[visionsofandromeda]

honeybee

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pairing: draco malfoy x reader

sypnosis: "i hope i never see what your face looks like going. a face, i swear, that i could spend my whole life knowing"

warning: not proofread, lowercase writing.

note: i hope you like this totally fluffy sweet oneshot. is it obvious i'm currently back in my slytherin boys era? if this does well, i'll post my other wip. :) leave a comment if you want more of these. love, 𑣲hydrangea.ᐟ

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draco malfoy, without fail, steals your blanket every single night.

it wasn't intentional—at least, he says. In his sleep, he somehow manages to wrap himself into a burrito, leaving you shivering beside him for the rest of the night.

groaning, you nudged him through his burrito of a thick weighted blanket. "you did it again." no answer. you sneer, he probably didn't hear you from the privilege of hogging the entire thing.

"draco!" you whisper-yelled, poking again. this time, your boyfriend groans. one eye opens, looking at the thick layers of fabric on top of him. "i don't know what you're talking about." he said huskily, closing his eyes again and comfortably snuggling into his pillow.

"you literally have all of it, you hog." he groans, shushing you. clearly, it wasn't working. so you thought of something better. smiling to yourself, you wormed your way under the blanket, collapsing across his chest instead. laughing against his chest, his hand instinctively finding it's way to the curve of your back. "there." you murmured, "problem solved."

"you planned this all along, didn't you?" you accused after a moment of silence, and all you got was a smirk and a kiss to your forehead.

-

"you should get that." you barely looked up from your tea when you spoke, leaning against the kitchen counter as you heard the doorbell. "you should." draco said in agreeable tone from the dining table, reading over his reports from work.

you glare, "i asked first."

he takes one look at you, huffs, and then stands up to walk over to the door. grinning victoriously, you smiled into your tea as you watched him walk out the door.

draco's face turns into an awkward grimace as he turns the knob. "don't watch me leave, it's awkward." he said, picking up the daily prophet and a package from his mother. laughing, you threw your head back in amusement while he walked over to the counter where you stood. draco hands you the daily prophet, and grabs a cutter to open the package.

"merlin… are these my jumpers from fifth year?" he sighs, chuckling as his hands rested on his hips. you peek, shrieking in delight as you see it. you took the jumpers out and brought it to your face, feeling the material. "they don't even fit me anymore. you know, 'cause of these big muscles." he smirks, a smug look in his eyes as he flexed his arms.

rolling your eyes, you chuck the jumper at his face. "your ego is still astounding until today." draco lets out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. "you love me."

"this is adorable, so tiny." you grin, holding it up. "our kids will probably wear this, someday."

draco scoffs, taking a bite out of your scone. "as if, my kids won't wear hand-me-downs." and to that you roll your eyes.

"our kids," you corrected, "will definitely wear hand-me-downs. our daughter will love my collection of pearls and dresses." you smiled, and draco laughs.

"right, our kids."

- the lights were dim, the rain was once again pouring and the two of you were huddled together in bed. your legs were tangled, desperate for warmth. the two of you coexisted in the silence, reading a book while draco reads articles from the ministry of magic.

he was reading the ministry's section of the whereabouts of death eaters in the battle four years ago. it still kept him awake at night. wondering. worried. afraid. he knew his mother was in hiding. his father in azkaban.

you notice the absent look on his face. you grab the article and quickly hide it in one of the drawers of your bedside table. "nothing's going to happen, honey. it's been two years." you spoke gently, caressing his arm.

draco swallows his words, nodding. he leans into your touch, relaxing minute by minute. "i'm just scared. i don't want to lose this. to lose you."

you smile, looking at him as if that was absurd. "that's never happening. it's you and me forever." draco chuckles quietly, shaking his head with a smile on his face.

"forever isn't real, darling." he says, and you roll your eyes booing him. "do you have no whimsy?" you groan. he chuckles, his hands snaking their way up to your waist and started torturing tickling you. in a fit of laughter, you tried to push him off.

"i was joking, you silly girl." he grins, continuing his attack. in broken gasps, you managed to get his hands off. you sighed, rolling your eyes.

"you sure you want forever with me?" he jokes, and you elbow his side.

with a fake frown, you nod. "i could get used to this face forever, even if he tortures me."

-

the storm only grew louder. hugging your arms to yourself, the familiar green and grey sweater from hogwarts cling to your skin. the house was cold. empty. silent. you opened the cabinet over the stove, grabbing two mugs. the box on the counter was almost full, your hands suddenly felt clammy as you placed them in along with the other things.

wiping your hands against your pants, you moved around aimlessly, your life packed into average boxes. your feet padded into the bedroom, the walls felt tight and the bed…

the blanket still laid messy in the middle, unfolded. it still smells exactly like him.

the door was mocking you. the mugs were taunting.

nothing could have warned you for that day. nothing.

"i have to go." he said hastily, already heading towards the door. you almost choke. "what?" you asked, blinking. the words felt heavy, it made you uneasy. it made you want to throw up.

"leave. i-i have to leave, y/n" he didn't meet your eyes. he couldn't. "there are… there are people looking for my father. if i stay…"

"no… no, draco. we can figure something out!" frantic, you walked closer to him in hopes to make him stay. he shook his head. "i'm sorry. there's nothing we can do."

you choked on your tears as you watched him turn the knob, he smiles sadly and finally looks at you. "don't watch me leave." he said, his voice was small and trembling.

the tears dropped before you knew it, you tried to smile and shake your head. "i won't." but you did.

falling to the ground, you hug your knees to your chest. his jumper reminded you of easier times. when the two of you were only teenagers, not a care in the world. a million promises, baby names you'll never get to use, a face that once promised forever.

the same face he wore going.

[lqveharrington]

hey, i was wondering if you could write a draco malfoy x reader who harry has a crush on but doesn’t realize and draco is jealous. sorry if that didn’t make any sense, just any draco x reader would be fine if not

Mine | D.M.

summary: draco is jealous about how much time you’ve been spending with harry

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

includes: reader’s last name is dossett, jealously, possessiveness, suggestiveness toward the end, pansy, blaise, and theo are very curious people lol, harry’s a little annoying

a/n: i haven’t written for the og husband in soooo long

Maybe you were being a little too loud during Potions, or maybe you were busy scribbling away on your parchment, but neither of those things warranted you to be partnered up with Harry Potter for an important project in the only class you knew you could pass in your sleep.

At first, you didn't necessarily mind because the project did seem easy enough. But that wasn’t until you found out how terrible the boy was in class—and you already knew he was bad at potions. It seemed like Harry would always mess up the simplest recipes because he misread something and would nearly cut himself while holding the knife the wrong way.

How does one not know how to hold a knife properly?

You honestly wished you could complain about him to his face, but you guessed Harry was technically your friend, and if you complained to Snape, he would just continue to partner you with Harry since it was amusing to him to see one of his best students struggle with his worst student.

Some head of your house.

So, unfortunately, that's how you found yourself studying up until midnight with Harry, who seemed to have a little too much fun laughing at all the ingredient names—specifically the plants. You were starting to get bored with the stupid jokes, and you wanted to spend time on your Transfiguration work before your partner for that class got upset with you not pulling your weight— Wait.

"Shit!" Your eyes widened as you quickly packed your things up, ignoring Harry's confused gaze. You began to speak fast, looking down at your watch every few seconds like the time would magically rewind. "I forgot that Draco and I have to finish our essay for Transfiguration—"

"I'm sure he'll be fine." Harry waved the thought off before earning an annoyed look from you, making him frown in surprise that you were so eager to leave him. If he was being honest, he would think you would love to spend more time with the chosen one instead of the blonde. "If it's that important—"

"It is." You interrupt with a set tone and pull your bag over your shoulder, glancing at your watch one last time before meeting his eyes for what seemed like the first time this evening. You sighed when you saw the look of disappointment on his face, hesitating before speaking. "Look, I'm sorry, Harry. I'll see you tomorrow, alright? We can finish the project then."

Just before you could walk out, Harry stood up faster than a beater could hit a bludger toward the opposing team. You looked at him with creased brows and mild irritation as he spoke.

"I can walk you back. It's late anyway." He grabbed his own books and parchment with little to no writing, making you sigh and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. "Slytherin common room, right?"

"Yeah." You mutter and tighten your hold on your bag, stepping a little further away from Harry when he got too close to you for your liking.

The walk down to the dungeons was awkward—well, more so than usual. Every time you tried to start a simple conversation about anything your mind could come up with, you would only get small responses back, making it a little frustrating until you finally made it to the stone wall that hid the Slytherin Common Room and dorms.

It was stupid of him to extend an offer and not commit to the bit—it was annoying, really.

"This is my stop." You say stiffly and turn toward the wall when he didn’t respond, muttering the password and watching the stone wall reveal the entrance to the common room with stone snakes circling the door. "Thanks for walking me back, Harry."

"Of course." He gave you a small smile—one that irked you oddly. Harry watched you step up toward the door before speaking up a little too loudly than what was expected in the dungeons at this time of night. "Could I ask you something?"

"Yeah, what's up?" You ask quickly, looking down at your watch again and pursing your lips as the second hand kept ticking.

You even swore it was ticking faster than it usually did.

Harry cleared his throat and fumbled over his words, not noticing you wince at his voice crack. "Would you—I don't know—like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend? Not for studying, but you know—as a date."

Your eyes widened for the second time tonight, your hand instinctively clutching the necklace around your neck like it would protect you. "Oh, Harry— I—"

"Dossett!" You heard a voice—Pansy—seethe from the entrance of the Slytherin Common Room, your head whipping around to the sound of her voice. "Draco’s going to literally kill you.”

"Is he there?" You murmur in her direction, ignoring Harry’s impatient foot tapping on the stone floor. Who was he to be this impatient when he kept you up at the library until 12 AM because he was laughing at ingredient names? Some chosen one he was.

But could you really blame him? He technically wasn't raised to have proper manners—

"Yes." She said through a smile when she noticed Harry looking at her like a crazy woman, Blaise and Theo's heads peeking from behind her. She rolled her eyes and looked back at you, shoving Blaise and Theo's heads back into the common room. "He can hear you both very clearly."

"Shit." You groan and wave her off swiftly, looking back at the boy who decided to make your night a living hell. "Harry, I seriously have to go, okay? Have a good night."

You entered the Common Room and winced when you heard him call out for you again, your eyes drifting toward the leather chair by the fireplace. Draco was sitting there, eyes trained on a textbook he stopped reading the moment he heard your voice through the stone walls.

Maybe you shouldn't have wished Harry a goodnight.

Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were huddled on the couch opposite of him, their own eyes darting between yours and Draco like they were watching a drama show. All they were missing was a large bucket of butter popcorn—ranch for Theo. If they knew any better, they would’ve returned to their own dorms the moment you entered the Common Room with a guilty face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stay out that late, but Harry kept going on about how all the plants where named funny." You took a seat beside him, frown deepening when he didn't even acknowledge you with as much as a nod. "Draco."

"What?" He muttered.

You hold back a heavy sigh and look up at the your friends across from you both, nodding your head to the side. They gave you a strained smile and finally left for their own dorms, leaving you and Draco alone in the Common Room.

You waited a little longer until you heard their footsteps retreat fully, your gaze going back to the platinum blonde who looked like a pouty toddler. It was funny that the man who seemed so powerful and uncaring to the rest of the world looked so dejected when presented in front of you because you were out with his supposed mortal enemy.

"What's wrong this time?" You asked and took the heavy textbook from his hands, watching his fingers curl around nothing.

"Oh, nothing. Just the fact that the Golden Boy takes up every single second of your day now, and even offered to take you on a date this weekend." Draco huffed and spun the signet on his finger, the M flashing from the fireplace to his left.

"I didn't say yes." You creased your brows together and tried meeting his eyes.

"You didn't say no either." He pushed his hair back and stared down at the burning fire this time; the red and orange flames reflected in his eyes. "So what? You and Potter are dating?"

"What? Draco, I could never date him. He's not my type." You fiddle with your silver necklace again, catching his gaze wander over to your hand before he looks away. You tilt your head, voice quiet. "You know what my type is."

"Do I?" He crossed his arms and leaned back on the leather chair, his gray eyes boring into the Black Lake window instead, everything far too dark to even see anything out of it. "Enlighten me."

"Draco, you're jealous." You finally say without any precaution, putting a hand on his arm and grabbing his attention again. You rack your brain for ideas. "If you really think about it, I spend more time with you than Harry every week."

"Not today." He lolled his head to the side and ignored your attempts, still choosing to be a pouty toodler.

You were getting close to ripping your hair out with how jealous and childish he was acting, but you could only do so much. All you had to do was be patient and wait for his resolve to crumble.

"Draco, look at me." You reach out for him and tilt his chin, meeting his stormy eyes that always showed you more emotion than the rest of his body. "Whose old jersey do I wear to quidditch games?"

Silence filled the air while you waited for an answer, his eyes looking between yours before he finally answered, voice quiet compared to the beat of both your hearts.

"Mine."

You nodded slowly, "Whose dorm do I go to when I need to talk to someone?"

He sighed through his nose, his hands wiping up and down his pants. "Mine."

"Who do I trust beyond all measures that they were all my firsts?" You say and let your hands fall away from his face, head tilting to the side. When he didn't answer, you softly spoke again. "Draco—?"

"Me." He groaned and pulled you into his arms, dropping his head to your neck and muttering into your skin. "You hate me for reminding me about those things."

"I like you, that's why." You retort and run your fingers through his hair, his natural hair shape returning after all the gel was worn down from how many times he ran his fingers through it. "You're just always jealous when I'm out with people without you."

"I ought to transfigure him into a stool." He murmured and brought his cold hand under your sweater, tracing your spine with his index finger. He earned a tongue click from you, but he continued his ministrations. “You’re making me look like a fool in front of the boys.”

“And Pansy.” You corrected with an amused grin, laughing when he pulled you forward so you were resting on top of him. You put your palms on his chest and scrunch your nose, “I'm just letting you know right now, if your godfather pairs me with Harry Potter again, we're gonna have serious problems."

Draco chuckled and squeezed your waist, “I’ll let him know you’re threatening him.”

“You suck.” You groan and rest your chin on his chest, smiling up at him before your hand came up to fidget with the platinum blonde lock in front of his forehead. You twist it in between your fingers, not noticing his smile as he watches you. "Do you still want to stay up and finish our project? Or will it be a tomorrow morning issue?"

“I already finished the project while you were away.” He murmured and adjusted his hold on you, humming when your nails scratched his scalp.

You watch his eyes close for a second before realizing what he had said, smacking his chest with no real force. “Dray, that’s not fair. I barely did any work during class the other day.”

“You can make it up.” He said offhandedly, lips twitching into a tiny smirk when you stilled all movements. He popped an eye open when you stopped scratching his scalp, “What?”

“You know, you’re a very possessive man, Draco.” You say when you snap back into reality, shuddering ever so slightly when his cold hands snuck up your sweater once more.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “Only to what’s mine.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[alrisyl]

𝙞𝙩 𝙢𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠…

pairings: clark kent x fem! reader

summary: it might be what you think it is!

warnings: angst, relationship distress, dynamic neglect, severe public panic, physical injury (head trauma, bleeding, concussion), and mild themes of endangerment/near death experience.

notes: i was gonna add more but it wouldve been wayyyyyy to long.. so pt3 when?! also slightly proofread!!

wc: 1.9k

𓂃₊ ⊹ part 1

the elevator doors slid shut cutting off the desperate echoes of clark’s voice.

the moment the steel walls enclosed you, your composure completely broke.

you collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, sliding down until you hit the cold floor.

a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.

you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.

your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.

It’s just easier....

the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.

he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.

by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.

you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.

when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.

the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.

the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.

"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.

you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.

they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.

you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers you’d bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.

the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.

you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.

you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.

you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.

it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.

you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.

you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.

your phone buzzed on the counter.

lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. it’s not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.

you stared at the screen but didn't reply.

it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.

you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.

wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.

𓂃₊ ⊹

you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.

a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.

the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.

you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.

you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didn’t look at him.

not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.

every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.

you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.

you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.

he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.

he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.

"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"

you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.

clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.

"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"

you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.

clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.

he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."

he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that you’ll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.

a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.

"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."

you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.

realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.

he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.

he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.

"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."

eight o'clock.

by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.

every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.

he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.

the humiliation in lois’s apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.

you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.

you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.

so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.

8:05 PM

the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.

you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.

the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.

you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.

but the table by the window is completely empty.

a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.

he's seven minutes late.

no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.

he said he’d be waiting and he wouldn’t do this tonight.. not after everything.

you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.

you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.

9:00 PM

an hour crawls by.

the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.

the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.

every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when it’s a stranger stepping in from the cold.

9:30 PM

half an hour later.

you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.

the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...

is he back at lois’s?

10:00 PM

the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that you’re overstaying your welcome.

a realization sinks into your chest..

he stood you up.

to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.

you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.

standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.

as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.

"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."

the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."

you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.

you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.

the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left

your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.

he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.

and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.

a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.

you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.

you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.

a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.

it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.

umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.

"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.

a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.

she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.

you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.

a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.

everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.

a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except it’s too thick and warm.

you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.

you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.

heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.

a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.

you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, you’re going to get trampled to death.

adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.

you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.

you lose your sense of direction entirely.

instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.

the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.

the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.

with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.

he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.

but it’s not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.

it's hurling through the air directly toward you.

time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of what’s coming.

the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.

your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.

you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.

you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.

instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.

the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.

trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.

standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.

"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.

he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it can’t hurt anyone.

the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.

his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.

he looks completely invincible.

but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.

he freezes.

through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.

superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like he’s the one who just took a physical blow.

his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.

he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.

before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.

his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.

he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that won’t stop leaking from your hairline.

"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.

"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.

the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.

in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.

It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.

he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.

his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.

"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.

in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.

the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.

he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.

"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."

you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.

through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.

the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.

"clark...?" you breathe out.

it’s barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.

his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.

but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.

the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.

"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"

𓂃₊ ⊹

the first thing that returns to you is the smell.

that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.

then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.

you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.

the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.

"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."

the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.

clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.

he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.

the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.

he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.

his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.

"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.

he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."

you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.

with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.

the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.

clark’s thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.

"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.

you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."

clark looks completely devastated.

he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.

he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.

he looks up at you through his thick glasses.

the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.

the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.

"just go home, clark," you say quietly.

your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.

beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."

"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.

you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."

out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.

a ragged exhale escapes his lips.

slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.

he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.

"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."

you don't answer, you just close your eyes.

he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.

the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.

your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.

you expect to feel a sense of relief now that he’s gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.

but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.

you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.

not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.

you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.

you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.

your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.

hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.

the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.

the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.

it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.

