sign, let dawn begin in me, and herald the coming of my bright glad Sun. (Da Dio mandata, angelica mia scorta, trans. by Ellen Moody, 2003)

[iceemochaa]

Look at me, Please...

Pairing: Paddy Mayne X Reader

synopsis: You attend a Military Ball with the SAS—now rebranded as SRS. Everything starts off calm and steady. But then again, maybe calm and steady never really suited the regiment… Especially not with Paddy Mayne around.

A/N: I had this in the drafts for a few weeks and I tried to keep it simple. Unfortunately my mind is too full of ideas. There isn’t any explicit content, purely suggestive but the warning is there just because. Thank you to my Pookie @flixpii who took the time to proof read this. I owe you

Warning: No use of name or Y/N, Fem!Reader, Paddy Mayne is his own warning, slight suggestive content, Cursing, fighting (acts of violence) if you see any grammar or punctuation mistakes, no you didn’t :) 💛

Word Count: 3.2k

When Paddy gets furious about something, he likes to take it out on his men. Force them to do impossible drills, make them walk up and down unsteady hill paths, and — whenever the weather graces the area with rain — 20 laps around the building with thunderclaps and potential hailstorms sounds spectacular.

But whenever someone gets his goat, that’s an entirely different story.

And right now, someone got his goat.

Being at a military ball wasn’t the issue; he’s been here plenty of times—some with David, others with Bill. You’ve also been here plenty of times, and although Paddy doesn’t take part in the dancing, he does indulge in the drinking.

Too much to drink.

You sat beside him, watching as he hurled glass after glass— his face growing flushed by the minute. Each time, you heard the sharp clink of the glass hitting the table, an indicator that he was done and soon wanted more.

Occasionally, you would ask for a portion of wine: nothing too strong, a little on the sweeter side. So far, the night was fine, Paddy reciting poetry in the moment, Reggie saying how he would love to punch an American soldier right now, and a few others hinting at an after-party.

Normal stuff.

The band had been playing the same slow song for the past 30 minutes when they finally switched singers. Before long, the tempo started to pick up, and a few couples stepped onto the floor, twirling and laughing. You noticed some of your fellow lieutenants joining in too. After sitting for so long, lost in thought about everything that had happened, getting up to dance felt like the right move.

“Where d’ya think yer off to?” Paddy asked when he felt you touch him, using his arm to get down off the stool.

Once your feet hit the floor, you turned around and smiled at him, “Dancing? Want to come?”

“I don’t dance—two bleedin’ left feet, remember?” He stated, turning around in his chair to face you properly.

Ah, yes, Paddy couldn’t dance to save his life. You thought it was because he was shy— assumed he didn’t dance because he had his funky way of moving to the groove, but three sore toes later, it all started to make sense.

“So? Are you going to watch me instead?”

Paddy shrugged, “Watch, wait, drink till me fuckin’ heart gives in. Sounds grand to me, Dove.”

“How did you become a Lieutenant again?”

“I dunno me self,” Paddy said, sipping the remainder of alcohol from his glass. “Short supply of commanding officers willing to watch over the SAS— SRS or whatever the fuck we’re called now.”

“Party pooper… I’ll dance by myself.”

“Enjoy.”

When you turned away and shimmied to the dance floor, Paddy couldn’t help but find it amusing. The hard, stubborn, follow-the-rules-by-the-book nurse — getting down and twirling like a high school girl. He couldn't look away as you swayed your hips to the rhythm, tapped your head to the drums, and rolled your shoulders on each piano string.

He moved to turn, ready to call out for another refill, but froze instead.

A man, unnaturally tall with long strides, dressed in American formal wear and sporting neatly styled curly hair, approached you.

Suddenly, Paddy’s right eye twitched.

“Who’s the bloke with the missus?” Reggie sat down next to Paddy, a bottle of beer in hand, and his top collar popped already. Both of them started to watch you dance with a man they’d never seen before.

Hasn’t Paddy always told you to never trust strangers?

The man leaned in to tell you something, whispering sentence after sentence, and soon enough, you smiled and laughed. A smile so large and grand that Paddy’s other eye began to twitch, too.

“Looks like he got to her first.” Reggie laughed, slapping Paddy on the back playfully. “Does she laugh like that when we’re out on missions? …I don’t think so?” Reggie questioned, then he leaned back on the edge of the counter, tipping his bottle so the contents could flow into his mouth better.

Paddy wanted to say, “Aye, she does, sure — can’t get enough of me daft wee stories when it’s just us.” But Paddy hasn’t told anybody what you both get up to when nobody is looking …matter of fact, he doesn’t even know what to label it.

What were you two to each other?

Subordinates?

Acquaintances?

Friends?

Lovers?

Paddy noticed how close you were getting. The man acted like he knew you, like he belonged there with you, as if he had every right to be in your presence. That stirred something deep inside of him, an uneasy feeling, one that created doubt.

“Hard to laugh when you’re marched out to kill or be killed,” Paddy said instead. He turned around to ask for another drink, something stronger this time, or else he might do something stupid.

“Oh, they started dancing,” Reggie stated.

On second thought, he was going to do something stupid.

“Watch the hands…it’s gettin lower.”

Paddy finalized that he’s going to shoot someone instead.

"Where are you off to?" Reggie questioned, watching Paddy hop down from the stool and slick his hair back. There was a glint of malice in his expression, like he was winding himself up for a fight.

Most likely, Reggie just hopes it's with an American this time.

“My feet’re’ itchin’ to get goin– I’m thinkin’ it’s time for a wee dance, aye?” Paddy grinned.

“You? Dancing? I wouldn’t call it that.” Reggie said, eyeing the way Paddy was stretching his arms.

“Aye, near enough,” Paddy replied, “Gets the blood goin’, no?”

“Gets you barred, more like,” Reggie smirked. “Is it with the missus?”

“Aye.”

“Count me in.”

Paddy made a beeline toward you, cutting through the crowd with such force as if he were parting the Red Sea. All “Excuse me” fell away, replaced by a fierce, unfiltered “get the fuck out of the way.” He saw your hand in someone else’s, being pulled toward a direction that led to a group of other men.

Strangers.

Soldiers who looked like trouble, even more than the SRS. It was a picture Paddy couldn’t bear to let play out because you weren’t just anyone.

You were his.

A rare gem in his life. The calm in Paddy’s chaotic world, softness he never knew he needed, and he wasn’t about to stand by and let someone else walk off with you.

Not while he was still alive.

Not while his heart still beats for you.

“Call that dancing, do ye?” Paddy called out, his voice threaded with amusement as he strolled through the crowd, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Look who finally decided to show up. Oh— hi, Reggie.”

Reggie gave a casual wave. “Evening.”

“Oh! Paddy, Reggie— this is Thomas.” You gestured towards your new friend. His smile was blinding, entirely too white and clean. Paddy could compare it to the harsh glare of a lighthouse cutting through the night.

Paddy shrugged with dramatic flair. “Heard there was chaos brewing on the dancefloor. Figured someone should come rescue ye from trouble.”

You turned to him with a sly smile. “Rescue me? From what trouble exactly?”

Thomas tilted his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Pretty sure I’m the so-called trouble.” He lets go of your hand to hold them out towards Paddy and Reggie.

Both of them simply stared, and a look of disgust crossed their faces.

“Oh, you are,” Reggie chimed in, “American, for one and a cunt second. That’s already two red flags.”

Thomas laughed, turning towards Reggie, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. I thought the accent was working in my favor.”

“It’s doing something,” You smiled, letting your eyes linger on him just a second longer than necessary. Thomas was certainly a pretty fellow: cute smile, greenish eyes, a voice so deep that it boomed when he spoke.

That pause was long enough for Paddy to catch it.

His grin didn’t falter, but something in his eyes cooled — a subtle shift, barely visible to anyone who didn’t know him well. He stepped in just slightly, close enough that the warmth of him pressed along your side. His arm brushed yours, not by accident.

“Ah, is it now?” Paddy said, tone casual but lined with something sharper beneath. “Suppose some people are into tourists.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you jealous?”

Paddy chuckled low. “Me? Nay, I just know how to spot someone tryin’ too hard.”

“Tryin too hard?” Thomas scuffed.

You sighed, caught deliciously in the crossfire. “Could you two stop puffing your chests out like rival peacocks for one minute?”

Reggie smirked from the sidelines. “I dunno… I think he’s just itching for a fight.”

“Fight?” Thomas spat, stepping closer, voice sharp.

“Careful,” Paddy spoke, a warning.

“What are we— children? She doesn’t belong to either of you.” Thomas said, voice dripping with a challenge. “Not surprised though, the British think they own everything.”

“Yous’ Americans think yer hot shit,” Paddy shot back, eyes narrowing. “Yer not! Yous’ Fucks haven’t done anything since the war started.”

You held up a hand, trying to cut through the rising heat. “Ladies, can we move on?”

“No.” They both said simultaneously.

Oh, here we go…

Thomas looks between the two, first at Paddy, then at your concerned expression. Suddenly, the gears start to turn. “Oh, I see…Fucking her on the side, is it? No wonder your ego’s bruised.” Thomas sneered, a cocky grin tugging at his lips.

“WHAT?!!” Reggie nearly choked on his drink.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Oh dear…”

Paddy’s eyes narrowed. “Last time I checked, she didn’t seem to mind.”

Thomas simply smirked. “Seems that way—otherwise, she wouldn’t be wandering around here alone. Probably because you’ve got a limp dick.”

“Limp dick?” Paddy growled. “Limp Dick?!” He repeated the words again, like it stunned him so bad he had to do a double-take. “Ohh, you just got my goat.”

Thomas raised a brow, “Your goat?” He laughed, “Whatever that means.”

“Please, Paddy—” you begged, but it was all falling on deaf ears.

When Paddy got into this mood, it was hard to snap him out of it. He was like a bull looking at a giant red flag, full of anger and ready to run directly at the source of his madness. Paddy got all close and personal, his chest pressed against Thomas. Neither man backed down; their pride was too big and their egos even bigger.

”You wanna say that again to my face, sweet pea?” Paddy smiled, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Guys, it’s not what you think—” you started, but both men ignored you.

Thomas took his time, deliberately drawing out the words. “You. Probably. Have A. Limp. Di—”

Before he could finish, Paddy moved faster than anyone could react, his fist crashing hard into Thomas’s face. The punch landed with a sickening thud, sending Thomas staggering back. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment.

Silence.

Loud gasps in the room.

Then, chaos erupted.

Voices shouting, some cheering, others still gasping. Thomas’s crew and the SRS erupted into a wild brawl. Glass shattered underfoot, chairs soared through the air, and curses flew thick and fast. Reggie was grinning like a kid in a candy store, clearly enjoying the chaos. He sent a few blows, threw a class cup somewhere, and then someone jumped him.

Paddy was locked on Thomas, hands clenched tightly around his throat, straddling his waist. His anger turned more and more into murder.

“Can’t say anything else, Aye!? Didn’t hear ya the first time!” he shouted, like a maniac.

Thomas was holding his own, the best he could. The poor fellow. One hand was holding Paddy’s hand that was connected to his neck, and the other was scratching at his face. He shook and jerked, cursing at Paddy that he was going to kill him too.

Boys… they hate to share.

Unfortunately, none of them worked to stop Paddy. You figured this was your cue to finally put a stop to this.

“Paddy, get off him!” you shouted, yanking at his arm. “You're gonna kill him!”

Surprisingly, he loosened his grip, staggering backward as you pulled him away from the frenzy. He looked so disheveled— hair tousled against his forehead, uniform wrinkled, blood smeared against his nose and mouth.

He looked like a rabid dog.

You grabbed him and pulled him into the hallway, walking quickly until the sounds of the fight faded behind you. Waiters hurried past, followed by a police officer, and then a paramedic. All of them were heading toward the scene of the chaos Paddy had caused.

Eventually, you took him into a secluded room. It was dark except for a single lamp on. The room wasn’t that big, more like an office. You quickly opened the drawers, checking for any medical supplies. A kit, a band-aid, hell— a rag that could clean the source of blood.

Paddy shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Wincing, groaning, holding his face, which started to burn.

“How stupid are you?” you scolded, voice low but sharp. Still digging through the drawers.

“A lot.“ He said.

“…Uh- Huh.” You said, voice filled with slight amusement.

You walked over to the front of the desk, washcloth in one hand and a small bottle of medical alcohol in the other. Setting them down, you turned around and hopped onto the table, sitting on the edge so you could reach his face more easily. He wasn’t tall, not like Thomas, but your arms ached from swinging them all night and pulling a man filled with too much strength and rage off someone else.

You held your hand out, beckoning for him to come closer, and it worked. No sign of hesitation, no display of fear. He closed the distance and almost sighed in relief when you pulled him closer by the shoulders.

You dabbed some of the liquid on the cloth, making sure it was damp but had enough substance on it, and lightly patted his cheek. Even with marks and bruises on his face, Paddy Mayne still looked beautiful.

“You’ve got me. Now what?” You questioned.

Paddy's eyes trailed over your face like he was trying to read between your words, like you had encrypted some sort of code into your sentence.

“…Didn’t have another plan besides this one. Oh, aye.”

“So there was a plan? ” you teased.

He smiled, slow and crooked. “Only when it counts.”

You arched a brow. “And this counts as?”

He looked serious now.

Paddy wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he sure held it on his face. Multiple emotions eclipsed in his eyes, but it wasn't heavy with guilt or jealousy. There was something else.

“You looked fairly content out there…Wasn’t wild about it, put it that way—ouch!”

“Sorry!” You turned his head to the side, careful so you don’t dab over that mark again. “…So you were jealous?”

“Happy for you, swear I was — just made me feel a wee bit... not-right.” He said, averting his gaze.

Clearly a lie, or else he wouldn’t have gone out there and threatened to kill someone for you.

“Were you really happy for me—“

“—Don’t be daft.” Paddy snapped his head back. He said that almost as quickly as he punched Thomas. “I was tryin’, wasn’t I?”

That surprised you.

Paddy, admitting to something.

You pressed the cloth to his chin, a small scratch there. A laugh bubbles out of your mouth soon after. “So you pulled me aside to... what? Complain about my dancing…or was it Thomas—”

“—To remind you,” he said, interrupting, his voice soft, “…that I’m still here.”

There was something unguarded in his expression — not quite a confession, but not far from one either.

You tilted your head, warmth rising in your cheeks. Paddy always had a way with words when he wasn’t spewing threats and curses; he was surprisingly tender when the moment was just right.

You slowly brought the cloth down, inspecting his face. Clean enough for now, but the bruises begin to show signs of swelling. “…A bit possessive for a lieutenant, aren’t you?” You said, laying the cloth off to the side.

Paddy held your gaze with so much intensity, so much heat that you felt it on your skin.

“Don’t do well watching from the sidelines.” He hesitated, just a beat. “…Not with you.”

Silence slipped in, warm and close. The air between you sparked faintly, like static.

Paddy’s grin returned, slow and knowing. He moved closer, slotting himself between your legs. His hands found your waist, squeezing lightly at your curves. For a moment, the rest of the room disappeared— just the two of you embraced in each other's atmosphere.

“Ye forgot to check here too.” He said, filling in that silence.

You looked at him, confused. “Where—“

He leaned forward to kiss you. It didn’t matter that his face was still bleeding, a dark purple blooming on his cheek, or that his eye was swelling shut. All he wanted to do— what he's been thinking about all night- was this. Wrapped in your arms, lips on his, your full, undivided attention finally on him.

He should have told Reggie that he wasn’t coming back to the dance floor.

Paddy thinks he might like to stay here longer, indulge you in more— bask in your warmth like those nights he’s done before. The world closed off, but you were still there, always will be there.

He just wanted you.

Paddy cupped your face, gently turning your head to the side so he could deepen the kiss, eyes closed, savoring the moment as if he had all the time in the world.

“Paddy— the cuts—” you gasped between kisses, your breath catching in your throat, but he kept diving back in. Relentlessly.

He didn’t need to be patched up anymore; he couldn’t care less about the wounds. What he needed now was something else entirely. So close to you, pressed against your body– he could feel it, every pulse, every hitch in your breath.

“Mhm! Are you—wait!”

Paddy pulled back from the kiss, brow furrowed in confusion.

“You’re not… seriously thinking about that?” you asked, voice a little shaky, eyes wide. A nervous smile tugged at your lips.

“No…” He turned his head away, looking utterly flabbergasted.

Did you think so little of him?

He wasn’t hard right now because he’d fought someone for you; that would be insane. Undignified. Preposterous— His eyes quickly shifted back before you had time to say anything.

“…Aye?”

You looked at him, a cautious smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Okay… sure,” you said quietly, choosing your words carefully. “After you fought for my honor, I suppose…a small reward is only fair?”

Slowly, you reached up and grabbed him by the collar, pressing a kiss gently to his cheek first, careful to avoid the scratches, then you planted a kiss on his lips. Paddy easily slipped his tongue back in. The faint taste of wine drew him closer. Your hand brushed against his pants, fingers looping around his belt— suddenly, Paddy felt like he could take on a hundred more men just to keep your attention.

Fuck it— he’d fight the whole bloody war himself if he had to.

You were his. He was yours. And no one— not even some tall-ass American with a very pretty face—was going to take you away.

[remmicksgf]

stubborn hearts

✪ paddy mayne (rogue heroes) x reader ✪ sfw ✪ from the first moment he saw you, paddy mayne knew you'd bring him at least the mild discomfort of longing--but this longing grows increasingly difficult to ignore when you join the S.A.S./S.R.S. as their resident nurse and force the major to confront long-buried, stubborn, unwanted feelings. ✪ words: 1.5k+

He leaned back against the wall, a glass of rum hanging loose from his fingertips. Sandy blonde hair was pushed back, sticky with gel, and the sweat beading on his forehead. Paddy Mayne was no man of celebration, a reluctant and bitter patron of the club he'd been forced to go to. The sting of the bourbon met the back of his throat again and left a caramel aftertaste that paired nicely with the cigarette pinched between his opposite knuckles. He'd been counting the time left he had until he was free to leave and seek the solitude of a book and the isolation of camp, when he saw something that made his heartbeat flutter in a way he hadn't allowed it to since before the war, during his school days. The sight of you across the room was startling enough to him--a man that had seen the gruesome horrors and spoils of war that turned men to animals and others to food for the animals, in his own words, and yet--the back of his neck felt hot and he lowered his gaze to the floor and muttered, "fuck," under his breath. Another stolen glance, or two, and the fellow prisoners of glitz and glamor by his side noticed.

"Ah, Paddy here has finally spotted something he likes!" He heard one of them say with a chuckle. Knocking back the last finger of his drink, he grunted and swiped a hand over his hair, then stepped forward and ignored the following "now let's see if he's got the confidence to talk to the pretty girl!" As well as the subsequent booing once they realized he wasn't going to humor them--nor did he the fascination he had with you, the false gleam in your eyes, the bitten, hard smiles, the comfort in your drink, the similar expression of suffering painted over your face whenever you thought no one was looking.

Instead, he pushed his way from the crowd until he reached the fresh night air and gulped down the fresh oxygen. His face was hot, and he closed his eyes, taking a beat to gather himself before disappearing into the night. No attachments. No weakness. No mercy. He went to bed that night with that command for himself, even when he shamefully began to palm himself through his trousers, then took himself from the zipper and yanked a cruel sort of pleasure from himself that bordered on punishment for imagining you in his lap with that dress of yours in his fists and your back to his chest.

The words seemed feeble, two weeks after he'd woken to a new member of the team being added--a fucking nurse. A fucking... You. Now, as he twisted his fist in your shirt and yanked you out of the line of fire for no other reason other than his body seemed to want to follow yours wherever you went, and he found himself clinging closer and closer to you under the excuse of keeping an eye on a potential little birdie. That he didn't trust you. But everyone knew it wasn't true--Uncle Paddy had a crush on the birdie. The wolf of the desert had found itself a cub. The whispers from the other boys were ongoing and most vile. He pretended to ignore them and intended to keep you at a distance that didn't feed them. But as his arm knocked you back and he pinned you against the wall, having lunged after you despite every fiber of his being trying to stop him, there was a single, passing moment between you, a single look across both of your faces, that recognized what was happening--against both of your wills.

Another month passed the same as the last, and the wolf hardly broke the perimeter of its prowl around you, and only did so when absolutely necessary. While he slept, he thought of if things would be different if he'd introduced himself to you the night of the party, but much like every other secret, kept his ponderings to himself--until your mouth became glazed in warm, cheap rum, and he watched as you became swarmed by the other men in the troop. His hand soon found you with the same roughness as when you found yourself in the crossfire of an ambush. It yanked you away from the potential of violence and led you toward safety. This time, his tent.

