MoonChild

[stillnotmollified]

some of you weren’t around for the fan fiction dot net purge of 2002 (when they banned explicit content and mass-deleted thousands of fics) and the livejournal purge of 2007 (when they deleted hundreds of blogs, disproportionately targeting queer & kink content) and it shows

this kind of policing is why ao3 was created

remember, kids, the three laws of fandom are:

- don’t like; don’t read

- your kink is not my kink

- ship and let ship

[rembrandtswife]

your kink is not my kink *but your kink is okay* don't forget that part

[tinyyellowflowers-blog]

Was talking to a coworker today who explained that her grandfather was like Snow White “but Californian. And an old man.” in that the creatures of the forest would follow him around and presumably duet with him.

“When he died the ravens sat in the trees outside for a week, watching. Taking turns. A horde of raccoons tried to break into the house every night, tearing at the siding. Eventually they gave up, but it was unsettling.”

“Aww. They were checking on him!” I said, like a normal person. Internally, I thought “Maybe you could do the thing you do with dead pets, where you show them to the living pets so the living pet understands they’re gone. But I guess if you did that to a bunch of scavenging species, they’d be like “Well, that’s very sad but he IS food now.” So what you’d need, for human sensibilities, is some sort of transparent corpse barrier. Like a see-through coffin oh that’s what the dwarves were doing! You’ve stopped paying attention to this conversation about the loss of a beloved family member you gotta phase back in.”

[sun-ni-day]

oh that's what the dwarves were doing

[cephalophor]

The first funny bitch was Cain, who straight up lied to God after killing his brother.

[nakedinasnowsuit]

God: where’s Abel?

Cain: fuck if I know??? I’m not in charge of him

[thewitchway]

It is TRAGIC that you can’t read this in the original Hebrew.

God:  Where’s the Sheepkeeper?

Cain: Do I LOOK like a Brotherkeeper? 

[careful-crow]

God: hey where’s Abel???

Cain:

[adventuretfox]

He killed his yonger brother in cold blood because he was jealous of him. There is in no way anything funny about this. No hesitation just poped a rock over his turned head, droped his body over the edged and tried to lie to god about what he did. FUCK YALL CRAZIES!!!

[funkyness]

oh are those the receipts, Cain is problematic now?

[bprinny]

Cainceled 

[jung-koook]

jungkook doing dance challenge on the hotel room 😂

[thoughtportal]

[levionlyyours]

Place Your Bets

☆ Summary: The Scouts bet you that Captain Levi won’t respond to your flirting. You’re determined to prove them wrong, but Levi has never been the kind of man to let someone else control the game.

☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader

☆ Genre/Tags: Canon Compliant, Aged-Up Characters (20's), Flirting, Humor, Fluff, Smut

☆ Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, light dom/sub, marking, power imbalance, unprotected piv

☆ Word Count: 9.8k

☆ AO3 Link

☆ a/n: This was the winning poll option for the 400 follower celebration! THANK YOU TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AMAZING WONDERFUL @slaytherinthoughts FOR BETA READING <333

[ Art by Pixiv Id 49949467 ]

Your favorite part of the day has always been dinner time. The dining hall always gets loud, exhaustion loosening everyone’s tongues so laughter spills easier and smiles come brighter. It’s usually the same thing every night—Sasha trying to barter food from everyone, Eren and Jean arguing about something stupid and menial again before Mikasa cuts in and threatens to kick both of their asses, and Ymir showering Christa with love and affection. 

You’re halfway through your stew, watching how Mikasa has slowly been moving the carrots she doesn’t want into Eren’s bowl while he talks too passionately to realize it. Your conversation had somehow shifted from your last assessment scores to which superior officers would be easiest to flirt with. Not exactly the most appropriate conversation, but hey, it should be expected of a group of twenty-something year-olds.

Jean suddenly snorts into his cup and says, “Captain Levi is incapable of being flustered.”

Connie barks out a laugh. “Captain Levi? Yeah, no. I think if you flirted with him, he’d just tell you your posture was shit.”

“He might blush if someone compliments his cleaning,” Sasha says.

You laugh at the thought of Levi turning pink over you complimenting his polishing of the floorboards. It’s almost charming. But you’re pulled back into the reality of things quickly, reminded by the sure fact that Levi would be the type to make you run sixty laps for even breathing wrong in his direction. At least he would look irritatingly beautiful barking orders at you.

“Maybe he just needs someone hot to compliment him,” Connie says.

Ymir, sitting beside Christa with one arm draped over her shoulders, rolls her eyes. “Please. That man could walk through a brothel and find the mop sexier.”

The table erupts into laughter. Armin drops his face into one hand, already checked out of the conversation. Christa turns scarlet but presses her lips together, very clearly trying not to laugh. Jean wheezes, and even Mikasa lets out a small, polite laugh. You shouldn’t laugh as hard as you do, because if Levi heard your conversation right now he would probably bury you all six feet under.

Then Eren, who has never met a stupid idea he couldn’t charge at headfirst, leans forward with bright eyes and says, “Someone should test it.”

You pause, nervously playing with the charm of your necklace. Jean is the first to look at you. Then Connie. Then Sasha. Then Ymir, a little more wickedly.

“No,” you say immediately, because you know that look, and you know yourself. “No.”

Jean grins. “Come on.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re the only one who could pull it off.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“You say things to the officers that none of us would ever say,” Connie points out. It would be rude if it weren’t true.

“Maybe you could only do it for a week?” Christa offers.

“A week?” you echo, already feeling the dangerous little spark of interest light inside you. The worst part is that they’re not entirely wrong; you are bold, you are blunt, and you have secretly spent far too much time wondering what it would take to make Levi Ackerman’s perfect composure crack, even if only by a little. “You’re giving me a week to flirt with humanity’s most emotionally repressed man?”

“Get a reaction,” Jean corrects.

“Define reaction,” Armin says.

“Blushing counts,” Eren says.

“Stammering counts,” Jean adds.

“Looking away counts,” Christa says.

“No it doesn’t,” Ymir scoffs. “That could just mean he hates you.”

You cock your head. “To be fair, I think he does hate me.”

“He hates everyone,” Mikasa mumbles.

“What if he flirts back?” Armin asks.

Eren scoffs loudly. “Captain Levi? Flirt back? Be serious.”

Your stomach twists at the thought. You can’t even imagine Levi doing anything as human as flirting. But what if he were to step a little too close, lower his voice to a smooth cadence, fix his eyes on yours and then your lips and then smash his mouth against—

Nope. You’re not going down that mental road again.

You set your spoon down and touch your necklace again. Everyone is watching you intensely. The best move here is to refuse. It’s the most sensible move. Captain Levi isn’t a toy for your entertainment. Making a game out of a man who can kill Titans like swatting flies is going to land you in deep shit. You know that.

And yet, you still smile. “A week?” you ask, leaning back with a confident half-shrug. “Give me three days.”

Jean’s grin widens. “That confidence is exactly why we picked you.”

Ymir snorts into her cup. “No. We picked her because she has no sense of self-preservation. And she’s a fucking idiot.”

The worst part is you can’t even argue with that. Game on.

.

Day one, you begin with too much confidence and nowhere near enough strategy, which, in hindsight, is probably the natural consequence of accepting a bet over dinner while surrounded by idiots.

You see Levi just after breakfast, walking through the corridor with a stack of reports in his arms. He looks somewhat more annoyed today, but because Eren and Jean are watching from around the far corner—not very subtly, might you add—and because you refuse to lose your nerve on the first attempt, you slow your steps just enough to pass him shoulder-to-shoulder and say sweetly, “You look good today, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t stop or look at you. He doesn’t even blink in a way that could potentially be considered meaningful, unless you’re desperate enough to start seeing romantic symbolism in basic human functions now. He simply keeps walking, the scent of his soap trailing behind slapping you in the face. You’re left standing there in the middle of the corridor with your mouth still curved into a smile. Meanwhile, at the end of the hall, Jean presses a fist to his mouth to stop himself from laughing and Eren mouths, Nothing?

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a glance, not even a disgusted little sigh. Fine, you think, watching Levi disappear around the corner. Eren and Jean shoot upright and pretend to engage in conversation, though it’s horribly broken and awkward from what you can hear. The moment Levi’s footsteps fade, Jean shoves Eren’s shoulder, and Eren shoves him back.

First shot missed. Happens to the best of us.

.

By day two, you decide subtlety is the coward’s way.

You happen to run into Levi again in the supply closet. While you’re searching for a specific cleaner, the door opens behind you and he steps inside. Suddenly the cramped room seems to shrink even further. There’s barely enough space for both of you to stand without brushing elbows. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that you’re so close, naturally. 

Instead, he reaches past you for a rag on the shelf above your shoulder. He leans close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. Your muscles lock momentarily. Damn him for being so attractive. Still, you manage to tilt your chin up and say, “Careful, Captain. Any closer and people might start talking.”

He pulls back and looks at you. For a second, you think you’ll get something. A stammer, a blush if you’re lucky, but Levi only looks unimpressed. It’s the exact same look he gives soldiers when he manages to find a speck of dust after three straight hours of cleaning.

“People already talk,” he says flatly. “Usually because you give them material.”

You swallow a laugh. Damn him. You lean your shoulder against the shelf, trying not to focus on the fact that your pulse has just spiked dramatically. “Oh, we can give them plenty of material.”

Levi takes the rag, steps back, then leaves.

.

By day three, you’re beginning to suspect the bet is cursed.

You’re gathered in the yard for ODM training. Your friends have formed a not-so-suspicious circle across the field. You see them gathered with a false innocence, sneaking glances at you, favoring the potential spectacle awaiting them over doing anything useful.

You check your gear and realize one of your straps at your thigh is loose, the buckle hanging awkwardly against your leg. Before you can crouch down to fix it yourself, someone approaches.

“Hold still,” Levi says.

You’re almost embarrassed by how quickly you obey. He crouches in front of you and grabs the loose strap before you can object. There’s nothing intimate about it, nothing that should make heat rush to your face—and yet it does. You look down at his dark hair and the concentration on his face and think to yourself, this is fine. This is normal. He’s just fixing your gear. You’re not going to die.

Then you remember the bet. Now’s your chance.

“You always this good with your hands, Captain?” you ask, nervously toying with your necklace.

Across the yard, Connie visibly folds in half. Eren grabs Mikasa by the sleeve. Sasha’s mouth drops open. Levi tightens the buckle with one tug and looks up at you, his expression so blank it’s almost hostile in a way.

“Only when someone’s done a shit job and I have to fix it,” he says.

You stare at him as he walks away, unaware of the others across the yard silently screaming into the void.

.

By day four, your pride is no longer bruised. It’s limping, bleeding, and asking whether anyone saw the driver of the carriage that hit it. 

You’re cleaning one of the common rooms with a scrub brush in hand and a flicker of annoyance in your heart when Levi comes to inspect the progress. He steps inside, surveys the floor, the windowsill, the table legs, underneath the tables, and even the door handle.

“Do it over,” he says.

You slowly turn your head toward him. “Excuse me?”

His gaze flicks to the windowsill. “Dust.”

You look behind you at the window. Tragically, there’s dust. It wouldn’t matter to a normal person, but Captain Levi is far from normal when it comes to cleanliness. “You’re very hard to impress, Captain,” you say, forcing your voice to carry a teasing tone instead of something that makes it clear how badly you want to throw the rag at his head.

Levi looks at you, and he doesn’t look away. Standing under his intense gaze like this makes your stomach clench in ways you don’t even want to think about. “And you’re very easy to ignore.”

Your smile twitches before you can stop it. That one stings a bit more. You know Levi isn’t above personal insults, but were you really that forgettable to him? You manage to muster up a bit more courage and say, “You know, I’m more skilled in other areas.”

Levi only quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head. That was enough to pull him in, it seems. Success. “How so?”

You smile, because finally, you’ve found the opening. “You’re not the only one who’s good with their hands.”

Silence. Such deep silence that you could hear a pin drop. Levi holds your gaze for exactly one second before he says, almost bored, “Knock it off and get back to work.”

And just like that, he moves on with his day, leaving you standing in the room with a rag in your hand, a burning face, and a grim realization that you may have underestimated both his composure and his commitment to making you feel like an idiot.

.

The moment you sit down at dinner that night, Connie leans across the table and hides his mouth from the view of the superiors’ table with his hand. “Nothing?”

You drop your head into your hand. “Nothing.”

“Not even a blink?”

“He has eyes, Connie. He’s going to blink,” Mikasa says without looking up from her bowl.

Sasha groans and slumps dramatically over the table, one hand still clutching her apple. “We’re doomed.”

You groan too, louder. “No, just me.”

Jean makes a sympathetic noise that’s ruined completely by the fact that he’s smiling. “You still have three days left.”

“Three days to accomplish the impossible,” Eren mumbles.

Armin, kinder than the rest, tilts his head. “Maybe you need to adjust your approach.”

“My approach is fine,” you say.

“Your approach is dogshit,” Ymir says.

Christa gives you an almost apologetic smile, which makes you feel even worse. You stab at the softened carrots in your stew with one hand and toy with your necklace with the other. Every time you touch it, you remember your mother’s hands in yours, the cold metal in your palm, her soft words wishing you safety and prosperity. You long to see her again. Soon, you think. Soon.

You force yourself to not look toward the officers’ side of the hall, where Levi sits with Hange and Erwin, drinking tea without a care in the world—as if he hasn’t spent the last four days ignoring your best efforts. It should be funny. It was funny, at first. But now his lack of a reaction has begun to get under your skin, turning challenge into irritation, then irritation into a feeling that’s far more embarrassing, because it’s one thing for Levi to ignore the flirting and another thing entirely for him to make you feel like he’s ignoring you.

It’s personal now, you decide. 

.

Levi thinks this is the most irritating week of his life, by far.

It’s not distracting enough to matter, and certainly not enough to affect his work, but it’s definitely irritating. And persistent. You are persistent. You’re always there. In hallways, in supply rooms, in the training grounds, always pushing and pushing, waiting for him to break at the seams. 

Levi doesn’t crack. He’s survived this long by being difficult to shake. Still, he thinks about it—about you—more than he should, and that annoys him the most.

Levi walks into the stables. Hay bales are stacked neatly against the wall. The tack is all lined up and organized in the storage room. He’s only searching for a harness clip, nothing more, because apparently grown soldiers can’t keep equipment where it belongs. He barely passes the first row of stalls before voices reach him from the far end. He recognizes them. Eren, Jean, Armin. Levi stops before they see him. 

“Told you,” Eren says with a hint of smugness. “Captain Levi doesn’t flirt.”

Levi’s brows shift by the smallest degree. 

“She still has two days, Armin says, a little quieter. “And honestly, he’s been looking at her more than usual.”

“Looking annoyed doesn’t count,” Jean laughs. “He looks at everyone like that.”

Levi freezes for a moment, then swallows. Then Eren speaks again, painfully unaware of the grave he’s digging with both hands. “Doesn’t matter. The bet was to make him react. She’s been flirting with him for five days and he hasn’t done anything.”

Levi doesn’t know what to feel at first. Then annoyance practically slams into him. Of course the sudden compliments, the lingering looks, the suggestive comments delivered with too much confidence and nowhere near enough survival instinct are not lapses in judgement but a coordinated effort by the loudest collection of children to ever survive to adulthood.