“clark...?”

the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆★˚┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ┊ ★⋆ ⋆★ ┊ ┊ ◦ ◦ ┊ ★⋆ ⋆★

(i tagged people who asked for a pt2 and seemed like they'd be interested in one sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged or i missed you)

taglist: @noisyflowerking @bbaengtan @sangxiaonisworld @aallis0n @supernovajirachi @raritygold @velvetnightmoonsandbows @spideysimpossiblegirl @themoonchildwhofell @briannabananasss @magicaldestinyharmony @izzythefanfreak @star-yawnznn @fanficandchill @sparrowwithaquill @noodlesplants @hlfmooncookie @cursedkatana @wroteuloveletters @catloverteen @matchasashimi @clovarian @l0singctrl @crossiant698 @ushygushybaby @anonymouse1807 @slut4fandoms @julysveryown777 @carlandolestappen @escuzimwa @urfavvciara @caliicela @jarnesbames108 @everswanafter @nychunkie

[louloucake]

aerion can not go anywhere without his wife ᯽⋆˚

aerion targaryen x wife!reader

-ANGST!! character death (you die), aerion loves loves you very much!! emotional breakdown, unhealthy coping mechanisms....(wine/wildfire), hallucinations/delusions, possessive attachment and major obsessive love!! mentions of children, implied suicide?? grief-driven insanity. basically a tragic romance!! ᥫ᭡

from the moment aerion targaryen met you, he was ruined for everyone else.

he had known it immediately, which offended him greatly.

you had stood in the great hall beneath streaming banners and candlelight, speaking softly to some elderly lord whose name aerion could not remember now, and he had stared at you with the unnerving certainty that his life had just divided itself into before and after.

he had wanted you at once.

not simply for your beauty, though the gods knew you possessed enough of it to make men foolish.

no, it was worse than that. it was the way you smiled when spoken to you. the way your voice softened around frightened animals. the way you listened carefully to him, as though every word mattered.

you were gentle and yet you were smart. unbreakable.

and aerion, for all his arrogance, for all the monstrous streak that lived comfortably beneath his skin, found himself following that gentleness like a frightened man following candlelight.

once he married you, he became unbearable about it.

he could not go anywhere without you.

court meetings became impossible unless you sat beside him. feasts irritated him if you were seated too far away. he would find excuses to leave conversations midway simply because he had caught sight of you across the hall and suddenly needed to hear your voice more than whatever tedious noble was speaking to him.

people noticed, of course they noticed. it was impossible not to.

aerion targaryen, proud and cruel and impossible, followed his wife around like a man enchanted.

and he did not care.

when your gown fittings were scheduled, he attended them as though invited personally by the gods. he would lounge dramatically across velvet chairs in the corner while seamstresses fluttered around you adjusting hems and sleeves. a goblet of wine would rest lazily in his hand while he watched you with shameless devotion.

“you are staring at me again,” you would murmur, smoothing your hands down the front of some pale silk gown.

“you mustn't blame me wife, for you are simply beautiful,” he would answer easily. “we both suffer from consistency.”

the seamstresses would blush furiously. you smiled every time.

sometimes he would rise simply to touch the fabric himself, rubbing it between long fingers before looking at you critically. “no,” he would decide. “this color does not suit you.”

“it is blue.”

“it is horrid blue.”

“you said yesterday that blue was my color.”

“that was a better blue.” then he would press a kiss to your inner wrist as though that settled the matter entirely.

often the two of you escaped to the gardens whenever court became too suffocating. hidden away beneath twisting vines and dragon roses, you would spend hours tangled together beneath the shade.

you liked adventure stories, romance too. aerion preferred gruesome histories filled with betrayals and executions and bloodshed. he would read them aloud with disturbing enthusiasm while you laughed softly beside him, your head resting against his shoulder.

“it is educational, wife, it is not a laughing matter.”

“it is horrifying!”

“that as well.”

you smiled and stole the book from his hands. “then i shall save your soul with something gentler.”

“my soul is beyond saving.”

“mm. i have hope.”

he watched you read the same way he watched flames, utterly entranced. your voice drifting through the gardens became one of his favorite sounds in the world. sometimes he stopped listening to the actual story entirely, too distracted by the shape of your mouth around certain words.

he would kiss you slow and lazy beneath flowering vines while the world continued without you.

everywhere in the red keep there were glimpses of you together. your arms linked through endless corridors. his hand possessively at your waist during feasts and parties.

his favor wrapped around your wrist during tournaments because he insisted his colors belonged on his wife and only his wife.

and you understood him.

you understood the sharpness in him. the cruelty. the terrible anger he carried like another heartbeat. you never excused it, but neither did you recoil from it. you saw all the ugliness inside him and loved him still.

it made him worship you for it.

so when you fell ill, it destroyed him slowly.

you would smile and insist you were well enough, brushing it aside with gentle reassurance whenever his expression darkened with concern. a cough lingering too long after the autumn rain, a fever that came and went in waves, exhaustion settling into your bones until even simple things began to tire you.

but aerion noticed everything about you.

he noticed when you stopped finishing your meals. when your hands felt warmer than usual curled inside his. when you leaned more heavily against him during long walks through the gardens. he noticed the shadows beginning to gather beneath your eyes no matter how carefully you tried to hide them.

and selfishly, desperately, he had hoped it was something else.

he had hoped you were with child.

the thought had rooted itself in him almost immediately, growing quietly into hope before he could stop it. he imagined your sickness explained away by life instead of illness. a babe. your babe. his hands resting against your stomach while you laughed softly at his unbearable protectiveness.

he clung to the possibility with frightening intensity.

“you have been tired for weeks,” he murmured one evening, sitting beside you near the fire while you leaned sleepily against the cushions. “and sick in the mornings.”

you looked up at him over the rim of your cup. “are you attempting to diagnose me yourself now?”

“i am saying there may be another explanation.”

the faintest smile touched your mouth then, soft and knowing. “you think i am carrying your child.”

“i think it would explain things.”

“and if it does not?”

his expression shifted immediately, the fragile hope there dimming just slightly. “it will.”

you reached over to touch his face gently. “aerion.”

“you would tell me if you thought it possible.”

“i would.”

his hand slid over yours quickly, holding it there against his cheek. “i want it to be true.”

you softened instantly, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “i know you do.”

for a little while, the possibility sustained him.

he became almost absurdly attentive after that. hovering constantly. insisting you rest. arguing with servants if meals were not prepared exactly right. pulling blankets over your lap himself with quiet irritation whenever he thought you looked cold.

“you need not be so concerned aerion,” you teased weakly one afternoon as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time.

“you are coughing again.”

“it is one tiny cough.”

“it was a terrible cough.”

you laughed softly despite yourself. “you would make a dreadful maester.”

“i would make an excellent husband.”

“that much is true.”

he kissed your forehead immediately at the praise, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “then obey your excellent husband and sleep.”

you smiled but closed your eyes obediently anyway, too tired to argue much anymore and that frightened him because you were never this tired.

weeks passed.

the sickness did not improve.

the fevers worsened instead.

and slowly, horribly, the hope inside him began to rot into fear.

the maesters stopped speaking optimistically when he entered the room. their careful expressions told him everything long before their mouths did. he hated them for it. hated their silence. hated the medicines that did nothing. hated the smell of herbs and boiling tinctures that now permanently lingered in your chambers.

most of all, he hated the growing weakness in you.

one evening he found you asleep by the window, a book fallen forgotten in your lap. the sight should not have broken him the way it did. fear struck him so violently, he crossed the room immediately, sitting beside you with his hands wrapping tightly around yours.

“you should rest,” he told you quietly when you stirred awake.

a tired smile touched your lips at once. “i am resting.”

“properly.”

that woke you more fully. your expression softened immediately as you looked at him there beneath you, still dressed in dark court clothes he had evidently never bothered changing out of. his silver hair was disheveled from repeatedly dragging frustrated hands through it. shadows lingered beneath his eyes now too. had he slept at all recently?

“aerion,” you whispered gently.

his grip tightened unconsciously around your hands as he stared down at them, his throat working once. when he finally looked back up at you, there was something raw in his eyes that made your chest ache.

“i do not know what to do,” he admitted quietly.

aerion hated helplessness. hated uncertainty. yet here he was before you like a man praying at an altar, unable to fight the thing slowly stealing you from him.

you lifted one hand carefully from his grasp just to touch his face. “you are already doing it,” you whispered.

“that is not enough.”

“it is for me.”

his eyes closed briefly at that, leaning instinctively into your touch. for a moment he simply stayed there, holding your hand against his cheek like something precious.

then, very softly, almost angrily, he murmured, “i am going to grow old with you. hear me. i will."

he rarely left your side.

meetings were abandoned midway. letters unanswered. duties forgotten entirely. he remained beside you obsessively, sleeping in chairs when he refused to leave your bedside, holding cool cloths to your skin with hands more accustomed to swords than gentleness.

his patience disappeared entirely. goblets shattered against walls when maesters offered uncertain answers. servants flinched when entering the room because even the scrape of shoes against stone seemed enough to provoke him now.

then came the anger. not at you, never at you. at the maesters who could not heal you. at the gods who would dare touch what belonged to him. at himself for being unable to stop it.

“you said the fever would break,” he hissed at one trembling maester after another miserable night left you barely conscious. “you assured me she was improving.”

“she did appear stronger yesterday, your grace-”

“do not lie to me.”

the old man visibly faltered beneath the fury in aerion’s voice.

“she needs rest,” the maester managed carefully.

“she needs curing.”

silence.

aerion’s expression darkened into something terrifying. “get out.”

no one argued with him anymore after that.

the servants cried quietly outside the doors sometimes. you could hear them if the hall fell silent enough. the sound seemed to haunt aerion more than anything else because people only cried like that when hope was beginning to die.

then came the night everything changed.

the room was dim besides the fire and a handful of dying candles. rain struck softly against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere far over the bay.

aerion sat beside you holding your hand tightly between both of his as though warmth alone might anchor you here.

“you will get better,” he told you hoarsely. “you must.”

your breathing caught unevenly before settling again.

“aerion- husband-”

“no.” his voice cracked violently. “do not speak like that.”

you looked at him with unbearable softness. “my love,” you whispered.

“you are not leaving me.” tears filled his eyes instantly, furious and helpless all at once. “you hear me?” he said desperately, leaning closer. “you cannot leave me here. i do not know how to-” his voice broke entirely.

your trembling fingers brushed weakly against his cheek, even now, you were comforting him.

“aerion,” you whispered softly, “look at me.”

and he did immediately, like he always would. your eyes searched his face slowly, lovingly, memorizing him the same way he had memorized you a thousand times before.

“i loved you very much,” you breathed.

“no.” he shook his head instantly, panic rising sharp and ugly in his chest. “no, do not say it like goodbye.”

“you made me very happy.”

“stop.” his grip tightened painfully around your hand. “please.” aerion targaryen did not beg. not kings, not gods, not men. but he begged you.

your eyes softened immediately at the sound of it, filling slowly with tears that slipped silently down into your hair. even now, with death hovering so terribly close, you looked at him with nothing but love.

“do you understand? i cannot- i cannot sit here and listen to you speak as though this is ending.”

your breath trembled faintly. “aerion…”

“no.” his voice cracked violently again. “no, you listen to me now.”

his free hand cupped your face desperately, trembling hard enough that you could feel it against your skin.

“you will stay,” he said, the words frantic now, like if he spoke them firmly enough the world would obey him. “you will survive this. the maesters are wrong. they have been wrong before.”

you gave the faintest shake of your head.

he looked suddenly furious at it. “at least pretend to believe me.”

a weak little smile touched your mouth then, heartbreakingly gentle. “you sound angry.”

“i am angry.”

“at me?”

“no- no my love, never at you. at everything.” his voice splintered on the last word.

the fire crackled softly somewhere behind him, rain tapping against the windows in uneven rhythms. the room smelled of wax and herbs and sickness. aerion thought suddenly, wildly, that he hated every part of it. hated the candles. hated the storm. hated the bed beneath you because it had become a place of dying instead of sleeping beside him warm and laughing.

most of all he hated how cold your hands had become.

he brought them closer between his own instinctively, rubbing warmth into your fingers as though he could force life back into them through sheer desperation.

“you promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly.

your lashes fluttered weakly. “i meant it.”

“then do not leave me.”

you looked at him for a very long moment after that and something in your expression changed with acceptance.

“no,” he said again, harsher this time. “do not look at me like that.”

you had never seen him like this, not truly, not stripped this bare. aerion had always loved fiercely, possessively, almost violently in the depth of it, but he rarely let anyone witness the rawness underneath. he hid softness behind arrogance. devotion behind sharp words.

but there was nowhere left to hide now not while you were dying in front of him.

“you cannot leave me alone here,” he whispered suddenly. the confession sounded childlike. small.

“my husband,” you breathed gently.

his face twisted instantly at the title, grief ripping visibly across it. “you said we would grow old together,” he murmured. “you said we would have children.”

tears slipped harder down his face now. he did not even seem aware of them.

“i bought that little carved dragon you liked in the market because you wanted to have it for our child.” his voice shook violently. “it is still sitting in gift velvet because i thought-”

his breath broke. “i thought there would be time.”

you began crying then too, silent tears slipping into your hair as you watched him unravel before you.

aerion pressed your hand desperately against his lips.

“there is still time,” he insisted suddenly, like he could force the truth backward if he spoke quickly enough. “tomorrow you will wake and i will carry you into the gardens again. to roses near the fountain, you always say they smelled sweeter after rain.”

“aerion…”

“we will read together.” his words tumbled over each other now, frantic and disjointed. “and i will complain through your ridiculous romance stories and you will laugh at me and-”

his voice snapped apart completely.

you gathered what little strength remained in you and brushed your thumb weakly against his cheek. “i need you to be brave for me. my brave dragon.”

“no.”

the answer came instantly like a child refusing.

you tried to smile through your tears. “you are a dragon prince.”

“i am also your husband.” the words came out fierce and broken all at once. “i love you,” he whispered desperately. “do you hear me? i love you so much i cannot breathe when i think about losing you.”

your eyes closed briefly at the pain in his voice. “aerion…”

“i should have loved you less.” but even as he said it, both of you knew it was impossible. he had loved you from the very first moment. too much. too fiercely. with every ruined part of himself. and now the gods were tearing you away from him piece by piece.

“i do not regret loving you,” you whispered. you were breathing differently now. slower. weaker.

panic flooded his face so fast. your fingers tightened faintly around his once. “i am- tired now. aerion.”

“no.”

“i love you- so- aerion-”

“no, stay awake my love. stay with me. look at me.” his voice broke into something desperate and terrified.

you tried. gods, you tried. your eyes found his one last time, full of love so deep it nearly killed him on the spot.

then your breathing faltered.

every part of him seemed to stop existing except for the hand clutching yours.

another breath, still shallow. then another, smaller still.

“no,” he whispered again, tears falling freely now. “please. i love you.”

and then-

nothing.

silence. complete and horrible.

aerion stared at you waiting. waiting for your chest to rise again. waiting for your fingers to twitch in his hand. waiting for the impossible. but you stayed still. and slowly, horrifyingly, your warmth began to fade beneath his hands.

the sound that left him afterward was raw enough to tear through stone.

he folded over you instantly, clutching your hand against his mouth as violent sobs ripped through him hard enough to leave him breathless. his entire body shook with it, years of pride and cruelty and arrogance collapsing into grief so enormous it hollowed him out completely.

“no, no, no-”

he kissed your cold knuckles desperately between broken gasps of air. “you cannot do this to me,” he choked out.

the gods, cruel as they were, had finally taken the only thing aerion targaryen had ever truly loved.

the silence afterward nearly drove him mad.

he had not cried like that since childhood. since lonely nights hidden away in dark chambers where no one came looking for him. he felt small again suddenly. helpless. frightened.

they had given him an hour to calm down, and when his tears subsided and all that was left was anger, grief, and longing, the maester quietly began to approach the bed before aerion turned with such horrifying fury that the old man stopped instantly.

“get out.”

“your grace-”

“get out.”

the room emptied immediately and no one dared argue.

aerion was alone with you. alone in the suffocating silence of your shared chambers while candlelight flickered softly against your still face. he loved you more than he knew what to do with, and now there was nowhere for that love to go.

hours passed before anyone dared enter again. even then, aerion refused to let go of you. it nearly killed him when they tried to take your body from the bed.

“no,” he snarled hoarsely, gripping you tighter. “do not touch her.”

“prince aerion-”

“do not touch her.” his voice barely raised, yet stern. frightening.

they had to pry his hands away, hold him back. he looked- no, he was- half-mad, watching them place you inside the coffin, his face white with horror like he could not comprehend how the world expected him to survive such a thing.

afterward, he refused to clear your rooms.

your gowns remained hanging exactly where you left them. your oils and perfumes stayed lined carefully along the vanity. books remained half-open where you had abandoned them.

your side of the bed stayed untouched.

every now and then, late at night, standing in front of your grand dresser, he would hold one of your dresses against his face, breathing in the fading trace of your perfume with devastated desperation.

the gardens became unbearable to him. the reading alcoves remained empty. and aerion wandered through the red keep like a ghost haunting a life that no longer existed.

people feared him more after your death. he grew colder. crueler. quieter.

but worst of all were the nights.

because sometimes, very late, servants passing your chambers would hear him speaking softly into the silence as though you were lying beside him still.

“i told you to listen to me,” he would murmur. then, quieter, “yes, i know. you are cold tonight.”

there would be the faint sound of movement. a chair dragged closer. a goblet set down. and then, gently, almost tenderly, “you should sleep now.”

no one ever dared open the door. because sometimes they also heard him laugh softly, as though you had answered.

he began to drink heavily.

wine at first. then stronger things brought in quietly by servants too afraid to refuse him. the maesters warned against it, cautiously at first, then more urgently as the pattern worsened.

“your grace,” one of them said carefully one evening, “this will not ease your suffering. it will only deepen it.”

“i am not suffering,” he said. “you are mistaken.” aerion continued calmly. “my wife is simply away. that is all.”

the maester exchanged a look with another before bowing stiffly and retreating.

he began speaking of you in the present tense.

“my wife prefers the roses after rain,” he told a bewildered servant once. “do not cut them yet.” another time, he stopped a maid in the corridor and snapped at her, “have you seen my son?”

she froze. “my prince…you do not have-”

aerion’s expression sharpened instantly.

“see to it that he is with his mother,” he said firmly.

no one corrected him. it was easier not to.

he began to see you again. at first it was fleeting. a reflection in the mirror that was not his own. a flicker at the edge of his vision when he turned too quickly. a warmth in empty chairs.

then it became clearer. you were in your chambers again. sitting at the vanity. adjusting your hair. looking at him as though nothing had ever gone wrong at all.

“aerion,” you would say softly. “must you stare at me, my love? it is quite jarring.”

and he would believe it. he would believe it completely. there was no longer any separation between memory and reality. only you.

until even that began to fracture.

the night he drank wildfire.

he believed it would truly take the pain away, turn him into something different. into a dragon.

maesters agreed, because no one truly denied a targaryen anything for long, suggesting it might “calm the mind” if handled carefully, and with all of aerion’s temperaments they agreed to add in a little something extra, something that might ease the sleeplessness, the agitation, the grief that had begun to consume him.

that night, after drinking, he stood alone in your chambers, holding one of your gowns again. when suddenly his grip tightened violently around the fabric.