"Stay here." Paddy shoved you behind the flaps of the entrance and nearly snarled at you with the baring of his sharp teeth. "Don't fuckin' move, y'hear?"

"What the fuck is going on?" You hiss back, mirroring his backpedaling. Paddy shoves a finger at you.

"That's a fuckin' order."

"No, it's not-" you don't know where the courage comes from to speak to your Major like that, but you sense you being his nurse affords you some wriggle room around his stubbornness. You're not another one of the boys; you're not part of the S.A.S. in the ways the others are. "You barely speak full sentences to me. You just yank me around and put me where you want and-"

"To keep ye safe!"

"Because you're a greedy, selfish, insecure little boy!" You shout back. You swallow your next inhale as if to swallow the words back, but they hang in the air. "You don't care about my safety. You don't care about anything but yourself."

"Fuckin' hell." Paddy blinks up and stifles a laugh of exasperation. "You're a piece of fuckin' work. Ye know that?"

"So drop the damn tools and let me get back to doing my job. What I do-"

"Nay, you don't know what yer gettin' yourself into."

"Oh?"

"Ye don't know those men like I do. Haven't heard what I've heard."

"They wouldn't do anything." Paddy's eyes widen, and he chuckles again. He's half-turned away when you make the final blow. "Just like you won't do anything. Turns out the wolf of the desert is all bark and no bite."

His jaw sets firm, and he nods, slow, but doesn't look at you for another moment, not until after he's asked, soft, "n' is that what'ye want?"

"What?"

"Is that what. You fuckin' want."

"Don't act dumb with me, Paddy."

"Ye need to tell me, right fuckin' now, if that's what ye want. Is it?"

"If I say yes?"

Paddy gives you one last look, and you catch a hint of sadness in his eyes--the poet. Nonetheless, he sweeps his eyes across the ground and turns with his head down. Leaving you in the dark space of his tent without another word. Your hands hang limply by your sides; you stay there for a few breaths, then turn away to sit on the edge of his cot and plant your face in your palms, wiping them downward. You're tempted to get up again and leave, go back to your tent, but there's something other than his command keeping you from budging.

It's the same thing that's keeping him from coming back to his own tent until the early hours of the morning after you've curled up and fallen asleep with your face in his pillow and there's nothing left to say. He stands over you with his stance wavering, his lips pulled down in a gentle frown, a fresh bruise on his cheek, his brow split, and breath stained with the last of a bottle of rum. It tasted of gold piss and he wasn't sure if there was actually any piss in it but drank it all anyway. He wasn't one to waste any opportunity to numb his mind, or numb the sting of open sores where the sand had rubbed through his skin and the sun and blistered. The desert was no place for someone like you--for feelings like the ones he had. The sight of you on his cot was reason enough to feel rage bubble in his stomach, mixed with the nausea that wrenched through him at the sight of your condition. How vulnerable you were. He reaches up to unbutton his shirt before yanking his belt free.

He's left in his trousers and a white, sweat-stained tank when he climbs onto the cot and fits himself around you, his arm wrapping itself around your torso to pull you closer. You stir from your dreams, and he stiffens when you begin to turn against him, but doesn't pull away. He realizes then as much as he'd been keeping to your side, you were holding to his--where he looked, he could trust he'd find you close by. You never ran away from him. You were still there, waiting for him.

"You shouldn't be here. You deserve-you should be... somewhere safe, comfortable, mild temperatures, shelter, a comfortable bed," he mumbles. His lips move against your forehead. "Not looking after rabid sweaty beasts such as m'self with no morals than liquor and sorrow, lass. Many fewer ones who abuse your sweet image for their own satisfaction." You don't open your eyes, only wriggle closer and nuzzle into him like there's no other place on earth you would rather be. He begins to understand that, and in acting out of selfishness again, he holds you closer, feeling each of your slow exhales bring you deeper into true sleep. He senses he's not too far behind, for the first time since he could remember, feeling like he could get a proper night's rest. "N' yet here ye are... givin' me no choice but to protect ye. Including from myself."

[remmicksgf]

obsessed with an ask I have yet to answer and quick thought but paddy mayne not wanting to engage with you and trying his best to stay away before the excuses start coming and he justifies different things to himself as not being like that because he can’t admit to himself he’s soft for you and likes being around you—so when tensions continue to rise and leads to him inevitably snapping, his last resort is to indulge in touching you but doesn’t allow you to fuck him—nor does he allow himself to even be pulled out of his trousers. instead, he grabs hold of your hips and kisses you a bit harder and starts humping you, apologizing for handling you so rough and being so crude with you even as he continues rubbing your crotch against his and getting off on the pure friction it builds. after he creams his pants, he continues breathing heavy into your mouth, his muscles twitching and his fingers kneading the soft points of your figure while you stroke his face and run your fingers through his hair, the silence between you saying more and more as it stretches on. he’s so ashamed with himself and embarrassed that he allowed that to happen and he’d also feel like shit that he used you in such a way just to get off, but if anything it your reaction to him and clinging to his body and letting him do it shows him that you would let him do just about anything (even acting like a damn dog) and that scares him even more!!! after he comes to his senses and wants to make it up to you he asks you to do what you want with him/use his body and that leads to you just absolutely ruining him because of course you desperately just want him to fuck you but having you be in control of that and riding him for your first time together—oh I’m gonna be sick

[dxmurewrites]

Light in the Dark

Part One of a two shot I'm making for Paddy! No actual smut in this one, I wanted to write something that could be read as a standalone + with a part two containing the smut.

pairing: Paddy Mayne x Fem!Nurse!Reader

Find part two right here !

summary: Seeing you in his clothes made Paddy feel absolutely feral, and he hated himself for it.

word count: 3.2k words.

unedited: it's 2am again ... I cannot be bothered.

warnings: language, mentions of war, blood, wounds, medical language, reader has hair (my bad, we washing our hair in this), sexual tension, impure thoughts, mutual bullying, mutual attraction despite denying it, borderline possessive behaviour, nsfw themes but no actual smut!

let me know what you think! I love feedback! Unless it's mean, then that's stink energy... like, comment, reblog, mwah.

———————

“You smell like shite."

"Hello to you too Paddy," You chuckle, writing in your journal. You hadn't looked up to the Lieutenant as he entered your tent, keeping your head down as you continued writing in your stock inventory. "Are you well?"

"M'fine," He answers quickly, looking you over. His gaze lingered over your uniform, the small drip of sweat that dripped down your neck and beneath the fabric. Paddy clears his throat. "Here to take you to the showers."

Oh.

You hadn't even realised the time.

6pm on the dot.

Bathing was a luxury here, but being the only woman meant you couldn't shower at the same time as everyone else. Begrudgingly, Paddy has been tasked with supervising you as you bathed, albeit with his back turned.

He trusted his men, as did you, but it was apart of the terms to having you on site. You showered when the sun was coming down, and Paddy made sure there weren't any peeping toms trying their luck.

"Right, of course," Nodding, you quickly stand, packing your journal back into its place on your makeshift desk. He watches intently as you run around the infirmary, picking up pieces of clothing you had strung up to dry. "Let's go then." "Oh you're ready are ya?" Paddy quips, checking his pocket watch with a dramatic sigh. "No s'fine, I'll wait around for you to paint your nails next." Snorting, you barge past him, being sure to bump into his shoulder with your own with your clothes in hand. He grunts at the action, turning around to follow after you. "Keep being a bastard and I'll paint your nails next."

You didn't even have any nail polish, he knew that - but Paddy was sure to ridicule you every chance he got.

No one could explain what was going on between the two of you. Everyone knew there was something there, but Paddy was stubborn to all hell, and you, well, you just enjoyed keeping him on his toes.

His lips turned upward at your remark, but the lieutenant chooses not to reply, keeping a small distance between the two of you as he escorts you to the temporary bathrooms.

Within minutes you were stripped to nothing, hair out of it's tied back state and soaked by the cold water pouring from the shower head. The 'walls' were ripped blankets, the floor an old welcome mat from some long forgotten home.

Paddy stood with his back turned just a few metres away, his hands crossed over his chest as his eyes scanned around. No one would be dumb enough to even try anything, but he still took his little role seriously. His mens safety was his priority, and that included you.

"Paddy," he hears you call, the water now having run out. "Could you pass me my towel please?"

He nods once in response, grabbing your bundle of clothes and your towel from beside him. Walking backwards, he keeps his eyes on the sand below him, walking until the sand turns into concrete, and he holds his arm out, waiting for you to grab your belongings.

Your small hand reaches out, soft fingers brushing against his calloused ones as you mumble a small thank you.

Paddy waits a little longer, hearing the rustling of clothes and the familiar sound of the shower 'door' being opened. He turns his head slightly, seeing you dressed in your night clothes, hand running through your wet hair with your towel as you give him a mock salute.

"All good here lieutenant," you say his title like a mockery amongst friends, but he didn't care. "As usual, my sincerest gratitude."

It was his turn to snort. "One of these days I won't have to babysit so you can wash your arse." He shakes his head, watching as you grin at his words.

"Can't argue there," You shrug, continuing to dry your hair and running your fingers to pull out any tangles. "But until then, my washed arse thanks you."

The Irishman just eyes you with humour in his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow before excusing yourself, making your way back to your tent. His eyes follow your every step, and he clears his throat, nodding to himself before he returns to his own quarters.

It was only a couple hours later when it felt like hell had taken over. A mission had gone successful, but one of the Sergeants, Pat, had been quite injured. It was manageable for you, but it had been a hands on moment and a few of the others had to assist.

Pat lay in the infirmary, bandaged head to toe and completely out of it. You sat beside him, catching your breath as your arms rested on your thighs. Blood soaked your hands and arms, your pyjamas stained - there hadn't even been time to change when the boys brought him in.

They had yelled for you the moment they returned, carrying the unconscious and wounded man in like he was a limp doll. It had been tedious, even worrying at one point, but he was alive and would make a full recovery.

It didn't stop the shakes in your hands however, or the blood that dripped from your fingers to the ground below. You wiped at your face, mixing with the sweat that gathered across your forehead.

He's alive.

That's all that mattered.

"You alright?"

His voice startled you, your hunched over frame jolting at the sudden intrusion. Paddy holds his arms up, a small apology leaving his mouth at your jump.

You nodded, wiping your cheek again, eyes squinting as you yawn. "Should be asking if Pat's alright," you say through your yawn, pointing towards the sleeping soldier next to you. "Which he is, time will decide the rest."

Paddy nods slowly, his lips tightening in a small frown as he thinks over your words. "Course he'll be good, he's got you looking' after him."

Your eyebrow raises at the compliment. It wasn't like the Irishman to say sweet things, maybe a jest mixed with a small praise, but never just flattery. A part of you wanted to comment on it, make fun of him and meet him at his usual level, but you decided against it.

"Thank you Paddy," you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear as you stood up, stretching out your legs. "Are you alright? No lumps or bumps you're not telling me about?"

His frown melted away as he shook his head, a small smile on his face. "Ye still trying to get me naked nurse?" there he is. "Ye little deviant."

"S'it working?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he steps towards you. The air felt different in the tent, dry, sure, the desert providing barely any relief, but you always felt heated when the lieutenant was near. Paddy's eyes roam over your frame, his eyebrows furrowing as he takes in the state of you.

"You need another wash," He remarks, nodding towards your blood stained skin and pyjamas. "I'll get Stirling to watch over Pat 'ere, want me to grab anything' for ye?"

It was your turn to frown, looking around the room. The only spare clothes you had were still drying on various pieces of furniture, and you groaned. "I don't have any night clothes left," you admitted, feeling almost childish for even complaining about it. "This was my last clean pair."

Paddy shrugs, thinking it a non issue. "Just head on out and leave it with me," as if sensing your reply, he gives you a stern look. "Just do it girl."

Holding your arms up in defeat, you follow his order, leaving the tent and into the night. Various soldiers stood around the site, all nodding at you in thanks, some saying your name in appreciation.

Their nods were met with a small smile, feeling a little ridiculous in your pyjamas and blood covered state.

It wasn't anything they weren't used to.

As far as they were concerned, you were a light in the dark that kept everyone safe. Just like Paddy. They were adamant the two of you were so similar in your own little, weird way.

You sat on a rock, staring off into the vast desert as you waited. It wasn't long until Paddy, true to his word, met you at the showers. He held some clothes in his hand, even a hairbrush.

The area was dimly lit by some lanterns, but it was just enough to see what was in front of you.

"Stirlin' thought you'd want to fix the mop on your head," He titled his chin into the direction of your head, and you rolled your eyes. "But 'ere, try these."

He hands the clothing over, and you didn't even have to ask, already knowing who they belonged too. "You okay parting with these?"

Paddy's eyes narrowed at your words. "How'd you know these are mine?" he exhales in amusement. "What if I pinched them from Reg?"

"Reg doesn't have clothes this clean," you retort, holding the clothes away from your body in an attempt to keep them clean. "Besides, they got a Paddy smell to them." "A Paddy smell," He repeats your words, rolling his eyes. "What, shite and sweat?"

"You don't smell like shit," Laughter leaves your lungs instantly, handing the clothes back to him as you begin to walk towards the shower. Paddy takes his position, back turned to the world as you begin to undress. "You smell okay, all things considered."

He hums at your response, taking it as a win. It was a luxury even having somewhere to bathe, so no one was expected to smell like flowers and oils.

With the blood washed from your body and coating the floor, you dried off before pulling on Paddy’s shirt, buttoning up the best you could.

By the time you were finished, you stood beside him once more, now time sporting one of his army fatigues. It covered everything that was needed, leaving your legs bare from the thighs down.

Was it appropriate?

Not really, but given the situation, no one was going to question it.

Paddy turns to look at you completely, his jaw tightening as he takes everything in. He inhales, quietly enough that he hoped you didn't notice.

You did.

He was anything but inconspicuous.

God, you were a vision. Even in the low light from the lanterns, you managed to steal his words and make the mouthy man feel mute. He thought you were breathtaking even when wearing the most mundane uniform, but seeing you in his clothes made him feel like the world around him was spinning.

Maybe he was concussed.

Clearing his throat, Paddy looks away, feeling almost guilty for his thoughts. You had just saved one of his men, lost another set of clothes to blood and had to shower in the cold of the night.

The sound of you brushing your hair filled his ears, and he cleared his throat again, trying to think of anything else. "Should uh - should get ye' out of the cold."

"It's actually quite nice," you admitted, finishing with your hair and tucking the hairbrush into one of Paddy's pockets, ignoring the way he eyed your movements like a hawk. "Bit overexposed though."

"Aye," he agrees, finally looking over your bare legs and swallowing. "One breeze and you're giving the boys a show."

You laugh loudly at his words, but he wasn't wrong, so you nodded, nudging him with your elbow. "Not wearing anything under this either, I think I'd make their whole year."

He closes his eyes at the revelation. It was meant as a joke, but knowing you were in fact bare beneath his clothes made his pants feel a little tighter, and he felt the heat in his stomach begin to bloom.

Your giggles sound like a siren's call, the sound becoming softer as you had already started your walk back to your tent, eager to send Stirling away and keep an eye on Pat.

By the time you made your way back into your tent, the once empty infirmary was now full of soldiers. It stopped you in your tracks, seeing familiar faces all laying on the beds, even Stirling asleep in yours.

"Am I missing something? Sleepover at mine?" You call out, bringing everyone's attention to the entrance of your makeshift home. "Didn't realise it was girls night."

A few laugh, someone even going as far to wolf whistle at you, noticing your new attire. "We thought we'd all stay in here for when Pat wakes up Miss." Jim, one of the sweeter giants in the bunch answers.

"Right," your voice trails off, eventually feeling Paddy's presence behind you. "And where am I meant to sleep?"

"Not in here," Paddy responds from behind, side stepping you and eyeing the scene in front of him with a raised eyebrow. "Look at you lot, kickin' our own nurse out of her bed."

"Blame Stirling," someone calls out, bringing attention to the lieutenant in your bed. "We'll keep an eye on everything anyway, you can sleep in my bed Miss."

"Or mine!" Someone else shouts, and a few more offer their beds with an eagerness that made you laugh loudly.

"Enough of that," Paddy stands with his hands on his hips. "She's not staying' anywhere near you lot."

"I'll sleep in David's bed then," You shrug before nodding towards Pat, who still remained asleep. "Just keep an eye on his bandages, any fresh bleeding and you all come wake me up yeah?"

They murmur in agreements, some giving you a thumbs up before you give Paddy a nod, making your leave once again.

The infirmaries tent flaps close behind you, and you're about to make your way to Stirling's tent when a hand on your waist guides you elsewhere. His footsteps step in line with yours, and you can't help but roll your eyes playfully at the action.

It was obvious who it was. Only one person here would be confident enough to touch you this way. That, and you were being directed to another familiar tent, one that resided further away from everyone else's.

"Not joining the sleepover Paddy?" you mutter softly, smiling from ear to ear as he grunts in response.

"You're not sleepin' anywhere I can't keep an eye on you," He sounded almost like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. The Irishman leads you to his tent, holding the entrance open and escorting you inside. He nods towards his trundle, made and ready for a body. "I'm goin' for a wash, I won't be long."

"You don't want me to escort you?" It was a jest, and Paddy pushed you forwards towards his bed in response. "Don't want me to pretend I'm keeping my back turned and not taking little sneak peaks?"

"Watch it." He points his finger at you, saying your name in warning, but he doesn't deny it. He goes to say something else, his lips opening and closing a few times before he decides against it, instead just leaving in a rush.

It made you grin, and you did what he asked, climbing into his bed eagerly. His familiar scent coated the sheets, providing a comfort you weren't expecting.

Safety was a long forgotten feeling here, but with Paddy around, his very being provided a sanctuary you weren't expecting to find in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn't long before he returned, apart of him hoping you'd be asleep when he arrived seeing as he hadn't brought any clothes with him. The two of you eyed each other, a silent stare down as he swallowed, standing in the entrance with a tattered towel around his waist, droplets of water still sliding down his bare chest.

"Shit," Immediately closing your eyes, you hold your hands up and over them in an extra effort to shield yourself from the lieutenant. "Sorry."

"It's okay." You hear him mutter, followed by some rustling around. He pulled on a loose pair of trousers, a white vest following suit. Standing beside the bed as he pulled his pants up, he can't help once again the way his eyes follow your feet up to your soft thighs.

You had laid over the blanket, wanting to wait for Paddy's return to discuss the actual sleeping arrangements.

Paddy's breathing comes out laboured, noticing the shirt you had borrowed from him had shifted further up as your arms moved when shielding your eyes. He looks to the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts, sending silent threats to himself at the impure images he started conjuring up.

"Paddy?" Your soft voice brings his attention back to Earth, and he clears his throat, mumbling a 'hm?' in reply.

Your eyes were open now, your hands bunching at the blanket below. Your cheeks felt hot, your lower stomach feeling no different as you stared up at the man before you.

He eyes you curiously, and you shamelessly looked down below his waist, attempting to bring his attention to the erection he had started to grow.

It was his turn to blush, and he immediately stuttered your name and an apology, turning around to conceal himself. Paddy nearly chokes when he feels your soft hands on his waist, your delicate fingers urging him to turn back around.

"I'm not uh, I'm," Paddy tries to apologise, noticing you shake your head. "Fuck."

"Paddy," You speak again, slowly this time, as if the very weight of his name on your tongue became a soft hymn. "Don't hide from me."

"M'not hiding," he attempted to argue, the words falling short as another sigh left his lips as you dragged your nails across his hips. He says your name again this time, half in warning, half in protest. "You're just playin' a very dangerous game here."

"So play with me then." Your voice sounded like warm honey, sweet despite the sinful desire that laced your words.

"Christ."

[aeralux]

"Just a Taste" Valarr Targaryen

summary: Valarr has neglected his soon-to-be wife, no passion in their political union. But one glance at you in your simple nightgown manages to completely unravel him.

warnings: smut; inexperienced!reader; inexperienced!Valarr; Valarr is an eater (it's the enthusiasm that counts); cumming untouched

words: 3.4k

notes: No physical description of the reader (only that she has hair). If you don't feel comfortable with these warnings/topics, please do not read. I am not responsible for the media YOU choose to consume. I literally wrote this before bed, so if you see something suspicious?? No, you didn't.

When Valarr was first betrothed to his soon-to-be bride, it was a union forged from duty rather than desire. He sought to honour his father’s wishes, securing the alliance that Prince Baelor had so deftly arranged. To Valarr, you were an obligation, a means to an end. Yet, despite the coldness of his motives, he treated you with the manners befitting a true gentleman, for his father had raised him in the values of courtesy and respect.