He almost steps out. He almost makes them regret every syllable. He almost assigns all three of them stable duty until their hands smell permanently of horse shit. He almost leaves to go find you and drag you into his office and inform you that if you have enough free time to treat your commanding officer like a tavern dare, you have enough free time to scrub every inch of the barracks.

But he doesn’t. He remains where he is, half-shadowed beside the tack shelves, and thinks of you when you were in the supply closet with him, your chin tipped up and your mouth spilling smooth words you clearly expected to land, of the flash of irritation in your eyes when he refused to give you anything back.

So, you’ve been trying to break him in front of an audience. Bold. Stupid. And mildly interesting. You want a reaction from him. No. More than that. You want proof that he can be moved, that there’s something you can reach underneath all the discipline and deadpan remarks if you’re reckless enough to keep trying.

Fine. Let’s see how well you handle it when he stops being polite.

He turns without a sound, leaving the missing clip for someone else to find and the three idiots still talking at the far end of the stable, none of them aware that the terms of the bet have just changed.

Two days then. If you wanted a reaction that badly, he could give you one.

.

Day six begins badly, which, considering the trajectory of the week so far, should not surprise you. The morning vanishes beneath papers and one disaster involving Connie dropping a crate of replacement gas canisters. You’re on the last thin shred of your patience. By the time late afternoon rears its ugly head, you’re tired and hungry, having spent five days throwing stones at a wall. You’re considering whether you should just run headfirst into it. But you can’t give up. That would be mortifying. Also Jean would never let you hear the end of it. 

So when you turn the corner into the east corridor and nearly collide with Levi himself, you decide the universe has not abandoned you entirely. He stops before you can hit him, and you catch yourself with one hand against the wall, your heart giving a stupid little kick as you look at him. He looks as he always does: composed, mouth set in a flat line, irritatingly clean despite the hour. 

Fine, you think, dragging your confidence up by the collar. One more time.

You let your smile come slowly, forgetting how the last few days have been consistent public humiliation. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me, Captain.”

Normally, this is where he would keep walking. Normally, he would ignore you and tell you to find something useful to do. But Levi stops beside you, close enough that the corridor feels smaller, close enough that you can smell the last cup of tea he had still lingering on his lips. He turns his head, eyes meeting yours from the side. Your smile falters.

“Why would I?” he asks. Your breath hitches—stupidly. The words themselves are nothing, barely a response, but it’s the way he said them, in a way you’ve never heard from him before, that makes the world stop for just a single second. Then his gaze drops, briefly, and he says, “You wanted my attention, didn’t you?”

You forget how to answer. Your mind produces absolutely nothing. You can’t find a single comeback or tease. You technically got him to react, and you should be celebrating, but you can only focus on the fact that Levi has just taken the same game you’ve been playing all week and held it against your throat.

Before you can recover emotionally, he turns and walks away. Just like that. 

You remain there, your hand now nervously touching your charm necklace, staring at him while your heart nearly explodes out of your chest. The worst part isn’t that he answered, but that he answered like he knew exactly what it would do to you.

No. Absolutely not. This is not happening. You are the one flirting with him. You’re the one with the bet, the plan, the reputation for saying things no one else dares to say, and Levi is supposed to be an immovable force. He is not supposed to look at you like that. 

And you are not supposed to feel this way in return.

.

Dinner approaches, and you almost manage to convince yourself that you imagined it. 

He was probably being sarcastic. You’re tired and frustrated and maybe starvation has you seeing seduction where it doesn’t exist. Levi’s voice is always low, his eyes are always intense, and your imagination just lost its grip because you’ve spent too many days thinking about him. 

The mess hall doors open onto chaos. Everyone is trying to leave and enter at once. Soldiers are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the crowded corridor, laughter and complaints tangling with the clatter of dishes from inside. You’re caught near the doorway, half-turned as Jean calls to you from the table and Mikasa waves to you.

You start to step aside when you feel a hand settle at the small of your back. Levi moves behind you, close enough that his chest nearly brushes your shoulder as he guides you smoothly out of the flow of traffic. His palm rests low on your back for a moment longer than necessary. Your lungs practically stop working.

“You’re in the way,” he says. 

You turn your head, because apparently you’re feeling particularly self-destructive tonight and want to look directly at the weapon killing you. You find him already watching you. Your mind tells you to take the mercy of silence and leave with whatever remains of your dignity.

But because your survival instincts are apparently the worst and will always lose to your mouth, you say, “You always touch your subordinates like that?”

His hand slips from your back, his eyes holding yours as he answers, low enough that the noise swallows it before anyone else can hear. “You always like getting touched by your superiors, or is it just me?”

Your mouth parts. Nothing comes out. Levi’s eyes flick, very briefly, to your lips, then he steps around you and walks into the mess hall like he didn’t just completely make you short circuit. You stand there in the doorway, heat rushing to your face so fast it nearly makes you dizzy. You reach up to touch your necklace again. You still feel the burn of his palm against your back.

No, no, no. That did not happen. Captain Levi did not just say that to you in a crowded hallway. Captain Levi, who has spent five days ignoring your every attempt to flirt, did not just choose now, now, in front of the open mess hall doors where your idiot friends are sitting within view, to say that.

You turn slowly toward the dining hall. At the table, every single one of them is staring. Eren has a spoon halfway to his mouth. Mikasa is watching you calmly, as she always does. Ymir is smiling widely. Jean’s eyebrows are raised to his hairline. You walk to the table on stumbling legs and sit down shakily.

Jean speaks first. “Well?”

You reach to pick up your spoon, then you realize there is no spoon. You haven’t even gotten your food yet. “W-what?”

“What happened?” Connie demands. “We saw him stop.”

“Did he react?” Eren asks. “Did he blush? Stammer? Look away?”

“Nothing happened,” you say a little too quickly.

Armin tilts his head. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, trying not to spontaneously combust from the inside out.

Eren squints at you. “Why do you look like you just ran thirty laps?”

“Because I hate all of you.”

Sasha gasps softly. “Even me?”

“Especially you,” you joke.

“Oh, come on. Something happened,” Jean laughs.

“Nothing happened.”

“You’re flustered,” Christa says gently. Damn it, of course it had to be her who noticed.

“It’s hot in here.”

“It’s winter,” Mikasa says. You glare at her.

Ymir leans forward, elbows on the table as she rests her chin on her linked hands. “Oh, something definitely happened.”

“It didn’t,” you insist, even though your skin is still burning where his hand touched your back. 

The bet was supposed to be simple. You flirt. Levi refuses to react. You keep pushing until you either win through charm or lose with enough grace to pretend you never cared. At no point was he supposed to turn around and make you feel like the bet had never belonged to you at all.

You stand up and grab your food, your cheeks still hot and shoulders stiff. When you sit back down, Ymir’s gaze follows you. She knows. She absolutely knows. But you tell yourself again that nothing happened as you stab a potato hard enough that it breaks apart in your bowl.

Nothing happened. And if that’s true, then you’re in far more trouble than you thought, because apparently Levi can do absolutely nothing and still ruin you.

.

It’s the final day. The day you either make Captain Levi blush, stammer, or lose composure, or you lose the bet and spend the rest of your life—however short that may be—listening to Eren and Jean taunting you and becoming the most smug humans to ever exist on this earth. You’re much less confident than you were when you started, and truthfully, you’re ready to take the loss and humiliation.

The training yard is blue with the early morning, fog clinging low to the ground while the first soldiers trickle in with their gear half-fastened and their faces pinched against the chill. You stand near the equipment racks with your ODM harness hanging around your hips. Your fingers feel slightly clumsier than usual as you tighten the buckle at your waist. It’s not that you’re nervous. You’re just tired and cold. You’re aware that Levi has spent the last twenty-four hours looking at you as if he knows something you don’t, touching you where he doesn’t need to touch you, speaking in a voice that, franky, should be illegal, and then walking away like nothing ever happened.

You tug the buckle too hard and it nearly pulls the breath out of you. Then it falls loose, and you mutter a low, “Shit.”

You feel someone move behind you. Your heart reacts before the rest of you does.

“Your waist buckle is loose.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. Damn the universe for sending him. If you’re going to lose, you might as well go out strong. “I’ve got it,” you say.

“You don’t,” Levi says.

Before you can argue, he steps in behind you. His hands rise to your waist, grabbing the buckle you were fumbling with, and your spine straightens so fast you might as well have been pulled up by a wire. He’s so damn close. Too damn close. 

There are people in the yard. Not many, but enough. Enough that you can’t turn around and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, enough that you can’t grab his wrist, enough that you can’t do anything except stand there and pretend him correcting your gear isn’t an act of psychological warfare. 

His voice lowers near your ear. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m not,” you say a little too fast.

Levi pulls the buckle tight, enough to force a little “mmph” out of you. You swear you hear him scoff in amusement. “You are.”

“I’m perfectly focused.”

“You’re slower.” His knuckles brush, barely, against your stomach as he tightens the leather. “Your breathing’s off.”

As if your body is eager to prove him right, your breath hitches. You hate him. You hate him so much you want to bite him. You angle your head just enough to speak over your shoulder. “Did you come over here to critique my breathing?”

“No.” He leans in just enough that his next words touch the edge of your ear. “I’m wondering what’s on your mind.” Your first name falls from his lips. You despise how much you like to hear him say it.

Your brain, which has faced Titans, blood, death, and the endless exhaustion of military life, simply abandons you. “I—nothing,” you say, the word catching in your throat. 

Levi freezes for a breath, then finishes buckling your gear. He withdraws his hands, but he doesn’t step back immediately. The absence of his touch feels somehow worse than the touch itself. 

“Save your filthy little thoughts about me for later,” he says.

You freeze. There’s no possible response. Nothing clever nor dignified. Nothing that doesn’t immediately reveal your thoughts, filthy or otherwise. But you realize they’ve already been dragged into broad daylight and inspected by the one man you least want to have that power.

Levi steps around you casually with a perfectly neutral expression, acting as if he hasn’t taken your last functioning nerve between his teeth and smiled around it. You stand there, frozen, your entire body burning. 

Maybe this bet was a bad idea.

.

By midday, you’re coming to terms with the fact that you’re no longer trying to win the bet. You’re just trying to survive the damn thing.

The realization comes to you somewhere between drills and the deeply inconvenient moment when Sasha asks why you keep looking like you expect someone to sneak up on you. Because that’s exactly what it feels like right now; like every corridor has become a battlefield and every corner might contain Levi with another clever line ready to slide under your skin and make its home there.

He’s only doing this because he knows, somehow, because he’s figured out the bet or sensed weakness or simply decides that torturing you is a productive use of his time. That’s what you try to tell yourself, anyway. But none of those explanations quell the heat in your stomach. None of them make you stop remembering the low cadence of his voice. None of them help when you take the stairwell after grabbing a stack of reports to deliver and find him descending from the floor above, eyes already fixed on you as if he knew exactly where you would be.

Your first instinct is to step aside. Your second is to flee. Your third, which is unfortunately the one you choose, is to fight. 

Levi reaches the landing and moves as if to pass you, not stopping, not granting you so much as the satisfaction of another look, and you feel your pride explode in your chest. This is reckless, but when have you ever not been reckless? It led you here, after all.

“If I didn’t know better, Captain, I’d think you were coming onto me,” you say.

Levi stops. Slowly, he turns. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are not empty. They are darkened, focused purely on you and filled with so much control it feels more dangerous than if he had simply smiled.

“You’d know if I were coming onto you,” he says.

A warning. A door. A line on the floor with your toes already over it. Leave it alone. Let him go. Remember that there are only a few hours left in this ridiculous bet and the safest thing in the world would be to stop poking at the man who’s already proven he knows exactly how to make you forget your own name without even touching you.

Stupidly, you say, “Would I?”

For a moment, nothing happens—then Levi steps closer. A single step that takes the distance between you and closes it. His boots echo quietly against the stone. Your back doesn’t touch the wall yet, but every part of you understands that it could. He leans in and you go still. It’s just enough room to move away. But you don’t. His breath brushes your ear as he speaks.

“You’d know,” he says, voice so low the words barely survive the air between you, “because I’d have you backed against this wall and make damn sure you remembered who you were teasing.”

You swear you feel your knees give out. There’s no other way to describe it. A part of you dips, a violent little swoop of heat and shock and want that leaves your fingers tightening around the reports until the papers bend.

Levi draws back just enough to look at you, almost patiently, able to see every ruined thought passing across your face—and he has all the time in the world to watch you suffer through them. You force your mouth open, but nothing coherent arrives. His gaze drops once to your hands clenched around the reports, then he steps past you, the sleeve of his jacket brushing your arm.

You nearly pass out when his footsteps finally fade away.

.

Hours later, after dinner, you and your friends gather in the yard, warm with lantern light and the fading noise of the day. The sky above the barracks deepens into a royal blue. You sit on the grass with your friends, trying to look as normal as possible and most likely miserably failing.

The bet is nearly over. You’ve technically won it, but for some reason, you don’t want to admit it, because if you do, the things Levi said and did become real. Still, you don’t tell them anything. Connie is looking at the stars, Sasha is finishing the last of her crackers that she snuck out of the mess hall, Jean is laying down with his hands behind his head, Mikasa is watching the yard, and Ymir keeps glancing at you with an expression that suggests she knows there’s blood in the water and she’s simply waiting for you to admit you’ve been bitten.

Eren is the one who finally breaks. He waits until the last bell rings from somewhere inside the barracks, marking the end of the day. He smiles and looks at you so smugly it makes you want to slap him.

“That’s it,” he says. “Told you. Captain Levi doesn’t give a shit about romance.”

The others groan, laugh, and argue, immediately debating technicalities, because Jean insists there may still be time if Levi walks through the yard in the next thirty seconds, and Connie says you should just sprint inside and say something ridiculous in case it works. 

You hear it all from very far away, because you know with certainty that Levi didn’t blush, nor stammer, nor look away. He didn’t lose. Not where anyone could see, at least. Eren is right. Jean is right. Everyone is right. 

But they don’t know about the corridor, about his hand at your back, about the training yard and the filthy little thoughts he somehow spoke into existence just by naming them; they don’t know about the stairwell, about the way his voice lowered just for you, about the wall that never touched your back but has been haunting you for hours anyway.

You sit there in the grass with your face turned toward the darkening yard, letting the others mourn and gloat around you, while the memory of his words presses insistently at the forefront of your mind.

You’d know.

You press your lips together and say nothing, because the truth is yours now—and Levi’s.

And that might be worse than losing.

.

Several days pass, and in that time, Levi Ackerman becomes a ghost. He’s somehow everywhere and nowhere at once. In the courtyard while you’re sharpening your blades, standing at the edge of the formation while you run drills, passing through the dining hall with a cup of tea in one hand; and every time you see him, every time his eyes flick over you, your mind drags itself to the stairwell again. 

You try to be normal about it. Privately, you fail, but in public, you’re a master of composure—or at least that’s what you tell yourself every time you miss a cue or spend a full three seconds staring at Levi’s mouth during morning briefing. You spend too long trying not to think about him, and the act of thinking about him suddenly becomes the only thing you know how to do.