“i cannot do this,” he whispered. “i told you,” he murmured hoarsely into the empty room, “i told you i cannot be anywhere without you.”

his vision blurred and he felt a sharp burning sensation from inside himself. the wildfire had burned him, saved him from the madness and grief that had been burned into him long ago.

aerion targaryen could not bring himself to let go of the one thing he had ever truly belonged to. because aerion targaryen, in the end, was exactly what he had always been.

a man who could not exist anywhere without his wife.

[chuluoyi]

forget me not

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

life as you know it shatters when your husband loses his memories of you in a freak incident. how will you convince him of your marriage and the love that made it real?

genre/warnings: suggestive, amnesia, hurt/comfort, light angst, enemies to lovers, crack, quarrels and usage of "wench" (aerion is back to his default personality for plot development i swear), falling in love all over again trope, pregnancy, lannister!reader

notes: based on this. the amnesia fic is here muehehe :))

You knew Aerion could be a big menace. He was too proud, too vain— with arrogance that was practically boundless. He was not the religious sort too, so the Seven above must keep tally of all his sins.

You had always thought the Gods would humble him eventually. You know, damn it, but—

You never imagined it would come to this. Something as absurd and sudden as him being thrown from his own horse and lie unconscious for three long days.

Those three days had been unbearable. The maester assured you he would wake, that his body was strong, that there was no cause for despair—but his words did little to quiet the worry inside your chest. You had cried anyway and never left his bedside.

So when his fingers twitched in your grasp, it startled you from your half-asleep state, your head snapping up.

“Aerion?” Your voice came out small, fragile with hope as you leaned forward, eyes searching his face as you clutched his hand. “Aerion, can you hear me?”

His lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before finally lifting to reveal the Targaryen violet eyes. For a heartbeat, you felt relief crash into you so fiercely it nearly hurt.

But the moment his gaze found you, something felt… wrong.

“You—” His voice came in a rasp, eyes narrowed in disgust, and his words struck harder than any blade. “Why are you here?”

“Of course I’m here, you blockhead—” The insult slipped out before you could stop it, but then your breath caught in your throat when he withdrew his hand from your grasp.

“Aren’t you supposed to be far and away in Casterly Rock?” he snapped, his gaze raking over you with open offense. “What are you doing in my chambers, wench?”

The color drained from your face so quickly it left you dizzy. Your erratic heartbeat slammed against your ribs until it was all you could hear. Panic clawed its way up your throat as your entire body shook and your breath came in choked gasps.

He... he doesn’t—

“Maester!” You stumbled back from the bedside, your vision swimming with tears as you threw open the doors and yelled at your handmaiden. “Call for the maester!”

“My princes, my lady, forgive me... It appears from the severity of his fall, His Grace has suffered memory loss.”

Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the foot of the bed, rigid and expression sharp as iron. Beside him was Daeron, who looked like he couldn’t believe what had befallen his brother, and young Aegon, who tried—and failed—to mask his distaste with poorly hidden curiosity.

Meanwhile you stood next to Egg, still numb.

The center of it all was Aerion. He merely cocked his head to the side even as the maester declared his state. He looked fine, unsettlingly so. Rested against his pillows, still pale but very much alive, his violet eyes were clear, as though nothing had happened to him at all.

“Well,” he huffed, glancing between people in his chamber with visible impatience, “you all look as though I’ve risen from the dead. Do enlighten me—what terribly important events have I missed?” And then his gaze flicked to his sire.

“Father, why are we still in Summerhall? Are you not the crown prince?”

You could have sworn Prince Maekar was this close to curse at him by how his voice coming almost in a hiss. “What nonsense are you spouting, boy?”

“Was Baelor not slain in a Trial of Seven? With Aerys and Rhaegel dead that would make you heir to the throne, would it not?” he asked so easily, as though he hadn’t just spoken something that was blatant treason.

An unbearable silence passed in the room, before Maekar turned sharply towards the maester.

“Tell me, did that fall knock the wits clean out of his head— and left my son a complete cretin?”

Maester Melanquin stiffened at once, clearly caught between honesty and survival. “Y-Your Grace, head injuries of such severity can… disturb the memory in unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for the afflicted to recall events incorrectly...”

“Fuck me,” Maekar finally cursed, running a hand on his face. “Fuck us all.”

On the bed, Aerion let out a scoff. “This seems more like a nightmare than whatever dream I’ve been pulled from.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly at your side as a dull ache began to throb at your temple. Your husband hit his head, had altered memories, and worst of all—

His gaze then landed on you, and just as quickly his expression soured. “Why is she still here?”

He doesn’t recognize you.

Prince Maekar glanced at you, barely holding on the last strands of his patience.

“She is your wife, Aerion.”

“My what?”

Aerion’s attention snapped back to you. His eyes reassessed you from head to toe, as if he found you deeply questionable.

“You’re telling me that I chose her, out of all people?”

“Enough, boy.” Maekar’s voice dropped a degree.

“Father, you must have forced my hand,” Aerion spat, unconvinced. “Because I refuse to believe I married this dullard willingly.”

You knew this was not the Aerion you had given your heart to—the one who had learned your smiles, who reached for your hand in private, who once looked at you as though you alone could soothe the fire in him.

But knowing that did little to soften the blow. Gods, it still hurts.

Prince Maekar closed his eyes, looking every bit like a man asking for the mercy of the Gods. Your good-brothers Daeron and Egg could only exchange weary sighs before turning toward you with quiet sympathy in their eyes.

Your father-in-law was right, fuck us all indeed.

. . .

You left his chambers before anyone could see your expression crack and falter and hadn’t made it far before Maester Melanquin caught up to you in the corridor.

“My lady, you mustn’t take his words to heart,” he began gently. Out of everyone in that room, you had taken the blow worst of all, even if Aerion himself seemed blind to it. “Memory loss of this sort can alter temperament. It is not uncommon for the patient to—”

“I understand,” you cut in softly.

“I would advise rest,” he continued after a moment. “You have endured quite a strain these past days. It is not good for—”

“That will be all, Maester Melanquin.”

You couldn’t hear this now. His eyes widened in realization.

“My lady, you have not informed anyone...?”

“No,” you firmly stressed. “No one else needs to know, yet.”

Even you had only discovered it three days ago—on the very day Aerion had taken his fall. How could you possibly overwhelm everyone with the news that you were with child now?

The maester inclined his head, deeply mournful for you. “As you wish, my lady.”

Aerion was certain this marriage with you was a dreadful one.

He had come to that conclusion within days of waking without half his memories, because every interaction between the two of you felt strained at best.

Yet, as he made his thoughts known to his dimwitted squire, telling him how he must have been a big patron to the most famous brothel in Street of Silk now with a wife like you, the poor lad shook his head vigorously—

“I wouldn’t believe it so, my prince! In fact, you hadn’t visited the brothels ever since your marriage!”

Aerion stared at him as though he had just confessed to treason, and the squire shrunk.

“And everyone knows...” the squire hesitated now, as though fearing for his life, “That you and Lady Lannister shared chambers often too...”

Whenever Aerion looked at you, you didn’t resemble the sort of woman who warmed a husband’s bed willingly. You were composed to the point of irritation, sharp-eyed too, carrying yourself with the dignity of someone fully trained to withstand him.

He was proven right very soon when he sat together with you for the afternoon tea.

. . .

The maester had insisted familiarity could help restore memory. And so, every afternoon for the past five days, you were seated beside him.

“It is still beyond me,” Aerion griped, casting you a distaste frown. “How did I ever end up with you?”

For five miserable days now, the two of you had been enduring each other’s intolerable company. Worse still, neither of you seemed remotely willing to surrender first.

You set your teacup down abruptly, with no grace whatsoever, letting out a sigh.

“Poor, poor you,” you mocked in a saccharine voice. “Here you are— bound to me by gods, law, and unfortunately, the entire realm. What a tragedy for us both.”

Aerion had discovered quickly that you possessed a talent of needling him in the gentlest tone imaginable, while you, in turn, had learned that memory loss did absolutely nothing to diminish his arrogance.

“Why did you even agree to this match?” he asked bluntly one afternoon, studying you with open suspicion. “You hardly seem delighted to be my wife either.”

“Do I seem like I was granted much choice in the matter of my own marriage?” you replied coolly. “I was thrown into this game of thrones just as much as you were. Frankly, had fate been kinder, I might have married some stableboy of my own choosing instead.”

That offended him, rather greatly. Aerion leaned back in his chair with a sharp scoff.

“Ah, I see now,” he drawled coldly, “House Lannister simply could not miss the chance to be a part of the royal family.” His silver-haired head tilted slightly. “And if the dreams plaguing me are any indication, you would have become fortunate enough to sit beside me as queen consort someday.”

Your face scrunched immediately at his sheer audacity.

“If I were a smallfolk living in King’s Landing, in the most unfortunate event that you ever became heir to the Iron Throne, like you said— I would spend every waking day in terror until I finally fled to Essos.”

“You!”

Gods, you are exhausting. He felt as though he were speaking to someone perpetually prepared for battle. Only that your weapon of choice wasn’t swords but words sharpened into tiny little knives.

“You have spent five days insulting me—”

“And you have spent five days asking how you married me,” you spat defiantly. “Surely we both deserve rewards for perseverance.”

You were aggravating, forever meeting his every remark with one of your own—you were every bit the same enemy he remembered from childhood, only now draped in his colors.

Yet somehow... the moment you went strangely pale, his irritation vanished somewhat. A napkin came up to your mouth while your other hand pressed against your abdomen, fingers curling there tightly as though trying to hold yourself together.

“You look dreadful,” he said bluntly.

You shot him a glare over the napkin. “I assure you, husband, I am perfectly—” You cut yourself off suddenly, swallowing, “—fine.”

No, he thought. For the first time in five days, you looked genuinely unwell. “You are not, wench—”

“If you will excuse me,” you cut him, keeping your composure together through sheer force as you rose from your seat, “I believe I should retire.”

And with that, you gathered your skirts and left the solar with dignity, though your pace was far quicker than usual.

Aerion remained seated even as you disappeared through the doorway, his annoyance giving way to an unfamiliar feeling, because for the first time since waking without his memories—

He found himself wanting to follow after you.

. . .

You knew you had not exactly taken the gentle approach with Aerion. He reminded you too much of the insufferable brat who had made your childhood miserable, and you just—for the life of you—could not take all his offensive remarks in silence.

You rushed towards the nearest privies, before dropping beside the close stool, one hand bracing against its rim as you threw up.

Now, you are carrying his child. At the end of the day, the cold truth hit you whenever you wanted to give up on him. You could never, because you had stupidly yearned for his affections, and bore his child.

Despite yourself, another wave rolled through you unpleasantly enough that you emptied your stomach again to the stool.

You are exhausted.

Exhausted from Aerion looking at you like a stranger wearing your husband’s face. Exhausted from fencing with him endlessly just to stop yourself from feeling how deeply wrong all of this truly was.

And worst of all— exhausted from pretending his sharp words did not affect you, because they did and they cut your heart into pieces.

With every fiber of your being, you wanted the man you had fallen in love with back. Stray tears fell from your eyes as you held back a sob, and as dizziness took over you and you staggered on your feet—

“You are fucking ill, woman.”

A strong pair of arms swept you clean off your feet, and you gasped, clutching on the first thing to steady yourself, which happened to be the fabric of his doublet.

Aerion stood tall, already striding towards your chambers, his violet eyes hardened as his lips twisted into a scowl. “You have been ill this entire time and said nothing? Just how foolish could you get?”

You shut your eyes. “Aerion, put me down—”

“You could have told me, you dumb—”

“Stop insulting me, you rat!”

Aerion shot you an angry glare immediately, yet, to your surprise, he fell quiet afterwards.

You didn’t know why he listened this time, and that tender corner of your heart wept with relief, because despite his missing memories, some part of him still recognized you when you were hurt.

Will he come back? You wanted to tell him everything already. You had imagined the moment countless times in your head—how Aerion’s expression would go utterly still at first, before he would go red in the face, hiding his own excitement by putting on a prideful air how you did a good job for bearing his child—

You buried your face against his chest, fingers still clutching weakly at him, and you could feel how he tightened his hold over you.

As though fate itself had finally decided to loosen its grip on the two of you, your relationship began to improve after that day—even if only slightly.

You had managed, through several concealed threats, to force Maester Melanquin into keeping the truth from Aerion. He had looked ready to fire the poor maester on the spot when he told him you only suffered from common cold.

Who would have known he would spare you more concern since then? And on good days too, sometimes, he acted exactly like the man you remembered.

“You used to do this,” you remarked when Aerion’s arm settled at your waist, drawing you closer as the two of you crossed the crowded hall together—the perfect image of a harmonious royal couple before the court. “I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Nearly every lord and lady in this hall does the same thing,” he gruffly retorted, dismissive. “It is called common etiquette, wife.”

You glanced up at him, gaze pure and clear.

“Yes, but I could have simply taken your arm too. Half of ladies in this hall do that.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the hand resting at your waist. “You hold me out of habit.”

Aerion went quiet at that. Then he cleared his throat abruptly, pointedly refusing to dignify you with any further response as he continued guiding you through the hall.“Tragic.” Without hesitation, he reached across the table and stole the tart from your untouched plate. “You adore these things, but if you insist on wasting it, I shall graciously spare it from abandonment.”

. . .

You were right— he had done it by instinct.

Aerion had not thought before touching you. It just felt right to do it, but if asked why, he also couldn’t produce a nonchalant answer.

By all accounts, you should have been the wife he never wanted. Half his memories were missing, every surviving recollection of you involved glares, mutual irritation, and arguments in the corridors of the Red Keep, yet—

Ever since the two of you parted ways some time ago, his eyes had kept searching for you before he even consciously realized what he was doing.

Aerion concluded he just detested not having control. You irritated him endlessly, yes, but regardless, you were still his wife— so he ought to have a tight leash around you.

No sooner had he reached the lower end of the hall than he spotted his little brother’s absurdly tall knight nearly stumbling over his own feet trying to greet you.

“M-M’lady,” Ser Duncan stammered, bowing abruptly. “M-my apologies... I didn’t see—”

The poor fool turned visibly red beneath your gaze. You, meanwhile, smiled at him brightly.

“Good evening, Ser Duncan. Are you well? You seem nervous.”

“I—well—no, not nervous, m’lady, just—”

You laughed softly at that, and gods, the sound alone seemed enough to make the knight redder still.

“You look… ah… v-very lovely tonight, m’lady.” Ser Duncan visibly swallowed, meeting your eyes reluctantly.

You held back a grin. “Why, thank you, Ser Duncan. That was almost coherent.”

That buffoon of a knight looked utterly stricken, and Aerion clenched his jaw. How dare he stand there blushing at his wife like some moonstruck idiot?

Then Duncan, in all his bumbling idiocy, reached for your hand. The knight bent respectfully, pressing a courteous kiss against your knuckles in proper greeting. It was the sort of harmless gallantry performed a thousand times in court.

Aerion suddenly feel the urge to break the man’s hand. Something hot and ugly surged through him at once, so sharp that his mood soured instantly— but it was when your giggle reached his ears that the feeling worsened tenfold.

Had men always looked at you this way?

Had he always been forced to endure it?

Before either of you realized it, he had took big strides and placed himself next to you.

“Kneel lower, you oaf.”

You turned towards him in visible surprise.

Duncan looked utterly bewildered. “Your Grace...?”

“If you insist on embarrassing yourself before my wife,” Aerion drawled coldly, “you may as well commit to it properly.”

“Aerion!” You scolded with a frown, before turning to the knight before you. “Don’t mind him, Ser Duncan. You may rise.”

Meanwhile, Aerion’s hand had already settled possessively against the small of your back as he observed how the commoner got back to his feet—only for the prince to realize, with visible irritation, that Duncan stood a full head taller than him—before he continued with complete seriousness:

“Stop breathing directly in her direction. You are enormous.”

“Uh, should I... not breathe?”

“Seven hells, Aerion!” you hissed beneath your breath, mortified.

Aerion clicked his tongue, though the moment you leveled a sharp glare at him, he merely huffed like an irritated twat denied a fight.

Meanwhile, Duncan stood there looking genuinely troubled, seriously considering how his breathing had somehow become offensive. The knight also could not help but wonder how someone as sweet as you had ended up married to someone like him.

“No worries, m’lady. I... I can stand farther away to breathe, then.”

“...”

“I can... right?”

Days slipped by and still, Aerion had yet to regain his memories.

Before you fully realized it, two moons had passed since the accident, and your condition was becoming harder to conceal.

No matter how often you layered silks and draped cloaks around yourself, the slight swell of your abdomen had begun to show, and it wouldn’t be long before you could no longer cover it.

His child in you, the thought alone made your chest ache sometimes. As of now, the ones who were aware of this were the maester and your personal maids. Until when you should keep this from him and the others?

Aerion still made insufferable remarks with alarming consistency, and you still answered half of them with cutting sweetness. But the small blessing was, increasingly, there were moments where he behaved so much like his former self, and that gave you hope.

. . .

The more time he spent with you, the more Aerion found himself settling into your company.

Now he knew the exact expression you made whenever you were cross. He knew when you were genuinely irritated versus when you were merely pretending to be offended for the sake of argument. He knew the way your eyes brightened whenever something delighted you, and how that same light dimmed whenever you were unwell.

And lately...

“You look constantly ill these days,” Aerion remarked as the two of you walked through the gardens of Summerhall. “What precisely ails you? Why do you refuse to improve?”

You shot him a flat look. “You know, most husbands would say their wives look unwell and would find ways to help them get better.”

“Most husbands are compulsive liars. I am pious and honest,” he sneered, his violet eyes crinkling.

You rolled your eyes towards the heavens. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Aerion knew that for a fact that you were rather fond of him. After all, he wasn’t an inexperienced man— what he did not know was what that made him.

Had the man he used to be also been fond of you too? Enough for him to notice if you were feigning good health?

“You are avoiding the question,” he noted with a frown. “What are you hiding? Do you have some illness I don’t know about?”

“No,” you balked, turning to him. “Why are you being annoyingly observant lately? Have you found life dreadfully boring since losing your memories that you find joy in fussing over me?”

“Hah. The prissy little lady I spent half my life quarreling with happens to be my wife. I am obligated to look after her if I intend to play the role of husband properly, am I not?”

You let out an unimpressed, mocking hum. “How noble of you. Thank you for your service.”

“Besides,” he added dismissively, “if I seek excitement, I can find it elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“My whores, for instance.”

His words struck you so abruptly that your steps faltered. Aerion glanced down at you, seemingly satisfied to render you speechless. “Men whore, that’s a fact.”

He had meant it half as a jest, but something in your expression had changed.

“I suddenly feel rather tired,” you continued after a moment, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If you will excuse me, I believe I should retire early.”