With a subtle smile gracing his lips, Valarr would speak to you in tender tones, his words laced with a polite charm that could not entirely mask the absence of warmth. He opened doors for you, his strong hand at your back or entwined with yours as he guided you through the bustling halls to grand feasts. Such gestures were the height of chivalry, yet all you craved was the fire of passion and the bloom of love, emotions that danced just out of reach.

Over time, you found solace in accepting this harsh reality, making peace with the truth that your marriage was merely a political arrangement, binding your noble house to his in a web of duty and allegiance. It was a bitter truth to swallow, yet you resolved to fulfil your part in this grand tapestry of power and lineage, even as your heart ached for something more.

This wasn’t the worst fate you could have endured, you knew that well. You were surrounded by a multitude of maids to attend your every whim, feasting on the finest delicacies the realm had to offer, and your future son would rise as the heir to the iron throne. Yet, the last point bore a certain weight, for the honour of ruling was often shrouded in peril and intrigue.

It's not that Valarr found you unsightly or undesirable, far from it. In his eyes, you were a vision of beauty, with hair that shone and skin as smooth as the finest silk. You possessed the enchantment of a siren, beckoning sailors to their doom upon treacherous shores.

However, he kept busy in the web of politics, far too entangled in the affairs of state to fall for your siren song just yet. His gaze was set on aiding his father to rule the realm wisely.

But all it took was one evening for Valarr to finally see the woman in you, not just a beautiful maiden he was to wed, awakening a desire he had kept locked away for too long.

In your private chambers, the dying fire flickered, casting warm shadows across your freshly bathed skin, still faintly fragrant with honey and dates—a scent that wafted through the air like an aphrodisiac. He had stopped by as he did each night, but this time it felt different.

You turned to him, a sweet smile curving your lips, your hair left loose, untamed, and perfumed, an allure he had never before witnessed. Gone were the elaborate gowns and intricate braids. A soft blush on the apples of your cheeks, feeling almost naked in the rather flimsy nightdress.

This was something else. This was raw.

As he lingered in the doorway, his gaze roamed over your figure, dressed in a nightgown, the fabric sheer enough to unveil the gentle curves of your body in the dim light.

Valarr had never seen you in such a state of unready before. As if the Gods had conspired to unveil your softness.

It was like tossing a scrap to a famished wolf—his breath quickened, sweat beading on his brow, the air thick with a growing warmth that made the chamber feel as though it had reached a fevered pitch. The sight of you stirred something deep within him, illuminating the desire he had kept locked away until now.

For a moment, it seemed as though Valarr's throat had gone dry, his gaze fixed upon you. The sheer nightgown's fabric betraying just enough to fuel his imagination, the soft candlelight playing a teasing game with your curves.

He took a step closer, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His eyes roamed over you, tracing the contour of your hips, the gentle swell of your breasts. His voice, normally controlled, now held a rasp that betrayed his desire.

"My lady," he murmured, his voice low. His eyes drank you in, lingering over the slope of your shoulders, the gentle arch of your neck. The sweet scent clung to your skin, adding an intoxicating edge to the moment.

He took another step forward, the distance now mere inches. His hand moved of its own accord, his fingers gently tracing the line of your collarbone, the touch soft yet possessive. "You look…" He swallowed, his eyes finally meeting yours. "Breathtaking."

You blushed, feeling goosebumps rise on your arms as he grazed your skin. Feeling such a gentle touch for the first time from him, swallowing with slight nerves. "My prince, do not be silly. I am simply in my nightgown," you joked with a light tone, your voice breathy.

You felt a warm flush spread across your cheeks, and a shiver coursed through you as his fingertips danced lightly upon your skin. It was a gentle caress, unlike any you had ever known from him, igniting nervous anticipation in your belly that made you swallow hard. “My prince, do not be foolish,” you bantered softly, a teasing lilt gracing your breath. 

“I am clad in my nightgown.” Your words hung in the air, sweet as honey, while your heart raced at the intimate closeness between you.

He hesitated, fingers barely touching your collarbone, worried he might cross an unwelcome line. His mind raced with thoughts that made him ache, nearly choking on his words.

“I’m not joking. You look... ravishing." The word fell from his lips like a confession, barely above a whisper. "Like a goddess made flesh,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. Valarr’s gaze devoured you, trailing down your body to the low neckline that had him yearning and weak in the knees.

Valarr swallowed hard, realising he had never allowed himself to acknowledge the depth of his attraction to you until now. He felt blood rush to his cock so fast it almost made him dizzy, breeches tightening against his bulge.

His hand drifted lower, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric. He felt your nipple stiffen at his touch, betraying your arousal. The air between you crackled with tension, heavy with unspoken desires.

You gasped as Valarr's fingers brushed your soft breasts, your nipples stiffening instantly at his touch. "Valarr," you breathed out, instinctively arching your back to press your breasts more fully into his palm. Your eyes fluttered closed, body burning with a sudden, intense ache that made your core throb.

"Touch me," you murmured, voice husky and low, a plea laced with newfound hunger. Your own hands moved to cover his, holding his touch against you as you felt your heart pounding. The cool air and your racing pulse made your skin prickle with goosebumps.

Now that you'd had a taste, you could never go back.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the action slow and deliberate, an unspoken invitation. The air between you felt electric, heavy with the promise of passion about to be unleashed.

Unable to resist any longer, Valarr cupped the soft mounds fully, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. He leaned down, breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "As my princess commands..."

Valarr leaned down and captured your lips in a searing kiss. His mouth moved over yours hungrily, tongue delving past your lips to taste you deeply. One hand remained at your breast, kneading the soft flesh, while the other slid down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.

He could feel his own heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing almost painfully against his breeches.

You kissed him back clumsily, but with growing fervour. Your tongues tangled awkwardly as you let out a muffled moan into his mouth. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging in as you tried to steady yourself and simultaneously pull him closer.

Gods, but he kisses like a starving man, you thought dizzily, your own hunger rising to match his. You could feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent, against your stomach. It thrilled and intimidated you in equal measure.

Valarr's hands slid down to grip your rear, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled you harder against him. He could feel your body melting into his, your soft curves moulding perfectly to the hard planes of his body. His hips rocked forward, grinding his cloth-covered erection against your core, seeking friction even through the layers of fabric separating you.

Breaking the kiss, Valarr's mouth trailed down to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He nipped and sucked at the tender skin, determined to mark you as his own. His hands slid under the hem of your nightgown, calloused fingers skimming up your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Valarr was inexperienced, having lived a sheltered life and never visiting the brothels as his cousins often did. But he was a man—a Targaryen. He instinctively knew where to trace his fingers.

"I want to taste you." He whispered, voice shaky with how many thoughts and feelings were swirling inside him.

Driven by a yearning that stirred deep within, he needed to taste you, to have your honey on his tongue.

You let out a shaky sigh at his bold confession, the breath catching in your throat for a fleeting moment. "Taste me?" you inquired, uncertainty lacing your voice. 

Your knowledge of intimacy came from books or your handmaiden, who kept the description of the act rather vague. Teaching you that the main purpose of a man and woman being together was to reproduce.

Valarr's hands slid further up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at the apex. "Here," he murmured, voice low and thick with desire. "I want to put my mouth on you, taste your essence, feel you come undone against my tongue..."

"Forgive me, I forget myself. This is new for me too." His thumb caressed your inner thigh soothingly.

I want to put my mouth on your sweet cunt until you're writhing and begging for more. That is what he truly wanted to say, but he kept his baser instincts at bay.

Your eyes widened, and you let out a breathy gasp, "Oh! I see..." You bit your lip, a blush spreading across your cheeks. "Well, I suppose that could be... pleasant." You trusted him; that's what made you agree almost embarrassingly quickly.

Valarr's heart raced at your breathy consent. Slowly, almost reverently, he eased you down onto the bed, settling between your parted thighs. He gazed up at you, eyes darkened with lust and a hint of tenderness.

"Pleasant doesn't begin to cover it," he murmured, hands sliding further up, thumbs brushing maddeningly close to your core.

With that, he leaned in, breath ghosting over your clothed sex. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to your mound, breathing in your scent before pulling the fabric aside.

Gods, she smells divine, he thought, mouth watering.

Your stomach fluttered nervously asyou felt Valarr's breath ghosting over your most intimate place, thighs clenching instinctively. A breathy, almost mortified whimper escaped your lips as he pushed your nightgown up and exposed your womanhood to his hungry gaze. "Ah," you gasped, cheeks flushing crimson. Yet, you made no move to stop him, pulse quickening in anticipation.

Valarr paused, looking up at you with a mix of hunger and tenderness in his mismatched eyes. "Shh, don't be nervous," he murmured. "I would never hurt you, my princess."

He leaned in, inhaling your scent deeply before placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on your bare mound. His tongue flicked out, parting your lower lips, tasting your essence. He groaned at the flavour of you, eyes fluttering closed.

"Sweet gods, you taste even better than I imagined," he rumbled against your skin, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them.

His tongue delved deeper, exploring your folds with a growing hunger. He lapped at your essence, savouring the taste of your arousal. His hands slid up to grip your rear, kneading the flesh as he pulled you tighter against his mouth.

"Valarr~" you mewled, back arching off the bed as jolts of pleasure shot through you. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching the fine linen in your fists as you gripped them for dear life.

What is this feeling? You thought dizzily, overwhelmed by sensations you had never known before. Soft, breathy mewls and whimpers spilt from your lips uncontrollably.

"So... so good..." you trailed off, unable to even articulate the depth of your pleasure, your body writhing with a hunger you had never known before.

Valarr groaned against your sex, the sound vibrating through you. Behaving more like an animal rather than a prince.

He sealed his lips around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud. His tongue flicked over it in quick, teasing strokes, drawing more of your essence.

Your breathing grew ragged, mingling with the obscene sounds of his suckling, filling the room with a symphony of lewd noises.

Valarr's thumbs spread your glistening folds apart, revealing your slick, little hole to his hungry gaze. "Exquisite," he breathed, the sight of your dripping sex making his painfully hard cock throb against his breeches. 

Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along your slit, savouring your ambrosial taste, before delving inside your tight channel with a low moan.

He thrust his tongue in and out, fucking your hole with his mouth as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you harder against him. His nose brushes your sensitive clit with each thrust, the stimulation driving you wild.

Valarr's movements might have been clumsy, but he was too focused on making you feel good. Listening what exactly you seemed to like, ears trained on the pretty sounds you made for him.

He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading muscle, your body instinctively trying to draw him deeper. Nothing else mattered in that moment but bringing his princess to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

One hand slid up to splay across your belly, feeling it quiver beneath his touch as he pleasured you with lips and tongue. The other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place.

"Oh fu- gods!" You cried out, voice ragged with pleasure. Your body undulated beneath him, thighs quivering and clenching around his head. You could feel every drag of his tongue, every suckle and nip, stoking the fire building in my core.

Moans spilt freely from your lips, growing louder. In that moment, you cared not who might hear. Your fingers tangled in his brown hair, nails digging into his scalp as you held him to you, pushing his face into your cunny.

Valarr's eyes rolled back in bliss as he feasted on your dripping sex. The lower half of his face was entirely coated in your juices, but he didn't seem to mind at all.

"Ah, gods, I can't... I can't..." you gasped, voice breaking as your body began to tremble uncontrollably. 

He pushed his hand more firmly on your stomach, holding you in place so he could continue lapping at your cunt, making sure you couldn't run away from the pleasure.

A broken cry tore from your throat, eyes fluttering shut as a coiling heat gathered in your core. Valarr's grip on your hips held you in place, preventing any escape from the intense sensations consuming you.

His cock had been hard and leaking the entire time, pulsing against the mattress as fresh beads of precum kept staining his breeches.

Valarr's hips began to hump the bed instinctively, his painfully hard cock rubbing against the mattress as he lost himself in pleasuring you. The friction of the fabric against his aching arousal only heightened his lust, making him hump against the bed like a dog in rut.

Uncontrollable, near animalistic moans spilt from your lips, your body writhing beneath him. "Valarr!" you choked out, your voice ragged and raw with pleasure.

The coil of tension in your belly wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel the impending release building, your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading tongue.

You had never known such intense sensation. It felt as if you were possessed, leaving you a writhing, mewling mess.

Valarr's own body was wound tight, his cock throbbing almost painfully as he rutted against the bed. He needed to make you come, to feel your pleasure crest before he sought his own release. Only then would he allow himself the satisfaction of spilling in his breeches like a green boy.

He could only whine into your cunt, the sound muffled by your dripping flesh. He sees your body tensing. He knew you were close. He needed to taste your release, to feel you come undone against his mouth.

He sucked your clit hard, his lips sealing around it as his tongue flicked over the tip rapidly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

He could feel his own release building as well, his balls drawing up tight as he rutted desperately against the mattress, chasing his own end. But he focused only on you, determined to please you before seeking his own.

"Valarr!" You cried out, voice ragged and raw with ecstasy. Your body convulsed beneath his touch, back arching off the bed as you shattered into a million pieces.

"Mmhhh~" you mewled shamelessly, fingers fisting in his hair, holding him tight against your sex as you rode out each intense wave of your climax.

Valarr's own body seized, his cock pulsing hard as he found his release in his breeches. With a muffled cry against your sex, he found his own release, his body stiffening as hot seed spurted from his cock, staining his breeches. His hips jerked and shuddered as he came, the sensation of your quivering walls under his tongue pushing him over the edge.

He shuddered and twitched below you, gasping for breath as the intense pleasure of his climax rolled through him. Hecouldn't remember the last time he had come so hard, so intensely. The taste of your sex, the sound of your cries, the feel of your body writhing above him—it was all too much.

He held you close as you trembled and shook, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he helped you ride out each intense wave of your climax.

Finally, as your body went limp beneath him, he slowly pulled back, looking up at you with hooded eyes.

"Fuck," you panted, chest heaving as you stared up at the canopy above. "That felt... really good." You sat up on your elbows, meeting his gaze. "I didn't know men did that to their women." You admitted shyly, still catching your breath. "Can you do it again sometimes?"

Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."

Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, sensual kiss. You could taste yourself on him, the musky flavour of your release. His hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts and kneading the soft flesh.

"I must be patient until we are married," he murmured against your lips. "I need to be proper. But once you are mine, I will have you every day if you only let me. I want to fill you with my seed until it takes, until your belly swells with my child."

Rolling onto his back, he gathered you to his side, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist. 

You sighed in bliss as he held you, relaxing into his touch. Finally feeling loved and appreciated in this union, caressing his chest softly while your lids grew heavy with sleep.

His other hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen lower lip. "You're exquisite, my princess," he whispered, studying your face as if committing it to memory. "I am not nearly done with you."

[r0ttn]

࣪ ִֶָ☾. daeron targaryen x wife!reader

࣪ ִֶָ☾. cw: mdni, oral (f receiving), sub!daeron, no use of y/n, no editing soo look the other way

daeron presses his face to the soft skin of your inner thigh, breathing you in deep, a low, reverent sound rumbling in his chest. his hands slide up your hips, thumbs brushing the crease where thigh meets cunt, spreading you open just enough so he can see how wet you already are—glistening, swollen, slick with anticipation. he exhales against your folds, warm breath making your clit pulse before his tongue ever touches you.

when he finally licks, it’s slow. deliberate. a single, broad flat stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit, collecting every drop you’ve leaked for him. the sound is wet, obscene, a soft slurp that makes your toes curl. he groans like the taste of you is better than wine—better than anything the seven kingdoms could offer.

“fuck,” you murmur, threading fingers through his silver-gold hair. “just like that, my love. feels so good.”

he whimpers at the praise—soft, needy—and does it again, slower this time, savoring. tongue dragging through your slit, parting your folds, dipping just inside your entrance to lap at the fresh gush of wetness that greets him. he loves this part: the way your cunt flutters around the tip of his tongue, the way more slick coats his lips with every pass. his chin is already shining, strands of your arousal connecting his mouth to your pussy every time he pulls back for air.

he could stay here for hours.

daeron shifts higher, seals his lips around your clit and sucks—gentle at first, then firmer when your hips jerk. the wet pull of his mouth is filthy; you can hear it, feel it, the soft suckling sounds mingling with his muffled moans. his tongue flicks over the swollen bud in tight little circles, then flattens to lap at it in long, steady strokes, then circles again. he never settles into one rhythm for too long—he knows you too well, knows how to keep the pleasure building without letting it crest too soon.

two fingers slide into you without warning, long and thick, curling up to find that spot that makes your breath hitch. he doesn’t thrust hard. he fucks you with them in slow, deep strokes, letting you feel every inch as he presses against your walls. your cunt clenches around him instantly, soaking his knuckles, dripping down to the sheets in a slow trickle.

you rock against his face, grinding your clit on his tongue while his fingers keep that perfect, relentless rhythm. “you’re so good at this, daeron. so good…”

his hips jerk against the edge of the mattress; his cock strains painfully in his breeches, untouched, leaking, but he never reaches for it. this isn’t about him. it never is when he’s between your legs. it’s about the way your thighs tremble around his ears, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your cunt pulses and gushes every time he curls his fingers just right.

he changes again—sucks your clit hard while his tongue lashes the underside in quick, frantic flicks. His fingers pump faster now, slick sounds filling the chamber: wet squelches, desperate slurps, his own choked moans vibrating straight into your core.

you’re close and daeron knows it. he can feel it in the way your walls flutter, the way your hips lift to chase his mouth, the way fresh slick floods his tongue.

“keep going,” you breathe, voice shaking. “you’re going to make me cum so hard. please..!”

he obeys instantly. tongue working your clit in relentless circles, fingers driving deep and curling, sucking hard enough to pull a broken cry from your throat.

when you shatter, it’s sudden and overwhelming. your cunt clamps down on his fingers like a vice, pulsing hard and fast, gushing a fresh rush of wetness that he drinks up greedily. he doesn’t stop—keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps fucking you through every spasm until you’re trembling, oversensitive, thighs shaking around his head.

only then does he ease off, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen folds, lapping gently at the mess he’s made until your breathing steadies.

he lifts his head at last, lips red and swollen, chin dripping, lilac eyes glassy with devotion.

you stroke his cheek, thumb tracing the wetness there. “come here.”

daeron crawls up your body on trembling arms, careful not to crush you, until his face hovers just above yours. his breath is hot and ragged against your lips. then he closes the distance, pressing his slick mouth to yours in a slow, deep kiss.

you taste yourself immediately—salty-sweet, warm, unmistakably you. his tongue slides against yours, lazy yet desperate. he moans softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating between you, and his hips shift just enough that you feel the hard, throbbing length of his cock drag against your thigh—still untouched, still aching, still waiting.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to speak, his forehead rests against yours. his voice is wrecked, low, almost pleading.

“my love…” he swallows, lilac eyes searching yours, pupils blown wide. “can i—please—can i taste you again? i want to feel you cum on my tongue one more time. i need it.”

his fingers flex against the sheets beside your head, like he’s holding himself back from diving down without permission. his cock twitches against your skin, leaking a warm bead of precum that smears between you.

“since you asked so sweetly,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his once more, “yes, my perfect boy. make me cum for you.”

daeron exhales a shaky, grateful sound—half moan, half sigh of relief—and begins sliding back down your body, already pressing slow, lingering kisses to your breasts, your stomach, your hips.

[princessbellecerise]

How is foreplay with the characters from AKOTSK?