Then the summons comes, delivered after dinner by a junior soldier, who says, with a nervous little glance over his shoulder, that Captain Levi wants to see you in his office.

“Did he say why?” you ask.

The soldier clears his throat. “Performance issues.”

The others at the table look at you with a mix of confusion and pity, but you don’t look back at them. You simply stand, smooth down your jacket, and walk out of the dining hall while desperately trying to ignore the fact that your heart is about to explode.

Outside Levi’s office, you lift your hand to knock, but you pause when you become aware of the warmth gathering underneath your collar. This is ridiculous. You’re a soldier. You’ve faced Titans. You’ve bled, trained, survived, laughed in the face of exhaustion, taken orders from men twice as loud and half as terrifying, and you are not going to break down just because Levi asked to speak with you behind a closed door.

You knock.

“Come in.”

You open the door. Levi’s office is exactly as it always is; painfully neat, the shelves orderly and every stack of papers aligned neatly. A single lantern burns on his desk, where he sits with a report open in front of him and a cup of tea sitting near his right hand. He doesn’t look up immediately, and it makes the knot in your stomach tighten.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” you ask, stepping inside and closing the door behind you.

Levi lifts his eyes and says, “Sit.”

Your spine reacts to the order first as you enter the room and sit in the chair opposite his desk with as much grace as you can muster, which isn’t a lot under the circumstances.

“Am I in trouble?” you ask.

Levi leans back slightly, his fingers resting against the edge of the report. He studies you carefully. “Depends how honest you plan on being.” You smile despite the cold chill running down your spine. He narrows his eyes at you. “Your focus has been shit.”

Well. Not the line you expected, maybe, but the tone is familiar enough to turn into irritation, and you’d rather deal with irritation than the other feeling gathering in your stomach.

“My focus is fine,” you say, more meekly than you’d like.

“No, it isn’t.” Levi closes the report. “Your turns were wide during drills yesterday. Your reaction time was slow this morning. You checked your gear and didn’t realize your gas pressure regulation valve was broken.”

Your lips part, then close again. Damn him. “That was one mistake.”

“Several mistakes.”

“I was tired.”

“You’ve been tired before. You’re sloppier when you’re distracted. And you’ve been distracted.”

Heat starts rushing to your face. “Is that what this is about? My form?”

“It’s about performance issues.”

Your body locks up. Levi’s expression doesn’t change, and that’s the worst part, because his face remains perfectly neutral while the words crawl under your skin, dragging every memory of the last two weeks with them. His hand at your lower back, his voice at your ear, his proximity in the stairwell, his near-command to save your filthy thoughts for later. You try to breathe through your nose.

“My performance is fine,” you say.

“It’s shit,” he says.

You grip the arms of the chair a bit tighter. “Did you just call me in here to insult me?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Levi sits in the silence for a moment, then he says, “Next time you make a bet involving me, pick a group of idiots that won’t talk about it loudly.”

You swear your stomach drops so fast that the whole room spins around you. Your vision blurs and your mind scrambles backward through every report, every hallway attempt, every bold little comment you’d thrown at him. He knew. Levi knew.

You stare at him, completely frozen, shame flooding through you before anger surges to meet it. Not only did he know, but he had let you keep going, watched you struggle, and taken the game from your hands and turned it against you.

“You knew?” you say.

“Since day five.”

Your face burns. The air in the office suddenly feels suffocating. “And you just let me keep going?”

You swear you see Levi’s eyes glint with amusement. “No. I started playing.”

You stand suddenly, chair scraping back against the floor loudly. “That was petty, Captain. Were you trying to embarrass me?”

“You’re the one who was trying to make me blush in front of half the regiment.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out, because he’s infuriatingly, humiliatingly right, and he knows it. “That was different,” you say weakly.

“How?”

“It was a bet.”

“Mm.” Levi steps out from behind the desk. “That makes it better?”

You hold your ground as he rounds the desk, though you become increasingly aware of the closed door, his desk behind you as you turn around, how his shoes make almost no sound against the floor. Your pulse skips.

“It was harmless,” you say.

“It was stupid.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

His eyes lock onto yours. “No. I didn’t.”

Your back suddenly meets the edge of the desk. You hadn’t even realized you were stepping back. Levi doesn’t touch you, but he steps close enough that the space between you becomes a silent dare, and when his hands come down on either side of you, palms braced against the desk, you’re caged without being held. Trapped only because neither of you has chosen to move.

He’s left you room to step away. You could step away. But he’s so close. He’s close enough that you can see the shadows beneath his eyes and the faint scar above his eyebrow. Your breath thins. Levi’s gaze sharpens on you.

“You’re very bold when there’s an audience,” he murmurs.

You swallow, but your throat feels dry. “And when there isn’t?”

For the first time, something almost like a smile threatens the corner of his mouth. He cocks his head slightly. “That’s what I called you here to find out.”

The office goes silent. It presses around you, filling the space between your faces, making you conscious of every small thing surrounding you: the desk biting into your thighs, the faint scent of tea gone cold, the lantern flame shifting in its glass, Levi’s hands braced on either side of you, close enough that your own fingers could reach his wrists if you dared.

Your anger is still there, and your embarrassment too, but beneath both, beneath the humiliation of being caught and the fury of being played, something else opens its eyes, a recklessness that’s starving for touch. It’s been alive since the corridor, since the stairwell, since the first time Levi turned the game back on you.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours drops to his. Neither of you moves. You can hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears now, unsteady despite your best efforts to calm it. Your hands grip the desk behind you. The urge to say something snarky leaps to your lips, but you have nothing. You’re completely, utterly speechless.

But you feel the smallest flare of courage. And with that courage, you’re able to whisper three simple words.

“I dare you.”

The kiss is nowhere near gentle. It’s controlled for a single second, just a firm press of his mouth against yours, like he’s giving you exactly one moment to pull away; and when you don’t move, when your hands leave the desk to grab his cravat and pull him deeper in, his restraint breaks. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s been counting every reckless word you threw at him and has finally decided to answer all of them at once.

Your legs press into the desk as his body leans in, one hand leaving the wood to rest on your waist, the other sliding to your jaw. You make a small sound against his mouth that you would absolutely deny under oath, but Levi hears it, feels it, and answers by tilting your head exactly how he wants it. Your thoughts turn into complete static, but only one breaks through.

This is the reaction you wanted. Not a blush or a stammer. This.

Levi pulls away to breathe, his mouth still close enough to brush yours. His hand is still firm at your waist. You don’t speak, and neither does he. You notice the darkening of his eyes. Yours are fixed on his mouth. Then his thumb moves along your jaw.

“You wanted honest,” he says quietly.

You smile against his mouth and whisper, “I wanted a reaction.”

Levi scoffs. “You got one.”

His mouth crashes back into yours, tongue sliding against yours. One of his hands fists in the fabric at your lower back, pulling you against him. The other cups the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you. You feel the way his breath hitches once before he deepens the kiss even further. He’s done waiting.

He tears his mouth away again, voice low and rough. “Bedroom.”

“Is that an order, Captain?” you tease.

Levi’s mouth twitches into something almost resembling a smirk. “It’s an invitation. Don’t confuse the two.”

His fingers lace through yours and he leads you out of the office, down the short hallway to his private quarters. The door shuts behind you, and then he’s on you again, mouth hungry, hands already working at your straps. You push his cravat aside and unbutton his shirt with equal urgency. Every brush of his hands against your skin sends sparks racing through you. 

You reach up to your neck and unclasp your necklace, setting it carefully on the small table beside his bed. You’ve never taken it off, so the absence doesn’t register at first. When it does, you feel more naked, despite already fully being so. Then you turn back to him. Levi watches the movement, then his hands return to your bare waist, guiding you backward until the edge of the mattress meets the backs of your knees. He gives you the gentlest push and you sink onto the bed, the sheets cold against your skin.

Levi follows you down, bracing on one forearm as he kisses you again. His free hand trails along your side, mapping the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. He breaks the kiss to move lower, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat, then the slope of your collarbone, then lower still. 

When his lips close over once nipple you arch, a soft sound escapes you. He sucks gently at first, then with more pressure, tongue circling the sensitive bud while his thumb teases the other. The dual attention makes your walls flutter around nothing. You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the satisfaction that rolls through him at every gasp you give.

He continues downward, kissing a path over your stomach and your hipbone. He bites gently, leaving a whisper of a mark. His hands part your thighs and then suddenly, without warning, his mouth is on you, tongue stroking slowly. At the same time two fingers slide inside, curling so perfectly that your vision blurs for a moment.

Levi’s thoughts are focused on only one thing: he wants to feel you come apart, wants to hear every sound you make when there’s no audience left to perform for. He works you steadily, tongue flicking and sucking at your clit while his fingers stroke that perfect spot again and again.

Your own thoughts scatter now. The bet feels distant, ridiculous compared to the reality of Levi’s mouth and hands. Pleasure builds fast, coiling tighter with every pass of his tongue and every thrust of his fingers. Your hips move without conscious thought, chasing the sensation. Levi’s free hand presses your thighs wider, keeping you open for him. The quiet growl he lets out against you vibrates through your core. Your inner walls clench around him, urging him deeper.

“Levi, please,” you whimper, hands tangling in his hair as you grind against his face. “Need more.”

With a low chuckle, he adds a third finger, stretching you deliciously as he picks up the pace. His tongue dances over your clit, sending a wave of ecstasy through you. He doubles his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. Your thighs close around his head. One hand flies from his head to the sheets, gripping tight.

In a moment of surprising tenderness, he reaches out for your hand with his free one, lacing your fingers together. His other hand is still preoccupied, fingers thrusting deep and curling against your g-spot. The tension inside you winds tighter and tighter. Your quiet moans fill the room, a symphony of pleasure that seems to drive Levi on.

Your orgasm comes so suddenly it catches you by surprise. Your body clenches around his fingers as wave after wave rolls through you. You cry out, back arching off the bed, your hand in his hair tightening its grip on his locks. Levi doesn’t stop until the tremors ease, drawing every last ripple of pleasure from you with careful strokes of his tongue. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dark and intent, lips glistening. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then moves back up your body to press his mouth to yours.

Your heavy breaths turn into small, hitched inhales as your pulse races. Levi’s weight settles partly over you, one hand stroking your side. You feel his cock twitch against you. You reach for him, pulling him closer, and he comes willingly, his chest pressed against yours as he grinds his hips down to meet yours, his length sliding over your wetness. 

He then pulls back, eyes searching your face. There’s a softness in the way he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb across your cheek. He feels the rapid flutter of your heart through your chest. He’s been denying it for days now, but he’s wanted this. He wanted it since the first time you tried to make him react, but he needs to know you do too.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

You nod without hesitation. “Yes.”

Levi watches you for another second, looking for any signs of doubt, then he settles between your thighs. His hand guides himself to your entrance, and the first press of him stretches you in a way you never could have prepared for. He’s thicker than you expected, the tip parting you slowly. The sensation is overwhelming at first. You feel every inch as he sinks deeper. Your body yields around his solid girth. A quiet sound escapes you, half gasp and half moan. Levi stills once he’s fully inside you, giving you time to adjust.

He takes both of your hands in his and lifts them above your head, pinning them gently to the mattress. His fingers are laced through yours. He begins to move, slow rolling thrusts that you feel the full stretch each time he pushes in. The push of him inside you is deep, hitting places that make your toes curl.

Sensations layer one over another: the slickness, the pressure against your inner walls, your hips tilting to take him deeper. He lowers his mouth to your neck, lips brushing first. Then his teeth graze in a light bite, the sensation racing down your spine. You feel the sting melt into heat, and he soothes it with a slow kiss before biting again, a little harder this time.

Against your skin he murmurs, “You feel so good.” 

The words spread through you in a rush of heat. He shifts your hands and grips both of them with just one of his, while he slides his now free hand down to grip your hip, steadying you as he thrusts again, deeper. You kiss him when he lifts his head, mouths meeting in an open exchange that still tastes faintly of you. He pulls back enough to speak, still moving inside you with long strokes. 

“Is this what you wanted?”

You nod, a moan threading through the motion, your body arching to meet each thrust. The stretch is constant, a fullness that blanks your mind. Levi feels the way you clench around him and the small tremors in your thighs. He slows deliberately, hips rolling in a lazy pace that keeps him buried deep but denies the hard friction you’re starting to crave.

“Yeah?” he says, tilting his head. “Wouldn’t like it if I stopped now, would you?”

You shake your head, no words yet, just the desperate cling of your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. Your hands flex under his hold. You feel the strength in his grip. You couldn’t break free if you tried, and somehow, the contrast of tenderness and control makes heat flood through you again.

Levi’s mouth curves slightly. “That’s right. You want me to keep going, pretty girl?” He leans down, his lips barely ghosting over yours. “Come on, use your words.”

You nearly crack under the weight of his words. Your voice comes out breathy and urgent. “Please don’t stop. Keep going, Levi. I need it. Need it harder.”

He obliges without hesitation. His pace shifts, thrusts growing harder, the bed creaking softly beneath you as he drives in with more force. His thickness fills you completely with each stroke. The wet sound of it mixes with the quiet moans he lets out against your neck. He bites there again, teeth sinking just enough to mark without breaking skin. He kisses the spot, tongue soothing the sting. 

A rush of emotion floods you through the physicality of it all, a mix of being wanted so thoroughly and the unexpected gentleness in how he holds you even while fucking you harder. The moment Levi releases your hand to brace himself properly, you drag your nails down his back, the urge to mark him back rising. The scratches start light but deepen with the next thrust. Levi’s voice comes low near your ear.

“Not too hard, love.”

You nod quickly, the word settling somewhere low in your stomach. You know why he said that. Marks like that would be impossible to hide in the showers. Questions would rise. Explanations you couldn’t give. You ease the pressure of your nails, letting your hands smooth over his skin instead. You feel the flex of his muscles beneath. 

Levi doesn’t falter, his hips snapping down in a rhythm that pushes you higher again. He kisses you to muffle the louder moans that slip out of you, his mouth claiming yours while he drives deep. The tip of him brushes your cervix with every stroke. You feel the tension coiling in him, the way his breathing grows rougher, the subtle tremor in his arms holding his body up. His own pleasure builds, the quiet sounds he makes rising in volume, murmured words of how perfect you feel around him, how much he’s thought about this. 

The pace stays relentless, but he still holds enough control that he doesn’t get lost in the haze. You cling to him with your legs. He kisses your neck again. You feel the precipice approaching for him, the way his thrusts grow slightly erratic, his quiet moans turning into messier, louder groans.

When he pulls out at the last moment, it’s with a low moan, and he shoots ropes across your stomach. The sight of it, the claim on your skin, the way his body shudders through his release, almost makes you cum again on the spot. 

Levi stays close afterward, breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. He kisses you gently, fingers stroking over your wrists where he held them before to check without words that you’re alright. You nod silently. He suddenly stands on slightly shaking legs and crosses the room to retrieve a cloth. He sits beside you and wipes you carefully before lying beside you, one arm draped over your waist. 

You turn into him, closing your eyes, not worrying about what the morning will bring. Right now, it’s just you and him, and the very distant thought that you’ll have to thank the others for throwing you into this bet.