Without waiting for permission, you stepped past him, but Aerion instinctively caught your wrist before you could move farther away.

“You haven’t answered me,” he hissed.

You met his eyes, unflinching, “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to, husband. Go and find one of your whores instead and make her do your bidding.”

With that, you wrenched yourself from his grasp and stalked towards your bedchambers, and for a moment, Aerion was still on his tracks.

He wanted to go after you, to demand more explanation because you couldn’t just brazenly leave him, but your words rang in his ears, as if he had heard if before—

Then go find one of your whores instead!

For days afterwards, you avoided him. Far from subtly.

You vanished from chambers moments before he entered them. Afternoon teas in the solar ceased entirely under excuses of exhaustion. Servants informed him you had already retired whenever he asked after you.

Aerion felt his irritation mounting with every passing day. It must be his comment about whores, but why did it offend you so? He hadn’t even planned to go through with it!

Not when whores look so dull compared than you. They don’t have your fiery charm, or the sweetness of your face. Something about you was as hard as an iron, but Aerion sometimes thought it was endearing.

Enough of this. He would have order. If you intended to avoid him like some offended little ghost haunting Summerhall, then he would simply drag answers out of you directly.

But before he reached the doors to your chambers, voices stopped him.

Three maids stood just beyond the corridor archway carrying folded linens, too occupied with their conversation to notice the prince approaching.

“…poor thing’s barely left bed these past days,” the older one whispered sympathetically.

“The lady looked so pale this morning,” another sighed. “I thought she might faint again.”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately.

“She only insisted on coming out today because she did not wish to raise suspicion,” the third maid murmured. “Though honestly, I pity her...”

The first maid nodded sadly. “The fourth moon already too… and His Grace still does not even know she is carrying his child.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. The three women froze, and slowly, they turned—

Aerion stood behind them, towering and terrifyingly still, his expression drained of color.

“She is carrying... what?”

You cursed the fact that your body had always been of weak constitution. You never recovered from illness easily, and carrying a child only seemed to worsen every ache and every wave of exhaustion settling into your bones.

Which was why you had hidden yourself away in the library that afternoon, seeking silence and peace amongst dusty shelves and books. But somehow or another—

My whores, for instance.

You pressed a hand tiredly against your eyes. How did you manage to get your heart broken over your enemy-turned-husband again for the nth time?

The Aerion before the accident had once looked you dead in the eyes and promised he would never seek comfort in whores again, but this Aerion did not remember any of that. You should have understood he probably only said that to get a reaction out of you, but still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear at the slightest.

Before you could dwell on it further, the library doors suddenly burst open with enough force to slam loudly against the stone wall and you were startled.

Aerion strode inside at once, breathing raggedly as though he had searched half the castle for you.

“There you are—”

His violet eyes were wild, almost furious, and for one startled moment you could only stare at him in confusion as he crossed the room in long, determined strides.

“How could you?” he demanded, catching your arm in a tight hold. “Hells, you are a madwoman.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How could you not tell me?” His voice cracked with something between anger and disbelief, though still low. “You are carrying my child and said nothing to me?”

Your stomach dropped instantly. “How did you—”

“Find out?” Aerion barked a sharp laugh. “Apparently the help in this castle knows and the child’s own father does not.”

You stared at him silently for a moment before your expression hardened.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When? After you birthed the damn babe?”

Despite yourself, irritation sparked hotly through your chest.

“Oh, forgive me for not rushing to share the news with the husband who so easily informed me he could return to his whores whenever he pleased,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Had you not been foolish enough to get yourself whacked in the head and lose half your memories, perhaps I would have told you sooner.”

Aerion looked almost stricken for half a heartbeat, and you took your chance to get away from him.

Unfortunately, your skirts caught beneath your heel.

Your breath caught sharply as your footing slid across the polished floor, the world tilting around you while your body lurched dangerously towards the stone fireplace nearby.

But Aerion moved before you could crash into it.

He lunged forward immediately, catching you firmly around the waist and hauling you hard against his chest. The force of it sent both of you stumbling sideways together. Your shoulder collided painfully against the edge of a bookshelf—

And Aerion’s head slammed hard against the heavy wooden corner.

For one terrible heartbeat, his grip around you tightened reflexively, as though making certain you were still safe against him, before his body sagged and the two of you tumbled to the floor.

“Aerion...?”

His eyes lost focus immediately— and before you could properly steady either of you, the prince collapsed against you, unconscious.

In the span of a single day, Summerhall descended into absolute chaos.

First came the panic of its most troublesome prince rendered unconscious after striking his head for the second time. Servants ran through corridors in terror, Maester Melanquin was nearly trampled in the confusion, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Prince Maekar had reportedly declared that if Aerion survived this only to lose his remaining memories, he would personally lock his son inside a tower.

Then came the second revelation— you were with child. The maids whispered excitedly through the halls, and Ser Duncan nearly choked on his beef stew after hearing the news.

Meanwhile, you remained seated beside Aerion’s bed, trying your best to keep it together. Guilt gnawed viciously at your chest, remembering how he shielded you from that fall.

Because even in anger—even confused and not fully himself—his first instinct had still been to save you.

The hours stretched unbearably. You must have prayed to every god known to man by the time the third hour passed, and you were almost asleep when a low groan broke the silence.

Aerion shifted faintly against the pillows, brows furrowing before his violet eyes slowly opened.

For one dreadful heartbeat, you could barely breathe when his gaze settled on you. “Aerion…?”

It took him several seconds, but you would never have expected... his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Missed me, wife?”

You stared at him in utter shock. Is he...? Has his—

After two and half moons, the familiar cruel glint finally appeared in your husband’s violet eyes that made him look more like gods rather than human. This expression belonged only to your Aerion.

The boy who had once been your greatest torment in childhood, but also the man who had grown fiercely fond of you despite himself. The same man who would spill blood without hesitation for anyone foolish enough to dishonor you.

Aerion blinked at your stunned expression before the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly with amusement.

“What?” he drawled lazily. “Yes, I’ve returned.”

A broken sound escaped your throat before you threw yourself towards him without another thought, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as relief crashed over you so violently it made your entire body tremble.

Aerion let out a quiet grunt from the force of it, but his arms immediately came around you in return, holding you just as tightly against him. And then, in his typical velvety voice, he murmured against your hair:

“And I shall continue making your life a little hell, wife.”

A watery laugh escaped you despite the tears burning your eyes. Gods, he is so, so, so incredibly and fucking insufferable.

As a child of five, you would say marrying Aerion Targaryen would ruin your life entirely, but now... as he held you against his heart—

You found yourself overwhelmingly grateful that it had been him.

He was mystified himself, how could he ever go through days and nights without you near?

Several nights after he regained his memories and you were well enough, his lips finally found yours within the privacy of your marital chambers.

“There you are,” he murmured roughly, sucking off your lips as he balanced you on his lap—his sweet wife who was enticingly dressed in sensual nightgown. “Gods, you looked at me these past months as though I had died.”

“You did,” you retorted, clutching his bare shoulder. “You forgot me.”

Aerion kissed you again before you could say another word, slower this time, but no less intense. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently when a tear slipped free.

“I did not forget you entirely.” He eyed you like a predator to prey, his tone deliciously low. “Some part of me kept finding my way back to you.”

Your fingers curled into his skin as you pulled him into your ravenous kiss, brushing yourself against his crotch.

Aerion made a low sound against your mouth before breaking the kiss and pulling you closer still, carefully this time—as his cool palm settled instinctively against your abdomen, feeling the gentle swell of the child growing within you.

“…You are carrying my son,” he said quietly, as though the reality had only just struck him fully, meeting your eyes.

You huffed softly. “It could very well be a daughter.”

“A son.” Your husband frowned at you and you pursed your lips. “Foolish woman, you should have told me.”

He tilted your face and devoured your lips again, his hands wandering your skin, caressing you, making you sigh and moan—

You wrapped your legs around his waist and melted helplessly into his touch, into the familiar heat of his kisses that you had missed so desperately these past moons.

Before long, he eased you carefully onto the bed beneath him, one hand braced beside your head while the other tilted your chin upward so you could do nothing but look at him.

For a while, he simply stared at you. The candlelight softened the harsh edges of his face, though nothing could truly dull the intensity in those violet eyes as they traced every feature of yours like he was memorizing them anew.

“If I should ever forget you again,” Aerion murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek, “then make me remember. Don’t hide from me and drag me with you if you must. Make me remember you.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the words, though you still lifted your chin at him with stubborn defiance.

“How about you learn not to forget me in the first place?”

Aerion huffed out a soft laugh beneath his breath.

“My poor wife,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, the teasing rasp of his voice sent heat blooming beneath your skin. “I suppose I shall spend tonight properly atoning for that offense.”

And fortunately for you, Aerion Brightfire was a man who took his words very seriously.

He was prideful beyond reason, occasionally nonsensical, and possessed the temperament of a dragon—but there was no swaying him once he set his mind upon something, which meant that, for the foreseeable future, he would watch over you with a keener eye than most until the day you birthed his child.

Though that, perhaps, was a story meant for another time.

For now, you were simply content savoring these quiet nights— nights where, at long last, your prince was back in your arms.

tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3

[80sthingss]

when i finally find a fic thats so accurate i re-read it every chance i get

[graywrenhart]

FATAL ATTRACTION

| Draco Malfoy x f!Reader

summary: On the verge of failing Potions thanks to your idiotic lab partner and Quidditch rival Draco Malfoy, the two of you are forced to sneak into the greenhouse at night for a final ingredient, only to stumble into some strange plants along the way.

tags: 18+ MDNI, [sex pollen] [enemies to lovers] [quidditch rivals] [eighth-year at hogwarts] [mutual masturbation] [dubcon but only because it's sex pollen lol ] [oral sex] [malfoy whimpers] [hate sex] [switchy] [penetrative sex] [multiple orgasms]

author's note: It felt weird not writing Draco & Snitch from Lessons in Losing, but i hope you like Nineteen :) Title is inspired by the song Fatal Attraction by Reed Wonder. 9k words

“This is a terrible idea,” you hiss, rounding the corner toward the side exit of the castle.

Draco scoffs. “Like you have a better one.”

While he draws his wand from his robes, you cast another wary glance over your shoulder. The hallway is empty behind you, lit with dim floating candles. The castle sleeps, blissfully unaware of the plans you and your Quidditch rival have in store tonight.

Sadly, you don't. Have a better plan, that is. So that's why you're out after curfew, dodging prefects and paintings like it's your full-time job.

"There's just got to be another way," you sigh, checking behind you again.

"There's not. Unless you count failing an option. You want to fail tomorrow, Nineteen?”

Draco Malfoy has never called you by your real name—only your Quidditch number. Because that’s all you are to him. Not a person. Just an obstacle on the pitch. But you know the truth: you’re the only Seeker in the entire school who gives him a run for his money.

“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”

“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”

You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Prick.

You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.

And why should he care?

It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.

The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.

You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.

He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”

“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”

“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.

You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.

“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.

You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”

“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”

You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”

Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.

That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.

Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.

He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.

“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.

You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.

Blame him.

Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.

“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.

Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.

You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”

He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”

He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—

You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.

You’ve never really understood it.

The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.

The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.

There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.

The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.

But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.

All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.

Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.

You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”

He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.

“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.

“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”

He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.

“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.

By moonlight reveal.

Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.

As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.

Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.

Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even. 

You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.

You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.

“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.

He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.

These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.

As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.

You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.

But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.

“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.

His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.

Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.

Draco frowns. “Thief.”

You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.

It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.

When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.

“I’m doing it,” you say.

“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”

Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”

“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”

You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”

“I—yes! I know more than—”

“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”

Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”

Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.

Push, pull, counter, strike.

You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.

The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.

“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.

You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”

With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.

You grin. “Got it.”

Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.

“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.

He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.

His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.

You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.

“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.

“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”

Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”

“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”

His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”

He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”

To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.

It’s…silent.

Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.

He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.

You know exactly what that is.

The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.

Sex pollen.

You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.

“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.

But it’s too late.

Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.

Shit.

“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”

The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.

One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.

You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.

“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.

Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”

“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”

The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.

“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.

You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.

Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.

“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”

“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”

“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.

He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.

Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.

“Sex?” he sneers.

“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”

“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”

“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.

“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”

Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.

You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”

Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”

“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.

“It’s…what?”

You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.

Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.

That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

Unless you give in.

Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.

You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.

There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.

Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.

There’s only one answer. You have to escape.

Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.

Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.

It only takes a second to form a plan.

Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.

But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.

Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.

“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”

“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.

You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.

You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?

You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.

“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”

“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.

“Trust me, Malfoy.”

That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.

“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”

Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.

“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”

“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.

Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.

He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”

“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”

“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”

You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”

He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”

His eyes narrow. “Your point?”

“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”

Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.

Stupid fucking pollen.

You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”

A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.

“Fine,” he agrees.

That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.

It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.

A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.

It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.

And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…

No other reason. Right?

You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.

You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—

Your lips meet his.

Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.

He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.

At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.

Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.

You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.

Merlin, he’s gorgeous.

His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.

You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.

It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.

His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.

You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.

“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”

And you’re back to square one.

“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”

“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”

Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.

Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.

But none of it did a thing.

Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.

You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.

Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.

Bastard.

His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.

No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.

Shit.

Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—

“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m not thinking anything—”

“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”

Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.

“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”

Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.

“Is that right?”

His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.

Not that you would ever tell him, of course.

“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours.  “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”

You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”

He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”

Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.

It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you do.

Badly.

You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.

Snap out of it.

“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.

Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”

But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.

You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”

“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”

You try to stay quiet. You really do.

But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.

Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.

Not that you’ve been watching.

“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”

Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”

“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.

“No.”

“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”

You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.

“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”

You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.

You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.

The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.

You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.

He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.

His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.

Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.

After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.

The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.

You need water. No—not water.

You need him.

It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.

“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.

Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.

“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.

You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”

“Well, think harder.”

You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”

His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.

In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.

When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…

Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.

Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.

You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.

But that feels impossible.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.

Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—

“Nineteen.”

Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.

You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting  and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.

“Tell me,” he says firmly.

You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.

“W-what?” you rasp.

“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”

Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.

You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.

Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.

But he must see it.

Because, he just says, “Fuck.”

His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.

Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.

But right now—he’s not walking.

He’s crawling.

Towards you.

“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.

Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.

The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.

Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.

In fact, it is.

Frightening.

“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.

He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.

“Say it again.”

You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.

Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—

It scares you how much.

But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.

“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”

“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in.  “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”

The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.

The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.

But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.

Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.

You frown. “Dra—what?”

He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall.  “Don’t come closer.”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.

Breed.

Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”

Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?

Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—

You can’t even finish that thought.

You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.

“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?

This situation is probably his worst nightmare.

Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.

Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.

You can only imagine what you look like.

Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.

“Then don’t,” you murmur.

Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.

He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”

He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.

Carefully, you settle into his lap.

He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure. 

You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.

“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”

“What? So smart?”

“You wish.”

The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.

You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning. 

You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.

“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.

Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.

You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.

You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.

This is your rival.

For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.

And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.

His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing. 

The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.

You nod frantically, clenching around him.

In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.

He’s not fairing much better.

He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.

Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.

You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.

Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”

You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.

“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”

That does it.

Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.

Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”

“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”

He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.

The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.

Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.

You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.

“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”

He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.

“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.

You don’t let him finish.

You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you.  But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.

So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.

“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”

He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”

You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.

“Say it again.”

dividers by @/bbyg4rlhelps | draco masterlist

taglist: @m00cow2000, @annonymoose, @poopoocacapepr, @witheringwidgetwrites, @stressedoutsteph,

@skankhvnt42, @afterhoursangell, @madimcg14, @virocci, @sprinkles260, @vroomvroom0481

@kimberlyxmalfoy, @aaaaslaaaan, @cthood, @ch0rdsunfl0wer, @hugsforbyler,

[redheadedflag]

me when im on "x reader tag" looking for fics at 3 am BUT all i find is memes and all the funny posts under the world EXCEPT the fics abt the character :

[rottenherbs]

Burning Bright, Burning Slow

✧.* : D.M x childhood friend(?)! Reader ✎ : A love bloomed over time. A childhood of misguided feelings, two witty Slytherins and years of pent up tension. Could she love the one she grew to dislike the most? 𖦹 : 5.7k A/N: literally obsessed. I got a request for childhood friends family acquaintances and took it in stride. Im going to start tagging folks for their requests and i hope that's alright! I want to make sure that you get notifieid even faster when your post goes up Requested: @ashdreams2023 [masterlist] Much Love, Saige ϟ taglist ϟ : @littlemadamred @falsedivide @damagedbreign

The first time you met Draco Malfoy, he was holding a toy broomstick like it was the crown jewel of the wizarding world.

You were six, and he was nearly seven. Your parents had just arrived at Malfoy Manor for yet another social visit — more of a performance, really. Every week, it seemed, they found some excuse to come grovel before Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. You were merely the accessory child, dressed in your finest; hair brushed so tightly back your scalp ached, robes stiff with starch, and a smile trained like a charm that never quite reached your eyes.

“Go on, darling,” your mother whispered with a sharp nudge. “Play with Draco.”

You obeyed, because obedience was your safest weapon in a world ruled by image and influence. But you didn’t want to play. Not with him.

Draco was everything you weren’t allowed to be; loud, bossy, and adored for it. He had this smug grin on his face as he zipped around the wide, manicured lawn, casting shadows against the ivory walls of the estate. You stood still in the grass, shoes polished and heavy, arms folded tightly across your chest.

“You don’t fly?” he asked, hovering near you with a practiced ease. There wasn’t judgment in his voice, just curiosity, the kind that felt more like a poke in the ribs than an invitation.

“I’m not allowed,” you answered simply.

That seemed to throw him. “Why?”

Because flying’s a reward. And rewards are for perfect little puppets who never raise their voices or speak out of turn.

“My parents don’t want me to get hurt.”

Draco tilted his head, blond hair catching the sun like spun silver. “Mine said it builds character.” He landed beside you, broom in hand. “Want to try mine?”

You glanced over to the terrace where your mother and Narcissa sipped tea. Your mother gave you a tight, warning smile — like she was begging you to be impressive, just this once.

So you nodded, stepping forward like a girl walking a plank.

Draco grinned like he’d won something. “Here,” he said, holding it out with both hands. “Just don’t crash it. Father hates scuffs.”

It was the first of many times Draco would offer you something shiny and be baffled when you didn’t seem grateful.

That was the thing about being raised near the Malfoys. You weren’t one of them… but you orbited them, expected to glow in their reflected light. You were the well-mannered daughter of the family desperate to be accepted, constantly praised for being quiet and polite, but never quite enough.

And Draco? He was the sun.

People turned to watch him wherever he went. You watched too, of course, but not in awe. Not even in admiration.

In resentment.

It wasn’t that Draco was cruel to you. In fact, he was oddly attentive. When your mothers met up for tea, he’d find his way to you. When your fathers discussed Ministry gossip and bloodline purity, he’d tug you away to explore the estate. When the grownups praised his accomplishments, he’d glance sideways — at you, as if waiting for your reaction.