𐙚 foreplay, 18+

Valarr is sweet. He prefers to take his time, kissing all over your body and worshipping you as he does. It’s his praise that gets you going, telling you how wonderful you take him as his gentle fingers stretch you out. He’ll coo softly and look at you through his lashes as he pumps them in and out of your wet heat, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs. He knows exactly how to bring you to the edge, and Valarr is always eager to taste his hard work afterwards

Dunk is eager. He uses his long fingers to warm you up because gods know you’ll never be able to take his cock if not. But he is a little impatient as he does so, and sloppy. He’s sure to make a mess of you on his fingers by accident, so eager to please that he gets lost in the pleasure as well. He’s good at listening to your commands and doing exactly what you like. Hearing you whine and shake underneath him can be too much some times, and you’ve made him come in his pants plenty of times while he’s supposed to be warming you up

Baelor is generous. He can spend hours between your legs before he actually fucks you, skillfully making you come over and over. It is his favorite past time and sometimes he will get carried away. He will bend you over and have you lay face down on the bed, your ass in the air whilst he kneels between your legs. The usually neat prince is sloppy as he pleasures you with his tongue, holding your hand and gently holding your trembling body in place

Maekar is teasing. He prefers to have you begging before he actually fucks you, so he’ll take his time and kiss you everywhere expect where you need him to. He’ll claim that his is not a mind reader, and should you need something, speak up. He likes to hear you beg for him, and only when you are pleading and completely drenched without him even touching you, will he comply

Aerion is agonizing. He is a menace through and through, though as we all know, he loves to use his mouth. It is his favorite thing, watching you writhe below him while he gives you pleasure. Your hands are tied up so you cannot object when he teases your pearl, overstimulating you to the point where you’re crying. The tears will egg him on, and Aerion will lick them with pleasure. He believes that he is a dragon, and like all great beasts, he will play with his prey before devouring it

Daeron is messy. He tries, though. He’ll lick, suck and touch whatever you tell him to, but often times it’s chaotic. He’s uncoordinated as he moves around your body, erratic in his movements. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way his mouth moves against you but he does pay attention to your sounds and tries to find what works best. His preferred method is getting you warmed up with his cock, though. He’ll tease your folds with his tip and smear his pre seed, just enough that’ll make the stretch of him a little bit more bearable

Lyonel is mutual. He prefers to get off as well before he fucks you, so he’ll watch you play with yourself as he strokes his cock. He loves seeing the way your fingers disappear into your cunt, groaning at the wet sounds. He prefers to have you soaked before he enters you as well, so he’ll order you to make yourself cum at least twice before giving in and doing it himself

[sylasthegrim]

A Prince Among Men

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x female reader

Tags: p*rn without plot, wedding night, first time, loss of virginity, oral sex (female receiving), p. in v. sex, Valarr is a caring lover

Wordcount: 2,835

Having heard the terrible rumors surrounding Prince Aerion, you are frightened that his cousin, your intended Prince Valarr, will be much the same. However, your wedding night proves you wrong.

Valarr Masterlist

Upon your birth the Gods had smiled down on you and blessed your future union, your family had said when you had been betrothed to Prince Valarr, the son and heir to Prince Baelor. Such a union was an honor, despite the tense political climate in the realm—marrying a Targaryen prince, the heir’s son no less, and providing him with an heir who would one day be king as well, was a greater fate than you had ever imagined for yourself.

One day, you would be the queen, standing alongside King Valarr and hopefully, ruling at his side if he was inclined to allow his wife her own opinions and agenda. That, you were less sure of. 

Prince Valarr had seemed perfectly charming and princely during your short courtship, even though it had been too short to truly get to know and understand his character. Soon enough, the day of your union had come, and he had behaved in a proper way throughout the wedding feast as well—he had gladly danced with you, looking upon you with pride, however you knew men could be knights in the public eye, and beasts in their private chambers.

Rumors were not kind to his cousins, some of them vicious, and you feared that there was truth to them, as soon as your eyes had met Prince Aerion’s upon meeting the royal family. Never before had you seen such darkness in one’s gaze, and it made you fear what awaited you once you would be wed to Valarr.

“Some men like to do the beating behind closed doors. They give praise in public and hell in private,” a lady friend of yours had warned, and those words had lived in you ever since.

Despite your extensive education on ladylike comportment, you could not seem to soothe your nerves as the evening of your wedding went on, your fright taking over your body like a fever. 

Valarr had seen you grow more and more preoccupied as the evening had progressed, and even the coming darkness and the forgiving lights of the torches and candles had not been enough to hide your sunken eyes and downturned mouth. It perplexed him rather, as he had believed the match to be a happy one. 

You were a lady of noble birth and proper education, and upon setting eyes on you for the first time, he had been perfectly satisfied with your appearance. His father had made it clear that in his duty, marriage was of the utmost importance, and that the quality of a man could be found in the way he treated those gentler than him, and ladies were among those who necessitated more delicate treatment.

He was not the most gentle of young men—he did not fear to joust with his cousin Aerion, and never backed down from a challenge in the courtyard. He stood his ground and knew how to navigate difficult arguments much like his father. At times when it was needed, he knew how to be firm and asserting, but in his marriage, he aspired to be attentive and soft, if a softer touch was what his wife required.

Walking from the hall of Dragonstone towards Valarr’s chambers after the feast felt like walking to the gallows, your throat growing tighter until you knew you would not be able to speak a word to your husband. The door was barely closed behind you and Valarr before he cleared his throat and it startled you into action. 

Valarr watched, increasingly worried, as you immediately stepped towards the bed, reaching for the laces of your gown—gone were the glimpses of your true character that he had seen during your courtship or earlier in the night. Instead you had become cold and silent, and dread settled in his stomach.

Taking a deep breath in, he attempted to remember what his father had told him of the wedding night. While he was no stranger to the touch of a woman, his bride certainly was pure and untouched, and it was his role as husband to guide her unto those new territories. If he played his cards well, this night could be the start of a most satisfying harmony in the marriage bed.

“I am aware we do not know each other, and it must not be a comfort to you to welcome a stranger into your chambers,” he tried, wincing at his own hesitance. “But I would not have you afraid of me.” 

“I am not afraid of you, my prince,” you were quick to reply, unwilling to look at him over your shoulder, keeping your hands busy with your intricate gown.

“What of, then, if not of me?” he inquired, taking a few steps towards you.

When you did not answer, he decided upon offering patience instead of placating words. Instead, he came up behind you and assisted you in pulling the laces. You were shaking, your breathing growing even shallower under his hands, and his distress grew with it—he would take no pleasure in consummating with an unwilling bride, and yet it had to be done for security.

“Does the prospect of consummation frighten you so?” he asked softly, perhaps too bluntly.

Still, you did not look at him. He heard you swallow and take a shaky breath through your mouth. If his words could not appease you, then perhaps his touch would, he thought. As your gown loosened around your frame, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss at the back of your neck gently. He placed his hands on either side of your shoulders, hoping to ground you, but his endeavor failed, and your trembles turned into shudders.

“I will not mistreat you,” he assured, and to his horror, a silent sob wracked your trembling frame.

Valarr came to face you, his gentle hands settling on your waist, but you could not meet his eye nor acknowledge his kind words—every second that passed, you feared to unleash his frustration by your tears, but your instincts had taken over, and you could not calm yourself. 

“You have nothing to fear from me. It might be uncomfortable, at first, but only for a moment,” he promised, carefully taking the hand that had been hiding your mouth in his grasp. “What have you been taught, to frighten you so?”

At that, you finally shook your head and your eyes rose to meet his worried gaze—his eyes were different colors, you had noticed upon your first meeting, one a dark brown and the other a striking blue, and there was warmth in them both. “Not so much what I was taught, my prince, but what I was told, about…” you started, but stopped yourself. “I do not wish to cause offense.”

Valarr pressed a firm kiss to the back of your hand, and it loosened some of the tension in the pit of your belly. “You may be honest with me. What sort of marriage would this be if we could not speak our mind to one another?”

His thumb drew circles on the back of your hand, settling your nerves long enough for the words to come out. “My cousin met your own cousin, Prince Aerion, at a tourney and—” but in the end, you could not bring yourself to say it.

Still, understanding spread over Valarr’s handsome face, along with a sad smile. “His reputation is a grim one indeed,” Valarr said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I vow to you, I am nothing like my cousin.”

Relieved that he had not taken offense, you gave your husband a small smile, and his answer nearly took your breath away—he dipped forward slowly but resolvedly, letting his nose slide alongside yours until his mouth was pressed to yours, firm and confident. 

“Allow me to prove myself,” he said against your lips. “To show you the sort of husband I intend to be.”

Without a word, he hooked his fingers at the shoulders of your gown and brought it down, smoothly sliding to his knees to catch the fabric before it could pool at your feet. This time, your breathlessness was not due to nerves, but the caring and honorable gesture—for a second he remained there, a knee to the cold floor and his piercing eyes looking up at you with confidence.

Once you had stepped out of your gown and he had placed it on the back of a chair, he guided you, gently but firmly, with the sort of touch a husband should use while leading, to lay down on the bed. His eyes remained on you, warm and trusting, and he undressed. Warmth pooled in the pit of your stomach, shy and tentative, but present nonetheless.

Valarr cleared his throat, licking his lips before asking. “Do I please you?” he asked—and pleasing was perhaps not strong enough a word, in truth. Freed from his usual calf-length doublet, miles of creamy skin stretching over firm muscle were open for you to gaze at. Moles dotted his complexion here and there, from his broad shoulders down to his slimmer waist.

A breathless chuckle left your mouth. “Am I allowed to say?” you inquired. “Or to even think it?”

“I would like my wife to find me handsome, yes,” he replied, his hands finally reaching for the laces of his breeches, but after a second of hesitation, he decided on leaving them on for now. “Later,” he informed you, sounding rather embarrassed. “This moment is for you, first.”

The white strand fell into his face as he crawled up the bed, as gracefully as he had sunk to his knees before you, and it amazed you how a man could look so regal while doing it. 

Eyes fluttering close, your hands curled into fists at your hips, you awaited the weight of your husband’s body atop yours, but it did not come. Instead, Valarr’s lips found the inside of your ankle, pressing a reverent kiss to it.

You looked down and watched, breathless, as he made his way between your parted legs, his mouth tracing a path from your ankle bone to the inside of your knee, making you shiver. His mouth lingered there, his hands paving the way—his palms were warm and a bit rough, confident as they pressed your thighs further apart.

The white strand of hair at the front of Valarr’s head fell into his eyes and he smiled, wide and honest. Your lingering fears melted away, replaced by a warm wave of trust and excitement. 

“Lay back,” he said, a suggestion more than an order, a ripple of heat coursing through him when you complied. There were not many things headier in this world than the trust of a beautiful woman, and it filled him with determination. 

Valarr pushed your cotton shift out of the way, pressing a grounding kiss to your hipbone. His smile grew when his lips grazed your most intimate place and you gasped, then arched your back under the gentle press of his mouth. One of your hands uncurled from your side only to tentatively find the crown of his hair, and a sigh that could have been his name left your mouth.

Slowly, he traced the seam between your folds with his tongue, trying a soft, then firmer pressure, curling the tip of it at your core. Your moans were shy at first, then breathier and loudier, and it got to his head faster than any strong wine. With each pass of his tongue your hips rocked back against his touch, and when he kissed your pearl you gasped aloud, the sound breaking whenever he followed it with a gentle suckle.

His jaw ached after a while, but he pushed through the discomfort for your sake, enjoying the reward that were your moans of pleasure, and your arching body under his hands.

Eventually, his tongue wandered lower, in search of the entrance into your body, and his thumb took over, drawing circles at your numb, spreading your wetness. He kissed the inside of your thighs again, gently nudging them apart so he could fit his shoulders more comfortably between them. He groaned when you hook your heel at his back, and he guided you to hook your knee over his shoulder. 

Inside of his breeches, his own arousal was pulsing, hot and impatient, and he ground his hips into the mattress, hoping for some relief, but it only served to incense him further.

His tongue prodded past your wet folds, and finally found what he was most wanting for—the dip leading inside your body. The tip of his tongue pressed into it and you arched your back higher than before, his answering moan vibrating against your sensitive skin.

“Gods be good—” you cursed, your voice broken, and it spurred him on. 

Your hand tightened in his hair, the sharp ache a necessary distraction from his restless hips. The friction of his cock on the hard bed through his breeches and the sheets was torture and ecstacy at the same time, and he yearned to get a hand around himself.

However he was determined to see through the task at hand—to have you find your please before he did.

Ignoring his own pulsing need, he pushed his tongue harder into the dip of your body, bringing it up between your folds until it met his thumb, still tracing regular, tight circles. Like he would practice the flit of a sword in the yard, he repeated the movement at the same pace, even when your back did not come back from its arch and your hips quivered in his grasp. 

“Valarr, please keep—” came your ragged plea, and for a moment he feared you would bring him over the edge alongside you.

A pleasure, sharp and hot like you had never known, pierced through you—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, from your core to your toes, shivering up your back, with the force of a mast cracking under the pressure of the wind. After the intense peak had abated, a simmering satisfaction spread along your skin, and you wanted to laugh at the beauty of it, especially when you glanced down again and saw your husband looking up at you.

Between your parted thighs, he looked more alive than you had seen him so far, his eyes blown wide and dark. He made quick work of his breeches, but as he uncovered his length, wrapping a hand around it, you were not so afraid of it.

His eyes did not leave your face as he gave himself a few slow strokes, his hips quivering, before pushing to his knees and crawling over you, his mouth dipping into your neck to press a comforting kiss. “Trust me,” he murmured. “It will be over in a moment.”

There was no time for you to fear the pain, and your limbs felt so loose you even doubted it would come. Valarr guided the head of his cock between your folds, the sensation unfamiliar but not unpleasant. You felt him take a steadying breath, and curled a hand at the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair gently. The strands were thick between your fingers, cropped shorter at the back but long enough for you to enjoy.

Forehead to forehead, he pushed into you in one, smooth stroke, taking your breath away with it—the burn was intense, and the stretch rather uncomfortable, and yet you felt safe, caged in by his strong arms. Your quiet moan of pain was quickly swallowed by a kiss, deep and slow. In time, you would come to enjoy it, you thought. For now, holding him and resting easy in the pleasure he had already given you was enough. 

Valarr took you, slow but firm—a hint of a claim, if he was honest with himself—and it was the sweetest release he could have imagined. Still riding the high of your peak, it did not take long for his own pleasure to crest. You held him as he started shaking and he found refuge in the crook of your neck, biting back his moans, his cock pulsing inside of you. 

You welcomed his kiss again, lips warm on yours, when the shuddering stopped and he was instead left with a gentle quiver. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, breathless.

“No, you were lovely,” you replied, your heart thundering in your chest, but he knew the full truth of it.

Valarr rose again on his elbows, his eyes seeking yours. “We shall have many more nights, and I will make sure you find your pleasure in this as well,” he vowed, making heat erupt in your cheeks. 

None of the fears that had plagued your day were to be found—instead, there was only trust mirrored in your husband’s eyes and in his warm smile, and you knew yourself to be lucky, to have been given to a man who would treat you as a prince should. 

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Not beta read. Requests are open for this character.

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Valarr taglist: @thenameswinter99 @targaryen-dynasty @aneurins-barnard @multyfangirl @phia004

@magdalenawannabe @starxs-s @giaaaarosaaaa @tayssauchiha

[princessbellecerise]

Drive Me Wild

Summary ✩ Little things you do that drive your man absolutely wild

Warnings ✩ Smut, oral sex, kind of blasphemy if you squint, this is filthy and I really enjoyed writing it. Happy (late) Valentine’s Day!

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

Valarr Targaryen

You didn’t even notice. Didn’t even think twice about what you did, really, when you reached out to wipe away some crumbs from his mouth like the good wife you were

You had only been trying to help clean him up, giggling that he couldn’t go to training with his face covered in icing. Valarr had been indulging in lemon cakes all morning even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to, and since your husband was quite the messy eater, he had gotten it all over his face

You didn’t think twice to use your fingers to wipe it away and considered it a sweet, innocent gesture. But something in Valarr’s eyes darkened as he watched you bring your fingers to your mouth, sucking them clean before removing them with a pop!

He stared at your glistening digits and his cock immediately began to stir in his breeches. In an instant, Valarr found himself unbelievably hard at the sight, his training forgotten as he pulled you into his arms

Sweet lips met yours, tasting of lemons and sugar and a dark desire to consume you. Valarr kissed you with a passion you had not tasted yet, a bruising thing that you eagerly accepted. You had no idea what brought this upon your husband or why but you liked it, kissing him back with equal desperation

In no time, you found yourself naked, moaning as Valarr slid into you with one stroke. His thick cock stretched you out deliciously, and you wrapped your legs around his back to encourage him to move inside of you

As he did, rocking into you at a steady pace, you moaned and suddenly found his fingers in your mouth

“Suck them,” your husband commanded, pupils blown as he stared down at you. It seemed that you had finally found the reason for his sudden desire and your eyes widened but you were quick to obey

You wrapped your lips around his digits and sucked, enjoying the filthy moan that left him as you did so. The sight of you, innocently sucking his fingers while taking his cock did unexplainable things to him. Valarr felt himself nearly black out with pleasure as he moved faster, angling his hips to pound deeper inside of you

He whimpered and groaned as you clenched around him, coming around his cock with a force that had your back arching off of the bed. You squeezed him so goddamn tight that no sooner did that happen did his own peak come, nearly blinding Valarr with the pleasure it brung

Afterwards, when Valarr had cleaned you up and blushed at how unruly he had become, you thought about how something so…small had completely unmade your husband. A small smile crossed your face as you thought about it, and you made note that if he ever needing cleaning again, you’d be sure to use your fingers to do it

Maekar Targaryen

Marrying an older man was quite often the fear of many ladies in the realm. Growing up, it had always been your friends and even your fear in your youth to be forced off to an old, balding drunk that smelled like sweat and cheese. But when you married Maekar Targaryen and became his second wife, you began to see that being married to an older man wasn’t so bad after all

The ultimate perk was being with a man that knew exactly what he was he was doing. Knowing exactly how to please you in ways only a man of his age and experience would

Maekar knew the right spots to lick, to suck, and to pleasure your body to bring you to your peak. You never knew such a greatness even existed until you married Maekar, and despite what people thought of him, your husband was extremely generous

You whined as he situated himself in between your legs, his skilled tongue and fingers making good use of his experience. You had already come—twice now—but it seemed that wasn’t enough for your husband. He wanted more, demanded more despite your cries and pleas of being overstimulated

“Quiet woman. I’ll have none of that,” he waved you off, and the sensation of his pleasure was so strong that you couldn’t help yourself

You reached down and in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, you accidentally grabbed Maekar’s hair and pulled—hard

The silver strands were firmly in your grasp, your fingers curled in them as it was the only thing that you could do to anchor yourself through another orgasm

Honestly, you didn’t even notice that you were tugging on them until Maekar suddenly growled, his movements stopping as he propped himself up

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He panted, breathless as his violet eyes grew dark. He looked like a true dragon above you. Full of fire and ready to devour you

“I…” you swallowed thickly, your throat suddenly dry. You didn’t know what to say to your husband about your impulsive actions, and you didn’t mean to upset him. “I-I’m sorry, my prince. I did not mean to. I merely got carried away.”

Your breath hitched, sure that that he’d be mad and curse you for doing such a thing. Your fingers pulled back, ready to grip the sheets if need be but Maekar caught your hands and stopped you in an instant

“Nonsense. Do that again,” he demanded, his voice full of lust

You were shocked and rightfully taken off guard by his request. You never thought that Maekar of all people would like his hair to be pulled but the way he growled again as you complied with his wishes told you that he more than liked it. He loved it

“Gods woman. You’ll be the death of me one day,” Maeker groaned, and that’s how you learned that the feeling of your fingers tugging on his silver hair spurred him on like no other

Aerion Targaryen

You discovered your husband’s weakness for being worshiped at quite literally at the worst possible time

It was in the sept, while you were praying during mass and asking the gods for good fortune, a healthy baby, and a long life

Aerion had never been keen for such a thing, nor he did actually believe in the Andal gods but he entertained it for the sake of appearance and let you be, if that’s what you wished

He had never given the sept or you much attention while you were doing your prayers, preferring to sit in the corner and brood but one day you kneeled in front of him and he was gone

He watched, half shocked and half aroused as you bent over to his feet, repeating:

“And may the father protect my husband, may the warrior make him strong, and may the mother guide his soul as she does with all her children.”

He had been caught so off guard that he could barely speak, and when you rose to your feet and looked at him he was harder than he’d ever been before

“Are you ready to leave now, my prince?” You had asked innocently, but little did you know that the thoughts running through your husbands mind were anything but

Aerion couldn’t get that image of you out of his head. Of you kneeling before him, submitting to him like you were worshiping him. Praying to him like he was your god and—fuck. He needed to see that again, now

You’d scarcely made it back to your chnambers before Aerion descended upon you, kissing you with a wild glint in his eyes and pushing you on the bed

His hands were frantic as he tried to strip you of all the clothing you had on, cursing your bloody maids for making everything so tight. It took him longer than he wanted to get you naked, to get you bare and spread out for him

He marveled in the sight, like he always did, but when you tried to lay back and open yourself for him, he did something unusual

“Kneel,” he said, no, demanded as he looked at you with glazed over violet eyes. They were so dark that they almost looked black. Wild and crazed at the idea of watching his thoughts come to life. Of watching his sweet pretty wife show him her devotion. “Make me your god,” he continued, “kneel before me and worship me as a dragon should be.”