.

The morning after is painfully awkward.

Surely, you can survive sitting down with your friends after spending the night with Levi. Surely. Probably. Maybe, if no one looks at you too closely.

You slide onto the bench beside Sasha, trying not to remember Levi’s hands on your waist, Levi speaking against your lips, Levi’s breath finally turning uneven in the dark when your fingers dragged through his hair and pulled a rough sound from his throat that absolutely would have counted as a reaction if the rest of these idiots had been there to witness it.

Then again, fucking your captain probably counts as a reaction too.

Sasha looks up from her breakfast. “You’re late.”

“I slept in,” you answer smoothly.

Ymir, sitting across from you with Christa close at her side, narrows her eyes immediately. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“That sounded defensive.”

“That’s because I’m being attacked before I’ve had tea.”

Jean and Connie snicker. Then Connie sighs and shakes his head, saying with genuine disappointment, “I still can’t believe you couldn’t get the Captain to react. I was so sure you could do it.”

Oh, you did it alright. 

“I did my best,” you say.

Ymir props her chin on her hand and smiles lazily. “Please. No one could ever make Levi blush or stammer. The whole thing was a waste of fucking time.” She pauses, then adds, “A funny waste of time, though. That was pathetic.”

Jean points his spoon at you without looking at you. “She did get him to talk to her more than usual.”

Armin suddenly says your name. All eyes turn to him. He tilts his head, eyes locked onto your throat. “Where’s your necklace?”

Your hand goes to your throat and meets bare skin. Your heart drops through the floor, through the earth itself where it can lie down and die in peace. You know where it is. You know exactly where it is. But you cannot tell the truth, because you would absolutely never hear the end of it.

“I must’ve forgotten to put it on,” you say, and immediately slap yourself in your mind because you have never forgotten to put on your necklace, because you never take it off except for showers.

Then you feel it on the hairs on the back of your neck. Someone’s approaching. But before you can turn around, a hand enters your vision and sets something down on the table in front of you. Oh gods, you know those hands. They were all over you last night.

You look up and your entire soul leaves your body.

“You left this,” Levi says.

You look down at what he set down. It’s your necklace. Right there, on the table, beside your hand. In front of everyone. No one speaks. No one breathes. You stare at the necklace and it feels like its staring back in disappointment at you.

Levi turns and walks away without another word. When you look up, every single head is turned to you. You look back down at the necklace, your face absolutely boiling with embarrassment and the memory of last night. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Why did the Captain have your necklace?” Connie asks.

You pick it up with slightly shaking fingers. “That is… a great question.”

Jean leans forward. “And?”

“And I’m admiring how great it is.”

Eren’s eyes are now huge, both horrified and fascinated. “Wait, did you manage to get him to react?”

You look down at the necklace of your palm, remembering Levi’s hands lacing through yours, his mouth lavishing attention on your neck, his body settled between your thighs, his praises and moans and whispers—all things you will be taking to your grave and beyond it.

Then you smile.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

thank you for reading, and for allowing me to reach this milestone <3

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tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @nickibunny23 @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @nerdskillz @angierb05 @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @vmxz6 @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @caliope13

divider by: @angeliicide

[thejiminiepark]

Stunning, powerful, one of a kind performer. 💎

[captainfern]

All For Me

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

✿ aerion takes you to summerhall (part three of Here With Me; takes place directly after Don't Leave Me). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 10.1k (damn) ✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, possessive!aerion (like seriously it might be obsessive!aerion too), intense jealousy (guess who from), threats of violence (not to reader), self-inflicted injury (knife-inflicted, blood), tbh dom!aerion, SMUT, oral (m!receiving & f!receiving), fingering, finger-sucking, unprotected piv, rough sex initially, breeding + contraceptive tampering? (he's delusional and unsuccessful don't worry), praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), pussy pronouns, one (1) pussy slap, light degradation, strong language, a bit fluffy at the end, ser roland and ser donnel mentions bc i love them <3

✿ a/n: part three !!! so many people requested this, so here it is, and i hope you enjoy :)

part one here — part two here

Summerhall appears like a fortress carved from ivory amongst velvet green hills. Large windows glisten and reflect the midday sun, and the gardens tended around are thick and lush. Even the air is cooler out here, fresher than what traps stagnant in the alleys of your home slum. You can’t quite believe what you’re looking at as you clamber from the carriage with a timber-like stiffness in your bones. You clutch your satchel of medicinal supplies, a small trunk of your belongings at your feet.

Ahead of you, Aerion dismounts his horse with a flourish of his black cape. It billows around him like wings, and as he settles, his palfrey guided away by a servant, he spares a look in your direction. The corner of his lips quirk, something near a smile, as he appraises your expression of wonder, your eyes glittering as you stare up at the grand royal residence. Your fingers clutch nervously at your satchel, and there’s a subtle dip in your brow that tells Aerion all he needs to know.

But you’ll be fine here. You have him, after all.

He takes a few steps in your direction before he stops. He freezes, boots crushing gravel. There’s an obvious flex in his jaw as he watches a member of the kingsguard—oh, it’s Roland fucking Crakehall, Aerion immediately thinks—approach you with kind eyes and a disarming smile. Roland says something that snaps you out of your little trance, and you bow your head, saying something in return that makes the smile on Roland’s face split even wider.

Aerion watches you look up at Roland, and the nervous fidgeting of your fingers against the smooth leather of your satchel suddenly stops.

There’s a tick in his chest. A small, dull tug at the bottom of his heart and it sets off in a structured rhythm as he watches you and Roland interact. It has the nerves along his spine standing up, prickling with a heat he’s never felt before, venomous in its leeching through his diaphragm and up into his brain. He can taste it now—jealousy—and it’s sour on his pointed tongue, dripping from his teeth as his lip curls itself into a grimace.

He kicks himself from the gravel and approaches with meaningful strides. He feels the eyes of servants on him, hears the way they skitter out of his way like vermin. They drop their heads and lower their voices, and the tension that hangs treacle-thick in the air makes him feel great. It makes him feel alive.

He calls your name, and your eyes find his immediately. A rumble passes briefly through his aching chest, a proud purr as you respond so obediently to him. He snaps his fingers at a nearby servant then, gesturing to the wooden trunk at your feet. The servant nods, and immediately moves to pluck it from the ground and hurry towards the castle.

You frown. “Aerion, I am perfectly capable of—”

Roland speaks at the same time. “I was already offering—”

Aerion waves a hand, cutting both you and Roland off as though he had shouted at you. The silence is painful in the cool air, and you find yourself clutching your satchel firmly to your chest as the prince draws nearer.

“I will take my witch to her chambers,” Aerion says, and seizes you firmly by the elbow.

You do not dwell on the tightness of his fingers at your sleeve, nor do you dwell on his use of my witch. Instead, you offer Roland an apologetic smile as the prince all but drags you across the threshold, busy servants making quick work of throwing themselves out of his way.

You look around, possibly for someone to help. Not that you had belief anyone could save you from this situation, but maybe someone could at least offer you sympathy. But Prince Maekar was nowhere to be seen; neither were any of the other Targaryen siblings. Although, you think you catch a fleeting glimpse of dirty blond hair disappearing towards the kitchens, but that’s all it was: fleeting.

Aerion hauls you up a wide flight of steps, your footfall muffled by thick carpet. You shoot a glance downward as you ascend, in the general direction of the hall which would lead you, you’re sure of it, to the servants’ quarters. You were technically a servant.

“Your grace,” you begin as he hails you down a long corridor, grip still unrelenting on your arm. “Should I not take residence with the other servants? Surely—”

“You are not sleeping alongside the help.”

You scowl at his tone. “Well, I am the help, your grace.”

Aerion scoffs, pulling you around a corner. There’s another long hall that stretches, lit up by sunshine and hues of green where light passes through stained glass. It’s also empty, and you yelp when Aerion spins around and slams you roughly against the wall. You drop your satchel on instinct, the bag falling to your feet with a clattering of glass bottles—thankfully, not glass breaking—as your hands shoot up. Your palms rest flat to his chest as he presses close to you, one of his hands still on your arm, the other caging you in, propped up against the wall by your head.

“You are not the help,” Aerion begins, voice low. His eyes flit across your face, violet irises bright. “You are my help. You help me. And because you help me—you’re here for me—you will take residence where I tell you, yes?”

Your hands tighten against the red velvet of his gambeson. “I don’t think—”

“Yes?” Aerion repeats, the fingers on your arm clamping down. There’s a bite of blunt nails through the material of your sleeve too, and you draw in a calming breath as you try not to melt beneath the heat of his violet stare.

“Yes, your grace,” you whisper, dropping your head.

Aerion huffs, the hand on the wall shooting across to seize your jaw. You blow out an exasperated sigh through your nose as he forces you to look at him. The pads of his fingers are soft against the bone of your jaw, but his grip is tight. Unyielding.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says, cocking his head. He raises his eyebrows, imploring, waiting for you to speak again. “Speak up.”

“Yes, your grace,” you echo, louder this time. Your voice carries in a murmur down the hall, and you grimace hearing yourself bounce from the ornate walls.

But it pleases the prince, for he breaks out into a vulpine smile and pats your cheek firmly before stepping back. You release a tense breath, collecting your satchel from the ground as Aerion resumes his hold on your arm and leads you down the hall.

After a moment, he gestures to a door with a torch mounted to the wall nearby.

“These are my chambers,” he tells you, then leads you further down the hall. You pass by several more doors before the hall’s end greets you, where a door sits beneath a large Targaryen banner. He opens the door with a heavy hand. “And these are yours.”

The room is… not small. It’s grand and spacious, with the largest bed you’ve ever seen taking up a considerable amount of space to the right. Tall, latticed windows allow bright light to stream in, resembling ghostly fingers reaching for the Myrish carpet that covers the floor. There’s an empty hearth, plush chairs, and a writing desk nearby too. The desk is bare, and you approach it tentatively, placing your satchel down. As you take off your travelling cloak, draping it across the desk, you notice that your trunk of belongings already sits at the foot of the bed.

“This is excessive…” you find yourself muttering, turning and leaning back against the solid wooden desk.

Aerion looks at you from the doorway. “This is what you get.”

You grip the edge of the desk, looking around. “It’s not that I’m unappreciative, but—”

“Then thank me,” Aerion interrupts, stepping forward. He closes the door. “Say thank you.”

You look at him as he slowly crosses the room. You utter softly, “Thank you.”

“Thank you what?” Aerion stands before you now, trapping you against the desk. 

You can feel the heat radiating from his body; the blemishless shine of his pale skin. He leans in close and you can feel his breath ghost across you, tainted with mulberries and hazel. 

“Thank you, your grace,” you reply, challenging his gaze.

He grunts, a rough sound from the back of his throat, as he grabs your wrist. You let him steal your hand away from the desk, and you let him press your palm flat to the front of his trousers as he leans in closer. You smell ash and lavender wax soap across his skin. You bite your lip, ignoring the sudden wash of heat through your core, as he gently ruts his hips against your palm. There’s a shift beneath the fabric, and your lips part.

“Say it properly,” Aerion hisses, still looking at you. He runs your open palm against the front of his trousers, and you feel his cock give another jerk beneath the material. 

His hand is warm around your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the thundering of your pulse beneath his thumb.

“Thank you, Aerion,” you whisper, and the lilt in your voice has his hips rolling deeper into your touch. “For the room.”

“Thank me for bringing you here,” he says quickly. He gently moves your hand up and down, and you can feel a tent pitching beneath your palm. “Tell me how lucky you are to be here with me.”

You frown, turning your head, his eye contact too intense. It’s cloying, overwhelming, molten heat that sticks to you the longer you look. You shake your head slightly, muttering, “Aerion—”

The prince’s other hand snaps up and grabs you harshly by the nape of your neck. He forces you to look at him, his other hand continuing to drag your palm across the bulge in his trousers. He looks at you, waiting.

“Say it.” It’s firm and venomous in its delivery.

The heat inside you doesn’t vanish. It swirls deeper, fills you broadly, and your free hand grips the edge of the desk in an effort to stop yourself from trembling.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say quietly, and you notice something flash in the violet of his eyes. You continue, “I am… I’m very lucky to be here.”

“With me,” Aerion utters, hand squeezing the back of your neck.

“With you,” you add, a little breathless.

Silence stretches. The distant rustling of leaves seeps in through the windows behind you, and the rush of blood in your ears is loud enough to bring you some sort of comfort. Aerion stares at you, blinking slowly, pupils tracing the lines of your face as he continues to gently move your hand against his covered cock. He’s so close that you can see the tiniest little scar just above his lip—a well-healed blemish you’ve never noticed before.

His eyes find your mouth.

You press your palm harder against the length of him, and he lets out a strained groan, before tipping forward. With his hand still on your nape, he cranes your head slightly so he can bury his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, the sensation causing a shiver to rocket down your spine. His pelvis presses closer then, trapping your hand between his hips and yours. He groans into your shoulder, mouth against bare skin where the neckline of your dress exposes you.

You feel his teeth sink into your skin: not enough to break, but enough to have you squirming beneath him. You feel him chuckle, then pull away. A string of saliva stretches from the little indents at your shoulder, to his lips, but it snaps when he levels his face with yours. His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.

There’s a wordless message passed between you. 

Your fingers find the clasp of his trousers and you surprise yourself by undoing it one-handed. Aerion seems impressed too: he smiles and shoves his hips forward, rutting against you. You find the ties at his waist next, pulling at the knots as he lets a low groan slip from his mouth. Heat is sticky and stagnant in your stomach, sitting heavy in your core as you undo the ties of his trousers, exposing the linen of his breeches.

He helps you, shoving his trousers down his thighs as you untie his breeches. You need another hand for this, fingers moving deftly, eyes directly down. But you can feel him looking at you still, waiting for you. As you yank the ties of his breeches open, he leans in and presses his lips to the curve of your jaw—a brief moment of intimacy before his mouth opens and he licks like a dog across your pulse.

“Aerion,” you breathe out, tipping your head in an attempt to flee his tongue.

He just chuckles, pulling away and peering down at where you finally push his breeches down. His cock, blushing warm and hard, hangs free. You shift to take it with reaching fingers, but he slaps your hand away. You jerk back, then forward when the gap between you increases, and suddenly he’s guiding you onto your knees by the hand on the back of your neck.

He fists himself as he settles you in front of him, your head parallel to the desk behind you. You peer up at him, hands resting against his thighs, and he peers down at you. There’s a mirror in your expressions: a silent need as you squeeze your thighs together and he grips, white-knuckled, around the base of his cock.

“Say thank you,” the prince whispers, dragging his cock along your cheek. He’s drooling out against your skin, leaving glistening lines in its wake as he smears himself across your lips. He’s warm and solid, skin soft and blushing and pliable as he rolls the shaft across your other cheek too. He grins, bringing the tip to your lips. “Say thank you, sweet girl. Thank me for this cock.”

“Thank you,” you manage to say, gripping the bunched material of his trousers.

Aerion grins, lilting, “Oh, you’re welcome, little witch.”