You never gave him one.

He didn’t understand it; why the girl who was always there never seemed impressed.

You didn’t understand either; why he cared so much.

One summer afternoon, you were perched in the Malfoy library with a book twice your size, legs dangling off the edge of a velvet chair. Draco entered noisily, holding a box of Sugar Quills like a trophy.

“Want one?” he offered, shaking the box in your direction.

“No,” you said without looking up.

He blinked. “They’re the good ones. The kind Mother gets from France.”

“I said no.”

He hovered by your chair like a confused puppy, then sat cross-legged on the carpet beside you. “You’re always reading.”

You finally lowered the book. “And you’re always interrupting.”

That earned you a scowl, but only for a second. Then he tilted his head. “You’re mean sometimes.”

You shrugged. “You’re spoiled all the time.”

The room went quiet, the way it only did when two pureblood children were honest without permission.

Draco didn’t retaliate, which surprised you. He just studied you with narrowed eyes and murmured, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

You didn’t answer. Not directly. You turned back to your book and said softly, “You don’t have to be liked to be noticed.”

And Draco Malfoy noticed you. More than you wanted. More than you admitted.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

You had never been more relieved to leave a place than you were when the Hogwarts Express pulled out of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

The Manor, the expectations, the dull tea visits with Narcissa, the tight-lipped smiles from your mother as she reminded you for the hundredth time to speak eloquently, smile when spoken to, and don’t slouch, all of it faded as the train took off toward something bigger.

And maybe, just maybe, you could be someone other than her, the girl who existed in Draco Malfoy’s shadow.

But of course, he found you within ten minutes of boarding.

“There you are,” he said, stepping into your compartment like he owned it. “I thought you'd be in with the others.”

You didn’t bother to ask who "the others" were. Probably Blaise, maybe Nott, maybe that idiot Crabbe already elbow-deep in sweets. All of them orbiting Draco like bees to honey.

“I’m fine here,” you replied, eyes fixed out the window, forehead gently pressed to the cool glass.

Draco stood in the doorway longer than necessary before sliding the door shut behind him and sitting across from you.

You glanced at him briefly. His robes were perfectly fitted, his silver-trimmed trunks polished and pristine. Of course they were.

“Excited?” he asked.

You shrugged. “It’s school.”

“It’s Hogwarts,” he corrected. “It’s not just school. It’s where our names matter. Where things start.”

You turned back to the window. “Some of us would rather just learn something.”

Draco scoffed. “You sound like Granger. You haven’t even met her yet, and I can already tell you’d get along.”

You didn’t know who Granger was, but you filed away the insult.

Draco stayed in your compartment until lunch. He talked almost the entire time—about the castle, about Quidditch, about his father’s connections. You answered when necessary but never offered anything personal. It wasn’t just that he talked too much, it was that he always seemed to be performing. Like even here, before the term started, he was trying to impress you.

You weren’t sure why he bothered. He already had the rest of the world.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

You sat next to him at the Slytherin table during the Sorting. Of course you were both Sorted there; pureblood pedigree all but ensured it.

When the Sorting Hat had dropped over your head, it only took seconds.

Slytherin, it had hissed in your ear. Oh yes. Clever. Observant. Not fond of playing second fiddle, are you? Yes… you know what you want, even if you won’t admit it yet.

You opened your eyes to see Draco watching you, almost smugly, like your placement was some kind of victory.

As if you belonged to him now.

You sat beside him only because it was the easiest option. But still, you noticed how his shoulder bumped yours slightly as he leaned to talk to Blaise. You noticed how he turned his attention back to you between bites, trying to get your opinion on every little thing, the food, the ceiling charm, the Gryffindors.

“You think Potter’s going to be in our year?” he asked, eyes sharp.

You blinked. “Potter?”

Draco nodded. “Harry Potter. He’s supposed to be starting this year too. My father says—”

“Your father says a lot of things,” you murmured into your goblet.

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t argue. He just watched you with that same unreadable look, like he was trying to figure out where the wall between you was hiding.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

Classes began. And so did the whispers.

You weren’t best in class, but you were never far behind. You noticed how Draco’s eyes followed you during Potions when you corrected a misstep in the instructions. You noticed how his lips curled downward when you answered questions before he could.

He was clever — sharper than he let most people see — but he hated losing. Especially to you.

And yet, he still waited for you outside History of Magic. Still left a spot beside him in the common room. Still pretended not to glance over when you laughed at something Blaise said instead.

One evening, late September, you found yourself alone in the common room reading by the fire. Everyone else had gone to bed. Except for Draco, who emerged from the stairwell and froze at the sight of you.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, rubbing at one eye.

“I thought you’d be with Crabbe and Goyle snoring up the dormitory.”

He ignored your jab and sat across from you.

The firelight softened the angles of his face. For once, he wasn’t talking. Just… watching you.

“You don’t like me much,” he said finally.

The silence broke like glass.

You looked up slowly. “You’ve said that before.”

“Because it’s still true.”

You closed your book. “Why does it bother you so much?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brows pulled together.

“Because,” he said softly, “you’re the only person who doesn’t pretend around me.”

You stared at him, unsure what you were supposed to say. And maybe he didn’t expect you to say anything at all.

He stood up, glanced toward the dormitory, then back at you. “Goodnight.”

When he disappeared up the stairs, you realized your heart was beating just a bit faster than it had before.

You hated that.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

By third year, you’d mastered the art of ignoring Draco Malfoy.

He had grown taller. His voice deeper, smoother, his presence sharper, like a dagger disguised in silk. But he was still Draco, still arrogant, still entitled, still obsessed with being the loudest in the room.

And still, somehow, obsessed with you.

He wouldn’t admit it, of course, not openly. That would mean admitting you got under his skin, and Draco Malfoy didn’t do vulnerability. Instead, it came out in snide remarks when you spoke to other boys, in his voice rising slightly when he noticed you laughing with someone else, in the way he always ended up sitting near you in shared classes, like proximity might win what effort hadn’t.

You’d never said the words out loud, not even to yourself, but part of you knew. He liked you.

And you hated that it made your chest feel warm.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

It started again in Care of Magical Creatures.

Hagrid had just introduced you all to hippogriffs, and your group of Slytherins stood at a distance, watching the creature paw at the earth with dangerous grace. You stood with Pansy, arms crossed, only half-listening.

“Malfoy, why don’t you step up first?” Hagrid asked.

Draco smirked, brushing invisible dust off his robes. “Sure. Looks easy enough.”

You rolled your eyes. “You should bow first, you idiot.”

He turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Thanks, professor.”

You gave him a lazy smile. “Just don’t get mauled. I’d hate to lose the entertainment.”

Pansy snorted beside you. Draco’s expression twitched, but he bowed, eyes flicking back to you as the hippogriff assessed him.

When it bowed in return and allowed him to approach, you saw the triumphant glance he threw your way before he climbed on. Like everything he did had to be for your benefit.

Later, when you stepped forward and the hippogriff bowed to you even quicker than it had to him, Draco made a sound under his breath.

“You’re just jealous,” you said without turning.

“Of a magical chicken? Hardly.”

“Jealous of me,” you said, walking away.

You didn’t see his jaw clench, but you felt it like a ripple in the air.

Draco found ways to linger near you after that.

In Potions, he chose the station behind yours. In Defense, he always had something to say when you answered a question; never rude, but always a challenge. At meals, he slid into the seat across from you if there was an opening, even if he had to ignore Pansy’s scowl to do it.

“Do you ever get tired of hovering?” you asked once, biting into a slice of apple.

Draco didn’t look up from buttering his toast. “Do you ever get tired of pretending you don’t like the attention?”

You froze, the apple slice halfway to your mouth. His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked to you with the same fire they always held when he was trying to get a reaction.

And maybe — just for a second — you gave him one.

You stood and left without a word, heart pounding.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The library became your refuge after that.

It always had been, in truth, but now it was more than that. The long shelves and quiet corners gave you space to think, to breathe, to not feel like Draco was always watching you. You took comfort in the weight of books, the smell of parchment, the soothing scratch of a quill.

One evening, well into October, you were buried in a stack of books for your Charms essay when a shadow fell across the table.

You didn’t have to look up.

“You’ve got to be joking,” you muttered. “This is sacred space, Malfoy.”

“I need this book,” he said, fingers grazing the spine of the one beside you.

You slid it across the table. “Take it. Leave.”

He didn’t move.

When you finally looked up, he was already staring at you.

“What?” you snapped.

Draco tilted his head, pale hair falling into his eyes. “Why do you hate me so much?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m being serious,” he said, voice quieter now, more steady. “I’ve known you since we were toddlers. You’ve never liked me. Even when I tried—”

“You always tried,” you interrupted, voice low and sharp. “You tried to show off. You tried to win. You tried to be better. You tried to steal every room, every breath, like you were owed it. You don’t get it, do you? I was always the backup. The extra. Your parents liked me because mine worshipped yours. But I wasn’t you. I was just… near you.”

Draco looked stunned. For once, he had no retort.

You weren’t sure where the words came from, only that they’d been living inside you for too long.

The silence stretched.

Finally, he said, “I never saw you as an extra.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he added. “But I always thought you were better than me. Smarter. Stronger. You just didn’t want to be seen.”

You stared at him, pulse hammering.

He took the book. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t gloat.

Just left.

And you hated that, hours later, when the library was empty and your candle burned low, you kept replaying his voice in your head.

I never saw you as an extra.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

You’d told yourself it didn’t matter.

The Yule Ball was just a dance—one night, one event, nothing special. You weren’t a romantic, not really. You didn’t dream of floating gowns or candlelit waltzes or being asked with roses and trembling hands.

But you had dreamed of going with him.

Draco Malfoy, of all people.

It disgusted you.

It thrilled you.

And it tore you in two.

Because he hadn’t asked. And neither had you.

It was early December when you realized you were waiting.

Waiting for him to say something, anything. A question muttered under his breath, an offhand comment, a sarcastic invitation that masked sincerity underneath.

But nothing came.

He still watched you. In classes, in hallways, across the Great Hall. He still found excuses to sit near you, to pair up when possible, to meet your gaze for a second too long.

But the words didn’t come. And so, with a stomach full of something that felt like bitterness, you said yes to someone else.

He was nice. Quiet. A Ravenclaw in your Charms elective. You barely remembered his name—Theo, or maybe Tim—but he had kind eyes and asked with a kind voice. You’d said yes just to prove that you could.

You told yourself Draco wouldn’t care.

You were wrong.

When you told Pansy, loud enough for him to hear, you caught the flicker of emotion in his expression. The way his jaw shifted. The pause before he spoke.

“Oh,” he said coolly, as if your words bored him. “Didn’t realize your standards had dropped so low.”

You blinked. “Didn’t realize you had the authority to set them.”

He sneered. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a dance.”

You turned. “Exactly. And yet here you are..making it one.”

Later that day, you heard through the whisper vine that Draco had asked someone too. Astoria Greengrass.

You didn’t care.

You didn’t.

The night of the Yule Ball, the castle glittered.

Fairy lights shimmered across the ceilings, frost curled on the stone archways like a spell. The air smelled of pine and magic and anticipation. Your dress robes were midnight blue, elegant and quiet, chosen not to stand out but to suit you.

You looked in the mirror and wondered, briefly, if he would notice.

You hoped he wouldn’t.

You hoped he would.

Theo, definitely Theo, was polite and charming, guiding you through introductions and conversations with practiced ease. He complimented your dress, asked if you wanted punch, and didn’t seem to mind when your eyes kept drifting toward the Slytherin table.

Draco had arrived minutes after you. He wore black and silver, hair perfectly slicked back, posture as sharp as ever. Astoria clung to his arm like a vine on a crumbling wall, talking constantly. He didn’t seem to hear a word.

Because his eyes were on you.

From across the room, over shoulders and chandeliers and a hundred drifting snowflake charms, he watched you.

He looked—

Furious.

Longing.

Trapped.

The dancing began. You moved stiffly at first, uncertain on your feet, distracted. Theo led well, but your heart wasn’t in it. Your eyes flicked to Draco again and again.

He wasn’t dancing. Just standing at the edge of the floor, lips tight, arms folded, watching Astoria talk to someone else.

He should’ve asked you.

He should’ve asked you.

After the second dance, you stepped away.

You needed air, or silence, or just not to be seen.

Theo offered to follow, but you waved him off kindly. “Just a moment. I’ll be right back.”

But you didn’t come back. You walked through the arched exit, past the flurries floating in the corridor, out into the rose garden, where the snow dusted everything in white.

You exhaled, breath clouding the air.

And then you heard the door open behind you.

You didn’t turn.

“Running off on your date?” Draco’s voice was unmistakable—low, tense, almost breathless.

You braced yourself. “Better than being ignored by yours.” A beat of silence.

“He wouldn’t shut up about how pretty you looked.”

You turned slowly. Draco stood a few feet away, hair mussed from the cold, hands buried in his pockets.

“He’s not wrong,” he added, quieter.

You swallowed. “You left Astoria.”

“She’ll live.”

You watched him. “What do you want, Draco?”

His jaw worked like he was chewing on something dangerous.

“I wanted to ask you.”

You blinked. “Ask me what?”

“The damn dance.”

The snow kept falling between you, soft and slow and heavy.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked.

He took a step forward. “Because I thought you’d say no.”

“I thought you didn’t want to.”

He scoffed, voice thick. “Are you kidding? I’ve wanted to dance with you since second year. I just— I didn’t know how to—”

He broke off.

You stared at him, heart pounding, every wall you’d built slowly cracking in the frostbitten air.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered.

“I know.”

Another step.

“You’re arrogant.”

“I know.”

“You’re late.”

And still, another step. Close now.

“I know,” he said again, voice softer. “But I’m here.”

You didn’t speak. You just looked at him—Draco Malfoy, who somehow still knew how to make your chest ache just by standing too close.

His hand rose slowly, hovering beside your waist. “May I?”

You let him.

You danced under the moonlight in silence. No music. Just the sound of your breaths, the crunch of snow, the aching realization that this, this, was what you’d both wanted all along.

And finally, as he rested his forehead against yours and whispered your name like an apology, you forgave him for not asking sooner.

Because he’d found you anyway.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The war hadn’t begun yet.

Not officially. Not in the way textbooks would one day define it. But it was there — in the hushed voices outside classrooms, in the extra patrolling prefects, in the glances exchanged between professors when they thought no one was looking.

It was in the ink that spilled from Rita Skeeter’s quill, in the cold grip of Dolores Umbridge’s fake-smiling tyranny, and in the way Draco stopped meeting your eyes in the corridors.

Not at first. At first, he was bold.

After the Yule Ball, something between you had cracked wide open. You were never officially anything — no labels, no hand-holding in the halls, no declarations. Just moments.

Moments like his fingers brushing yours beneath a shared textbook. His voice low in your ear in Potions. The way he lingered after Prefect meetings, walking slowly beside you with his hands in his pockets and his eyes somewhere distant unless you spoke.

It was real. You both knew it.

But reality had a way of twisting when the world around you started to fracture.

Umbridge arrived in a haze of pink lace and venom. Her rules grew daily. Her smile shrank. Fear crept into the castle the way frost crept into windowpanes.

You became more cautious.

Draco became more distant.

He still looked for you. You caught him across classrooms, his gaze sharp and searching. But he stopped speaking to you as often in public. Stopped choosing to sit near you. When your friends asked, you shrugged and said he was busy, that it didn’t matter.

But it did.

You missed him in the most subtle ways — the ways you couldn’t admit out loud. The pauses between his jokes, the quiet nods only you understood, the way he always noticed when you were having a bad day.

And maybe… he missed you too.

It wasn’t until a particularly cold night in January that the silence broke.

You’d snuck out after curfew — not for trouble, just for air. The Astronomy Tower was your refuge, your breath visible in the chill, your hands wrapped around the stone railing like you could hold the castle still.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

You turned. Slowly. Like a dream you didn’t trust.

Draco stood in the archway, robes half-fastened, cheeks flushed from the wind.

You didn’t speak. Just watched as he crossed the space between you and stood beside you, eyes on the stars.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said quietly.

“I haven’t,” he replied, though he didn’t sound convincing.

You glanced at him, your heart a little too loud in your ears. “Then why do you only talk to me in empty corridors?”

“Because it’s safer.”

“For who?” you asked. “Me? Or you?”

Silence.

Draco leaned his arms against the railing, his hands clenched. “Things are… changing.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” he snapped, then caught himself. He sighed. “You don’t know what my parents are saying. What they’re expecting.”

You swallowed. “So you’d rather pretend nothing’s happening?”

“No,” he said, voice strained. “I just don’t want to drag you into it.”

You hesitated. “You think I’d let you protect me by pretending I don’t exist?”

His eyes met yours, and for the first time in weeks, you saw the boy who had found you in the snow. The boy who danced with you under moonlight and didn’t let go.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said quietly. “Even when I try.”

Your throat tightened. “Then stop trying.”

There was a beat — a long, painful pause where the cold wind blew and neither of you blinked.

And then he reached for you.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t practiced. Just fingers grazing yours, gently, like he was asking permission.

You gave it.

You didn’t kiss, not yet. But he rested his forehead against yours like he had before, and the world felt a little quieter for a moment. Like maybe, despite everything, you had time.

“Promise me something?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You nodded.

“When everything falls apart… don’t hate me.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you couldn’t promise that. Not yet.

But you didn’t let go.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

You knew he was lying before he even opened his mouth.

Draco had grown quieter this year. Not the same sulky silence from before—but something colder, heavier. His smiles were rare. His eyes, darker. He walked the castle like it might collapse under him at any moment.

You didn’t ask at first.

You weren’t stupid. You saw the signs: his shaking hands, the late-night absences, the way he flinched when someone said his name too loudly. Something had shifted. Something you weren’t supposed to know.

But you knew him.

And you knew he was breaking.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

It began with shadows.

At first, you only saw him in pieces. A glimpse of white-blond hair disappearing around corners. A flash of his robes slipping through the seventh-floor corridor. The soft creak of a door shutting somewhere you weren’t meant to be.

The Room of Requirement.

You found him there by accident, or maybe fate. Or maybe you were both tired of pretending you didn’t exist to each other.

You pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, cold, and empty—save for him. He stood near a covered cabinet, back turned, shoulders tight. When you said his name, he didn’t move.

But his voice cracked.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

You stepped closer. “Neither should you.”

“I mean it,” he said, finally turning. “You don’t want to know what I’m doing.”

“I already know what you’re doing,” you whispered. “You just haven’t said it out loud.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then, finally, he sank down onto a bench, head in his hands.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Draco.”

He looked up sharply. “Not with them. Not with him.”

The silence stretched between you like a wound. You stepped toward him, your voice barely above a breath.

“What did he promise you?”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You already knew.

Immortality. Power. Safety for his family. A name that wouldn't burn when the war finally came to the doorstep.

You sat beside him slowly, your knees brushing.