He was in utter delight as he watched your body obey; confused, but obedient nevertheless. You got off the bed and did as your husband said, sinking to your knees and blinking up as he stood above you

Already, Aerion had freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out to brush against your lips. When you reached out and darted your tongue across the tip he moaned, gripping the back of your head and pulling you closer

“Well, go on then. Worship my cock like you do your gods and we’ll see which one shows you the heavens first.”

Spoiler alert: it was him. After you finished praising him and milking him with your mouth, Aerion placed you on the bed face down and brought you to your pleasure

He took you from behind and fucked you like you deserved, making you see stars as he pounded into you

He was consuming you, chest pressed firmly against your back and whispering in your ear. He spoke softly, encouraging you to say a prayer for your release and you did

You screamed his name, chanting it over and over again until it was the only the word you had left. You babbled and mumbled as your husband’s cock took your higher than the heavens, and afterwards you took his seed as a reward for your devotion

Aerion knew, no, he swore that by the time he was done with you, you would have no need for gods

After all, everyone knew that Targaryens were the closest thing among men. And luckily for you, you were married one—a dragon coated in flesh

Baelor Targaryen

You’re not sure when the habit started really

Mayhaps in some meeting or another, one that your duty required you to attend but didn’t permit you to enjoy. You’d probably sat beside Baelor as he endured the same torture with you, hiding behind polite smiles and chivalrous words while on the inside you were nearly bored to tears

There wasn’t much entertainment while you were listening to complaints and grievances from various different Lords, so you supposed picking up on the habit of holding Baelor’s hand and fiddling with the rings on the them was natural

It gave you something to do to occupy your mind while you sat and listened to men whine like women. A small thing that you could enjoy, and you were sure that Baelor didn’t mind either because he never complained. In fact, he often encouraged you, slipping his hand under the table for you to grab and sometimes giving you a light squeeze

It was such a small thing that you did, really, that no one could blame you for missing how it drove your husband absolutely insane

Baelor had always been good at keeping his composure; after all, it had been expected of him since he was a child. He didn’t break easily or falter when something got to him, but it seemed that one day something about you finally caused him to break

Alas, it was after one of your meetings that Baelor finally grabbed you with a sudden urgency

You had been in the middle of complaining about something, slumped in your chair and completely unaware of the hunger on his face, when all of a sudden your husband pulled you to his chest and kissed you

Your complaints were silenced at once, your jaw going slack at Baelor’s sudden advances

Now, your husband wasn’t exactly a square when it came to your marriage activities, but he was mindful and normally only took you in the confinement of your chambers. Never before had he been so open, so eager to devour you in public and it took you for a shock almost as much as it excited you

Quickly, you returned his affections and moaned as his tongue slipped into your mouth, your back hitting the stone that his desk was carved out of

One hand came to slip underneath your dress, hitching your leg up, and you moaned as Baelor’s fingers brushed against your sex

“Here?” You asked breathlessly, pulling away to look at him with wide eyes

Baelor nodded, “Here,” he said, and you gasped as his fingers slipped into your small clothes. Your core was already aching and slick with arousal. You took your husband’s fingers well, clenching around them as pleasure traveled through your lower half

This new side of him was absolutely maddening. Baelor had never been this desperate before, this willing to be risky and it drove you wild

Anyone could have walked through the doors of his solar and saw him pleasuring you. Saw their prince, their future king with his fingers stuffed in his wife’s cunt. The risk made it all the more exciting, and it had your heart pounding with anticipation

You could feel your peak rising as Baelor’s skilled fingers worked their magic, but you didn’t get there. Instead you whined as Baelor pulled them out, scrunching your face up in disappointment

“Keep going, I was almost there,” you begged him, but Baelor shook his head

“Not yet,” your husband panted, and in the next moment he loosened his breeches and turned you away from him. You took this to mean that he would take you from behind, right up against his desk. Your mouth drooled as his cock dragged along your slick folds, mouth falling open as he pushed inside of you

“Fuck,” the vulgar curses that fell from his lips made you even wetter, your cunt easily spreading apart for his cock

From behind you, Baelor set out at a steady rhythm, fucking into you while your chest hugged the stone. The sound of wet skin slapping filled the room, along with curses that would have made a Septon blush

This new position proved to be overwhelming for the both of you and you could tell that neither of you would last long. Your core clenched with every drag of his cock, your peak threatening to rise again

“My love,” you gasped out, fingers clawing at stone, trying to find something to ground you as that familiar wave of pleasure hit. “I’m…I’m going to…”

You never even got the words out. Instead they were replaced by a loud whine, your mouth dropping open and your rolling back

You came shamelessly around your husband’s back and he followed suit, cursing and groaning as he did. He held onto your hips to steady himself and that’s when you felt it—the cool metal of his rings pressing against your hot skin

When the two of you had settled down, cleaning yourselves up and rearranging your husband’s desk to make it look like you hadn’t just been fucked there, you asked him about it with a shy grin on your face

“Is this what has spurred you on, husband? All this time—playing with your rings has riled you up? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Baelor, with a grin on a face and a twinkle in his eye, only chuckled. “I feared you’d stop, wife, if you knew the terrible effect it had on me. I didn’t want that. After all, I had to have something to get me through such dreary meetings.”

Ser Duncan the Tall

Traveling together on the open road meant that you and Dunk spent a lot of time together, and in that time you had each picked up on the mannerisms and habits of the other

You knew Dunk practically like the back of your hand, and there wasn’t much that he could do or hide from you, which was why you started to notice immediately his lingering stare whenever you braided your hair

Weaving the threads together had become second nature while you were on the road, as it was way to keep your hair from getting filthy and out of your face. Nothing special about recreating a hairstyle you had been doing since your youth but Dunk, for some reason, loved it

He loved sitting beside you as you worked, tattling off about something or the other. You suspected that he didn’t actually pay attention, too focused on your hair and the way that your fingers moved to digest your stories

At first, you simply thought that it was just fascination, with Dunk being curious about the ways of a woman

It seemed innocent enough, but slowly you began to notice the way he changed

Once he was able to sit beside you while you twisted your hair, watching intently but never bothered. Now though, Dunk seemed visibly uncomfortable by something every time you touched your hair around him and you couldn’t quite figure out why

It made no sense why he seemed unable to focus, always shifting beside you like a jitterbug. More often that not, he would excuse himself afterwards and then come back a few minutes later, looking more relieved than before he’d left

He never explained or said why, and he always seemed to stutter out some half excuse that you didn’t believe. As you said, you knew Dunk which was why you knew that he was hiding something

You didn’t figure out what until one day you decided to spy on him

It had been a spur of the moment decision, deciding to pause your braiding to sneak away after him and see what his problem was. You were merely curious, that’s all, so imagine your shock when you stumbled upon Dunk, cock in hand and moaning as he pleasured himself

He had his eyes closed, so he didn’t see you as watched flabbergasted. Never in a million years did you guess that this was what he was up to, but you weren’t entirely upset about it

In fact, you felt something stirring inside of your core as you heard him calling out your name, shamelessly pleasing himself to the sound of it

It was obvious that he was thinking about you, but why? What had brought this on, you wondered?

If Dunk was as thick as a castle wall then your head was as hollow as the moat surrounding it. Filled with water instead of sense, your Nan used to say, as when you stepped forward, your curiosity and desire compelling you to do so, you still did not realize that it had been your hair that spurred him on

Instead you called out his name, “Dunk?” With a shy smile, hoping that you could get to the bottom of this and possibly help him

Dunk’s eyes flew open and the look on his face looked like a rabbit that had been caught in a snare. He instantly panicked, stammering and sputtering out. You thought that he might have been trying to say words but they failed him, and now he was as red as a tomato as you sauntered towards him

“What are you doing?” You asked him, though your head wasn’t that hollow. You knew the answer but rather you were asking why? You weren’t angry. That was apparent by the smirk adorning your face, but it was an embarrassment to Dunk all the same

He tried unsuccessfully to pull his pants up, but his hands were shaking too much and he ended up not being able to get them past his ankles. In a desperate attempt to conceal himself and save his honor, he tried to force them but the act left him unbalanced and he stumbled

Had you not steadied him, your body pressed firmly against his, he might have fallen and broken something

“M-M’Lady, I was just…I was not,” ever the chilverous knight, you both knew that you were no lady but he still referred to you as such. He was trembling underneath your touch, his eyes closed and his head shaking as if he was disappointed in himself. “I-I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

He was cut off by the touch of your hand as you softly cupped his cock, the action causing a sharp gasp to leave his lips. His eyes flew open and his lips formed an ‘O’ shape, in disbelief that you were stroking him

“Y-Y/N, what…?”

“Shh,” you grinned deviously as you sank to your knees, an idea forming in your head that could not be resisted. You meant to help your traveling companion with his problem, excited by the idea of him being hard for you

Dunk was sure that you were trying to kill him when your tongue darted out to taste his cock. He closed his eyes and let out a moan, not knowing what he had done for the gods to allow this but thanking them anyways

Your hot mouth felt like heaven wrapped around him, so tight and wet and warm. Your head bobbed and you looked up at him with such innocent eyes that he almost collapsed

Quickly, the pleasure threatened to consume him. Dunk had only ever used his hand before and this new sensation was driving him insane. He was seeing stars already, his release fast approaching

From below him, you felt the way he shook and decided to tease him, swirling your tongue around his slit before taking him deep again, hollowing your cheeks while you sucked. You took his balls into your hands and gently massaged them, feeling satisfied when Dunk lost it

He let out a groan that he was sure all of the Seven Kingdoms would be able to hear, and without thinking he reached down and tangled his fingers in your braid to steady himself. His grip was tight, a little confusing to you until it clicked and suddenly you realized what had spurred this all on

Dunk had always seemed to disappear after you’d finished braiding. Oh gods, you hadn’t noticed before, but it was your hair! Playing with your hair had been what riled him up

You reckoned that all those times he’d been watching, eyes dark and unable to focus, what he really was thinking about was this moment. Gripping your hair whilst you sucked him off and you felt ashamed of yourself that you hadn’t realized sooner

“Head as hollow as a moat. Filled with more water than sense,” your Nan’s voice rang

Well, at least Dunk didn’t seem to mind, you thought. And a hollow head makes for a better grip, you supposed

[captainfern]

captainfern the things i would do for a daeron fic where he's accidentally stalking the reader because he's dreamt about her and then ends up having sweet, almost possessive sex with reader... simply unholy things! i am unwell! that baelor fic was splendid btw you have OUTDONE YOURSELF!

oh he needs that cookie bad

His Oasis

Daeron ‘The Drunken’ Targaryen x noblewoman!reader

✿ he dreams of you for days, and he knows he has to have you (or, you are pursued by a yearning targaryen prince). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 6.7k ✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is an undefined noble baddie (reader wears ribbons in her hair but no mention of hair type, texture, etc), reader is from an unnamed house, SMUT, allusion to either virgin or inexperienced!reader, there’s actually a tiny bit of plot in this one guys, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, m!masturbation, oral (f!receiving), fingering, praise, possessive daeron, a bit of whiny and desperate daeron too, this man is yearning for you biiig time, tw: aerion mention (lol), strong language, takes place in dorne because dorne is cool :)

Pulling himself from a drunken stupor, his head pounding, brain pressing painfully against the inner-workings of his skull, Prince Daeron sits up in bed, sheets of soft linen and silk pooling over his lap. Bright, golden sun streams between the geometric tracery of the large windows. He winces at the light, puffing out a breath to blow a strand of hair out of his face. Waking up in an unfamiliar room in the Old Palace of Sunspear made his eyes sting even more, let alone waking from another vivid dream.

Although this dream was different.

There was less blood and fire. Fewer haunting screams.

He had awoken—albeit with a nauseating headache he had since become accustomed to—with a soft glow in his chest, an insistent warmth that made him reach to the table beside the bed and grab one of the four bottles of Dornish red. He examined it carefully: was there something different in this that made him dream of sunshine and smiles?

His dream was so different. Stranded somewhere amongst the rolling sand hills of the central Dornish desert, he had wandered aimlessly, but desperately, dragging his body through visible waves of heat. At least, it felt like it was him, but he was unsure. Wings weighed him down: large, black and scaly, but he couldn’t fly. He remembers the pain and the weight as he began sinking further and further into the scorching sand, gold and glitter racing for miles in either direction, swirling around his head like a flurry of birds. And that’s when he saw it, burning red eyes alighting on a blur of blue and green. An oasis, lush amongst the desert, bursting from the sand in a shower of gold.

His dreamstate crawled on all fours, pale skin red-raw by the time he reached the banks of the oasis. The water was the brightest blue he had ever seen, but he could not see his reflection in it. Instead, he saw a different face, a kind face, a beautiful face staring back at him. A woman smiling up at him through the rippling of the cool water.

She spoke to him, but no words came out.

Instead, the sound of bubbles and waves lapping gently against sand.

A clawed hand reached into the oasis pool, searching for the woman beneath the surface. The chill of the water soothed his burns, red disappearing from his skin. His claws vanished too, and he could see the clear crescents of his fingernails, the lines of his knuckles, the veins on the back of his hands. So human beneath the surface.

The woman watched him curiously, eyes shiny like pearls. Then, his hurt lurched and filled with warmth as she shifted upwards, towards the tension of the water’s surface. Up, up, up, and Daeron bent down to meet her. Her lips brushed the surface of the water—

And that’s when he woke up.

Daeron tosses the empty bottle of Dornish red aside. Stupid dreams. There wasn’t even anything useful in that one.

He wanders the warm, breezy halls of the glamorous old palace slightly more sober than he wishes to be. Maids and servants peer awkwardly at him, and he notices. He notices the looks of pity on their faces at the sand-blond hair falling messily on either side of his face, and the dark rings beneath his eyes. His mouth is painfully dry, so he heads into the main hall where his father sits with his Dornish relatives.

Maekar looks up. “You look like shit.”

Daeron slumps onto the nearest chaise and grabs a handful of pomegranate arils, tossing them into his mouth. He speaks with his mouth full, “I feel it.”

A few Dornish noblemen snicker around the vast wooden table, and Maekar just looks at his eldest son with a heavy dent in his brow. Daeron shrugs at him and accepts a goblet full of lemon water from a serving boy. Pity it wasn’t alcoholic.

“We have been here for one night already,” Maekar says blandly. “I expect you to spend some time doing something other than drinking.”

Daeron opens his mouth to speak.

“Or whoring, for that matter.”

Daeron closes his mouth and rolls his eyes.

Nearby, a Dornish noblewoman—a second cousin or something, Daeron cannot remember—offers the two Targaryens a polite smile, attempting to dissipate the slowly building tension across the table. “Our gardens are lovely this time of year. You were but a child when you explored them last.”

Daeron looks to her with mild disinterest, the burn in his eyes seeming to worsen at the way the sun caught the gold of her jewellery. Going outside in his state was not something he wanted to do. At all. But he spares a glance towards his father at the opposite end of the table and feels, for the first time in a long time, a pang of guilt. Small, but there. Maekar ran his fingers through his white-blond beard thoughtfully, but his eyes were sad.

Daeron sighs. He quickly shoves a couple of stuffed grape leaves into his mouth, downs the rest of his lemon water, and then pushes himself to his feet. He bows his head politely at the small number of people gathered around the table.

“If you’ll excuse me, then, I shall go and… explore the gardens.”

He takes his leave.

Bitterly, he realises the noblewoman was right. The gardens are brilliant, growing neatly amongst tiny streams of trickling water, plants blossoming in oranges, yellows and pinks. There’s a honey-sweet smell lingering in the air too, and bees flitter from one plant to another. There is green everywhere, trees swaying gently beneath a small breeze, the colours stark against the sandy beige of the castle’s high walls.

The sun isn’t too bad on his eyes, but he finds himself squinting still. The sun causes sweat to bead on his hairline too. Heated, he bats more strands of hair away from his face. Then, to add to the tickling frustration of his hair in his eyes, a fucking bug flies directly into his face. Daeron splutters, batting at the insect as it hovers around him. That’s when he hears a quiet giggle behind him, and he turns to see—

“Oh, I’m sorry, my prince,” you say quickly, realising you have been seen. Sitting beneath a fruiting tree, you clamber to your feet and bow. “I was… I did not mean—”

Daeron cannot speak. It is you, clear as day, free from the rippling surface of an oasis pool. His mouth opens dumbly as he watches you fumble over your words. He manages to smack the flying insect away from his face as he stares.

“I meant no disrespect,” you finally manage, still deep in a bow.

He still does not speak. His heart roars in his chest, thumping painfully against his sternum as he watches you smooth the soft, slightly crinkled fabric of your dress. He feels breathless and, suddenly, the most drunk he’s ever been despite the Dornish red long gone from his system.

You look up when the prince says nothing. You peer at him politely but curiously, not quite grasping the silence that has fallen between you.

You approach carefully, aware of several armed guards milling around the wall’s edges. “My prince?”

“I—” Daeron begins, then clears his throat. “Who are you?”

You introduce yourself by name, voice velvet in Daeron’s undoubtedly red ears. A noblewoman from a house he vaguely recognises the name of from his father and uncle’s many travels across the kingdoms. And, gods, you are the prettiest thing he has ever seen. Shimmering eyes, fluttering lashes, a charming smile that stretches across your beautiful face. And you’re wearing a blue dress, as blue as fresh oasis water, that makes you look dream-like in his sun-glared vision.

“Well, my lady,” Daeron manages to greet despite the squeezing in his chest. “I am glad you find my struggles humorous.”

You smile when you hear the hilarity in his voice. “It must be your hair, my prince.”

He steps closer to you and cocks his head to the side, the pair of you now standing beneath the shade of the tall lemon tree. “My hair?”

You nod. “It is the colour of honey, is it not? The bees clearly love it.”

Then, you reach forward and take a free strand of his hair between your fingers and tuck it tenderly behind his ear. He nearly closes his eyes at the heat that emits from you and the full body shudder that threatens to rack through him at your touch (he also chooses to ignore the twitch of his cock in his breeches, blaming it on the heat and post-drunkenness). Just as suddenly as the action had occurred, it ceased—you snap your hand back to your side, a vivid expression of shock passing over your lovely features.

“Oh, gods, my prince, please forgive me,” you mutter and take a step back. “I don’t—”

Daeron chuckles. “Do not fret. I suppose my hair is rather unruly today. Perhaps I should tie it back?”

He has no ribbon to tie it with.

But you do.

He watches, unashamed, as you smile and pull a small, thin blue ribbon from inside the bodice of your dress. His eyes catch the curve of your breasts, the supple dip into the stretched neckline as you pull the ribbon out with your fingers. His cock twitches again. The prince manages to snap his eyes back to you when you extend your arm and offer him the ribbon. You seem to lack the shyness of the other visiting noblewomen who walk the long corridors in Sunspear, but there is still a visible nervousness beneath your smile.

“I have a spare,” you tell him.

He peers at the silken material thoughtfully. He almost feels sober now.

“Would you tie it for me?” He decides to test the waters of his oasis. “I find this heat makes me… less than precise.”

Not technically a lie, he tells himself. He is more than capable of bringing his hair out of his face, but seeing the way your face flickers with uncertainty, overwhelmed with curiosity, is too good to resist. He inclines his head in your direction, silently begging for a response.

Your eyes drop. “My prince—”

“It is but a simple request to help your prince.” Gods, he sounds too much like his younger brother. It makes his stomach churn. The feeling is soon quelled, however, when you raise your pretty eyes and take a step closer to him.

He turns and bends his knees to accommodate you.

Gently, as if handling a vessel of glass, or perhaps a wild animal, you gather the tousled locks of his honey-blond hair and slip the ribbon around it. Your fingers brush the nape of his neck as he screws his eyes shut, a pained breath passing out of his nose. He burns up at your touch and his cock is definitely half-hard now. He wonders if you can feel the heat of his skin, hot like a branding iron. You expertly tie the ribbon and secure his hair away from his face, and he almost whimpers when your hands withdraw.

“Perfect,” you say cheerfully. “Although, blue is not really your colour, is it, my prince?”

Daeron turns. “Huh?”

“The Targaryens,” you begin. “Red and black. Blood and ash, I suppose. The blue is slightly out of place, I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t care.

“Is it your colour?” He asks instead.

“Well, I always match my ribbons to my dresses.”

Of course you do.

You run your hands down the blue fabric of your airy dress, and Daeron admires the way the light breeze picks at the hemline and makes it flutter. Then, you sigh wistfully, and look back up at the prince before you, who continues to watch you carefully, eyes thinking, as if he knows you from somewhere. There’s recognition in his light irises.

A voice from somewhere beyond the gardens calls for you. Daeron frowns.