He bullies his cock between your lips then, and you part them with a grunt. Still grinning, fox-like and stretched across his pride, Aerion pushes his cock deeper into your mouth, feeling over the bumps of your tongue as you lower your jaw to take him deeper. An airy moan leaves him as he grips your neck and feeds his cock down your throat, pressing your face into his pelvis. You close your eyes, screwing them shut as you withhold a gag. 

He pulls out, then shoves back in. You manage to open your eyes, tears wet in your lashline as you look up at him. He’s already looking down at you, the smile still there but a lot smaller as he fucks his cock into the heat of your mouth.

“You’re here, in this room,” Aerion begins suddenly, vowels extended through a poorly hidden whine. “For me. You will come to my chambers when you are called upon, no matter the time. You will serve no one else but me.”

You want to argue. You’re a healer of the people. If someone else needed your assistance, it would go against all you believed in to disregard them.

But, of course, you can’t argue. Not just because you’re dealing with Aerion Targaryen, whose wrath sets ablaze like a dragon’s fire, but because you’re choking around the width of his cock, words beat back down your throat.

Instead, you moan around him. The vibrations tremble thick and fast through his cock, and he lets out a hoarse moan.

“For me,” he whispers, looking up and speaking it directly into the ceiling.

There’s a loud knock on the door and your heart drops into your stomach. Your hands squeeze his thighs tightly as he pulls you firmly against his hips, holding you there as he struggles to even his breathing. Aerion waits, and you swallow around his cock, saliva building uncomfortably in your mouth. His fingers tighten around the nape of your neck, a warning, as another loud knock rocks through the chambers.

“What?” Aerion calls, curt and obviously angry.

“Apologies, your grace.” Roland Crakehall. Aerion could murder him. Through the door, the kingsguard continues politely, “I’m looking for the lady.”

“Why?”

“Ser Donnel requests her presence in the main hall,” Roland replies, his voice slightly muffled through the thick wood. “Immediately.”

Aerion looks down at you, and you give him a pointed look. He shakes his head, and you take a gamble: gently scraping your teeth along the sensitive skin of his length. The prince sucks in a quick breath, and you manage to pull yourself from his cock, coughing lightly. Aerion is seething as you fend off his hold and get to your feet, hurrying towards the door whilst wiping your sleeve across your mouth.

You pull open the door and smile at Roland. “Hello.”

“Oh.” Roland bows his head politely. He addresses you by name. “I apologise if I’m interrupting something.”

You shake your head, smoothing your hands down your skirts. “Not at all. Shall… I come with you now?”

Roland nods. “Please. And bring your supplies.”

You nod, quickly rushing across the room to snatch your satchel from the desk. Aerion, hard cock stuffed back in his trousers, reaches a hand out, the tips of his fingers just brushing your arm before you breeze past him. 

He grunts, messily tying a knot in the laces of his breeches, shifting towards you with ire flashing in his violet eyes. “Now, wait—”

“Lead the way,” you say to Roland when you reach the doorway once more, ignoring the Targaryen prince looming. 

You quickly step out into the corridor and slam the door shut behind you. Roland can’t help himself: he lets out a small laugh as he begins leading you down the hall.

“I’m not sure if he wants to murder me or you,” the knight says plainly, thick with humour. His eyes sparkle as he looks at you, matching the gleam of his polished white armour. “You’re as brave as they say.”

You ignore his first comment with a playful roll of your eyes. Instead, you cock your head. “They?”

“Those who work for the household,” Roland tells you. “Word travels fast, and the woods witch Aerion Targaryen has taken a liking to makes for good conversation.”

“Great,” you mumble sarcastically.

Roland reassures you with a polite smile. “Don’t fret. You are well liked amongst the ranks, and Ser Donnel speaks very highly of you.”

That puts you slightly at ease as you traipse the sun-soaked corridors of Summerhall.

—✿—

As the sun sets, Aerion realises he hasn’t seen you since Roland whisked you away. You had vanished; seemingly slipped into the shadows, or danced off with the wind. He scoured the brightly lit halls, shoving open doors and tearing curtains from their hooks with dramatic flourishes as he peered out windows. You weren’t anywhere, it seemed, and there was a pit forming in the base of his stomach: a heavy stone, almost unbearable in its weight.

Having done three laps of the royal residence, Aerion huffs to a stop near the entrance to the servants quarters: the only place he hasn’t checked. He curses himself for being so ignorant as he stares down the dark, narrow hall that winds itself deep into the castle’s interior.

“Your grace.”

Aerion turns, finding Ser Donnel approaching. The kingsguard rests a hand casually on the pommel of his sword, which sits snug at his hip. He looks at Aerion with slightly narrowed eyes, a flat smile, and the look of a disappointed father.

“She’s in there, isn’t she?” Aerion questions, although it’s less a query because he knows. The shadows of the narrow passageway are thick, and he’d be a fool not to have noticed the way you looked at them when you had first arrived.

Donnel shrugs. “And what if she was? Do you intend to fetch her?”

“Yes,” Aerion replies quickly.

Ser Donnel lets out a mirthless laugh. It’s quick and sharp, and Aerion’s jaw twitches in response. The knight shakes his head too.

“Leave her be, just for the evening,” Donnel says firmly.

Aerion narrows his eyes at the kingsguard, the white of the armour appearing grey beneath the evening shadows and the flickering of mounted torches nearby.

“You sent her there,” Aerion mutters, recalling his little witch’s sudden—and unwelcome—departure from him earlier that day. “What did you say to her?”

Aerion grips the handle of his dagger, which rests comfortably at his side, sheathed in black leather. Donnel notices the movement and shakes his head, breathing out a chuckle. He nods towards the passageway, the air around him shifting.

“A few of the cooks suffered burns preparing supper,” Donnel tells the prince.

“We have maesters for a reason,” Aerion growls out.

Donnel gives him a pointed look. “Yes… we do.”

Aerion huffs, lip curling as he grips the black leather of his dagger. “Do not patronise me, Ser Donnel. She is mine. She is not here to serve anyone else.”

Donnel takes a step towards the prince, armour clanking. He drops his voice, speaking low, “You have already taken her from her shop, and her livelihood, and her people: the least you can do is let her help others while she is here.”

Aerion seethes. “How dare you speak—?”

“You do not need her help at this moment, your grace,” Donnel interrupts. “Please let her be.”

Aerion passes a challenging look to the kingsguard. Never in his life has anyone dared speak to him in such a manner, except possibly his mother or father. Ser Donnel matches Aerion’s glare with a calm look of his own, and Aerion realises that this knight really does care for you. He’s protecting you.

You don’t need protection from Aerion. You’re his.

Aerion spins on his heel and proceeds down the passageway. The firm, metallic footsteps of Ser Donnel behind him only spur him on, and he ducks down the narrow hall like a serpent shifting through stones. He breaks through a doorway and finds you sitting amongst a group of servants, your satchel open and resting in your lap. Beside you, a young woman admires a glistening cream-coloured salve—obviously your work—spread across her forearm, obscuring an angry burn. You hold a small bottle between your fingers.

“This is a natural disinfectant. It’s good for cleaning wounds, on both humans and animals…” You trail off, eyes lifting to find Aerion in the doorway. You swallow thickly, slowly placing the bottle back into your satchel as the servants notice his presence.

They scarper like rats, Aerion thinks, as he watches the group disperse in a flurry of limbs. Many scramble past him, disappearing down the hall, whilst others vanish through another narrow entrance across the room. They leave you alone, perched on the edge of a rickety wooden bed, the straw mattress threadbare and thinning beneath you.

“You grace,” you begin, getting to your feet and hefting your satchel over your shoulder.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” Aerion says.

You shake your head. “No, I’ve been helping—”

“You’re not here to help them,” Aerion spits, crossing the room now. “You’re here to help me, yes? You’re here for me.”

You look past Aerion as he draws within a few feet of you, and the prince turns to see Ser Donnel in the doorway. Your hands shoot out, finding the plush warmth of Aerion’s doublet, but your eyes are still on the kingsguard across the room.

Donnel frowns. “M’lady?”

“I’m alright, Ser Donnel,” you tell him gently, fingers balled in the prince’s shirt. It’s half to keep you grounded as you breathe, smelling cedar and smoke in Aerion’s clothes, and half to keep him in check, for you have a feeling he may lunge at someone. You nod at the knight. “I’m fine.”

Donnel looks between you and Aerion. “Are—?”

“She said she’s fine, did she not?” Aerion spits over his shoulder. “Now, be a good knight and fuck off.”

Ser Donnel, despite the worry flashing across his gently aging features, turns and slips down the hall and out of sight. Aerion was still his prince after all, and he knows better than anyone that the prince is… temperamental.

Aerion turns to you now, his hands finding the satchel on your shoulder. He carefully removes it, wordlessly, eyes near black in the darkness of the room. A small candle, dripping wax mounting at its base, illuminates part of the room, but the shadows here are consuming. They cling to your body as Aerion’s hands find your hips, rubbing up and down your sides, fingers ghosting across the top of your skirts.

You breathe out carefully, fingers loosening in his doublet. You rub circles across his chest, soothing. You pet him like a cat, fingers bending and circling. And he responds like a cat, eyes closing as a purr-like rumble stirs from deep in his chest. You feel the vibrations as he slowly moves you until the back of your calves hit the low bed.

“Aerion,” you whisper, and you mean for it to sound stern, but it’s breathless. 

Wood and ash, a smouldering hearth, is what you swims in the air around you as he leans over you, head dipping and finding the bend of your neck and shoulder. But there’s a sweetness in the white flicks of his hair as it brushes against the side of your face, his mouth drawing over your skin. Cedar and blackberry wine, sugared with the smell of sweat.

He says your name in response, muffled as his teeth skim over your skin. He bites again, a firm imprint of teeth, before he sucks hard. It lodges a whimper in your throat, head leaning to the side as your hands grip at his doublet once more. His own hands dip low as he hunches against you, guiding you down, down, down until you’re sitting on the narrow bed. You squeak out, aware that this isn’t your bed and this isn’t your chambers and Ser Donnel is only just down the passage—

“Too sweet for your own good, aren’t you?” Aerion mumbles against your neck as his hands bundle up the material of your skirts. He brings them up to your hips, exposing the clean linen of your smallclothes. He ignores the muffled whimper you let out, your lips pressed in a tight line. He tuts, “Such a good little helper. They just love you, don’t they?”

“Aerion,” you breathe out again, your hands finding his shoulders now. 

You feel the working of the muscle and joints as his arms shift to take hold of your smallclothes. His arm is thick and warm between the press of your thighs, but you don’t try to close them—in fact, you part them, shuddering as he pulls the linen away and exposes your slick cunt to the shadows of the quarters. His other hand finds the back of your neck as he picks himself out of your shoulder, lips shining with spit. He angles your head so he can trace the lines of your face with his swollen pupils.

“You enjoy spending time down here?” Aerion whispers as two fingers run down your slit, spreading you apart. He groans at the wet heat and the little moan you try to catch between your teeth. “With the servants and the maids?”

His fingers languidly shift, drawing your folds apart until they press to your hole. He wastes no time either: running a couple of circles around you, he dips his fingers inside you, slowly pulling you apart knuckle by knuckle.

“Yes,” you say around an exhale.

“More than with me?” His fingers crook inwards and your head tips back involuntarily, a hushed moan slipping from tongue to shadow. Aerion cradles the back of your neck, watching you carefully as you slowly settle your head to meet his gaze. You give a subtle shake of your head, and Aerion smiles. “No?”

“No,” you whisper, then bite down on your bottom lip, eyes closing. His fingers press against that perfect spot, your cunt clenching around the digits as something rolls in your tummy, a rope of tension stringing across the front of your womb.

Aerion rucks his fingers in and out of you. The silence of the room is filled with the slick plap-plap-plap of his fingers inside you as his movements pick up. You writhe, whimpering softly, and your fingers grip his shoulder tightly, pulling him to you. He obliges you, chest nearly against yours as he rests his mouth against your forehead. His lips press to the soft skin, not quite a kiss, as he pants against you, eyes fluttering as he feels the hot clutch of your cunt around his fingers. So wet and warm and wanting.

“Does being down here make you happy?” He asks, words breathed out against your warm skin.

You whimper.

“Answer me,” Aerion whispers, but it’s not harsh. It’s pushed out on an exhale and it’s surprisingly gentle. Smothered by shadow, carried away on a light summer breeze.

“Yes,” you manage to squeak out. “Yes, my prince.”

He crooks his fingers as he ruts them in and out. There’s slick dribbling slowly across his bottom knuckles, and there’s small sounds working out of your throat like the mewls from a kitten. His mind swims, cock half-hard and twitching in his breeches, sweat tacky on his forehead as his arm and fingers work.

“Okay,” he begins, pulling his fingers from you. He angles back, and you groan at the empty feeling that braces against you like a chill. Your orgasm recedes and you let out a breathy whine, fingers tugging at his doublet. He shushes you, the hand on your nape pulling you back and laying you on the mattress. “Okay, sweet girl, you can help them.”

You open your eyes properly. “Really?”

“But you will always help me first,” he says, and you’re already nodding. He doesn’t want to share, but he’s doing this for you. He takes his fingers, wet with you, and presses the pads to your lips. “You will help them when I say you can. Not—” he shoves his fingers into your mouth. “—when Ser Donnel says, yes?”

You hum around his fingers, tongue wrapping. He smiles, pleased, pulling them out. He pats your cheek before he shrinks back, parting your thighs. Hefting your hips, the prince bends and settles his face directly against your core. The abruptness of it has you keening, and the moan that leaves you is frighteningly loud. Aerion chuckles to himself as his mouth parts against your pussy, tongue splitting up between your folds, laving over your clit. You mewl, hand shooting down out of instinct to fist his hair. He groans in response as his fingers find your hole again, pushing in with an audible shlick.

“Oh, fuck, Aerion, wait—” You cut your whispered plea off with a moan as his fingers curl. Perfect, precise. It makes your hips grind down, twitching against his face as he licks across you simultaneously. The sounds that leave you, draped in shadow and hushed between the desperate clenching of your teeth, spur him on. You whine, that rope of tension in your lower belly pulling taut. “Aerion, my prince, please.”

Aerion’s other hand is tight on your thigh, dimpling flesh as he keeps it hooked around his shoulder. His head moves, eyes unwavering in their stare over the mound of your belly, the bunched fabric of your dress, the valley of your breasts, and onto your face. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen: eyes fighting to stay open, teeth sunken into your lip. You writhe beneath him, and you’re just so warm. Your cunt, wet and hot; your thighs soft and warm against his ears.

His tongue follows your sounds. The high-pitched mewls you try to hide when he licks over the puffy bud of your clit, or the low keen he feels rumble through you when he spreads your folds apart. Deft fingers push and pull, in and out, until he can see the way your body begins to tighten and tremble. He knows you by now.

The rope inside you frays and you arch off the thinning mattress. You press yourself deeper into his touch as your release snaps through you, fingers tightening in his hair as you cry out his name. It’s loud, and the little candle nearby flickers as the sound bounces off the stone walls. The shadows do nothing to muffle it as you shake, thighs tightening around his head as your pussy clenches around his fingers. The prince groans into you as you whisper his name, his cock painfully hard in his breeches.

Slowly, and with a pained grunt, he pulls himself from between your legs, wiping his mouth against the inside of your thigh. You make a noise of complaint, but he shushes you as he rights himself.