“Is that worth becoming someone you can’t look at in the mirror?”

His head dropped, hair falling over his eyes. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

You reached for his hand. It was shaking.

“I do,” you whispered.

He didn’t kiss you then. Not yet.

But his fingers tightened around yours like he might drown without you.

The weeks blurred after that.

You met in secret—late nights in the Room of Requirement, the Astronomy Tower, the far edges of the library where no one else wandered anymore. He never told you the full truth, but you heard it in the things he didn’t say.

Every time you touched him, it felt like holding fire.

You didn’t care.

You kissed him for the first time two weeks before the end.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t slow.

It was angry and desperate—his hands in your hair, your fingers gripping his collar, the two of you breaking open like dammed water. You pulled away breathless, trembling, afraid of what it meant.

He didn’t let you go.

And you didn’t want him to.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The night everything changed, the castle was too quiet.

The air felt charged, like a storm rolling in, low and full of warning.

You found him outside the Room of Requirement. Alone. His face pale. Eyes wide. There was blood on his cuff.

Your breath caught. “Draco.”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared at the wall like he couldn’t remember how to move.

“They’re here.”

You stepped back. “Who?”

He turned to you, and the world fell out from under your feet.

“The Death Eaters. I let them in.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

“I had to,” he said, voice hollow. “He would’ve killed my mother…my father…they said—”

“Draco, stop—” You shook your head. “You don’t have to do this—whatever this is, we can still—”

“There’s no time,” he said, stepping forward, taking your face in his hands. “I don’t know what happens next. But you can’t be here. If they find you with me— if they think you’re on my side—”

“I am on your side,” you choked.

“No,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re better than this. Better than me.”

You slapped your hands over his, holding them in place.

“I’m not leaving you.”

He stared at you; panicked, furious, heartbroken.

Then he kissed you again. Like it was the last time. Like he wanted to carve the memory into you in case you never saw him again.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

He tore away from you, breathing hard.

“Go,” he whispered. “Please.”

You didn’t want to. You wanted to scream. To drag him away. To beg him not to become what he feared.

But you turned.

You ran.

And behind you, Draco Malfoy disappeared into the dark.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

They said Hogwarts was still a school.

That was a lie.

The Great Hall was quiet now, meals eaten in silence under watchful eyes. Carrows prowled the corridors like wolves, punishing dissent, preaching obedience. Students disappeared, sometimes for hours. Sometimes for days.

You were one of the “lucky” ones, pureblood, clever, compliant on the surface. You learned to walk with your head down, to speak carefully, to hold your tongue when screams echoed from behind sealed doors.

But you were never safe.

Not really.

Especially not from yourself — or from the memory of the boy you had once kissed beneath a sky full of snow.

Draco was a ghost in these halls now.

You rarely saw him during the day. When you did, he was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, silent and sharp, his eyes rimmed with sleepless shadows. He spoke less. Smirked less. Looked tired — the kind of tired that settled in your bones and never left.

The first time your eyes met across a corridor that year, it felt like a knife and a lifeline all at once.

You didn’t speak.

You just looked.

And then passed each other like strangers with matching scars.

They made you practice the Cruciatus Curse in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Carrow sneered as you hesitated. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

You looked at the shaking student across from you; a third year. Barely twelve. His wand was trembling.

“I can’t,” you said quietly.

“You can,” Carrow snapped, voice like rot. “And you will.”

A voice cut through the silence.

“She won’t.”

The whole class turned.

Draco stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes like steel. “She’s not your puppet.”

Carrows smile twisted. “Ah. So the Malfoy boy’s found his spine.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “She’s better than this.”

You didn’t know what you were more shocked by — his words, or the fact that he said them out loud.

Carrow gave you both detention.

You didn’t care.

It was nearly midnight when he found you outside the Astronomy Tower again.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just stared at the sky, wondering if the stars would still exist after this war.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

You turned, finally. “For what?”

“For everything,” he whispered. “For not asking you sooner. For not fighting harder. For not running when I should have. For letting this place become what it is.”

You stepped closer, fingers aching to touch him. “I don’t need apologies, Draco. I need you.”

He swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t want me.”

“But I do,” you said, voice cracking. “I always have.”

There was silence.

Then he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

This time, it wasn’t angry. It wasn’t desperate. It was real.

He cupped your face like you might shatter. You held him like he already had.

And when he pulled away, breathing fast, you saw the tears he hadn’t let fall all year.

“I don’t know how this ends,” he said. “I don’t know if I make it out. If we do.”

You brushed your thumb over his jaw. “Then we hold on until we can’t.”

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The final weeks were chaos.

Whispers of rebellion. Dumbledore’s Army returning from the shadows. Students sneaking supplies through broken walls and secret passages. Hope clung to the air like smoke, thin, dangerous, but still there.

You and Draco didn’t talk during the day. Didn’t meet eyes in front of others. But at night, he’d find you. Just for a moment. Just long enough to remind himself he hadn’t lost everything.

On the night the battle began, you met in the dungeon corridor—silent, hearts thudding in sync.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “You have to go. Fight with them.”

“I want to fight with you.”

“You can’t,” he said, voice breaking. “You don’t understand. I’ve done things. I’ve stood beside monsters. They’ll never trust me.”

“I do.”

He kissed your forehead. “That’s what terrifies me.”

A voice called from the hall. You turned, the war already roaring to life beyond the walls.

You looked back at him—your Draco, your fire, your undoing.

“I’ll find you when it’s over,” you promised.

His eyes held everything he couldn’t say.

“I’ll wait.”

[boyloveisnteasy]

'CAUSE YOU CAN BE THE BEAUTY & I COULD BE THE MONSTER ˎˊ˗

synopsis. aerion targaryen — a possible heir to the throne, the son of the crown prince and grandson of the king — had fallen ill with an unknown fever. maesters who had served for years could not handle it, none of them found a cure, and his uncle decided to turn to you, a young healer from distant lands.

pairing. aerion x healer! reader

.✦ contains. kinda enemies to lovers but not really, misogyny, slight jealousy, reader is from the house mullendore.

a/n. pics are for the aesthetic purposes only - there is no physical description of reader. yay

day 1. 208 AC.

you stood in the middle of the chambers given to you — spacious, yet still unfamiliar — and slowly laid out everything you brought with you.

the work table by the window was already taken. the light fell evenly, soft, just how you liked it — enough to see the shades of leaves, the veins, the thickness of oils.

you started with the herbs.

a bundle of sage went to the top shelf — farther from extra moisture and foreign hands.

next to it — neatly tied stems of mint, a little lower, so it was easier to take in a hurry.

you placed the chamomile into a small clay jar, sorting the flowers with your fingers — by habit, almost not looking.

the smells slowly filled the room: warm, bitter, fresh.

at the edge of the table — clean, folded white cloths. you ran your hand over them, checking the softness, and set a few aside — for the first examination.

taking out your travel bag made of soft worn leather, which was your kit, you started to gather a set for the first visit to the prince.

in your memory came up the voice of your mentor, an old apothecary — the man who taught you to change a compress before speaking.

he said that in the capital one of the crown princes was sick.

“the order came from prince baelor himself.”

you heard from men nearby that prince baelor was in your lands a few weeks earlier — something about dealings with lands.

it must have been then that he heard about you.

you were not a big fan of the praise your small people spoke about you — words that no one left your hands untreated, that your methods were different from traditional ones and because of that your hands were covered in gold.

usually they said this to criticize the system of the citadel, which trained maesters so they would serve royal families, ignoring ordinary people who needed help more because of hard labor.

but you did not complain. your main goal was to heal people, to breathe life into them and you managed it.

then it felt like an honor, but when the castle met you here with silence and a maekar full of despair, who said that the maesters were powerless, and one of them died after catching this fever — you understood that it was more serious than you thought.

“my son… is specific. the illness made his temper even more… unpredictable,” he said, pressing his lips, and there were already notes of no hope in his voice.

“my prince, i will do everything in my power. but if the great minds of the citadel stepped back before this sickness, i cannot give empty promises. the rest will stay with the seven.”

day 3. 208 AC.

the morning started with a sharp knock on the door. a young servant, out of breath, said that the prince had woken up.

you headed toward the unfamiliar chambers, your healer’s kit thrown over your shoulder, and the soft lilac hem of your dress gently rustling with every step.

usually you braided your hair so it would not get in the way or fall into the herbs, but now you only quickly gathered it into a bun with a bone pin, feeling how a few stubborn strands were already slipping free from the weak hold.

when you reached the heavy doors of the royal chambers, the knights immediately stepped aside, making you softly smile back at them.

when the doors opened, they revealed a stifling room and prince baelor standing by the bed.

“my lord.” you lowered your head in a light bow.

“lady mullendore,” baelor said quietly, giving a small nod.

but before you could straighten, the silence was cut by a mocking, contemptuous laugh that made you turn your head and meet the direct gaze of aerion targaryen.

he looked exhausted, but even illness had not broken his arrogance.

his broad chest was bare and shining with fever sweat, the blanket had slipped down to his hips, and his skin was so pale it looked almost transparent.

he stared at you through heavy half-lowered eyelids, his eyes red, showing his condition.

you noticed the scars on his face that had not fully healed after — as you assumed — another showy tournament.

“my prince.”

“you think…” he started, but broke off, coughing, then continued in a rough voice. “you think that if men who spent years studying in the citadel under strict supervision and have half a lifetime of experience could not cure me… then some common girl can?”

he turned his gaze to the man beside him, and a weak, poisonous smile played on his lips. “i did not think you and father were this desperate, uncle.”

prince baelor only pressed his lips tighter. “behave properly, kid,” he said shortly, and then, throwing you an apologetic look, nodded and left.

you slowly walked to the table by the window where the light fell on your tools and began to carefully lay out the vials.

“admit it.” a mocking voice came from behind. “they sent you here so my cock would not rot off?”

then he pushed himself up and sat, leaning against the headboard. “if that is the case, we are starting this rather wrong.”

you did not answer, flipping through the pages of your personal journal where symptoms and recipes of rare ointments were written in small handwriting.

“i am here to rid you of this terrible fever, my prince,” you said softly.

aerion let out a quiet laugh and slowly ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it off his forehead. his gaze grew heavier.

“the last man who came here with the same goal is now six feet under in the sept of summerhall.”

you did not answer him.

instead, you took a small bowl of cool water and walked to his bed. your steps were almost silent. when you reached out to touch his forehead, aerion jerked back as if you were about to strike him with a dagger.

“you think you have the right to touch a dragon?” he said, frowning. his skin was so hot you could feel it even without touching him.

“i must examine you, my prince,” you replied calmly, not looking away.

“leave.”

you raised your eyes, watching his tense face. he was exhausted, his hair stuck to his temples, and his breathing was uneven and heavy.

he looked like death could come for him any moment.

“are you going to disobey a prince?”

you hesitated for a second, carefully studying his condition — the trembling in his hands, the unnatural flush on his cheeks. fighting him now, while he was at his peak of irritation, was pointless.

so you quietly nodded and headed for the door.

however, you did not pack your things. your satchel stayed open on the table by the window, leaving vials and notes visible.

the last thing you felt was his piercing gaze following you all the way to the doors.

day 4. 208 AC.

you did not have to part from him for long, because the very next night you were in his chambers again, the chamomile oil in your hands turning warm as you mixed it with nut oil.

aerion’s condition had worsened quickly and under the watchful, heavy gaze of maekar and his barely audible breaths, aerion had to give in.

but even now, when the illness drained the strength out of him, he did not miss a chance to make a poisonous comment about every one of your movements.

you remembered how the very first time your fingers finally touched his forehead, his body had tensed and his eyes had shut tight.

he did not look like someone who was often touched.

now he sat, helplessly leaned back against the tall headboard, his eyes constantly following you.

maybe the awareness of possible death had made him accept everything and fall silent. or almost silent.

you walked up to him, carrying the tray, and set it down on the bedside table. a thick, calming smell spread through the air.

pouring the chamomile and nut oil mixture into your palms, you slowly rubbed them together, warming them with your skin.

aerion raised an eyebrow, and on his pale face a familiar smirk appeared. “if you want to touch my cock that badly, you only had to ask.”

that made you softly smile, but you did not answer. instead you came closer and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight, and for a moment the distance between you shrank to a few inches.

you raised your hand over his skin but froze halfway, lifting your gaze to him.

a silent question.

aerion looked into your eyes for a long moment, then slightly tilted his head.

you lowered your gaze and gently touched his neck, and in the same second you heard his sharp, broken inhale.

his body tensed and his jaw clenched hard. the skin was horribly hot, almost burning.

aerion’s eyes slowly closed. you could feel under your palms how his frantic pulse slowly began to calm down.

your hands moved down to his shoulders, gently massaging them, then went lower to his chest, carefully avoiding the area of his heart.

you clearly remembered your teacher’s instructions: only pure chamomile could be applied to the heart area, and nut oil in a mixture could cause unnecessary irritation.

aerion stayed silent, but his head tilted back slightly and his eyes stayed closed.

after you made sure he had relaxed, and his skin had cooled enough not to disturb his sleep, you stood up to lightly run oil over his forehead.

when you combed his damp hair back to clear his forehead, his eyes slowly opened and locked onto your face, first following your strands that had already fallen out of a hastily made braid in the middle of the night, lingering longer than they should on your lips, then moving up to your eyes.

that night, aerion targaryen did not have nightmares for the first time since the illness began.

day 9. 208 AC.

“i will have you beheaded if you try to poison me.”

aerion lay on his side, still weak, but his skin no longer felt like a burning furnace, and he had gained enough strength at least to lazily prop his head up on his hand and watch you.

you smiled lightly without even turning to him. “you repeat that every morning, my prince.”

your hands were familiar and steady as they mixed a brew of sage and yarrow, carefully measuring every drop of the solution. “if i truly wished you dead, i would have been sensible enough not to choose such an obvious and foolish way.”

aerion raised an eyebrow, and in his eyes, still hazy from fever, a playful smirk flickered.

“so you admit you had thought of killing me?”

you only shook your head slightly, reaching for the honey pot on the upper shelf, making your dress softly rustle as you stretched up for it.

“i am afraid that is not quite what i said, my prince,” you said and turned to him. “but if you are so insistently seeking an encounter with death, then who am i to oppose your will?”

he did not laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth lift. in his gaze, heavy and drowsy, real amusement suddenly surfaced.

you walked toward him, scooping a little of the brew with a wooden spoon as you went, to check the temperature and ensure the right bitterness.

you gave a short nod to yourself, then handed the bowl to the prince and immediately returned to the table.

aerion predictably grimaced — few people drank such herbs with pleasure. he drained the cup in a couple of gulps and coughed loudly, trying to get rid of the aftertaste.

“disgusting,” he exhaled, frowning. “i would rather die sooner if this is the only way to stop drinking this shit.”

he was about to hand the empty cup back to you, but you returned just in time. with one hand you took the cup, and with the other you offered him a spoon, making him frown.

“what is this?”

“it will take away the bitterness, my prince.”

he looked at you and gave a short laugh. “do you think i am a child?”

“not only children sometimes want something sweet,” you replied, not looking away.

aerion snatched the spoon from your hand. he paused, studying the amber honey, in the very center of which a ripe blackberry sat like a small ornament.

“dragons do not need to be bribed with berries,” he muttered, still trying to sound displeased.

you only shrugged and went back to your shelves.

however, when you glanced back at the bed a minute later, the spoon was already empty.

day 21. 208 AC.

the night knock on the door was so sharp that you jolted up in bed, barely understanding what was happening.

when a breathless knight at the door said that the prince was urgently calling for you, you did not even have time to get ready.

you were only in a nightgown — made of soft fabric, reaching your ankles, with simple sleeves. your hair, which you had not managed to tie up as usual, fell loose over your shoulders.

you quickly threw a thick outer dress-cloak over it and went out.

when you entered aerion’s chambers, you froze at the threshold. he was not lying in bed or half-sitting against the headboard as usual. he was standing.

the prince stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and fast. his bare chest shone with sweat, and wet strands of hair stuck to his face.

aerion’s eyes found you immediately — he held your gaze for a second, then sharply shifted to the knight standing behind you.

“out."

the knight did not argue: he gave a short nod and quickly left, leaving you alone in the room.

you rubbed your eyes sleepily and slowly walked toward him. “is something troubling you, my prince?” you asked softly.

aerion stayed silent at first, looking at you, his jaw tightly clenched and his shoulders tense. “i saw a nightmare.”

you approached him carefully, like a wounded animal, not making any sudden movements.

"good,” you said gently once you were very close. “but you should not be getting out of bed in this condition.”

he gave a short laugh, but there was no trace of his usual amusement in it. “i did not call you here to repeat obvious things,” he said, but he did not move even as you stopped right in front of him.

you reached out and touched his forehead, making him close his eyes and exhale heavily, leaning into your touch.

you moved your hand lower and touched his neck with the back of your fingers. “temperature is normal, these must be transitional symptoms. the illness is leaving, the body is just still resisting.”

“i have not had nightmares since the day you came here,” he said, opening his eyes slightly. “since you started rubbing your overly sweet oils into me and forcing me to drink solutions that taste like horse shit.”

you stood so close that you could feel the heat coming off his skin. a thick, heavy smell hit you — the air of a suffocating room, bitter herbs, his sweat, his scent.

“i can cal—” you started, but he sharply shook his head, cutting you off mid-sentence.

“just...” aerion stopped, then nodded toward his bed. “sit there. in case… i get worse.”

you understood that refusing a prince was impossible, and there was more of a hidden request than an order in his voice now, so you quietly nodded and sat on the very edge of the bed, choosing the side opposite him.

but you did not expect what happened next. aerion slowly walked to the bed, and instead of just lying down beside you, he lowered himself onto the blankets and carefully placed his head directly on your lap.

“my prince…”

“just stay like that,” he cut you off without opening his eyes.

several minutes passed in complete silence. gradually you began to relax, feeling the weight of his head and the way his tension slowly faded.

at first hesitantly, barely touching, you ran your hand through his long silver hair, hearing a quiet, almost pleased exhale in return.

once you were sure he was relaxing, you slowly combed through the cool strands, letting them slip between your fingers.

he was already on the edge of sleep when you heard his barely audible whisper.

“when we are alone, you can call me aerion.”

day 37. 208 AC.

“thank you very much, ser. i would not have managed without your help,” you said softly.

you lingered by the doors, speaking with ser garret. the young knight had offered to help you carry the heavy buckets of water, and you were grateful to him.

the man opposite you broke into a wide smile, clearly pleased with the attention. “oh, think nothing of it! come to me anytime. it would be a sin not to help such a beautiful lady as you.”

when you finally entered the chambers, aerion was already sitting, leaned back against the headboard. his jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks kept shifting.