You sigh again, but this time it is heavy. “Apologies, my prince, but I must depart.” Then, you bow, and turn and leave before Daeron can so much as open his mouth in reply. You leave behind a scent of citrus and honey and something fresh. Clean water, lush gardens. His heart aches in his chest, blood pumping hot inside him.

And his cock is still half hard.

“Fucking ridiculous…” he mutters to himself, pressing his palm to the front of his trousers with a low hiss.

He needs a drink.

—✿—

He doesn’t see you again that day, and it makes him…

Sad?

He does not know how he feels, but he knows something is wrong when he politely declines the advances of a stunning Dornish girl later that night. Instead, he leans against the wall of his chambers, burning forehead pressed against cool stone, two now-empty bottles of Dornish red rolling on the floor nearby.

He has your ribbon in his hand, wrapped around his fist as he strokes his cock, tip angry and red and drooling as your face swims around his brain. Your eyes, your mouth, your fingers, your smell. Daeron groans desperately around a drunken hiccup, hips thrusting to meet the movements of his hand. He utters your name into the emptiness of his chambers and spills himself over his knuckles and the intricately woven rug beneath his feet. He soils your ribbon too, and his heart pangs. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbles over to his wash basin and quickly rinses his seed from the shining blue.

He falls asleep with it drying in his hand.

And he dreams of you again.

He’s in the desert, but this time, he knows where to go. He’s never had a dream like this, where he can control so much of what he—is it him?—does. It feels less prophetic this way, and that scares him. The half-man, half-dragon crawls to the oasis but he cannot fling himself into the water. He roars desperately, scrambling against the sand, an invisible wall preventing him from moving any further than sticking one clawed hand beneath the tiny waves. But you still smile at him, and when you approach the surface, your face appears clearer and your eyes sparkle brighter and—

Daeron wakes with a start.

“Fuck!” He can’t help but shout into the stillness of his chambers. He regrets it when it shoots a fierce pain into the back of his eyes.

He tucks your ribbon into the waistband of his trousers, letting his hair fall messily to his shoulders as he hurries through the halls of the palace again. He bypasses the great hall and enters the gardens, but you are not there. Entering the great hall, he ignores the curious glances of his cousins and siblings as his gaze spins around the room. Maekar is not there, but neither are you.

“You have risen early,” Valarr comments.

Daeron calms himself. He cannot just ask for you. “Where is my father?”

Valarr gestures to the way Daeron just came. “Somewhere.”

“How helpful,” he mumbles sarcastically, then leaves the great hall, ignoring the warm aching in his chest that he will, once again, blame on the Dornish wine.

—✿—

Nothing of you the next day, either. He searches the entire palace, it feels like.

Aerion asks him if he’s mentally unwell when he disregards another offer of sex from a pretty girl. Daeron ignores him, and returns to his chambers. There are three bottles of Dornish red already waiting for him, but he doesn’t touch them. Instead, he all but throws himself into his bed and wills himself to sleep, the sun still setting and bathing him in gold and crimson.

He dreams of you differently.

He’s under the water and you kneel on the sandy banks, blue dress blurring at the edges as if you were made from the desert that surrounded you. You reach for him, your hand finding his face, cool and comforting against the blazing heat of his cheek. But the dragon fights to bite her, and when his teeth sink into the flesh of her hand, a sharp pain rips through him. Yet she is not the one screaming, he is.

And then he wakes and uncorks the nearest bottle of wine.

Later, he feels lucky that his drunken prayers have been answered when he finally spots you. You chat happily to a few lesser noblewomen, lounging in a gathering of plush pillows. Daeron feels something prideful swell in his chest. He watches you bring a segment of blood orange to your mouth, the juices glistening over your lips as you talk and eat.

But glued to his father’s side, he cannot speak with you.

And this becomes a recurring nightmare of his.

Over the course of several days, he watches you from afar. While discussing realm politics with Valarr and several royal Dornishmen, he becomes unfocussed as you laugh and gossip with his younger sisters, speaking of brilliant puppet shows with fire and smoke. While being insulted in conversation by his younger brother, his eyes find you as you stand outside a window, the light catching in your hair, your ribbons matching the light green of your dress. While he attempts pathetically to keep up with his father’s instructions, he watches you dismount a large mare, your skirts floating around you, a smile etched deep onto your face, eyes sparkling as you say something quietly to the stable boy.

Prince Daeron is following you, a mere lady, around Sunspear like a puppy. He finds himself lingering in doorways, listening to your conversations, or leaning against the thick trunk of a tree, hiding as you and your ladies hurry past him to head into the gardens. He enjoys the way he can smell your sweet scent hanging in the airy hallways a few seconds after you pass by, and he especially likes the way the ribbon he has still smells like you too, even despite the several washes it has endured.

And which he is not proud of.

—✿—

He dreams of you again the night before he is set to depart back to King’s Landing with his family. He fell asleep only half-drunk on red, and now you are back beneath the surface of his dream oasis. His hand finds your face, and he wills himself to pull you from the depths. Bring you up, rescue you, kiss the water from your lungs. And so you rise, and your lips break the surface of the water for the very first time and he kisses you.

Dragon tongue searching, splitting, invading. It burns the inside of your mouth and he hisses, serpent-like. You emerge from the water, nose and eyes following until your entire face is presented to him. He kisses you and you kiss him back.

And so he wakes with an achingly hard cock, sticky against his bare thighs. His fingers trace the length and he hisses, blood pumping like raw fire beneath the velvet skin. His entire body is slick with sweat too, and so he throws off the covers, slides tunic on, and stumbles out of his room in search of fresh air. He’s stifling.

Instead, he stumbles directly into you.

You yelp in shock as his warm body collides with yours, large hands reaching out to grab your hips, preventing you from falling backwards. He groans when your hands, cool from prolonged exposure to the night air, find his chest and the thin linen of his night tunic. His eyes find your face, and he wishes he could kiss you.

“My prince!” You exclaim, head whipping side-to-side to check the shadowed expanse of the hallway. You continue to touch his chest. “Are you alright? Are you ill?”

Instinctively, you press the back of your hand to his forehead. Daeron groans again, eyes screwing shut and mouth dropping open. You peel your hand away as if his skin had scolded you.

“You’re burning,” you remark.

“I dreamt of you,” he says in return, voice whinier than he intended.

You pause. The silence is deafening save for Daeron’s ragged breathing and the distant voices of the kingsguard nightshift.

“What?” You finally whisper.

“Every night, I have dreamt of you. I dreamt of you before I met you,” he whispers, opening his eyes now. “You are… you’re an oasis. My oasis.”

You frown, but not in displeasure. Moreso confusion. “I… don’t understand, my prince.”

“You plague my mind like something fierce. I cannot… gods, I cannot rid myself of you,” he utters and his hands tighten on your hips, thumbs smoothing over the mound of the bone beneath skin and flesh and fabric. “My mind is consumed only by you. You—you are mine, my lady. You are supposed to be mine.”

You gape at him, hyper-aware of his closeness. You can smell the rich spices of wine on his breath, but there is a clarity in his eyes that frightens you. It sends a thrill down your spine, and the slight buzz of your own nightly endeavours—sipping spiced wine with your ladies in the darkness of the gardens—adds to the feeling blooming in your lower belly. A heat pooling there, sparking like a blade on steel.

“My prince—” you say quietly.

“Daeron.”

“Daeron,” you whisper, and he groans.

“Let me have you,” he leans forward to whisper against your cheek, nuzzling his nose across your face until he can brush his lips against the lobe of your ear. “Let me show you how much I need you.” 

Because I need you like water, he almost says.

You feel yourself heating up. “You are surely drunk…”

“There is no drink left in my blood,” he tells you quickly. “I need you.”

He says your name, then kisses your cheek. He kisses where your pulse hammers in your neck. He kisses the sensitive spot on the edge of your throat.

You take one hand and slowly, gently, reach to grasp the back of his head, threading your fingers in his hair. He whines out as you angle his head back to you and slot your mouth against his, whispering just before your lips touch: “You have me.”

Daeron groans as your tongues meet, and he pulls you back through the doorway of his chambers. You taste the wine on his tongue, and you’re sure he can taste it on yours too. You close the door carefully behind you, fumbling slightly as his hands caress your sides, fondling the dips of your hips, the curve of your arse, the bend in your spine. He’s an incessant press to your front, too, with his hardening cock rucking against your clothed pelvis. He whines something quiet against your lips as he strains against his breeches, a small wet patch growing in the white, nearly transparently thin fabric.

You release his hair to tug at the material of his tunic. He breaks the kiss with a growl, tossing the shirt over his head before glueing his mouth back to yours. Your hands find the warm flesh of his pecs, giving them a squeeze, your thumbs running over his nipples.

“Ah—” he breathes out against your lips.

His strong hands pin you to the closed door, one reaching to ruck your skirts out of the way so he can seize your thigh, pulling it up for you to wrap around his waist. With this new angle, he grinds himself against you, clothed cock rubbing over the delicate fabric of your own undergarments, sliding over the heat of your covered core. There, you are hot and slick, and Daeron groans into your mouth, pulling away to look down at you.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on,” he tells you, other hand reaching beneath your skirts to press a palm flat to your covered core. You draw in a breath and he kisses the tip of your nose. “And you’re mine.”

The prince’s hand slips beneath the fabric.

“Daeron,” you whisper, mouthing at his jaw as the coarse pads of his fingers find your wet cunt. A whimper follows as he parts you with two fingers, running them up and down your folds as you bite down on the junction of his neck.

“I’ve got you.” He flinches at the bite, but his fingers do not cease, and one soon finds the swollen pearl of your clit. He draws a tight circle, clumsy the first few ministrations, but he rapidly finds and settles into a rhythm as you nibble along his neck and shoulder.

After a few circles, he draws his fingers back down your slit, gathering moisture before his pointer and middle find your hole. You draw in a tight breath at the small pressure he exerts, and you flop your head back to find him already looking down at you. Silently, you nod and, eyes locked, he pushes two slick fingers into the tight clutch of your cunt. With a flutter of your eyelashes, your eyes close, and Daeron leans in to kiss the moan from your lips. He licks over your teeth and tongue as he gently pushes himself into the first joints, then the second, your pussy opening for him like he always knew it would. Soon, his knuckles press to the soft flesh of your inner thighs and you’re moaning his name into his mouth like an incantation.

“Shh, there we go, we’re all done,” Daeron shushes you softly, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

Your hands find his back and you grip at the strong muscle there. His skin is burning beneath your touch, and you wonder if he is actually becoming ill. The thought is wiped from your mind, however, when the prince pulls his fingers out of your cunt and then forces them back inside, curling them just the right amount to have you crying out. 

He responds to your cat-like yowl with another intimate coo, “S’alright, s’alright. Be good for me, my lady. Taking it so well, aren’t you?”

He fucks his fingers into you repeatedly. Your nails scratch lurid red lines down his back as he splits you apart over his knuckles. Slick runs down the back of his hand, and his cock twitches as he feels a rivulet run along the inside of his wrist.

You’ve never felt like this before. A sticky warmth spreads through your chest like honey, and something bludgeoning rears itself in the pit of your belly. A fuzzy tingle appears at the base of your spine too, and it makes you whine, your hips jerking forward to meet his movements. 

Daeron groans, pinning you to the door with his front and managing to use his free hand to yank down the neckline of your dress. You hear a resounding tear as he pulls your breasts free of your dress and chemise. The cool air of his dark chambers pebbles your nipples, but he’s quick to suck one of them into his mouth without warning. You yelp as he sucks harshly, your fingers finding his blond locks again and pulling.

He withdraws with a whimper and a wet pop, a glistening string of saliva connecting from his bottom lip to the bud of your nipple. It snaps when you push his head to the other breast, and he obeys, drawing the other into his mouth as he continues to scissor his fingers into the wet heat of your cunt. The sounds are obscene and wet, ringing in your ears like bells.

The heavy feeling in your belly grows tenfold at the dual sensation.

“Daeron,” you mewl, and the piteous sound has Daeron—rather reluctantly—tearing himself away from your breasts. He gives your nipple one last chaste kiss for good measure though. You huff. “Feel… I feel something.”

The prince straightens and kisses you softly. “Yeah? Feeling something in here?”

His hand drops and presses to your lower belly, your womb, and you nod at the pleasant warmth the pressure spreads through your core. Just as you nod, he withdraws his fingers, and the emptiness is like a slap to the face, the cool air bracing and sending goosebumps in trails over your legs. Before you can complain, he drops to his knees, kissing your breasts on the way down, dropping your leg gently. 

You feel him guide your legs apart at the knee as he gathers your skirts.

“If you would be so kind…” He offers them to you, and you clutch the luxurious fabric between trembling fingers. You watch him curiously as he smiles, lopsided and lax. He then ducks his head between your legs, kissing and licking up the ticklish skin of your thighs.

“What—? Oh—” You choke on your gasp as his hot mouth presses to your drooling cunt, his tongue flat and solid through the softness of your folds.

Daeron whines into you, a real trill that is embarrassingly unbecoming in his mind, but makes you clench around nothing. 

You taste of the heavens. You taste of you. Of a citrusy tang, a subtle honey sweetness, of the cleanest spring water. His oasis.

And you grip his golden hair, that heavy pleasure in your belly fills you once more as his tongue circles the rim of your hole and then—“Oh, fucking gods, Daeron”—presses inside you. The feeling is foreign, but welcome, and you gasp and moan as ecstasy seizes you in a white-knuckled grip. Your legs shake, tremble, the haze of the night’s spiced wine dissipating as the feeling of his mouth on you overtakes every functioning part of your brain. You no doubt sound like a wounded animal: whimpering and whining in high-pitched chirrups, grinding yourself onto his mouth.

Daeron has a hand on his painfully hard cock. He blindly pulls his breeches down, cock slapping up against his slightly hunched abdomen. He groans into your warmth as he fists himself, several beads of pre-cum dribbling out and smearing beneath his enclosed palm. You sound breathtaking above him, the heat beneath your skirts burning his cheeks a blazing red. In his pleasured stupor, he manages to bring his free hand up to your pussy and spread his fingers lightly over your clit as he continues to curl his tongue inside of you.

You jerk against him. There’s a knot in your tummy. “My prince.”

Daeron hums into you, unrelenting. His fingers press harder to your clit.

You sob out a moan, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your legs quiver and your stomach contracts. Then, something snaps inside you, and the sun seems to bloom from your chest like a yellow rose.

You release into Daeron’s mouth, and he closes his eyes in pure bliss as he laps it up with unwavering curls of his tongue, beckoning more from you with small presses of his fingers to your clit. He mutters your name against your folds before he pulls back, the lower portion of his face shining with your release.

The back of your head leans against the door as the prince gathers himself, kicking his breeches away. Your dress is gathered unflatteringly at your waist, and you continue to hold your skirts in a steadily loosening grip as pleasure lazes through your muscles. But Daeron is back on you in an instant, slotting his mouth to yours as he takes your leg again and hikes it back onto his hip. You are ripped from the rapture of your release by the warm length of his cock pressing against your slick, aching core. Fingers release his golden hair to grab at his shoulders for stability, your tongues intertwining.

You taste yourself on him.

“My lady,” he utters, kissing your cheek, wetness smearing over the warm skin. “My love, will you have me? Will you—” he gently ruts his hips back and forth, sliding his cock through the wet split of your cunt. “—let me have you?”

“Yes,” you gasp quickly, but fear bleeds into your subconscious.

He mellows you with the softest kiss of the night. His lips are an affectionate comfort before he whispers your name and says, “You were made for me, made for this. You are mine.”

The prince, your prince, slides his tongue back into your mouth to muffle your light whimpers as his hand guides his cock to your pussy, running up and down, gathering the heady mix of your release and his saliva: the mix you could still taste on his tongue.

He notches the reddened head of his cock at your hole. A hiss escapes him. Dragon-like in sound, but he withholds a full groan as he presses in with a shift of his hips. He lets go of his cock to help in holding up your skirts as he eases into you, splitting you apart against the door of his chambers. You are damp with sweat beneath your dress and chemise, the back of your neck hot as you fail to keep up with his kiss. Moans roll from your tongue and get caught between his teeth, and he drags himself away to lick over your jaw as he enters you.

Slow, gentle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Daeron whispers into your neck. His balls tense as he bottoms out inside you, and the base of his abdomen clenches with the effort of holding himself still. This was perhaps the first time he was thankful he was not completely drunk, or he would have spilled the moment your sweet pussy clutched around his thick cock.

You whimper at the pain lingering behind the euphoria, hands scrambling for purchase down his back. “Daeron.”

Daeron sucks and licks the sweat from your exposed shoulder before he starts to move, listening to your heavy breathing. He holds you as he pulls back, then pushes in. Slowly, patiently.

Clearly, his chivalry was not appreciated.

“Daeron,” you say louder. “Please, I need you to go faster.”

Your prince pulls out and then pushes back in as his teeth sink into your shoulder. You cry out, the sound echoing around his chambers, as he drives into you, over and over. The thickness of his cock spreads you like nothing you’ve ever experienced, and you feel as though you can feel him nudging up towards your womb. It’s intoxicating, and his tongue circling now at your pulsepoint has you keening into his warm touch, nails once again digging into his bare back.

You call for him, and he’s on you in an instant, sliding his tongue back into your mouth to tangle with yours. You nip at his bottom lip. He smiles.

“You have haunted my dreams for days,” he tells you honestly, fucking you all the while. “They say my dreams will drive me mad, but how am I to be driven to madness when I dream so often of you?”

You kiss the corner of his mouth and whimper.

He continues. “My oasis in the desert. I need you, sweet girl. You must let me have you.”

His cock slams into that perfect spot inside you that has your back arching off of the solid wood of the door. You hold him tightly and moan like a whore, loud and unabashed, as he aids your movements, tugging you down to meet the thrusts of his hips. He loves the way you sound, but he needs you to speak to him. He loves your voice more.

“Say it,” he begs. “Say you’re mine. Say you will not let me drown.”

You don’t understand that last part, but you find yourself nodding deliriously anyway. Once again, your fingers find his hair and you tug tightly at the loose strands. He whimpers, eyes closing for a moment, tongue pressing to his bottom lip as his thrusts falter.

“I’m yours, my prince,” you say breathlessly. “Gods, I’m yours.”

His eyes snap open.

“Yes,” he whines out. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you moan as his thrusts increase in pace, and his ruts become desperate as he fills you. Your legs start to shake again, and the pressure in your belly returns, and now you know exactly what that means.

“You’re mine, all mine,” Daeron mutters, more to himself than to you. He follows with an even quieter, “And this pretty cunt, all fuckin’ mine.”

You pull him from whatever trance-like state your pussy has entrapped him in, his eyes glassy. Over a moan, you plead, “Daeron, please, I’m so close…”

He redoubles his efforts like a man possessed. “Yeah?” 

Then his hand snakes downward and finds your clit once more. He pinches it, the bastard, and you yowl as he rubs tender circles in the wake of the pain, your exclamation tapering off into a simpering whine. He chuckles, and you realise you had forgotten he was a Targaryen.

“I want to feel you,” he says. “I want to feel you come undone on my cock.”

“Daeron.”

“Come on, my love, give it to me. Give me what I dreamed of.”

With one last desperate whine, the knot inside you snaps and you come around his cock. Your pussy clenches around him and it feels even better than releasing around his fingers. Your nails drag down his back, probably drawing blood, as you moan out his name. Your pussy spasms around the thick of his cock, clit racing with your heartbeat, pleasure bursting from every pore as your high rockets through you. Daeron fucks you through it, panting while watching the way your face flickers and changes as you crest your high and begin to fall. He holds you still as you whimper, your slick dripping down your inner thighs as he maintains his pace.

“Good girl, good girl,” he praises, drunk on pleasure. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine for your prince. You whisper when his pace begins to stutter, “Spill inside me, please—I need you to fill me.”

You don’t know where that came from, but it does something. A moan so raw rips from Daeron’s throat that you think he’s in pain. But instead, he comes inside you, the tip of his cock shoved right up towards the plug of your womb. His head falls forward and he continues his moans against your shoulder, now muffled, as his hips continue to rut.

He says something you don’t hear. “It’ll take. I need it to take.”

Instead, you press a kiss to his cheek when his movements finally stop. Slowly, gingerly, the two of you part: the prince pulls his cock from you and you gasp as seed and slick drool out of you like honey from a dipper. Daeron, almost panicked in his light-eyed gaze, dips down to collect it with two fingers, pushing it back inside you. One handed, he also helps pull the rest of your dress up and over your head. You help him wordlessly with tired arms.