“Should’ve known this pretty pussy’d taste of the heavens,” Aerion whispers, more to himself than you.

You hum in response, reaching down and grabbing your smallclothes where they gather messily near your knees. Aerion shifts back and watches, palm resting over his pelvis, as you pull your undergarments back into place. You sit up, then stand on shaky legs, allowing your skirts to fall back into place. The prince sits on the edge of the low bed, not saying anything. He simply watches you.

“Come now,” you whisper, holding your hand out.

Something lurches in his chest. He takes your hand and gets to his feet. And then he follows you from the quarters, his hand fitting so perfectly into yours, and he doesn’t even bat an eye when they pass by Ser Donnel waiting at the entrance, ever the good knight.

—✿—

Three days later, you open your satchel in search of a small scrap of gauze. Rhae, having toppled from her pony, sits on the stone bench beside you with a small cut on the palm of her hand. Tears wet in her eyes, she watches you as you carefully rifle through your supplies. Butterflies breeze overhead, birdsong filling the garden as the sun shines warmly against your back. In your satchel, you find your roll of bandage, but what you don’t find is your pouch of moon tea. Where it usually sits, amongst your vials and bottles, is empty. You frown to yourself, pulling the bandages out anyway and setting to work.

“Thank you,” she mutters, watching you with glossy violet eyes as you wrap a small scrap of the linen around her hand.

Not long after, you send her on her way. You peer into your satchel then and confirm that yep, you’re moon tea is gone. You look up and around, annoyed. Aerion lounges across the garden, head tipped back with serene bliss stretched across his face, skin glistening like tallow. As if sensing your eyes on him, the prince, without even looking in your direction, simply crooks a beckoning finger.

You huff, but oblige, padding across the soft grass until you reach where he lays.

“Have you seen my moon tea?” You ask him. There’s a nagging in the back of your head. You know exactly where your moon tea has gone.

“Your what?” Aerion opens one eye.

“You know exactly what, your grace.”

Aerion scoffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll fetch some more.”

“Fine,” Aerion replies casually, closing his eyes again.

—✿—

That night, he has your face pressed into the pillows of his bed. They smell of him, of a settled dragon, as you suck in short gasps as he splits you apart on his cock. He kneels behind you, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he locks his fingers around the plush of your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. His movements are deep and heavy, the thick reach of his cock nudging towards the base of your cervix as you arch your back for him. You grip the silken sheets either side of you, panting, legs trembling.

You come with his name muffled against feathers, a sob breaking free of your throat as you turn your head to moan through it. Your pussy sucks him in tightly, fluttering with the rapid beating of your heart as you release for the third time since he’d dragged you to his chambers.

The prince groans in response, hips slapping against your arse as he ruts into you, chasing his own high. “Fuck, yeah, ah shit.”

He angles deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, your knees threatening to buckle. A deep-seated moan, thick as stone, fills the room as he pitches forward. Pleasure sits hot in his lower belly, itching at the base of his spine.

“Here it comes, sweet girl,” he grunts behind you, one hand leaving your hip to smooth up the dip of your back. “Take it all—take your dragon’s seed like a good little—”

Aerion knocks forward as he comes, all but flattening himself into you as he falls apart. His jaw hinges around a moan of your name as he spills, cock pumping thick and hot inside you, right up against the plug of your womb. You don’t have the energy to respond with anything else but a loud exhale that snags the end of a whine as it passes through your lips. Aerion’s hips roll himself through it as he empties completely, and even when the movements of his hips still and he’s sticking to you completely unmoving, he doesn’t pull out. The thick of his cock plugs you full as he hovers behind you, hands roaming, kneading, squeezing as he settles back within himself.

And you fall asleep like this: with him stuffed inside you, your back pressed to his sweat-slick chest. Slumber finds you easily, although you wake hours later with a dull ache between your thighs and the soft length of him resting against the cleft of your arse. 

Gingerly, you pick yourself out of bed, careful not to stir the sleeping royal, wrap yourself in your cloak, and vanish out the door. You’ve gotten quite good at leaving unannounced.

In your chambers, you find your satchel.

You pause. The fresh moon tea you had picked up that afternoon was gone. You can’t help but roll your eyes, exhaling an exasperated sigh through your nose as you opt for one of your homemade remedies instead, plucking the small vial from its place in your bag.

You know exactly what Aerion is trying to do, and for the most part, it makes you fume. As you uncork your own vial, you stew in your anger: he’s trying to get you pregnant; he’s trying to tie you to him, a tether of flesh and blood. You down the bitter liquid in a few deep gulps and your face scrunches in disgust. It tastes, for lack of better words, fucking disgusting. Sour with fermented tansy, bitter with concentrated mugwort. The moon tea at least tastes a bit better than this.

However, there is a part inside you that grows hot. You place the empty vial back into your satchel, licking the aniseed from your bottom gums. Aerion wants you. His need grows teeth: long, sharp fangs that sink deeper and deeper into your flesh. He doesn’t want to let you go—he can’t let you go. And the thought, as you close your satchel and bundle your cloak tight around your naked body, sits heavy in the front of your mind.

A sticky heat prickles beneath your skin, the feeling of being in the sun for too long. You hurry out of your chambers and back into Aerion’s, taking your cloak off and slipping back into his bed.

So, he’s hiding your moon tea from you. He wants you with child.

You smile at his sleeping form, noticing the way his white eyelashes rest against his cheekbones. You can let him play this game for as long as he wants. He won’t win.

—✿—

Two days on, Aerion leaves his father’s solar and makes for your chambers. A carnal need claws against the hooked bone of his ribs. He needs you.

He pushes open the door of your chambers without so much as a knock, expecting to find you at the desk, or perhaps lounging by one of the grand windows with a book in hand. However, the hearth is cold and the room is empty. 

He frowns to himself and heads down the long hall.

He checks the servants’ quarters, startling those who huddle within. They spook, staring at him as more phantom than man as his eyes settle on women who are not you.

“Where is she?” He hisses, and one of the younger women—the woman you had treated for burns, he remembers—raises a shaky hand and points behind her, gesturing in the direction of the gardens. 

Aerion nods curtly and departs.

The sun greats him warmly, as does the sound of your laughter, and he physically feels his heart leap in his chest. His need for you has reached his teeth now, and his jaw works as he grinds his molars, gnawing on the desire to sink the points into your flesh. Your thighs, preferably, or the fat of your arse. Although your shoulder works just as well when he’s stuffed to the hilt inside you.

The thought has his cock jerking in his breeches.

Across the garden, you stand amongst blooming carnations, pink petals soft as silk. You rub the tips of your fingers against one—one that Ser Roland fucking Crakehall had plucked and handed to you. The knight hovers by your side, a pleased smile on your face as you speak to him, rolling the delicate flower between your hands. Aerion can’t make out what you’re saying as you gesture to the blooms around you, but Roland is paying close attention: his eyes never stray, his smile never falters, and he nods along as you ramble.

The need inside Aerion sheathes like cat’s claws.

Anger remains. Why can he never seem to keep you for himself? You’re his.

“I know that look,” Ser Donnel says around a tired chuckle, appearing at the prince’s side. He looks down at Aerion, then over at you and Roland. “You must let her have some freedom, your grace.”

“I do,” he spits a bit too quickly. “I’ve let her treat the servants.”

“You have,” Donnel replies, clearing his throat after. “Which was very gracious of you, your grace, but she is a young woman who deserves more freedom than you give her.”

Aerion scoffs, eying the knight suspiciously. “Since when have you ever spoken to me so openly, Ser Donnel? I could have your tongue for that.”

Donnel gives the prince a pointed look.

Aerion shakes his head. “She has freedom. I give her freedom.”

Donnel grunts, unconvinced.

Aerion looks back over to you. You’re bending, plucking another carnation from a nearby shrub, and the curve of your arse beneath your skirts is on full display. Roland ducks his head, preserving some kind of decency between the two of you. When you right yourself, you turn and accidentally bump into the knight, who reaches his hands out to steady you, fingers on your upper arms.

Aerion’s jaw twitches.

“Your grace…” Donnel warns, low and father-like, and it reminds Aerion, for a split second, of the day he first met you: the day when Ser Donnel had been taking too long in a healer’s shop. A healer the knight insisted was the best in all of King’s Landing.

Aerion ignores the knight though. Lightning quick, he reaches down and plucks Donnel’s knife from his side, ripping it from its sheath in one smooth movement. Before the kingsguard can even react, the prince slices the blade across his own forearm, ivory giving way to crimson. Blood ribbons over his skin as he hands the knife to a gaping Ser Donnel.

Aerion calls your name, approaching with one hand pressed to the finger-length wound on his inner forearm. You lift your eyes, smiling as the prince approaches, but it quickly vanishes when he presents you his arm.

“Oh!” You jump away from Roland and immediately take Aerion’s arm in your hands, the carnation you had been holding fluttering to the ground. Your touch is warm, soft. Caring. “Aerion,” you breathe, shaking your head. “What’ve you done to yourself?”

“I need your help,” he tells you, ignoring your question. He lifts his gaze and gives Roland a firm look. Roland shifts uncomfortably, before ultimately looking away.

You’re nodding before he even finishes his short sentence. “Okay, okay, come on.”

You take gentle hold of his wrist and guide him away. He spares a look at Ser Roland, and then another at Ser Donnel. Both read much the same: Aerion Targaryen gets what he wants.

Back in the sanctuary of your chambers, he sits on the edge of your bed. Clean, white sunlight fills the room and a pleasant coolness sweeps in from where one of the large windows sits open a crack.

You bandage his wound silently. And he watches you the entire time. You sit beside him, fingers wrapping, and he watches you with violet eyes glossy and nearly unblinking. There’s a heat in his gaze like the brush of a candle flame. You can feel it against the skin of your face, and you wonder then if the silence in the room is amplifying the hammering of your heart against your sternum.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him finally. The silence is too heavy.

“I’ll look at you however I want,” he replies simply. 

He cocks his head, dipping slightly to speak. He’s imploring, begging you to look at him, but you resist as you fasten the scrap of bandage into place. A beat passes, and he speaks again. He speaks your name, and it’s soft. Too soft for Aerion Targaryen. Too soft for a dragon’s tongue and teeth.

You relent, looking at him as you place your spool of bandage aside. Your hands fold together in your lap. It’s there again, the silence. His eyes dart across your face, feature to feature, and you see his pupils expanding the longer he looks at you.

“You’re such a pretty girl,” the prince whispers, and the hand of his non-injured arm finds your cheek. The backs of his knuckles trace across your skin, up over your cheekbone; a sweep of a raven’s wing, no scales or spines. You can smell the ash, the fire and the cedar and the blackberry wine, but you don’t see a dragon. He breathes out slowly, hand flipping so he can run the pads of his fingers down the side of your neck. “My pretty girl…”

“Aerion, don’t…” You whisper, watching the point of his tongue find the corner of his mouth. 

He doesn’t register your words as his hand finds and cups the base of your neck. “Gods, you always take such good care of me, don’t you? My sweet girl, so smart…”

You wait for a mock, a jibe, a force of his hand against your thundering pulse. But it doesn’t come, and the anxious weight in your chest quickly trades places with the needy weight in your stomach.

“What would I do without you?” He asks, hand travelling from your neck and over your jaw. His thumb presses to your lips. Words evade you. You let him press the tip of his thumb against the corner of your mouth. He continues, voice low, “What would you do without me?”

His hand shifts then, cupping your jaw and bringing your face forward. He carefully presses his lips to yours, the motion tender. And his lips are soft against yours. Years of care within castle walls; years of healthy food and drink at banquets; years of being coddled by the powers of coin and gemstones. A prince of the realm.

But his movements begin hard. He holds your jaw tightly now, coaxing your mouth apart as his lips move, and he groans against you when you obey. Your eyes flutter closed and your hands, once on your lap, shift to his chest and shoulders. Aerion makes another deep sound before he angles further inwards and his tongue graces between the split of your lips. You oblige him once more: parting with an airy whine and allowing the point of his tongue to slip over your teeth. Your tongues meet as you try and push back, need growing white-hot. You fist his doublet, pulling him tighter against you as his free hand sets on your hip.

You move like you’ve both been practising. Aerion pulls you up, the both of you standing. He breaks the kiss with a pained whine and spins you around so quickly you almost lose your footing.

“My prince,” you whisper as his mouth finds the side of your neck as his fingers—quick and experienced—begin unlacing the threads of your gown. You arch your neck into his touch, feeling the pinch of teeth. “Aerion.”

In seconds, you feel your bodice loosen around your chest and torso, and you help him by slipping out of the sleeves and kicking off your shoes. The dress pools at your ankles, and you kick it away as the prince spins you again and slams his mouth back to yours. This one is harsher, faster. He’s licking over your teeth like he’s committing your taste to memory, and you can’t help but whine as he kisses you again and again and again.

You tug at his doublet, and he gets the message. Parting from you, silence stretches thick as he throws the garment over his head. His tunic follows as your hands find the laces of his breeches. You easily pull the knots apart, and he discards himself of his boots. You lift your head and slam your mouth back to his, and he groans in surprise, one hand cupping your cheek, the other helping you in pulling the ties of his breeches apart.

Your movements are hurried, and when you get his breeches open, you break the kiss and try to drop to your knees—but he stops you. With his hand on your face, he urges you back to him and kisses you. You whine, pulling out of the kiss, and now you’re both panting.

“Aerion,” you breathe, but he’s not listening.

He grabs the material of your chemise. “Arms up.”

You listen, and he pulls the garment off your body. It flutters away and the prince lets out a long-winded moan that sets your core alight. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs together as he looks you up and down, eyes glazing over.

“My pretty girl,” he utters, dipping to kiss you again. Your tongues meet, passing ash and berries and sugar, as he guides you onto your bed.

You move as though you’d done it all before. You shuffle back and he chases you, mouths barely leaving, barely pausing in their movements. When he gets you flat on your back, Aerion pulls away and his hands immediately find your tits. Kneading, rolling your hardening nipples beneath his thumbs. Then, they travel, skimming over your sternum, your ribs, and down your tummy.

“Here she is,” the prince coos as he parts your thighs. One of his hands massages the pliable flesh there, the other grips the base of his cock. He’s hard, tip a bruising red and leaking from the slit, pearling and rolling down the vein on the underside. Your throat works around a moan as you watch him, his eyes on the slit of your pussy. “My prettiest girls.”

You moan. “Aerion.”

“Don’t start,” Aerion mutters as he pushes the head of his cock against you. You moan again, embarrassment crawling up your neck as you feel how wet you are—you feel the cool slick webbing between your folds as he parts you, the movement too slow, too gentle. Aerion chuckles as you squirm. “Oh, she’s wet. M’gonna slip right in, aren’t I?”

This is the Aerion you’ve come to know.

He chastises you as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit, coating himself because, as much as you burn from the inside–out, he’s right. You’re soaked, cunt clenching around nothing as you lay back completely bare for him. For him.

“Gods above, she’d be worth more than a few gold dragons, wouldn’t she?” The prince whispers, almost in disbelief, as he slowly pushes the leaking tip of his cock inwards. You suck in a breath—no stretch of his fingers, no circle of your clit—as your cunt parts around him. He groans, “But—oh, fuck—b-but I’m the only dragon you need.”