“you were long.”

you, not suspecting anything, calmly went to your table, checking the shelves with tinctures. “i was speaking with ser garret,” you answered, moving as usual to check his body temperature. this had already become routine for you.

the white-haired man gave a short, sharp laugh. “i see.”

when you came closer, he suddenly called the name of the recent knight, his voice sounding so steady and commanding that no one would guess this was the same man who had recently been unable to open his eyes.

you frowned, not understanding why he needed the guard, but the door already swung open and the knight froze at the threshold.

aerion did not even look at garret. “how lucky we are today,” he drawled, and before you could react, he sharply pulled your arm.

you gasped in surprise, losing your balance, and in the next second you were sitting on his lap, sideways against his chest.

“it seems today is exactly the day you should carefully rub my body with oils,” his voice was low and slow.

“my prince, there is no need for that anymore, your body is already…” you started, trying to pull away.

“i think i know better what my body needs.”

his face was so close to yours that you could feel his hot breath on your skin.

then he took your hands and deliberately, slowly placed them on his neck — where you always started the massage.

“my prince…”

“aerion,” he corrected without looking away from you.

you awkwardly turned your head and saw ser garret. the poor man stood there, not knowing where to look, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. you looked back at the prince.

“aerion,” you repeated quietly and uncertainly.

he lifted his brow in victory, and playful, sharp sparks danced in his eyes.

“you may leave, ser garret. we have… much to do,” he said, never breaking eye contact with you.

gods, it sounded so wrong.

but the moment you tried to stand, aerion’s hands closed around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“he will tell the whole castle about this,” you said, pressing your hands against his shoulders. “they will get a completely wrong idea of what is happening here.”

aerion only gave a lazy smirk. “what a pity.”

since that day, neither ser garret nor any other knight in the castle dared even speak to you again.

day 53. 208 AC.

this was the hardest moment — the final wave of fever.

you knew it was a sign that the illness was leaving, burning out the last traces of sickness from his body. that was why you did not leave his side for even a moment, practically living in his chambers.

all day and through the endless night you stayed beside him. you gave him brews, changed compresses every two hours, and barely closed your eyes. aerion would either sink into unconsciousness or briefly come back to himself, and every time his gaze would land on you.

near dawn, when you moved to the table again to change the water once more, you heard a strange sound.

turning around, you saw him thrashing in the bed. his hand was desperately searching over the sheets, as if looking for your hand. his eyes were half open, and his lips were moving in a whisper, almost like a prayer, shaped as your name.

you quickly went to him, removed the hot cloth from his forehead, and placed a new, cool compress. the moment your fingers touched his skin, his hand immediately caught yours.

he tightly squeezed your hand, pressed his cheek against it, and went still at once, falling back asleep — this time calm and deep.

day 77. 208 AC.

aerion had recovered enough to already be describing in full detail how exactly he would humiliate the next knight at a tournament. you only smiled softly and reminded him that it was still too early for him to ride a horse.

“first of all, i am on my feet thanks to the valyrian gods,” he declared, and then, after a slight pause, added. “well… maybe your methods sped things up a little.”

you laughed lightly, but aerion suddenly went quiet. he saw you slowly and carefully packing your things from the shelves, placing vials into your travel bag, and he frowned, asking if you were going to replace the medicines.

you looked at him with a soft smile.

“tomorrow another healer will come. she will watch over your recov— ”

“what?”

“i am leaving, my prince. my work is done.”

he stared at you as if you had said he did not have valyrian blood. it seemed he had not even considered that you could leave.

“i could fall ill at any moment. the sickness could return. i am not even fully healed yet.”

“you were just boasting about riding in a tournament,” you reminded him.

“i lied. i am not taking part in any tournament.”

“aerion, i did what i was brought here to do. now a royal healer will take care of you,” you said quietly, exhaling.

“i do not need a royal healer,” he snapped, his voice firm. “you are doing fine. stay here, i will make you the head of them.”

but you shook your head, continuing to pack your things.

“my people are waiting for me on my land. i will always serve the smallfolk first. that is what makes me different from the maesters of the citadel.”

“you did not cure me completely. i need time. and that woman… i will send her to your lands instead of you,” he said, swallowing hard.

then he stepped closer, taking hold of your hand. “those who need treatment will come here. any member of my family could catch this sickness, and only your herbs work on it. you cannot leave.”

he stood so close that his breath burned your skin, and his eyes did not leave yours.

“you will not leave,” he whispered, almost ordering.

you looked at him, studying the face that had become too familiar to you over these days. you had just opened your mouth to argue when he suddenly pulled you toward him and his lips crashed into yours.

you gasped in surprise, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth.

it was not a gentle kiss. it was a hungry, desperate surge — as if he had been holding himself back for weeks and finally snapped. aerion let out a low groan right into your lips, turning his head to deepen the kiss, demanding a response. and you responded, pressing your palms against his hot chest, feeling his tongue insistently explore your mouth.

that night he did not let you go, which was so surprising, because he had never openly shown you his weaknesses. when you lay in the dim light of his huge bed, he held you close.

“say you will not leave,” he quietly demanded.

you stayed silent for a long moment, listening to the beat of his heart under your ear.

“i will not leave,” you finally whispered.

aerion exhaled heavily, his body noticeably relaxing. he buried his chin in your hair, pulling you even closer.

day 78. 208 AC.

and just like that, you were gone before the first dawn.

MASTERLISTS

aerion 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 akotsk

💬｡˚ @cassvictim @anontargslvt3 @mmasworld @kate-beth @tangikatanifa @aerionbrgflm @transparentwizardblaze @thestoriesitell-blog1 @agentcarter1946 @icebearcucumber @outshawty @bighead02 @anedpev @carbonated-beverage @pixel-pixie-xo @immauperfreak @ibhearts @demoniz3d @littlewritergreatgirl-blog @besonderselyy @thoughtfully-burning @rubyannebeaufoy @catmikaelson20 @unramdommas2004 @dragon-moonstar @sahvlren @quixoticrai111 @comzetogether @ladychaos1525 @hanakotateyama @bookishdelights @besonderselyy @jinmjy @naty-sunshine @jaemimpulsive @icebearcucumber @pharmacistfairytale @ae-gax

[dreamcubed]

dancing with our hands tied | draco malfoy x reader

song; dancing with our hands tied [taylor swift] pairing; draco malfoy x pure-blood!fem!slytherin!reader genre; arranged marriage, light angst, humour, fluff word count; 3,6k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, family pressure, referenced sex summary; a secret that you had long kept from your friends was that you and draco were betrothed, but when avoiding him becomes impossible, will the cat be let out the bag? and will you and draco begin to like the arrangement?

part 2 of my isolated series, which also includes look what you made me do, the tortured poets department, loml, and fortnight this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

and this marks the close of my reputation anthology!

masterlist

"baby, can we dance through an avalanche?"

————————————————

There was little more exciting than going on holiday, and you were absolutely buzzing at the prospect of two weeks away with your closest friends. They had been there for you through thick and thin, never pushing or prying when you clearly did not want to talk about something. And, now you all had completed Hogwarts, it was time for a cosy getaway in the mountains, in a cabin that was only accessible by magic— meaning it was wizard-exclusive.

You gazed out your window, which overlooked the decking of the cabin, and your eyes glinted curiously at the sight of the second cabin across. There were only two of them on the mountain, and you could not help but wonder if anyone was residing in the other one.

But as exciting as those curiosities were, the hot tub was ten times as enticing, and you hurried to pull on a bikini.  Emerging from your room, you saw that most of your group had the exact same idea, all making their way for the door.

"Bitch, come on! We're gonna get in the hot tub!"

You laughed at the order given to the only friend yet to make an appearance, sliding open the door to the decking. Submerging in the hot bubbling water felt like heaven, and you couldn't help but release a relaxed sigh.

"Merlin, this is amazing," your friend said, mimicking your exact thoughts.

"Mm, that girl better hurry up," you replied, "She's missing out."

As if you had spoken of the devil, said girl emerged from the cabin, and only now did you realise that you had never seen her wear immodest clothing before. Her body was littered with scars, and you could only exchange glances with your other friends.

"What took you so long?"

She shrugged, "Couldn't decide on a bikini."

Deciding to move on, you began engaging in casual chatter, relishing in the perfect first night to a holiday. Could things get any better?

"I wonder if anyone's staying there," one of your friends pondered aloud, making you turn your attentions to the other cabin. Apparently, the other cabin's residents had been a common thought.

"The lights are on, so surely," you replied.

And then, on cue, the door to the other cabin dramatically opened, and out came none other than Mattheo Riddle— an infamous character in your school year, known for his fights, detentions, and conquests.

You heard a scoff from your group, "No fucking way."

You could not help but agree with that comment. What were the chances?

And, unfortunately, where one Slytherin boy went, the rest followed. It was a piece of knowledge you had quickly learned during your years as a Slytherin, despite how little time you had actually spent there. None of your friends had ever questioned why you avoided your own house so much, and only one person other than you was privy to the answer.

Draco Malfoy, your betrothed.

He was the reason you sought friends in other places, because from the second you were born, he was marked to be yours. Which was unfortunate, given the fact that he was a stuck-up snob that paid no attention to anything that didn't concern him. Did you hate each other? No, saying as such would be an exaggeration. But there was definitely a mutual agreement that just because you would be married, did not mean you had to be friends— and certainly nothing more.

Your friends had no idea about this, so you were forced to smile and wave as the boys noticed the five of you.

***

Coming from a wealthy pure-blooded family, you had been privileged to go on many holidays in your lifetime, and magic ski trips were a common theme. Therefore, you found yourself assuming the role of teacher to your four friends the next day when you all hit the slopes. Thankfully, they were fast learners, and got the hang of it in short time. As you proudly watched them floating in the air and landing on piles of snow that appeared as quickly as they disappeared, you found yourself wondering how muggles could ever enjoy skiing without that level of unpredictability.

You also found yourself wondering if Malfoy was good at magic skiing.

As much as you didn't want to think about him, you knew that it wouldn't be long before your parents started planning the wedding. After all, Hogwarts was now over, and you were both adults. Soon, you wouldn't be able to avoid and push aside your pre-planned fate, and you would have to come clean to your friends.

One of said friends, who was using this cabin retreat as an opportunity to write for her next book release, had not hesitated to accept when the boys asked you all to come over for dinner and drinks that evening. You were a little annoyed that she had not considered asking anyone else their opinion, but you supposed that you couldn't ignore Malfoy forever. Maybe you should finally bite the bullet and attempt to build a solid foundation for your marriage.

So you sat there in their kitchen, nursing a firewhiskey and coke, contemplating how best to start a conversation with Malfoy without arising suspicion from your friends. Perhaps your hesitation was the suspicious part, but you didn't have to think about it much longer when the man himself sat next to you.

"My mother has been bringing it up more and more frequently," he said quietly, not that he needed to. The music was so loud that you had to be right next to someone to hear them without shouting.

You hummed, "I suppose it's time to face the inevitable."

"Indeed. Do your friends know?"

You shook your head, "Do yours?"

He also shook his head.

"Well, we need to tell them at some point."

There was a silence— presumably one of reluctant agreement— and then Malfoy let out a long sigh, "We hardly know each other."

"I guess that's our fault."

"Yours," he corrected, "You were the one that abandoned Slytherin the second you were sorted into it."

"I didn't abandon Slytherin, I abandoned you," you paused for a moment, "So I guess you're right. It is my fault."

"Why in Salazar's name did you avoid me?"

You shrugged, a sly smile creeping on to your face, "Because you're a stuck-up snob."

He scoffed, his eyes tracking as Nott followed one of your friends out on to the decking.

"Do you deny it?"

He appeared to think for a moment, before saying, "No."

"Well, I suppose I can work with honesty," you said, "Salazar knows we don't have to be in love or any of that shit, but we should at least get along."

Malfoy snorted, taking you by surprise.

"What?"

"I don't know. I guess I never expected you to say Salazar."

You frowned, "I was never ashamed of being a Slytherin."

"Regardless, you're right," he then added, "As much as it pains me to admit it."

A scowl formed on your brow.

"We should try to be friends."

You weren't sure what to make of the way he said the last word, but you were soon distracted by Nott and your friend returning, the latter announcing that she did not feel too well and was going to retire for the night.

***

"Girl, are you ready yet? We're about to leave," you knocked on her door the next day, dressed up in your ski gear.

Her reply was meek, "I'm sorry, I've gotten worse. Go have fun without me."

"Are you sure? You don't need anything?" you asked worriedly.

"I'm sure. Don't let me ruin the holiday, please."

Apprehensively, you left her alone, just as Riddle said, "Theo, you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm— I'll stay back and look after her," he replied stiffly.

And even though she had specifically requested that she not ruin the holiday for anyone else, you knew that Slytherin boys were stubborn dickheads whose minds could rarely be changed on a matter, so you made no protest. His friends did, but even they knew it was to no avail, so you soon left the cabin two members down.

"What the fuck is going on between them?" Berkshire scoffed as you walked.

"They were out on the decking alone last night," Malfoy said, "I don't know, maybe something happened."

One of your friends chuckled, "And maybe she's not actually sick."

"She sounded sick," you noted, "And she really did look feverish last night."

"Yeah, feverish for Theo," Riddle joked.

Not to name any names, but a certain friend of yours laughed a little too hard at that.

Upon arrival at the ski decking, most of the boys almost instantly shot off the edge, clearly equipping years of experience. After all, they were all from wealthy families. Your own friends, more confident than they had been yesterday, looked to you for a nod of encouragement, before following. It felt natural for you to go behind them, so you could assist if anything went awry.

Only, you hesitated, as you had been left alone with your betrothed.

"You or me first, Malfoy?"

"Ladies first," he said dryly, "And you should probably start calling me Draco."

"Wow, first name basis? What's next, walking down the aisle?"

You were surprised that he actually laughed at your joke, and a tiny part of you suddenly registered Malfoy— Draco— as an attractive man. He had been for years, you realised, you had just refused to pay attention.

Pulling yourself back together, you said, "Well, if you insist, Draco," and launched yourself off from the decking.

He followed suit.

***

The eight of you returned sooner than expected, after one of your friends sustained an injury. It was nothing magic couldn't quickly fix, but everyone agreed that it was best to head back for the day. Zabini helped support her on the walk back, which she seemed very annoyed about, but you brushed it off as a typical distaste for the Slytherin boys.

You entered the dubbed "girls' cabin" to find Nott in the kitchen— shirtless. Recalling Riddle's joke from earlier, you found yourself wondering if the cocky prick had been correct.

"Where is she?" your author friend asked Nott.

"She's sleeping," he answered, seemingly trying to sound nonchalant.

As more of the group entered the kitchen, they all appeared to share your lingering suspicions as to why Nott was shirtless.

"I'll go check on her," you said.

Nott's eyes widened, "That's probably not a good idea."

"Why?" you eyed him curiously.

For some totally not suspicious reason, he was struggling to answer.

Then, a door creaked open in the distance, and your friend pattered into the kitchen wearing nothing but knee socks and Nott's jumper, stunning everyone.

She paused when she saw all of you.

You looked between the two of them.

"Did you pretend to be sick just to fuck all day?" Riddle asked, the exact same question you had been thinking.

She said nothing.

"She's like me," Nott spoke gently, a vague sentence that meant absolutely nothing to you.

You turned to gage the guys' reactions, and saw that their eyes had all widened. "Oh, is she, like, in—?" Berkshire piped up.

"Yes."

"What the fuck is going on?" one of your friends asked.

Your "sick" friend hesitated for a moment, avoiding eye contact as she seemed to contemplate something. Eventually, she spoke, "I'm... a werewolf."

You stared at her, shocked. But then you remembered the scars all over her body, and things started to make sense.

"Okay... but... it's not a full moon, so, like...?"

You glanced at the friend who said that.

"She's in heat," Riddle laughed, "Guess Theo here has been providing some... assistance..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," Nott grumbled.

"You're also a werewolf?" you questioned.

He nodded.

And after a long, awkward conversation of explaining why she did not tell you all sooner, how heats and ruts worked, and also the fact that her and Nott were now mated for life... she suddenly looked as if she were about to faint. You were left speechless as the two of them excused themselves and rushed off to her bedroom.

Well, at least you weren't the only one who had been keeping a secret.

And that was why you couldn't reasonably be upset with her for hiding it.

"Fuckin' plot twist," you mumbled, only loud enough for Draco, who had been stood near you, to hear.

He chuckled, "What's with your friend group and keeping secrets?"

"That only makes two of us," you replied harshly, but still quietly.

"That you know of."

Well, he had a point there, but as you looked at your three other friends, you couldn't imagine what kind of secret any of them could keep.

***

Having the bedroom right next door to a newly mated werewolf couple was not for the weak, as you came to learn. You understood that they did not particularly have a choice when it came to heats and ruts, but you did not understand why a silencing charm was out of the question. The moans and creaks were becoming unbearable, especially as you were really tired and in dire need of some sleep.

Was there a spell to temporarily make yourself deaf?

Not one that you knew of.

So, you crawled out of bed and grumpily left your bedroom, heading to the kitchen to hopefully get some peace and quiet. Thankfully, the sound of the roughest sex you had ever heard was less audible there, and you started considering the possibility of sleeping on the sofa.

That was when you saw the light from the other cabin's kitchen was on, and you curiously approached the window to get a better look at the figure moving around. A glance at the clock told you it was nearly 4am, so you half-expected to see Riddle, since he had always had a fucked up sleeping schedule as a result of his love for partying. The streak of blond that flashed in the distance told you that it was not.

What was Draco doing up?

When he moved closer to the window, he seemed to notice the light on in your cabin, and consequently you. He didn't wave, or smile, or anything to the effect of politeness— instead, he disappeared, which made you frown. Had you not both agreed that you should try to be friends?

Shaking your head in disbelief, you turned around to begin assessing the sofa's suitability for a night of sleep: it was leather, which was unfortunate, but maybe with enough blankets you could make it work. Just as you were about to go to your room to retrieve your bedding, the cabin door slid open, making you jump. Spinning around, you were faced with the man you had just seen through the window.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"Not with those rabid dogs going at it next door."

He snorted.

"Why can't you sleep?"

Draco shrugged, "Can't stop thinking."

"About...?" you sat down on the settee, and he took that as a hint to sit down as well.

"Us. Marriage," he sighed, "Family."

"Oh, you mean the fact we'll have to produce an heir at some point?" you chuckled.

He rolled his eyes, "I mean in general."

You thought for a moment, trying to scrape together an idea of what life together would look like, what it would mean when your families became one. Living in the same home, attending events as a couple, eating dinner together every night. You took the time to look at Draco, and attempted to assess how he thought things would pan out, but instead found yourself enjoying how messy his hair looked in that moment, and how nice it was to see him in casual clothing as opposed to an ironed suit.

"You're better like this," you said without thinking.

"What?"

"Well, not to say you're bad other times," you clarified, "But it's nice to see you more relaxed, and less worried about your reputation."

"Our whole engagement is built on the premise of reputation," he reminded, "And that's exactly what I'm worrying about right now."

You sighed, knowing that he had a point, "What if we built it on something else?"