He clears his throat as he places a tender kiss on your stomach. “Will you spend the night here, my lady?”

You stroke his hair as he continues to bend, fingers crooked into your cunt. “Do you wish for me to?”

He replies before your lips stop moving. “Yes. Please. If you, uh, if you wish.”

You urge him up with another tug to his hair. He whines, and obeys, fingers leaving the warmth of your pussy as you place a caring kiss to his slightly bruised lips.

“I would like nothing more,” you tell him, then suck your shared release off of his fingers.

That night, you curl in comfortably at his side, head resting against his chest. Daeron falls asleep with a smile on his face and three untouched bottles of Dornish red at his bedside. 

And he dreams of you. Well, he thinks he does.

A black dragon drinks from a desert oasis as plants begin to bloom around him. Dense, brilliantly green shrubs and trees sprout from the arid sand as the sky-blue water of the pool sparkles beneath the sun. The dragon laps at the cool water as rivers begin to form, and more and more jungle surges out from beneath the golden dunes until the sand becomes grass and trees brush the cloudless sky.

You wake before him, the sun rising in pinks and blues outside. You press a kiss to his chest, where it rises and falls slowly, and nuzzle into him.

Under the sheets, your hand finds something, and you pull your blue ribbon out from beneath you. You smile softly, gripping it in your hand as sleep finds you once more.

———

i need him to look at me like that

[goth-queen]

[loveyazy]

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS (2026-?) 1.06 | The Morrow

[goonofthrones]

A Moment Of Respite

Daeron Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary: Daeron Targaryen leads a troubled life, the only solace he has amongst everything is you, his wife.

Tags: fluff and smut, hurt/comfort-ish, bathing together, cuddling, alcoholism, withdrawal symptoms, fingering, breast play, finger sucking, making out, marking, riding, crying during sex, praise kink, unprotected sex, coming inside, felt super freakalicious writing this, possible mistakes.

Word Count: ~2.1K

You had just gotten into the bathtub when your husband finally stumbled through the doors of your shared chambers. He had been caught up all day with some formal business with his father that had required him to remain sober and the toll it had taken on him was clear. His hands were shaky, his movements sluggish, his eyes teary and distant and his skin coated in a thin layer of sweat. You watched as his eyes scanned the room until they landed on you and watched as his shoulders sagged in the relief of finding your comforting presence, yet still he did not move. You sighed and reached out a hand which he promptly walked over and took.

“You look as if you just faced the seven themselves, my husband.” You breathed, not wanting to break the careful silence as you swept your thumb across the back of his hand reassuringly. He offered you a halfhearted smile and your heart cried for him.

“I feel as if I have, gods, is there any wine in here?" 

It was rare to see him sober and vulnerable like this and you did not wish to lose him so his drunken state yet. You tugged on his hand again to get his attention.

“Perhaps you can join me in the bath while we wait for the servants to bring some up? It may be nice for you to wash the aches of the day away and I know I’d enjoy the company.”

He actually smiled at that before releasing your hand to begin undoing the clasp of his cloaking, taking the rest of his clothes off with shaky hands as you watched him. Once he was fully bare he stepped into the large tub with you, sinking into the waters at the opposite end. His eyes settled on you and a weary grin spread across his lips, you couldn’t help but flush as the sight was agonisingly attractive. 

“You’re so far away,” He murmured, hand finding your ankle under the waters to urge you closer to him, “I’ve missed you while I was gone, don’t make me miss you more now i’m here.” 

You smiled at his neediness and moved closer, settling yourself on your knees between his open legs. You wordlessly brought your hands up to cradle either side of his face, sweeping your thumbs across the apples of his cheeks as his eyes fluttered closed and a sigh escaped him at the contact. His hand slid delicately up your body under the water until it was resting on your lower back, gently pushing in a silent beg you couldn’t ignore. You leaned forward to slowly connect your lips. The kiss was slow and unhurried, slightly sloppy most likely due to exhaustion. You stayed tangled for a long moment before pulling back, ignoring the sound of protest from Daeron as you reached for the soap on the table next to the bath. 

He watched you intently as you brought the rosemary scented soap into the water to wet it before beginning to lather it gently onto his broad chest. His arms that were still resting lazily on your hips began to trace small circles on your flesh and it took everything in your to pretend the motion wasn’t making you melt. You ran the bar of soap along his biceps and watched as his head fell back against the rim of the tub as his eyes fluttered shut. The tantalising line of his neck was exposed and you couldn’t help yourself as you leaned in to start kissing along it, lightly nipping at the skin there as he hummed. 

“I thought we were in here to wash.” 

He peeked an eye open and tilted his head down to look at you. Smiling slightly as he spoke.

“I can multitask.” 

You couldn’t keep the mischief out of your voice and you ran your freehand back across his firm chest. His hands tightened on your hips and your breath caught. You watched as he hummed and dragged one of his hands up your arm and along to your hand so he could take the soap. You looked at him confused and he just gestured for you to turn around. 

“At least let me wash you before we multitask or else we’ll never get clean.” 

You nodded, smiling as you maneuvered yourself so your back was to his chest. He dragged his lips across your shoulders gently before moving to kiss up your neck. One of his hands began rubbing the soap he’d lathered on his palms into the planes of your back while the other wrapped around your waist to keep you close while he worked. Eventually his free hand left you to get more soap before it drifted round to join the other at your front and they massaged it into the flesh of your stomach. You relaxed back against his front fully, your core clenching as his hands slid up to massage your breasts slowly. You let your head fall back and a breathy moan escaped when he leant in to continue sucking on the skin there. You gasped as he found that particularly sensitive spot behind your ear right as his hand slid down between your legs, nimble fingers parting your lips before he dragged them through your folds. The other hand at your breast had begun to circle and pinch your nipple and you felt your mind begin to cloud over from the sensations. When the soft pads of his index and middle fingers found your pearl a loud moan tore out your throat, your hips beginning to squirm from the ministrations. 

He played you like a bard plays a lute, with deft skill and a laziness typical of him. He touched you as if he had all the time in the world and it very nearly made you believe like you did. You reached up to grasp the hair at the back of his so you could turn it to connect your lips, the kiss sloppy and slow, tongues mashing together desperately. You broke apart with a gasp as his fingers slid inside of you, beginning a slow drag in and out against your walls, curling slightly as his palm ground against your clit. Your back arched desperately and you felt his quickly stiffening cock against your backside and couldn’t resist grinding back against it. He continued to move his fingers within you as you clenched around him and his other hand finally released your breasts to move up your body until you felt two fingers press against your bottom lip, begging for entry. You welcomed them in and sucked on them, earning yourself a groan from him as his hips started to grind back up against you. The water of the tub was sloshing against the sides of the tub and down onto the stony floor below as your movements grew more frantic and you came closer to your peak. His fingers left your mouth to grip the side of his face so he could kiss you properly and you came intensely with a cry against his lips, the sensation eclipsing your whole body as your legs shook.

When you drew apart to rest your forehead against his you huffed out a breath. The water was lukewarm by now and both of you were beginning to prune up from being in the water so long. You ran your fingers through the damp tresses of his hair and you whispered against his lips.

“Let's go to bed.”

You stood from his lap on shaky legs, taking his hand in yours as your supple flesh was exposed to the cold air. He seemed entranced, eyes tracing the droplets that raced down your neck and over the now stiff peaks of your nipples. His hand shook in yours and you had to give it a light tug to properly get his attention. He stood, towering over you in the tub and you stepped out carefully, your eyes not parting from his. The hunger in them was intoxicating and you had to turn away from him as you led him back to your bedchamber. Once you reached the grand four poster bed you turned so you could push him back onto it and he took the cue to shuffle up so his head was resting against the plush velvet pillows. You crawled your way up over him, your damp hair falling wildly and making you look as feral as you felt. He watched you wordlessly, his hands clenching and unclenching in the fabric of the covers as he fought the urge to reach out and tug you closer. Once you were finally on top of him you bent down to connect your lips again, kissing him roughly as you finally lowered your hips to rub up and down the length of him, coating him with your wetness. He groaned into your mouth and his hand finally came up to grasp you, a hand in your hair and the other between your shoulder blades to push you closer. Eventually you disconnected your lips and reached back to line him up with your entrance, sinking down with a gasp at the stretch. Daeron didn’t look any better as his head flew back into the pillows with a loud moan, jaw hanging open as you clenched around him. You sat up straight, bracing your hands on his chest for leverage and started to rock yourself against him. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard into the flesh in a way you were certain would leave marks. His eyes were sealed shut as he panted at the feel of you. 

“Daeron, my love,” He whimpered at the sound of your voice and you had to bite back a grin, “open your eyes darling, I wish to see you.”

He clearly struggled but his eyes fluttered open cautiously, a loud groan escaped as he locked onto the sight of your naked body grinding against his. You felt his hands tighten as he began to move you so you were bouncing up and down on him. You choked and one of your hands slipped from his chest to grasp the bedding next to his head as you keeled over, his cock reaching new depths within you. Your breasts were just above his face and he couldn’t resist as he pushed himself up with one arm so he could enclose his lips around one of your nipples again. Your hand that was on his chest flew up to hold his head against you as you practically cried out.

“Gods Daeron you’re so fucking good I love you s’much!”

His reaction was instantaneous as you felt his dick jump inside of you and his lips suck particularly harshly into the flesh of your chest, most likely leaving a mark. You slammed down on him harder as you felt yourself getting closer to your climax once again. From the way he was breathing raggedly you could tell he wasn’t far off either, you felt as his wet tears hit your skin from the overwhelming sensations. You grasped the hand that wasn’t supporting him to move it down to rub against your clit once more, bringing you over the edge with a cry that had you collapsing onto him. You felt his cum fill you moments later as he followed behind you. 

You both lay panting on top of each other for a moment before Daeron carefully rolled you over to lay you on your back so he could fetch a wet cloth from the washroom. He gently rubbed it over you, cleaning you up as you watched him, too blissed out to do anything else. Eventually he settled into the bed, pulling the covers over the top of the two of you as you rested your head on his chest, a leg slung over his hip and your fingers tracing little shapes into his skin. It was achingly quiet for a moment before he broke the silence.

 “A clever little trick, distracting me from the wine.” He breathed out as he stroked your hair. You lifted your head up to rest your chin on his chest as you gave him a sheepish look.

“Sorry…”

He chuckled, the sound filled with warmth and your guilt dissipated slightly.

“Don’t apologise my love, this was far more enjoyable.”

A/N: Slightly inspired by Benedict and Sophie in that damn bathtub in Bridgerton....

[darylandbethfanforever9]

This was so hot, I need a cold bath

[boyloveisnteasy]

𓆰𓆪 He says he doesn't love you, but ...

✦ aerion targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.

⸺ disclaimer : english isn't my first language :/ upd : omg ??? thank you so much for your love !! gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.

You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.

"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."

She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.

Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.

And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.

At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.

Your husband. The one you were meant for.

A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.

Aerion Targaryen.

A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.

Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.

After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.

Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.

You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.

"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."

But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.

Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.

"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."

Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.

Oh.

You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."

"He will be the last."

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.

Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.

The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.

You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.

Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.

He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.

And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.

Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.

The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.

“A cruel fate for one so young.”

“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”

"May the Gods have mercy upon you."

You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.

Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.

Gently, almost tenderly.

"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.

You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.

You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.

He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."

Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.

There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.

He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.

"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.

A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.

You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.

A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.

"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.

"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?

"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."

"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."

You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.

"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.

That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."

You blinked.

Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.

How could you have missed that?

Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.

Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.

You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.

"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.

You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."

He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.

“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.

You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.

He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.

"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.

"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."

But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.

And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.

Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.

The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.

"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."

A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.

You swayed lightly. "Maybe."

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.

It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.

You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.

There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.

How wrong you were.

When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.

He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.

"Husband."

He kept silent.

Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.

"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.

No pretense, no show. Sincere.

It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.

Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.

You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.

“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”

He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."

You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.

His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.

You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.

“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.

In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.

But this time you couldn't keep it in.

It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.

Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.

He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.

The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.

"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.

Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.

You didn't respond.

"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.

You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.

"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."

A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.

It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.

And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.

At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.

Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.

His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.

And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.

It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.

Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.

He would always be a monster to them.

His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.

He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.

“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.

I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”

You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”

His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.

"Fine. Just this once."

[spencersmopbucket]

A Daddy's Girl | Stack Moore

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Reader Summary: You're just Stack's type — feisty, strong willed, and damn pretty. Only thing is.. You won't give Stack the time of day on account of your daddy.

Your upbringing was a lil' different than girls your age. It was 1932 — you were nineteen, having grown up on your daddy's ranch. Instead of white cotton dresses, neatly combed hair, and puppies, you were raised wearing stained skirts, your hair wild and curly, riding horses and rejecting every boy that dared come near you.

Mama died when you were real young — too young to remember her face without staring at a photograph. Daddy did his best, though. He didn’t much care for you doing "girl’s work" when there were fence posts to mend and cattle to brand. So he raised you like he would’ve raised a son: rough around the edges, stubborn as a mule, and twice as fast with a rifle. By thirteen, you were driving the wagon solo into town. By sixteen, you could outshoot most men at the fair. And by nineteen, most folks knew better than to speak to you sideways.

Still, no matter how tough you acted, there was something that always drew in men. It was a competition almost. Any time you walked home from the schoolhouse at age 16, you heard them talkin'. The boys. Betting on who could secure a kiss first, maybe a date.

"First one to kiss the farmer’s daughter gets braggin’ rights for life," one of ‘em would say, real cocky. Like you were a trophy instead of a person.

But you weren’t some daisy to be picked. You were wild thistle — sharp, stubborn, and grown in hard soil.

None of those boys ever made it past your front gate. One tried and ended up limping back home with a busted lip and a bruised ego. After that, they mostly kept their distance. Called you a spitfire. A man’s girl. Trouble wrapped in curls and sunburn.

And maybe they were right.

You didn’t care much for dresses, or dancing, or sitting pretty at socials. You cared about the land, about your daddy, about making it through the droughts and the hard winters. You were proud of the calluses on your hands and the dirt under your nails. You knew how to clean a gun, break a horse, and break a man’s nose if need be. You didn’t need anyone — and that scared the hell out of every suitor that came sniffin’.

Until Stack Moore.

He was the opposite of his brother, though they were both law breakers. They'd come back into town like a storm, claiming it back again when they got sick of being men of war or taking over Chicago. They brought money, they brought booze, and they regained the enemies they'd always had before.

Your daddy knew exactly what type the Smokestack twins were. That's why he was so put out the day Stack spoke to you.

It was hotter than hell that afternoon, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer off the dirt road. You were hitchin’ the mule to the wagon outside the general store, sweat rollin’ down your spine, dust clingin’ to your boots. Stack leaned against a post with a matchstick between his teeth, lookin’ like the devil dressed in Sunday black — suspenders off his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your throat go dry.

"Need a hand, sweetheart?" he drawled.

You didn’t answer him. Just wiped your brow and kept workin’, jaw tight, heart louder than it oughta been. You felt his eyes on you like heat from a fire. That was the first time he spoke to you.

You grunted, finally getting it hitched, before glancing up at Stack with irritated (and curious, though you wouldn't admit it) eyes.

"I got it. Somethin' I can help you with, Stack?" You responded coldly. In a moment, your daddy would be coming out of the store. He wouldn't take kindly to Stack chatting you up.

Stack smirked, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world and not a care who saw him spending it on you. That matchstick rolled between his teeth as he looked you over, not lewd, not disrespectful — but bold. Real bold.

"Nah, darlin’. Just figured I’d say howdy," he said, voice molasses-smooth with that slick edge he and his brother hadn’t lost, even after years in the city. "Hard not to, when you’re standin’ there lookin’ like trouble in a skirt."

You narrowed your eyes. "Keep talkin’ like that, and you’ll find yourself wearin’ that matchstick in your eye."

He laughed — a warm, low sound that made something flutter deep in your belly, though you kept your scowl firm. He liked that. You could tell. The way his head tilted slightly, his eyes sharpened like he was memorizing the way your mouth twitched when you were pissed.

"I like a woman who bites," he said.

You opened your mouth to fire back, but the screen door of the store slapped shut behind you. Daddy stepped out with his purchase — a sack of flour and a bottle of tonic. His boots hit the porch with that heavy rhythm that always said someone was about to get corrected.

Stack’s smirk didn’t fade, but he straightened up. He tipped his hat slow and easy, like he wasn’t worried one bit about the man standing between him and a shallow grave.

"Afternoon, Mr. L/N," Stack said, polite as a preacher.

Your daddy didn’t respond. Just stared Stack down, eyes like steel under the brim of his weather-beaten hat. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick and dangerous.

"You got business here?" your daddy asked, voice flat.

"Just admirin’ the view," Stack replied, not looking away from him — but the weight of his words sat heavy between you and your daddy. Like a line drawn in the dust.

You cleared your throat, loud enough to break the moment. "We done here, Daddy?"

Your father gave Stack one more look — the kind that could kill a lesser man — before nodding to you. "Yeah. Let’s get home. Storm’s comin’."

You climbed into the wagon without another word, trying not to think about how your skin still tingled from Stack’s gaze. As the mule started off, you glanced back once, just once — and saw him watching you, arms crossed, eyes lit up like he’d just spotted a gold vein in a rock.

It was the first time Stack Moore spoke to you. And the last time you knew peace for a long while.

When you got home, Daddy cleared his throat awkwardly, cleaning his gun in the common room of the house.

"Y/N." He called to you from where you stood in the kitchen.

You paused, hands deep in the dish basin, the soapy water stinging a nick on your finger you hadn’t noticed ‘til now. His voice was gruff, but there was something under it — something tight. Wary. Protective in that way only a father could be when he knew his daughter had just caught the eye of a wildfire in a man’s body.

"Yes, sir?" you called back, wiping your hands on a dish rag as you stepped through the archway into the common room.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept running the cloth over the barrel of his Winchester with a quiet, deliberate focus. You could tell he was turning something over in his head, chewing on it like a dog with a bone.

"Stack Moore," he finally said, like the name tasted bad. "You stay away from him."

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness.

"Didn’t plan on inviting him for supper," you muttered, crossing your arms.

Daddy looked up then — sharp and dead serious. "I ain’t jokin’, girl. That boy’s got blood on his hands and more comin’. His kind don’t leave nothin’ but ruin behind."

You didn’t say anything. Mostly ‘cause you weren’t sure what you wanted to say. It was the first time a man had looked at you like you were a woman and not just the farmer’s wild daughter in scuffed boots. And maybe that was dangerous. Maybe Daddy was right. But maybe you didn’t give a damn.

"I know you think you’re grown,” he went on, his voice softening a bit, “but there’s men out there who take one look at a girl like you and see a challenge. Not a future. Stack Moore’s one of ‘em."

You swallowed, throat dry. "I’m not stupid."

"I didn’t say you were. I said he’s trouble. And I’ll be damned if I let him put you in harm’s way."

Silence hung between you. Thick as molasses. You could hear the wind picking up outside, dust scratching against the shutters. Storm was comin’, alright. But it wasn’t just in the sky.

You finally nodded. "I hear you."

He held your eyes for a long moment.

"You're better off with that Boone. If you really hafta marry. He's a nice boy and ain't gonna put you out when he has his fill."

Boone was a ranch hand your daddy had hired. He wasn't unattractive, no. He was tall, strong, worked with a smile and never complained. His parents were respectful and they were fans of how your daddy did business. Boone was who you should've been with, if you gave any man a chance.

He'd been pining after you since the two of you were sixteen.

You rolled your eyes, smirking in amusement.

"You like Boone so much, why ain't you marryin' him?"

Daddy’s face went dark, like you'd just knocked over a beehive.

"I’m your father. I make the calls ‘round here."

I folded my arms and leaned against the table, matching his glare. "Ain’t no law says I gotta marry the man you pick."

He set the gun down with a heavy thud. "It ain’t about law, girl. It’s about keepin’ you safe. Boone’s steady. He don’t bring trouble like those Moore boys."

You groaned.

"I ain’t sayin’ I’m takin’ up with Stack. But don’t reckon I’m gonna be Boone’s bride just ‘cause you want it."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re stubborn as a mule, just like your mama."

You knew that was the final word.

But that night, long after the lights were out and the crickets had taken over the silence, you found yourself sittin’ on the edge of your bed, fingers twitchin’, heart restless. Because even though you’d said you understood, and even though you knew what kind of man Stack Moore was…

You also knew you weren’t the kind of girl who turned her head away from fire.

Your friend Lizzie had to beg you to go out.

"I swear, Y/N, one night won’t kill you," she said, tugging at your arm as you rolled your eyes. "You need to dance. Laugh. Hell, even just drink something that ain’t water or dust."