If he wasn’t spearing you on the thick of his cock, pushing in and splitting you apart with a lithe string of moans falling from his soft lips, then you would’ve rolled your eyes. You would say something to quell his ego, but you can’t. You simply moan, a desperate and loud sound that rattles through your skull, and arch. He leans over you as he rolls his hips, bottoming out with a moan of your name.

Then, he bends. His mouth is on yours like he can’t get enough. And, in all honesty, neither can you. Your hands find the back of his head, threading through white strands and tugging as your teeth clash and your tongues meet. Aerion grunts, hoisting your thigh up around his hips as he pitches forward, then shrinks back. You gasp out of the kiss when he notches the head of his cock just inside you.

And doesn’t move.

Sunlight spills across your joined bodies. Your nails scrape along his scalp causing goosebumps to appear along his arms. He pants like a worked hound, eyes on your face as he feels your pussy fluttering around his tip. Begging for it.

“You’re perfect,” Aerion whispers suddenly. It tastes like I love you on his tongue, but he knows that’s impossible. You’re perfect because you’re here. With him. Doing as he says. Aerion Targaryen doesn’t love. He continues, “You’re perfect and you’re mine.”

He doesn’t have the patience in waiting for your response. He thrusts back in with a curl of his spine. It’s rough and hard and it knocks the wind from your lungs. The sound that leaves you is distressed: a broken mewl as a bruising ache festers low in your stomach. But as the prince moves in and out, setting a rhythm that rocks you into the mattress, the pain subsides and is instead replaced by that simmering heat you’ve become all too familiar with.

“Oh, g-gods,” falls from your mouth as you take both hands and seize him by the shoulders. “Aerion, my prince, oh—”

You press little indents into his shoulders as you rock beneath him; the angle he’s made of you, with a hand on your thigh, driving him deep towards the plug of your cervix. He pries you apart so effortlessly with both his words and the length of his cock.

“That’s it, just like that,” Aerion grunts as he fucks you. Sweat glistens high on his forehead and there’s a light blush over his cheekbones as he drives you into the mattress. The fingers on your thigh squeeze, dimpling the flesh as he groans. “Taking your prince’s cock like an absolute dream, little witch.”

Heat moves through your body like steaming water. It coils tight in the pit of your stomach, sitting heavy behind your navel as he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over. You grip him with tightening fingers, pussy clenching around the thick of him. Your thigh on his hip presses inward, driving him closer to you as his pelvis meets yours.

The mattress groans slightly beneath you as you both rock. Dappled sunlight blurs through your lashes as you look up at him, whining when he dips his head again to kiss you. You take it with kiss-bitten lips, opening for him while he grunts. The wet grip of your cunt around him is silken soft, and it draws his thoughts away as his mouth moves messily against yours. You snake a hand to the nape of his neck and hold him to you as his hips roll deeper.

“Aerion,” you mutter against his mouth. You’re not kissing anymore. It’s an open press of lips as you both grunt and mewl and take what you need.

“Say it like you mean it,” he mutters back, the tip of his tongue flicking serpent-like over your parted lips. He pulls back slightly so he can shift his spine and push his hips further against you. “Say my name when you come, sweet girl, c’mon.”

Blood replaced by a golden-hot ichor, you tip your head back as you tremble. Your release builds hot in your veins and you’re right there, bathed in sunlight, as you’re taken apart from the inside–out by a prince of the realm. Your fingers scrape down his front as you arch off the bed, moaning—airy and wanton and loud—as you come.

“Aerion—!” The syllables are rich and honey-sweet in the warm summer air of your chambers. Your entire body trembles, limbs tightening as it takes hold: a gold-fingered grasp around your diaphragm as your moans turn to whines.

Aerion groans, smiling to himself as your cunt clenches tight around the width of him. Muscles pull taut, fluttering with your beating heart, and it gushes too—he can feel it, hot and slick as he rolls his hips, a thin white ring around the base of his cock. The clutch of your pussy around him, and the little whines you taper off with, some battling around whispers of his name, have the tension in his belly and spine contracting. 

He screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself, “Oh, sweet girl, my sweetest girl…”

He thinks of spilling inside you. He thinks of filling you with his seed and watching you grow round with his child. His poor little woods witch, pregnant with a bastard child but oh, how he’d look after you. You’d never leave his side. You’d be spoiled beyond reason.

“F-Fuck, oh fuck,” he curses at the thought, cock jerking inside you. You whine, fizzling down from your release, fingers tracing lazy circles across his chest. He opens his eyes at the sound, gazing down at you. He coos, “Oh, don’t cry yet, little witch, your prince is here. Your dragon’s right—fucking—here—”

You choke on a moan. You hadn’t noticed a tear slip from the corner of your eye.

He speaks around heavy, rolling thrusts, cock knocking up deep until you feel his body shudder beneath your touch. He groans, thick and leonine from the back of his throat, as his head dips down one last time.

The prince kisses you as he spills right up against your cervix. A low utter of your name passes from his mouth to yours as he licks over your tongue, his cock jumping inside you as he comes. Thick, hot ropes pulling deep from his being, and the weight of his orgasm has him collapsing half on top of you as he continues to spill. The pressure on your belly and the angle at which your legs part around his body makes you gasp, then whimper, but the prince licks the sound before it touches sunlight.

Aerion picks himself out of the kiss, sitting back on his haunches. You pant, hands gripping the sheets now as he slowly pulls his cock from you. He watches himself drool out of you. The feeling makes you squirm.

“Uh-uh, don’t be like that,” Aerion whispers, one hand coming to rest on your lower belly. He presses down firmly, and the throaty whimper that leaves you is completely involuntary. His other hand collects his seed from the curve of your arse, using two fingers to stuff it back into your cunt. You whine, and Aerion shushes you again. “Fussy girl. Can’t let it go to waste, can we?”

You bite your lip and stare up at the ceiling as Aerion curls his fingers into you. Your legs still bracket his hips and you can feel the ash-licked warmth radiating from his pale skin.

His fingers stretch you, curling and splitting against the silken walls of your cunt. They reach deep too, and after a moment of holding back your whimpers, you feel a prickling heat reappear beneath the press of his hand. Your legs shake before you can say anything, and the heat builds and builds as you attempt to lift yourself onto your elbows.

“A–Aerion, wait, wait—” You stutter out, then fall back onto the mattress as another orgasm rockets through you. It’s sharper, hits you in the base of your lungs and forces sounds from you you barely recognise as your own.

He watches you come undone again with a satisfied smile on his face, his softening cock giving a feeble twitch against his thigh. Your pussy squeezes around the thick push of his fingers, and he strokes you through it, pushing his cum right up towards your womb. The hand on your tummy gives you a gentle pat when you quit your shaking, and he carefully pulls his fingers from you, watching the way your slick and his seed webs between the digits.

You watch, vision blurred by your back-to-back orgasms and the early afternoon sunlight, as his tongue unfurls from between his kiss-bruised lips. He licks his fingers clean in a few curling movements, and you feel something jump in your belly, a flip beneath the press of his hand.

“My prettiest girls,” the prince whispers, wiping his wet fingers on your inner thigh before giving your pussy a quick pat—the sudden pressure making you jolt against the mattress—and manoeuvring himself beneath the sheets. 

He helps you with him, and after a moment of silence, you’re both tucked beneath the silks of your bed. You don’t say anything as he pulls you to him, tucking your body against his. But you do look at him as he rests against the pillows with his eyes closed. You admire the way little orbs of sunlight dance across the bare skin of his chest, shoulders and neck. You can’t help yourself: you reach up and trace the dappled light with your fingers, trekking up the side of his neck until you reach the curve of his jaw. His pulse jumps out to meet you.

He opens his eyes and peers at you sideways. “Something you want?”

You hum a no, then say, “You’re so pretty.”

Aerion rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Silence beats through the room like a racing heart.

Then, “Aerion?”

“Hm?”

“You cut yourself on purpose, didn’t you?”

The prince opens his eyes again and shifts his head to look at you. His eyes dart across your face as if searching for any disappointment or anger. But he finds none.

“Maybe,” he replies after a moment.

You sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“Ser Roland was too close to you.”

“We were talking about flowers.”

Aerion huffed. “You can talk about flowers with me.”

You give him a sceptical look, fingers tracing the sunlight on his shoulder now. “Do you even know anything about flowers?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what kind of—?”

“They’re carnations,” he interrupts. He looks away from you. You pause, hand over his heart. He continues quietly, clearing his throat. “My… my mother had them planted.”

You pout. “Oh, Aerion…”

“So, yes, I know flowers, or whatever the fuck you’re interested in,” Aerion hisses, reaching an arm around and taking your jaw between firm, still slightly sticky, fingers. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips before pulling back before you could plead for more. “And so the next time you want to talk about flowers with someone…” He looks away, almost embarrassed. His cheeks are pink. “You can talk to me.”

These words taste like I love you as well, and it makes him grit his teeth.

It’s not said possessively. He holds your jaw tenderly, and his words match his hold. He actually means it: it’s sincere and honest, and he’s bearing his heart to you and hoping you don’t tear it apart.

“I’d love that,” you respond, your hand finding his and guiding it away from your jaw. You kiss his knuckles as he closes his eyes again.

I love you is written all over that too.

———

they kissed and everybody cheered

tags 🌿

@ghostlybfgf @silkaurum @pinkdoeweirdo @starxs-s @breakspearz @the-darklings @vivian-555 @fly1ng-drag0n @mistalli @tendersolstice @merrrrmaid-core @someonenturs @targaryenstar @targlocket @through-the-looking--glass @sweetplea @julez-5

[junniesoleilkth]

We need more Jackson Wang centered fics,

How come in almost every K-pop fandom we see Jackson as the party guy in fanfics, yet there are barely any fanfics about him? I need to read fanfics about Jackson Wang, the party guy... likeee I want to immerse myself in that world, not just have him appear as a secondary character. Damn! Knowing he’s the party millionaire hot guy who loves sex should be sparking the imagination of some authors! God, I need to read a angsty story about a one-night stand, friends with benefits, whatever, with him as the MAIN CHARACTER, PLEASE, UNDERSTAND MY VISIONNNN. I promise that if I were good at writing, I’d write the fanfics about him myself, but unfortunately I’m not. You know, some fanfic about meeting him in a club or after a concert or at some party for the rich and famous, having a one-night stand or not having one, but leaving that tension between them and then BOOM!, DRAMA, ANGUISH, TENSION, SEX, MORE SEX and finally something fluff. I mean, just listen to him in his interviews; he talks about not being able to meet the right girl because of his fame, his schedule and stuff like he spills a lot of tea JUST LISTEN. THERE’S PLENTY OF MATERIAL TO GET YOUR IMAGINATION WORKING AND WRITE SOME FUCKING JACKSON WANG FANFICS, please. Kindly. A fellow fanfic reader who wants to read some Jackson Wang fanfics.

[ptolomia]

burn me down !

or: wildfire makes your husband wild with desire/aerion in heat?

join the ptolomia taglist!

want more ptolomia?

ৡঌ༄.°• ✸ .°•༄ঌৡ

The scent of smoke and burnt copper never truly left him.

When Aerion Targaryen swallowed the wildfire, expecting to be reborn as a dragon of legend, the maesters braced for a gruesome death. Instead, the substance did something far worse, and far more terrifying: it adapted. It didn't burn him to ash; it fused with his bloodline, burning away every lingering trace of human frailty and leaving behind a creature of pure, predatory instinct.

Before the wildfire, he used to steal you away to the hidden corners of the Red Keep's overgrown godswood, far from the prying eyes of the court.

You remembered one evening in particular, just before everything changed. The summer air had been soft, smelling of crushed pine needles and damp earth. Aerion had been entirely a prince then—polished, arrogant, and draped in rich silks—but the moment he was alone with you, the sharp edges of his public persona would melt away. He had pulled you onto his lap beneath the weeping branches of an ancient oak, his fingers gently unbraiding your hair just so he could feel the strands slip through his hands.

"They think I only care for crowns and ash," he had murmured against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet, protective warmth. "But they don't know that my world begins and ends right here. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground before I let anyone take you from me."

He had kissed you then, a slow, deep promise that tasted of sweet wine and pure devotion. It was a memory you clung to like a lifeline, a beautiful contrast to the nightmare your life had become since the night he drank the green fire.

Now, that sweet memory felt a lifetime away.

For a full moon’s turn, Aerion had been a ghost. The proud, arrogant prince who used to haunt your steps and demand your undivided attention had vanished into the shadows of the holdfast. From your window, you had watched his new, broader silhouette pace the battlements at night like a caged beast. By day, the letters you sent him were returned unopened.

Sitting at your vanity in the quiet of your chambers, the rejection gnawed at you, twisting into a bitter, heavy ache. You stared at your reflection, wondering if your love had finally found a light more dazzling than yours. Perhaps the wildfire hadn't just changed his body; perhaps it had burned away his affection for you entirely. You feared he was seeking someone else—someone stronger, a highborn maid worthy of the dragon he claimed to be—or that he had simply grown bored of a mortal girl now that he felt like a god.

You had given him your heart when he was just a proud, flawed prince. To think he had cast you aside the moment he attained the power he always craved was a betrayal that made your chest hollow.

But the air in your room was growing unnaturally thick, swallowing the evening chill. The heavy iron doors of your chambers were bolted from the inside, yet the familiar, rhythmic thudding of boots in the corridor made your breath hitch. It was followed by a low, vibrating growl that shook the very floorboards.

The temperature spiked, the air tasting suddenly of sulfur and dry heat. Then came the sound of leather and metal scraping against the wood, followed by a heavy, desperate lean against the door.

"Open it," a voice rasps. It barely sounds like Aerion anymore. The polished, lyrical voice of the prince you loved is gone; this is deep, jagged, and dripping with an unnatural, feverish heat. "Open the door, little bird. I know you're in there."

Your hands tremble as you stand, caught between the ache of his weeks of silence and the terrifying intensity radiating through the wood. You slide the heavy iron bolt back.

The door doesn't just open; it is violently shoved inward. Aerion crashes into the room, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway, and the sheer physical presence of him forces you a step back. He looks like a man who has been wrestling with demons in the dirt. His silk shirt is discarded, leaving his torso bare, his skin a roadmap of pulsing, dense muscle and violet veins that glow with a faint, sickly green light beneath the surface.

He is vibrating, his muscles twitching with a frantic, overcharged energy, but his luminous green eyes lock onto yours with a frightening, possessive focus.

"I told you," he hisses, his voice a jagged ruin. "I told the guards to bar the way. Why aren't you away? Why are you still here?"

"You've been avoiding me for a moon's turn, Aerion," you say, the pain in your chest finally boiling over into a trembling defiance. "If you want a new companion—if you want me gone—you only have to say it. Don't hide from me like a coward."

He took a jagged breath, his chest heaving. The smell of ozone and hot metal was overwhelming.

"I stayed away to save you, you fool," he growled, his luminous green eyes fixed on yours with a frightening intensity. "The fire... it’s not just in my blood anymore. It’s a hunger. A rut that doesn't end. If I touch you, I won't be able to stop. I'll break you. I'll consume you until there's nothing left but ash."