He arched an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

With a non-committal shrug, you explained, "I don't know, maybe we could just— pretend it was never planned for us, and act like it was our choice."

"Why?"

"Isn't part of you upset that you'll never experience organic love?"

"My parents love each other," he said quietly, "And they were arranged."

"I didn't mean there'd be no love— I just mean, falling in love as two strangers who happened to meet."

Draco's eyes scanned you curiously, "We happened to meet here."

"Then maybe this is our chance."

His expression was sceptical, if nothing else, and it saddened you slightly.

"Well, it's not that important, I guess," you shook your head, "I'm just being fanciful."

***

The next day, Draco was nowhere to be found. You went on the slopes with everyone else— still excluding the werewolves— but nearly crashed due to your distracted thoughts. The boys were of no assistance, only being able to inform you that he had left a note saying that he would be gone for the day.

So, when you returned to the cabins, oblivious to the way your friends were interacting with the boys, you were surprised to see that Draco was still absent. As you pondered the possibilities, you entered your bedroom to change for dinner, only to find a brand new designer dress laid out on your bed, accompanied by an envelope. Upon closer inspection, you recognised the Malfoy wax seal, which made you rush to open it.

"Meet me at the lookout point. Wear this.

D.M."

What was this feeling of giddy excitement coursing through you? Were those butterflies?

You changed hurriedly, applying some makeup before tugging on a coat and boots. While you did not like to rely on apparition, you also did not want your friends to ask questions, so braced yourself for the relocation to the scenic viewpoint that was separated from the skiing slopes. It featured a built up shelter with a blazing fire pit, along with a picnic bench which was laden with steaming food.

And there was Draco, dressed in a smart ironed suit, and holding a bouquet of roses.

A smile lit up your face, and you pulled your coat off to reveal the dress he had picked out for you, that admittedly flattered your figure. "What's the meaning of this?" you asked bashfully.

"To use our chance," he said simply, presenting the flowers to you. You accepted them, beaming at the arrangement.

"Thank you."

He nodded, gesturing for you to sit down as he took your coat.

"How did you do all of this?"

"Telling you would ruin the charm," he smirked, popping open a bottle of wine. After pouring you both a glass, he said, "Let's propose a toast."

"To what?"

"Our future."

Once the meal was completed, and you had learned all sorts of things about your fiancé, he stood up suddenly.

"You wished for organic love, so this is my attempt to build the foundations for it," he spoke calmly, his hand reaching into his pocket. Your jaw dropped when he dropped to one knee and presented you with a velvet green box. "My mother gave me this ring not too long ago, and told me it was time to formally give it to you," he took a deep breath, "Admittedly, I had not intended to be romantic about it."

Your open mouth morphed into a small smile.

"But, in the interest of your— and my— happiness, here I am, down on one knee— which I will never be doing again, by the way— asking you if you will be my wife of your own volition and desire."

Your smile widened, and your jaw was beginning to ache.

"So, Miss Y/N L/N, will you do me the honour of marrying me and blessing me with an intelligent and gorgeous wife?"

And, even though he was arranged to be your husband, and you hardly knew him, your body and mind alike was screaming for you to say yes, as if it were your own choice. As if this was not predestined, and you instead had written it in the stars with your own quill.

"Yes, Draco, I will marry you," you hurriedly stood up, crushing him with a hug.

He was taken by surprise, but awkwardly returned the embrace.

Then, he placed the ring on your finger, and with tears streaming down your face, you mumbled, "Thank you."

***

The two of you walked through the boys' cabin door not long later, attached at the hip— the glint of your large engagement ring catching everyone's attention.

There was stunned silence for a few paces, until Riddle made the move to break it.

"What the actual fuck?"

————————————————

part 3: the tortured poets department (mattheo riddle)

isolated series masterlist

main masterlist

written; 01/08/2025 —> 25/08/2025 published;28/08/2025 edited; —/—/——

[jijournal]

MASTERLIST!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ GOLDEN TRIO ERA

╰┈➤ HARRY POTTER

♡ I See You

As a Muggle-born Hufflepuff, you were taught to always be kind-even when it hurt. Years of people-pleasing left you exhausted and invisible, until Harry Potter reminded you that your worth isn't tied to how much you give. Now, you're learning that kindness includes being kind to yourself too.

♡ Worse Than Veritaserum!

Something went wrong while you and Harry were brewing Veritaserum—the potion you created now causes you to read each other’s minds.

╰┈➤ DRACO MALFOY

ˋ°•*⁀➷ SERIES

♡ LOVE ME LOUD

♡ Part 1: Love Me Loud: To the world, Draco Malfoy was untouchable—arrogant, cruel, and proud of it. But when you took the only empty seat beside him, you became the exception. Well maybe not that much of an exception... He cared more about what his family wants, and not what he wanted. Which was you. ♡ Part 2: Love Me Again: After walking away from the boy who couldn't choose you, fate brings you face to face with Draco Malfoy once more. The feelings are still there, truths remain unspoken, and the question lingers—was it ever really over?

♡ CRAZY RICH... WIZARDS?

♡ Part 1: Crazy Rich... Wizards? You find out your long time boyfriend is a... wizard? Was it a prank? a joke? some kind of unamusing humor? No. It was real. And now, he wants to introduce you to his parents. ♡ Part 2: Wands, Weddings, And Wicked Traditions: When your boyfriend drags you into a world of old money, ancient grudges, and fancy robes, you quickly learn that fitting in isn’t about magic—it’s about surviving family dinners. ♡ Part 3: Wealthy, Witty, Witches: After barely surviving a disastrous dinner with your wizard boyfriend’s parents, you’re forced to endure yet another nightmare—this time, with his ex. ♡ Part 4: To be Continued...

ˋ°•*⁀➷ STAND-ALONE

♡ Right Here All Along

Camellia Rose and Draco Malfoy, childhood friends bound by loyalty, love, and unspoken words. As Camellia is torn between loyalty and betrayal as she discovers that Harry Potter, the one person she trust most, has been using her all along.

♡ You'll Be In My Heart

Whenever Draco needs you, you're always there. That's an older sister's duty after all. When he was at his lowest throughout the years, you teach him an important lesson in life.

♡ Just Pretend

To get his parents off his back, Draco begs you to pretend to be his date for a gala. He swears it's just for a night, but by the end, he's wishing it wasn't.

♡ "You're Going Down, Malfoy."

After a playful late-night duel with Draco, you win a bet and make him hold your hand in public for five seconds. Maybe a little longer than five.

♡ "Jealous Much?"

You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

♡ Complain Here, Complain There

You had a talent for endless complaining—fortunately, someone always seemed to have the full-time job of fixing whatever you whined about.

♡ "Told You I Was"

A quiet winter night of sulking turns unexpectedly sweet when Draco proves he’s been listening all along, surprising you with thoughtful gifts that melt your heart.

♡ Charm Me Up

You’ve made it a habit to give small charms to those who need a reminder that they’re not alone. But there’s one person you keep finding reasons to give them to—one boy who always seems to need a charm.

♡ Little Miss Collector

In which the strangest girl in Slytherin collects lost things in a heart-shaped box, and Draco Malfoy realizes she might be the only person who’s never truly lost herself.

♡ He laughs at her eyes, at her smile, at the glasses on her face:

Draco Malfoy hates you, or so you thought.

♡ Undressed

And I don't wanna learn another scent I don't want the children of another man To have the eyes of the girl I won't forget.

♡ Never Go Near A Malfoy

You were taught to never go near a Malfoy, ever. But how could you? He's very much unavoidable.

♡ The Greenhouse Effect

When you're paired with Draco Malfoy for Herbology, you expected eye-rolls and dead plants. But, you don’t expect that the most sudden pairings bloom brightest.

♡ Drop The Beat, Steal The Heart

Hogwarts’ most popular DJ gets summoned to throw the party of the year—but when the birthday boy starts watching you like your a spell he can’t resist, things quickly turn electrifying. Get ready for beats, banter, and tension that drops harder than any remix.

♡ The Eleven Word Question

Draco Malfoy would literally die for you—unfortunately, asking you to the Yule Ball might just kill him first. When he finally gathers the courage to do it, you politely decline… thanks to a spectacular misunderstanding. Now, with his pride bruised and his heart set, Draco is determined to win you over—properly, this time.

♡ Fight Or Flight (Coming Soon)

A fierce academic rivalry brews between you and Draco Malfoy—your greatest competition for second place behind your bestfriend Hermione. But after years of witty insults and tension, one unexpected moment changes everything, revealing a spark even Harry and Ron never saw coming.

♡ You, Before The War (Coming Soon)

Being forced into becoming a Death Eater because of your family's name was unbearable—but betraying the love of your life to spy for the other side, all for the greater good, was far worse.

╰┈➤ RON WEASLEY

♡ A Weasley Gift

Ron surprises you with something very special in the Weasley household.

╰┈➤ GEORGE WEASLEY

♡ My Very Own Cupid:

Valerie Valentine, known as “Hogwarts’ Cupid” for her matchmaking prowess, finds herself heartbroken upon finding out George Weasley, her crush since 4th year, likes Angelina Johnson. This leads her to abandon her romantic endeavors, only to later discover something unexpected.

♡ Confession Candy

When Fred convinces George to test their latest prototype, George has no idea the candy will shout out a confession he’s secretly been holding in for years. To his horror—and your shock—it blurts out that he's in love with you.

♡ Hired Matchmaker (Coming Soon)

As a professional "matchmaker"—as people say—Molly hires you to find George the love of his life after Fred's passing. You both don't realize that the "love of his life" was standing in front of him, helping, all along.

╰┈➤ FRED WEASLEY

♡ The Thief

No one knows that you own a cute baby Niffler. It may be only a few months old, but his love for mischief keeps developing fast... really, fast.

♡ Prank Wars

You and Fred Weasley had been bickering since first year, locked in a never-ending war of (mostly) harmless pranks. Why is it that he's so obsessed with tormenting you? you’ll never know. The petty rivalry drags on for years, until your sixth year, when one of Fred’s pranks goes completely wrong… or maybe completely right.

╰┈➤ CEDRIC DIGGORY

♡ A Promise Kept

Before the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric makes you promise that, no matter what happens, you won’t cry over him. After his death, you struggle to keep that promise—until you find the letter he left behind.

♡ Another Chance

If you are given another chance to go back and prevent him from entering that stupid tournament, would you do it?

╰┈➤ OLIVER WOOD

♡ The Quidditch Bet

You and Oliver are captains of rival Quidditch teams, and the competition is fierce. But when a bet forces the loser to take the winner on a date, you realize that maybe you don’t hate him as much as you thought.

♡ Thicker Than A Broomstick

Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.

♡ Lovely To Be Rained On With You

Angry love confession in the rain with Oliver Wood.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ MARAUDERS ERA

╰┈➤ JAMES POTTER

♡ Back To Friends

Best friends weren’t supposed to fall. But after one night and a thousand unspoken words, James Potter chose Lily Evans—and you were left remembering what it felt like to be loved, even if only for a moment.

╰┈➤ REMUS LUPIN

nothing to see here yet...

╰┈➤ SIRIUS BLACK

♡ "Bet You'll Fall For Me" (Coming Soon)

One lazy afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius makes a bold bet—he claims he can make you blush in less than five minutes. You're certain he (kinda) doesn't stand a chance.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

enjoy reading!

[war-sword]

needy

(Draco x  female Hufflepuff reader)

summary: (inspired by the song ‘needy’ by Ariana Grande) Draco Malfoy has been made a Death Eater and given the task to murder Albus Dumbledore, something that would make any normal person have constant breakdowns. Draco is no different. In the solace of Moaning Myrtle’s company, he gets attached to someone else in the process. words: 13.9k warnings: cursing, implied sex, blood (sectumsempra curse). a/n: Hi! I’ve had the plot for this imagine in my head since January, started writing it in February, and now in May it’s finally finished :) I Hope you all enjoy. If you’ve never heard this song, I really recommend it! lot’s of Ariana’s recent music makes me think about Draco. I tried to incorporate as many lyrics as possible, and also some from her song 'ghostin’’ (an alternative title I considered) p.s. to my knowledge, brushing bugs are not something in the Harry Potter universe, I just came up with them on my own. I figured pureblood witches and wizards would have found alternative, magical means to cleaning their teeth, maybe considering toothbrushes for muggles, muggleborns and halfbloods. (there will be no second part to this imagine. it’s already super long) taglist: @clockworkherondale @mayorofzillyhoo @hockeyandmarvel @mdgrdians. this fic is deadicated to @socontagiousimagines who i know has been going through a tough time, loves ari & draco, and writes amazing stories ♡

Part of him couldn’t believe he was back in this bloody bathroom again, confiding in what was possibly Hogwarts’ most annoying ghost. And yet.

Myrtle was actually… not so annoying. Maybe she thought he was cute, but then again, from most of the stories it seemed she found all boys cute. Regardless, she was one person Draco could safely vent to, seeing as A) this problem would be trivial to her in twenty years and B) the Dark Lord couldn’t exactly kill a ghost, no matter how powerful he was. Myrtle had all the time in the world, and was very willing to listen to Draco come and complain or cry. She also gave surprisingly comforting advice, even if she couldn’t give him any physical comfort.

“…not your fault, he’s always sticking his nose into others’ businesses.” Myrtle’s high pitched voice echoed around the tiled room, pulling Draco’s thoughts back to the topic at hand.

“Myrtle?” Draco heard a female voice call. Myrtle immediately shut her mouth, and Draco tensed up. The girl came walking into the bathroom and turning the corner to where the rows of toilets were. “Sorry I’m…” Her voiced faded as she finally looked down the aisle.

Draco hoped it was someone he didn’t know, but instead found himself slightly surprised. It was Y/N L/N, the only Pureblood of their year to be sorted into Hufflepuff. Draco had always been vaguely aware of her presence– she was Hufflepuff Prefect, and her father worked at the Ministry like his own father. Draco had never had any reason to talk to her though, since they were sorted into opposing houses and young Draco had seen no reason to keep up with her.

Keep reading

[war-sword]

𝚗̶𝚘̶ 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕

summary: Y/N is Draco’s angel, his true love, sent to turn his life around. Nothing could ever break them apart. A/N: this was my alternative version of my winter exchange fic, but since it’s no longer for that i took out the Christmas elements, but you can still see the prompt I had in it (snow). hopefully it’s not too obvious tho, haha. words: 2.3k taglist: @clockworkherondale @accio-rogers @mayorofzillyhoo @diademofdraco @drawlfoy @ladybuginthetardis @lushlavenderskies @socontagiousimagines @acciodracoo @eltanin-malfoy @silentexplorer18 @shawn-is-bruh @heavenlycat567

◈◈◈

Draco Malfoy loved Y/N L/N.

Their love had been rather unconventional. Draco could still remember their younger years in school, the days when they were younger and he definitely did not like her. Y/N was sweet as sugar, and everyday she’d take the acid words Draco would throw at her and turn them to cotton candy. He used to hate her for it. Now, it was one of his favorite things about her. 

She would return his sneers with a smile. Drive his storm clouds away with sunshine. It was a battle to see who would crack first, and Draco vowed to disturb the peaceful waters of Y/N’s personality for as long as they were in school.

Until one day, he didn’t.

Keep reading

[wizardwritings]

“Don’t Call Me Princess”

“Stop calling me princess!”

“I apologize, My Queen.”

One shot inspired by @creativepromptsforwriting! For all you Draco lovers (though this is geared more toward Slytherin readers).

“How is it possible for you to look this shitty? It’s the weekend; you should attempt to look somewhat decent.”

“Oh, shut up, Pansy.” You rolled your eyes but said nothing more. After living in the Slytherin dungeon for six years, you’ve learned to pick up on whether a comment is made in endearing sarcasm or legitimate hostility. Shockingly, Pansy’s remark happened to be the former.

Keep reading

[wizardwritings]

Jealousy

Request: Draco and Y/N are best friends, but he starts dating Pansy. Y/N is in love with Draco so she distances herself from him because she hates to see them together. It hurts him emotionally when she avoids him because he’s in love with her but thought he didn’t have a chance, and he finally confesses.

⇢  Draco x Slytherin Reader; no Voldemort; requests are paraphrased

“We need to talk.”

You raised an eyebrow and looked around the genial Slytherin common room. A soft green glow settled, casting a calming shadow in the bustling space. “Then talk.”

“In private.”

Ignoring the ooh sounds made by Crabbe and Goyle, you stood up and followed Draco to his dormitory. “Is something bothering you?”

“No,” he replied, sitting down on his bed, his head resting on his arms. Feeling your weight next to him, he sighed. “Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

You folded your arms as you leaned against the headboard, peering at the small slither of Draco’s exposed face. “I’ve been your friend for all these years, yet I’ve never seen you look this disgruntled.”

“Best friend,” he corrected, giving you a slight smile. 

“Who knows you more than anyone,” you agreed. “So, tell me, then. Who’s the girl?”

“How did you know this is about a girl–” Draco ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his body to face yours. “Forget it. That was an idiotic question. You know me too well.”

“Of course.” You stretched your legs across his lap. “What’s the problem, then? Afraid she doesn’t like you?”

“Afraid she likes me too much, more like.”

You shook your head and stared up at the ceiling in mock disdain. “What a hard life it must be, being Draco Malfoy. How terrible it seems for all the girls to fall for your bad boy facade.” You shot him a sympathetic glance. “Sounds rough.”

“But the only girl that matters won’t fall for me.” Draco paused and looked at you theatrically. “Or so she claims. I believe she has something else to tell me…”

This has been an on-going joke between you and Draco for a while now, but lately, when he’d kid about liking you, you caught your heart skipping a beat. Of course, every time that happened, you would shove your unbearable feelings away in disgust.

“Keep dreaming, Malfoy.” You looked down, examining your manicured nails. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me which girl you’re talking about?”

Keep reading

[draconisxcaput]

♡ Draco Malfoy Fic Recs ♡

I tried to refrain from posting newer fics becuase they are much easier for readers to find than a lot of the stuff i have down below lol. This is a list of hidden gems i have found and it will continue to grow as i keep going back to my saved likes :)

f l u f f

Because I Had You | @swellwriting

Clandestine Meetings | @mxl-foy

Enemies by Association | @panda-noosh

Fire and Powder | @bubble-tea-bunny

Ice Skating | @cherrie511

Jacaranda | @lupinlongbottom

My Only Valentine | @lvmosity

Out of the Loop | @durmstrange

Princess | @gryffvndors

Softie | @harringtons-imagines

Truce | @drawlfoy

a n g s t

Cherry | @prongsies

Fatal Flaw | @wizardwritings

Forbidden Relationship | @valwritesx

Ghost | @spenseradamswelker

Ghost of You | @slytherinsunrise

No Angel | @war-sword

Plainsong | @acciodracoo

Somebody Else | @malfoymuch

s p i c e

Girls Night, Love Bites | @war-sword

First Time | @spenseradamswelker

Smells Like Sex | @afeb

Sneaking Off | @devynwright-writesimagines

Yellow | @solllaris