You weren’t exactly the type for blues clubs or lipstick-stained whiskey glasses, but Lizzie had that kind of persistence that wore you down like river water over stone. So by the time the sun dipped low and the sky bled pink, you were dressed — not dolled up like the city girls, but enough to turn a few heads in town: a dark skirt that hugged your hips, boots polished cleaner than usual, and your wild curls pinned just enough to look like you tried.

Club Juke was loud, smoky, and packed to the rafters. Lights glowed like sin on velvet, blues players' moaned from the corner stage, and the air buzzed with liquor and secrets. You followed Lizzie in, your fingers hooked into the belt loop of her dress, and tried not to flinch when a man brushed too close or looked too long.

You made it to the bar and ordered something you didn’t even hear over the noise — some whiskey drink served in a chipped glass. Lizzie had already pulled a fella onto the dance floor, leaving you with a half-sip of burn down your throat and the sudden awareness that someone was watching you.

You didn’t have to look far.

There he was. Stack.

Sitting in a corner booth like he owned the place (because he did), sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, smoke from a lit cigar curling around his jaw. His eyes were on you, unmoving. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked like he’d found exactly what he came here for.

Your pulse jumped. Damn it all.

You turned back to the bar, heart thudding. Maybe if you ignored him, he’d —

A warm voice slid in behind your ear like a sin on Sunday morning.

"Well now," Stack drawled, low and slow, "ain’t you a sight. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this."

You didn’t turn around. Just took another sip of your drink, ignoring the heat rolling off him in waves.

"Didn’t come for you," you said coolly.

He chuckled. "Maybe not. But I figure fate don’t give a damn."

He moved beside you, close enough that your elbows brushed. You could smell leather, smoke, and something sharper — danger, maybe. He rested his forearms on the bar and nodded to the bartender.

"Two of whatever she’s drinkin’."

You shot him a glare. "What’re you doin’, Stack?"

He looked at you then — really looked — and for a moment, the noise of the club faded under his steady gaze.

"Tryin’ to figure out why a girl raised to fear me keeps lookin’ like she’s itchin’ to find out what makes me so damn interesting."

You swallowed.

Then, you fixed the usual glare back onto your face.

"Well, what the hell makes me so interesting? Everyone with a dick in this town can't look away."

Stack barked a quiet laugh, low and raspy, like he wasn’t expecting you to come back that sharp — but damn if he didn’t like it. He leaned in just a hair closer, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again, that grin of his growing just a little wider, a little darker.

"What makes you interesting?" he echoed, voice like smoke. "You walk into a room like you own the land under everyone’s feet. You don’t smile unless you mean it, and you don’t flinch at a man like me." He tilted his head, still watching you. "That kinda thing makes folks look. Makes ‘em wonder."

You crossed your arms, hip cocked, not letting him get the upper hand. "You mean it makes ‘em bet. Run their mouths. Act like they got a chance."

Stack shrugged. "Let ‘em. Boys bet. Men watch. I’m just here enjoyin’ the view."

You scoffed. "You’re all the same."

His expression shifted then — just a flicker of something deeper beneath the charm. He leaned in again, but this time his voice dropped lower, real low, just for you.

"No, darlin’. If I were like them, I’d already be braggin’ about what I could do to you. Not sittin’ here waitin’ to see what you’ll let me do."

That shut you up for a second. Long enough for the air between you to grow thick and heavy.

Before you could fire back, the music kicked into a new number — a slow, sultry blues rhythm that rolled across the club like honey.

Stack held out a hand. "Dance with me."

You looked at his hand like it might bite you.

"I don’t dance."

He smirked. "Then just stand close and sway. I promise I bite softer than I look."

You stared at him, heart thudding somewhere stupid.

And then, without knowing why, you placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. His grip was gentle. And your daddy’s voice was nowhere in your head when Stack pulled you onto the floor like he’d been waitin’ his whole damn life for this.

The floor didn’t feel real under your boots.

Stack's hand rested firm against the small of your back, pulling you close — but not too close. Just enough to feel the heat rollin' off him in waves, enough to smell the faint scent of whiskey and smoke on his collar. Your fingers hovered just barely on his shoulder, stiff at first, like you were afraid of giving in.

"You’re stiff as a fence post," he murmured against your temple, voice rough and warm. "Ain’t nobody lookin’ to bite."

"You just told me you were," you shot back, eyes narrowing even as you swayed to the rhythm.

That earned a quiet chuckle from him — one that rumbled in his chest and traveled straight through you.

The music curled around the two of you like a fog, blues guitar crooning through the haze of cigar smoke and perfume. Other dancers swayed nearby, but none quite like you and Stack. You moved like magnets pulling in, fighting it, pulling in again. A war with no guns — just glances, breath, and the occasional accidental brush of leg against leg.

His thumb stroked a small, deliberate circle at the back of your waist. You stiffened — just slightly — and he caught it.

"You alright, spitfire?" he asked, voice a low purr. "Ain’t used to men touchin’ you, or just not used to likin’ it?"

You glared up at him, lips parting to throw fire — but the words got stuck somewhere between your pride and the warmth blooming beneath your ribs.

"…You think just ‘cause you talk smooth, I’m gonna fall at your feet?" you finally snapped.

Stack leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the edge of your jaw.

"No," he said. "I think you’ll fight me every inch of the way. And I like a fight."

The tension snapped taut between you, so tight it hummed. His hand slid just a breath lower on your back. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t pulling away, either.

"I ain’t your conquest," you muttered.

"No," Stack said, eyes locked to yours like a vow. "You’re the kind of woman a man earns. Or dies tryin’."

The music slowed to a crawl. The last long note of a saxophone kissed the silence.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t know who leaned in first — but suddenly your face was inches from his. Lips barely apart. Breath tangled.

"Lord.. If you ain't the devil."

His mouth curved just slightly — not a smile, not quite — something darker. Hungrier.

"Then what’s that make you, sweetheart?" he murmured, breath brushing your lips. "The lamb wanderin’ into the fire… or the flame that keeps draggin’ me back to hell?"

You blinked up at him, your heart thudding so loud you swore the whole club could hear it.

Everything inside you screamed to pull away — to do what you’d always done when boys got too close, when their hands wandered and their eyes lingered too long. But Stack wasn’t like those boys. He didn’t leer. He didn’t plead.

He waited.

Like a man sure of the storm and patient enough to let it come to him.

Your voice came low. Dangerous.

"I ain’t no lamb. And I sure as hell ain’t chasin’ you."

He laughed — a quiet, genuine sound that rolled through his chest.

"No," he said again, like he was committing it to memory. "I'm chasin' you, baby."

Then his hand slid up — not low, not greedy — just firm and reverent, fingers skimming the side of your jaw like he was feeling the edges of something sacred.

"And I’m tellin’ you now," he added, voice dropping like molasses in your ear. "You keep lookin’ at me like that… I will find out what you taste like when you stop pretending you hate me."

Before you could bite back, before you could even think, the club doors burst open again —

And Boone’s voice came, loud and panicked: "Y/N! What the hell are you doin’?!"

The spell shattered.

You jerked back like burned, your spine stiffening, eyes snapping toward the entrance.

Boone’s chest heaved, face red and soaked in sweat. Eyes darted from you to Stack, and the rage built fast — like a match tossed in dry brush.

Stack turned lazily toward him, jaw twitching. The charming smirk faded into something else. Something sharp.

"You know," he said, stepping just slightly in front of you, “if he was any kinda gentleman, he wouldn't swear at a lady."

Boone didn’t flinch. Just pointed a finger, shaking with fury. "Your daddy’s gonna hear ‘bout this. And when he does, he’ll bury that bastard himself."

Your breath caught.

"Boone, it's—"

"Oh hell no. This ends now."

You stiffened, pulling away from Stack slightly. A glare rose to your face.

"You think you control anything I do? You're daddy's ranch hand, you ain't his informant, and you definitely ain't my husband, so I don't reckon you should be telling me what ends now."

Boone's jaw dropped.

"You know this is against his damn wishes. He wants you with me, not with Stack Moore."

Stack smiled, his gold grill glinting in the light of the juke.

"She don't want you, Boone Jones. Hell," he snorted, stepping forward. "She don't even really want me. I suggest you get to movin' before my brother and I toss you out this juke."

Boone’s eyes flashed, muscles tightening like coiled steel. "You got a real mouth on you, Stack. But don’t think for a second I’m scared of you or your brother."

He stepped forward, the heat between them crackling like a storm about to break.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. The tension was thick enough to slice through, and neither man was backing down.

Stack’s grin twisted, teeth flashing like daggers. "Well then, looks like we got ourselves a showdown. You ready to back that up, Boone?"

Boone faltered for a moment. He spotted the gun on Stack's hip, glinting under his jacket. He was torn. But eventually, he turned away from the two of you.

"Get home, Y/N. I'm warnin' you. Your daddy'll be out lookin' for you soon as I tell him this shit."

With that, Boone spat on the floor and walked out.

The jukebox sputtered a slow country tune as Boone’s heavy footsteps faded into the night. Stack turned to you, smirking like he’d just won a war without firing a shot.

"Well, looks like the ranch hand knows when to fold ‘em."

You stood frozen, the weight of Boone’s warning settling deep in your chest.

Stack’s voice softened, almost mockingly gentle. "Now, tell me… what’re you gonna do with all this heat you’re sittin’ on?"

Your eyes burned with quiet defiance, but inside, a storm was brewing — one that wouldn’t be settled so easily.

Without another word, the defiance and want burning in your chest boiled over. You pulled Elias Moore into a crushing kiss, ruffling his suit jacket.

Stack’s smirk faltered for just a heartbeat, a flicker of surprise flashing behind his gold teeth. His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the side of your jaw with a teasing, deliberate lightness that sent a shiver down your spine. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, like a velvet promise edged with steel.

"Careful, baby. You’re playin’ with fire."

But you didn’t pull away. Instead, your breath hitched, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears like a wild stallion breaking free. The air between you thickened, charged with a heat that wasn’t just from the summer night or the sticky tension in the jukebox’s flickering neon glow. It was raw, electric, and impossible to ignore.

Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket, tugging him closer, hungry for the heat that radiated off his body. The scent of leather, musk, and something uniquely Stack invaded your senses. Your lips pressed harder against his, demanding more, needing more. His hands found your waist, strong and possessive, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left — only the desperate dance of two bodies claiming their own wild territory.

His mouth moved over yours with fierce intention, teasing and tasting, trailing a path of fire down your neck. You arched against him, breath mingling, every nerve alight. The weight of Boone’s warning dissolved somewhere in the back of your mind, drowned out by the thunderous storm between you and Stack.

Stack’s voice, rough and low, was a whisper against your skin. "You gonna be my woman. One way or another."

His hands slid lower, fingers digging into the curve of your hips, grounding you even as your pulse raced with reckless abandon. You tugged at the buttons of his shirt, exposing the warm skin beneath, your nails grazing, marking. Every touch was a challenge, every breath a promise.

Your lips parted in a silent plea, and Stack answered, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw, down to the swell of your collarbone. The heat in your chest ignited into a blaze, scorching and sweet. It wasn’t just passion — it was war, desire, defiance, and something dangerously close to surrender.

The air thickened, charged and heavy with all the words neither of you dared say. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wanted to press you into him and make sure you couldn’t slip away. Your hands trembled slightly, caught between the urge to push him away and the desperate craving to keep this fire alive.

Stack’s breath hitched as his mouth dipped lower, kissing the hollow at your throat, leaving a trail of heat that seared through your skin. Your fingers tangled in the coarse fabric of his shirt, dragging it open just enough to feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your touch. Every beat was a promise, wild and relentless.

That night, you thought you'd be in wicked trouble with your daddy.

You got home and he was sitting in his chair, rifle by his side. There was no glare. No anger. No fight. Just disappointment.

His eyes met yours — quiet, heavy, like the weight of every unspoken word between you.

"Boone stopped by. Said you was almost kissin' Stack in the back of his juke joint. That the truth?"

You froze in the doorway, the screen creaking shut behind you. Your boots felt heavy against the floorboards.

"Is that the truth? I won't ask again." he asked again, voice like gravel and smoke, worn down from years of silence that meant more than shouting ever could.

You swallowed, but your throat was dry. "Yes, sir."

Your daddy looked away then, toward the window. The moonlight spilled across the hardwood like spilled milk, cold and pale. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even shift in his chair.

“Didn’t raise you to chase heat just ‘cause it burns bright.”

You stepped further inside, your heart thudding in your chest. “It ain’t just heat.”

He turned back to you, slow and steady, the way storms roll in without hurry. "That boy’s trouble, Y/N. His people bring it like flies bring rot. You think Stack Moore gives a damn about you come winter? When the crops are dry and the nights are long?"

“I ain’t askin’ for your blessing,” you said, quietly. “But I ain’t askin’ for forgiveness, either.”

His jaw worked, clenched and tight. The rifle stayed at his side, but his hands curled on the armrests like he was gripping the weight of every fear a father could carry.

"You know I’d ride to hell for you, girl." "I know."

A beat. A breath. The porch creaked under the weight of the wind.

"Then don’t make me bury you for someone who wouldn’t ride back. If you think Stack Moore is worth it, I can't stop ya," he asserted wisely. "But he better be. Because if a single tear drops to this floor and he's responsible for it, I'm buryin' him. And his brother."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it show.

He wasn’t threatening. He was promising.

That old chair creaked as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes pinning you like a hawk pins its prey.

"You understand me, girl?" His voice was low, but there was thunder in it — a quiet kind of rage built on love and fear and the kind of heartbreak only a father can carry.

You nodded, chin up even though your chest was tight. "I understand."

He let out a long breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it for years.

"Then go on to bed. And think real hard ‘bout the kind of man you’re givin’ your name to. 'Cause once you do… you don't get to take it back."

You stood there for a moment longer — the screen door groaning open behind you again, the wind pushing against your back like even the night was trying to warn you.

But you didn’t look back.

The next day, Stack stopped by the ranch, as if he was askin' for a gun to go off towards his head. You were out back, tending to the horses, brushing your favorite tenderly.

The horse, Annie was her name, blew air out of her nose, as if she knew trouble was approaching. You cooed at her.

"Settle down, pretty girl. Ain't nothin' comin' to get you."

But even as you said it, your eyes flicked toward the dust trail creeping down the long dirt drive — slow and deliberate. A dark car. Stack’s.

Annie shifted under your hand, hooves stamping once against the earth. You didn’t blame her. You felt the same tight pull in your chest. That mix of anger and ache, nerves and want, all tangled together like barbed wire.

Stack stepped out like he owned the goddamn world. Boots still dirty from whatever hellhole he'd walked through last, and that cocky tilt to his mouth like he'd slept just fine while the storm he stirred brewed all night long.

He spotted you in the paddock, and his smirk deepened like he’d expected a bullet and got a welcome mat instead.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t call out.

Just kept brushing Annie’s side like you weren’t burning from the inside out.

Stack leaned on the fence, one arm slung over the top rail, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing that ever moved slow in his world.

"You didn’t call," he said, voice low and teasing. "Thought maybe Boone talked you outta me."

You looked up then, slow and measured.

"No one talks me outta anything, Stack. Least of all a man who runs when daddy’s rifle’s on the porch."

That knocked the smirk clean off his face for a second. Then he chuckled — slow, deep.

"Figured I’d come back ‘round today. Let your old man know I ain’t runnin’. I’m standin’."

You shook your head, a bitter little smile tugging at your lips.

"He already knows. Question is… do you?"

Stack’s jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to your hands on the horse — the way they moved, firm but gentle. Like you could break things and fix them all the same.

He straightened off the fence.

"I ain’t scared of your daddy," he said. "And I ain't here for a quick trip to the sheets. You're the typa woman worth marryin'."

You froze.

Annie huffed beside you, but you barely heard her over the rush of blood in your ears. Stack’s words hit you like a hammer to the ribs — not because you didn’t believe him, but because deep down… maybe you did.

Still, you kept your hands busy, brushing through Annie’s mane like she was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You don’t even know what marryin’ me means, Stack Moore," you said quietly. "It ain’t just Sunday dresses and kissin’ under porch lights. It’s long winters and hard land and family that don’t forget where you came from."

He stepped into the paddock without asking, boots crunching over the straw and dirt. That alone told you something — Stack had never waited for an invitation in his life.

"I know it won’t be easy," he said, stopping just a few feet from you. "I know your daddy don’t think I’m good enough. Hell, maybe I ain’t. But I know this — I’d rather fight every damn day for your heart than spend a single one without it."

Your hand paused on Annie’s shoulder. For the first time, you looked at him — really looked.

There was no grin now. No sharp teeth. Just a man, standing there with his scars and swagger stripped down to something real.

"You’re serious," you said, more to yourself than him.

"I’ve been in fights I ain’t walked away from. I’ve stared down the barrel more times than I can count. But you?" He stepped closer, voice low and steady. "You’re the first thing that’s ever made me scared to lose."

Your chest tightened.

Goddamn him.

Because you wanted to believe it. Wanted to throw your arms around him, take him in the barn, and kiss the past right off his mouth. But you’d learned too young that want didn’t make a man stay. Promises were easy when the sun was out — it was the nights that told the truth.

So you swallowed hard and said the only thing you could.

"Then don’t say you want me, Stack. Show me."

His eyes flickered, something fierce and warm lighting in them.

"I intend to, darlin’," he said. "Every damn day. Starting now."

And when he reached for your hand, you let him take it. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to remember how it felt.

He raised it to his mouth. Kissed it gently, if Stack Moore was even capable of being gentle.

"Now.. Take me inside to see your daddy. I'm sure we can find somethin' to agree on. Gotta get along before I ask for the blessin'."

You snorted, tying Annie up and kicking his boot with your own.

"It ain't that easy. You've got to court me before you marry me, and even then, you gotta impress daddy."

Stack chuckled low in his chest, the sound rich like molasses and twice as thick with trouble.

"Darlin’, I didn’t think anything about you would be easy," he said, falling in step beside you as you started toward the house. "Hell, if you were, I wouldn’t be out here riskin’ a shotgun sermon and a boot up my ass."

You cut him a sideways glance, amused despite yourself. "You’ll get more than a boot if you don’t stop runnin’ that mouth."

He grinned, flashing that infamous gold tooth like a warning sign. "That mouth’s gonna be the reason you marry me, just you wait."

You stopped at the bottom of the steps, boots crunching in the dirt. Stack did too, waiting for your lead. Waiting, you realized, for your say-so — and that was rare.

"You serious about this?" you asked, voice lower now. No teasing. No fire. Just the honest question of a woman who knew how easily hearts cracked under pressure.

He nodded once. No swagger this time. Just steel and heat.

"I want a wife. I want babies. I wanna hang my guns up until I need 'em. And I want you. So, little lady, let's go."

You held in a tear, the only tear that had ever developed in your cold e/c eyes since mama died. Then, you willingly threaded your fingers into Stack's and tugged him towards the house.

[deertaur]

today's fic concept 🤭

maekar's daughter!reader who isn't allowed around her cousin valarr or her older brothers daeron and aerion unattended because she's such a nymphomaniac... hell, maekar is filled with worry when even his honorable older brother baelor is near you. you have quite the penchant for charming.

"it's a kind of furor, my lord. an affliction of the womanly body," one maester so knowingly explained.

her father has tried everything. endless prayers with stern septas, well-learned maesters with faraway remedies. none can successfully dull her frenzy; eventually they give up and chalk it up to the blood of the dragon inside her.

she has to be guarded and watched extra carefully, especially after seducing not one but two sworn knights before maekar found out about it.

maekar has threatened his sweet daughter more than once that he'll keep her sequestered away at summerhall forever if she doesn't start controlling herself. daeron drunkenly whoring around was bad enough-- a princess of the realm is another beast entirely.

baelor has remarked upon the rumors in private to maekar, concerned for your wellbeing, occasionally prodding here and there for any updates or improvements in your condition.

valarr never brought up the rumors at all-- or if he did, you never heard about it. perhaps he'd hesitantly asked his male cousins about you just once before...

aerion has openly laughed and snickered and reveled in seeing you create such a headache for your father in a way only a dragon child of maekar could.

daeron simply shook his head whenever the topic came up-- quietly amused, secretly relieved that he isn't the only one in the family with questionable coping mechanisms.

when her ways finally seem to change, maekar is immediately suspicious. someone must be pleasing you, someone must be having his way with your already ruined virtue. and he'll make it his sole mission to find out who...

(but really, who should it be hmmm 👀 or i could write mini chapters for different characters...)