"I'm not afraid of you," you whispered, taking a step toward him.

"You should be!" he roared, slamming his fist into the stone wall beside him. The masonry cracked under the force of his new, unnatural strength. He slumped against the wall, his head hanging low, his long silver hair damp with sweat. "I love you so much it's rotting me. Every time I smell your skin through the vents, every time I hear your footsteps in the hall, the dragon screams to claim you. To mark you. To keep you in a cage where no one else can even look at you."

He looked up, and the raw, unhinged devotion in his gaze was more piercing than any blade. He wasn't just a prince anymore; he was a territorial beast, barely holding onto the leash of his own mind.

"I am a monster now," he rasped, his eyes darting over your face as if memorizing it before he lost control. "A beautiful, golden monster. And I am starving for you."

He didn't wait for your permission this time. He crossed the distance in a blur of heat, his hands catching your waist and lifting you off your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin so hot it felt like a brand.

"Tell me to leave," he begged, even as his grip tightened possessively, his fingers sinking into your hips. "Tell me to go. Tell me you want to be free of me. I love you so much I cannot bear to hurt you when my desire takes over. Because if you don't... I'm never letting you out of this room again."

He didn’t wait for you to answer. The moment your hands came up to cup his face, the fragile wall of his restraint crumbled completely.

With a low, desperate sound, Aerion buried his face in the crook of your neck. He was crushing you against him, his massive arms wrapping around your waist like iron bands. Yet, for all the terrifying, animalistic power humming through his muscles, the way his lips pressed against your skin was unbelievably tender. It was a frantic, worshipful heat, his mouth tracing up your throat to your jawline, leaving a trail of scorching kisses that made your skin tingle.

"I thought I lost you," you whispered into his damp silver hair, your fingers tangling in the strands. "I thought the fire took whatever love you had for me."

"Never," he choked out, the word vibrating violently against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his luminous green eyes swimming with a desperate, wild adoration. "The fire changed everything else. It made me a monster, it made me mad—but it only made this louder.” He brought your hands to his chest, his heart thrumming frantically.  “It’s the only part of me that still feels human. You are the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth."

His hand came up to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle given the bruising grip he’d had on your hips just moments ago. His thumb, rough and intensely hot, traced the line of your lower lip.

"When the fire takes me, I forget my own name," he whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, unhinged vulnerability. "I forget the throne. I forget my father. But I never forget you. Your face is burned into the back of my eyelids. Every beat of this broken heart is just your name, over and over again."

You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss into his palm despite the unnatural heat radiating from it. "Then don't run from me anymore, Aerion. Let me stay."

A shudder ran through his entire frame at your words. The territorial, predatory gleam in his eyes flared brighter, but this time, it was laced with a profound, aching relief. He loved you with a ferocity that bordered on religious devotion; you were his sanctuary, his goddess, the only beautiful thing in a world that had suddenly become loud and violent.

"You are my rib," he growled softly, a feral but deeply devoted smile breaking through his exhaustion. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bed as if you were the most precious heirloom in the Seven Kingdoms. "My little bird. The dragon’s heart. If you stay, I will worship you until the flesh rots from my bones. I will give you everything I tear out of this world."

He lowered you onto the mattress, shifting his heavy body over yours with an agonizingly slow deliberate care. His hands pinned yours to the pillows, fingers interlocking tightly, sealing the bond. Even as the primal heat of his rut demanded total surrender, he paused, his forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.

"I am yours," he swore, his voice a dark, possessive vow that echoed from the very depths of his altered soul. "In this life, or in the ashes of whatever comes next." 

The mattress groaned under his newfound, dense weight as he shifted completely over you. He pinned you, his massive chest pressing down until the air left your lungs in a breathless gasp. He felt massive, broader and heavier than any man had a right to be, his entire torso radiating a terrifying, feverish heat that bled straight through the layers of your shift.

"Aerion," you whined, the sheer, primal gravity of him overwhelming your senses.

A low, vibrating growl rumbled in his throat—a sound so deep you felt it resonate inside your own ribs. His hands, calloused and burning like hot irons, slid up from your wrists to cup your face. He wasn't gentle, but there was a desperate, frantic reverence in the way his large fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.

He consumed your lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth with a bruising, hungry urgency. He tasted of smoke, copper, and a wild, intoxicating heat that made your head spin. You gasped into the kiss, and he used the opportunity to growl against your lips, his hips bucking down against yours in a heavy, involuntary twitch of pure, unadulterated need. The friction was electric, sending a sharp jolt of desire straight to your core.

He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his breath scorching your lips as his gaze racked over your face. His glowing, toxic green eyes were completely dilated, the violet edges swallowed by a dark, manic lust.

"You're so small," he rasped, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper as his large hands slid down your neck, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before gripping the fabric of your shift. "So soft. I’ve been dreaming of breaking you. Of taking you until you scream my name to the gods."

With a single, effortless twitch of his hands, the linen of your shift tore open down the middle. You shivered as the cool air of the room hit your bare skin, but the cold lasted only a fraction of a second before Aerion replaced it with his own blistering heat.

His mouth tore down your jawline, burying itself in the crook of your neck. He bit down hard enough to leave a deep, possessive mark. You cried out, your arching spine lifting off the bed as a wave of intense pleasure rushed through you.

"Mine," he growled against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, bruising your flesh as he forced your legs apart. He crowded himself between them, his thick, heavy thigh pressing hard against your aching center, creating a friction that had you sobbing out his name. "Tell me you're mine, little bird. Tell the dragon who owns you."

"I'm yours, Aerion—gods, please," you begged, your fingers digging into the tight, corded muscle of his bare shoulders. His skin felt like polished stone, shifting and rippling beneath your fingertips with terrifying power.

He groaned, a loud, unhinged sound of pure triumph. He reached down, his fingers finding your wetness, and you buckled against his hand. He was completely feral now, his movements devoid of courtly patience, driven entirely by the frantic, roaring rut in his veins. He stroked you roughly, his thumb smearing your heat over your clitoris until you were weeping, your hips chasing his hand in a desperate bid for release.

"Look at what you do to me," he gasped, his forehead dropping against yours as he guided his swollen, aching length against your entrance. He was massive, hot, and twitching with a desperate need to claim. "I am a god, and I am begging at your feet."

He didn't wait. With a heavy, relentless thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.

The fullness was staggering. You threw your head back, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your body stretched to accommodate his massive, unnatural size. He froze above you, his entire body trembling violently as he held himself deep inside you. The veins along his arms and chest flared a brilliant, luminous green, pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat.

"Gods," he choked out, his eyes rolled back slightly in sheer, agonizing ecstasy. "You're so tight...so warm. You're squeezing me to death."

He began to move, and all sanity left the room.

It was a brutal, relentless pace. Aerion possessed you with a feral, animalistic rhythm, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a force that rattled the heavy wooden bedframe. Every thrust was deep, bottoming out against your womb, filling you with a blistering, white-hot sensation that threatened to consume you entirely.

You clung to him like a drowning survivor in a storm. Your legs wrapped tightly around his thick waist, riding the wild, unhinged waves of his lust. The room faded away; there was only the smell of sulfur and sweat, the slap of his heavy torso against yours, and the terrifying, beautiful sight of the monster who loved you with a madness that defied the heavens.

"Sweeter than the fire," Aerion roared, his pace turning frantic, desperate, as he sensed the end drawing near. He leaned down, pinning your hands above your head again, his chest crushing yours as he drove into you harder, faster, completely lost to the beast. "Burn with me! Let it consume us both!"

The friction built to an unbearable, agonizing peak. Your walls clamped around him tightly, triggering your orgasm in a sudden, violent rush that made you scream his name into the empty room.

Hearing your release broke whatever microscopic shred of restraint Aerion had left. With a loud, guttural roar that sounded like a dragon breaking its chains, he delivered three final, devastating thrusts, burying himself as deeply as physically possible inside your twitching body.

He came with a violent, shuddering intensity, filling you with a deep, scalding heat that felt as though the wildfire itself was pouring into your womb. His entire body went rigid, the luminous green light beneath his skin flaring to a blinding brilliance before slowly, agonizingly fading back into the deep violet of his veins.

He collapsed over you, his heavy, sweaty chest heaving against yours, his breath coming in ragged, exhausted gasps. He didn't pull out; instead, his arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you into his side and burying his face back into your hair.

ৡঌ༄.°• ✸ .°•༄ঌৡ

TAGLIST:

@woliwag @number-0-iz @noone1233nobody @slavvat @trifoliumviridi @kittyaryameow @icebearcucumber @happilygoldenvortex @anime-lover-forever-1127 @saltycomicsparentingfish @mismwa @optimisticbirdwitch @infinitelv @yannninii @qardasngan @wildflowerandsage @autumnevanescence @bigratbitchsworld @studyofphilo-sophy @shhhhehe @sacha1slytherin @mylcvemineallmine @ijustwannaread03 @curbitkirby @ynnlvrs @umadirectioner @lupusnoir @dear-fifi @ae-gax @fakeplastiqtree @fromirkwood @nerdypinupcrystal @multiversejumper @hannisreading @danaaa21 @saeris-world

[chatterrbox]

I actually hate when I'm looking for a fic involved in a game or show and it's all modern day au's or smut with kinks that make no sense for the character (abby Anderson..) WHO SAID THAT.

It's actually so annoying. Like no I don't want a modern day version of her, I WANT HER. I WANT HER DURING THE APOCALYPSE AND WANT A STORY WITH HER, IS THAT SO HARD TO ASK FOR?? And it's not even just on Tumblr, it's AO3 too. It actually makes no sense to me how there's more modern au's than game timeline ones but I'm also picky asf and I am NOT judging people who write smut or modern day au's, I'm just saying I PERSONALLY wish there was less of it, but I am acknowledging that it my opinion and not a general one. Because I do enjoy the occasional smut or modern day au, it just depends on the scenario

[lalalovelyly]

Baelor Targaryen Is Tired

Valarr Targaryen x reader

Synopsys: In Which you get hurt, Valarr Panics and Everyone Else Suffers

wordcount: 4.3k

requester: yes but fore some reason it doesn't let me tag the user

(requests are open)

The Kingswood was beautiful in the afternoon light.

You'd convinced Valarr to accompany you on a ride despite his lingering protests that he was still recovering from his cold--, protests that had grown weaker with every passing day and had finally dissolved entirely when you'd pointed out that he'd been perfectly fine that morning when he'd kissed you breathless before breakfast.

"You're exploiting my love for you," he'd said as he helped you onto your horse.

"Absolutely."

"I should be offended."

"You should be grateful I'm letting you come at all. I could have asked Matarys."

The look of horror on his face had been worth the entire ride.

Now, an hour later, you were deep in the Kingswood, Valarr rode close beside you, closer than strictly necessary, but you'd long since given up commenting on his need to be near you. His horse, a gentle black mare, seemed accustomed to her master's inattention to proper riding formation.

"You're staring," you said without looking at him.

"I'm admiring."

"Same thing."

"No." He nudged his horse even closer, close enough that he could reach out and brush a strand of hair from your face. "Staring is what strangers do. Admiring is what husbands do. There's a significant difference."

You turned to smile at him, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

The next moment, a rabbit burst from the undergrowth directly beneath your horse's hooves.

The animal reared with a startled whinny, and you—caught completely off guard, your attention on your husband rather than your mount—felt yourself slipping. You grabbed for the mane, for the saddle, for anything, but it was too late. The world tilted, and then you were falling, the ground rushing up to meet you with terrifying speed.

You hit hard.

For a moment, there was nothing but shock—the breath knocked from your lungs, the world spinning, the distant sound of Valarr screaming your name. Then the pain hit, sharp and white-hot, radiating from your left ankle.

"Y/N!" Valarr was off his horse before the animal had fully stopped, crashing to his knees beside you in the leaf litter. His hands were everywhere—your face, your shoulders, your hair—checking, assessing, his eyes wild with fear. "Y/N, look at me. Look at me. Where does it hurt? What happened? Are you—gods, you're bleeding, where are you bleeding—"

"I'm not—" You gasped, trying to catch your breath. "I'm not bleeding. It's my ankle. I think—I think I twisted it."

He looked down at where your leg lay at an awkward angle, and his face went pale.

"Don't move." His voice was shaking. "Don't move, alright? Just stay still. I'm going to—I need to—" He looked around wildly, as if expecting a maester to materialize from the trees. "I need to get you back to the Keep. I need to—can you ride? No, of course you can't ride, your ankle—I'll carry you. I'll carry you the whole way if I have to."

"Valarr—"

"I should have never let you talk me into this. I should have said no. I should have—" He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, and you realized with a start that his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You fell. You fell and I was right there and I couldn't—I didn't catch you. I didn't—"

You reached up and caught his hand, pulling it away from his face.

"Valarr. Look at me."

He did. His beautiful blue eyes were glassy, terrified, fixed on you like you were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become unstable.

"I'm alright," you said firmly. "It's just my ankle. It hurts, but I'm alright. Do you understand? I'm alright."

"You fell." His voice cracked. "You fell and I couldn't—"

"You caught me now." You squeezed his hand. "That's what matters."

He stared at you for another long moment, and then something in him seemed to break. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"I can't lose you," he whispered. "I can't. If something happened to you—if you were hurt worse than this—if you—" He couldn't finish.

You brought your free hand up to cup his cheek, feeling the dampness of tears against your palm.

"You're not going to lose me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded against your forehead, still shaking, still breathing too fast. But slowly, gradually, the panic began to recede. He pulled back just enough to look at you, to study your face with an intensity that made your heart ache.

"Your ankle," he said. "We need to—I need to get you back. Can you stand? No, don't try, you'll hurt yourself worse. I'll—" He looked at his horse, then at yours, then back at you. "I'll ride back for help. No, I can't leave you alone out here. I'll—I'll carry you to my horse. We'll ride together. Can you hold on to me if I lift you?"

"I can try."

He nodded, jaw tight with determination, and carefully—so carefully, as if you were made of glass—slid one arm beneath your shoulders and the other beneath your knees. He lifted you gently, cradling you against his chest, and you couldn't help the small gasp of pain as your ankle shifted.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pressed a kiss to your temple, quick and desperate. "I've got you. I've got you. Just hold on to me."

He carried you to his horse with slow, careful steps, never jostling you, never letting go. Getting you situated on the mare's back was a challenge—your ankle screamed every time it moved, and Valarr's face grew paler with each pained sound you made—but eventually you were settled sideways across the saddle, your arms around his neck, his arms around your waist, holding you securely against him.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, swinging up behind you. "Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me if you need me to stop. Tell me—"

"I'll tell you." You leaned your head back against his shoulder. "I promise."

He clicked his tongue and the horse began to move, slower than before, picking its way carefully through the woods. Valarr's arms never loosened around you. His lips kept pressing to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach.

"You're so brave," he murmured against your skin. "You're so strong. You fell off a horse and you're not even crying. I'm crying and I'm not even the one who fell."

A laugh escaped you, surprising. "You're crying?"

"A little." His voice was thick. "Don't judge me. I watched you fall. I watched you hit the ground. I thought—for a moment I thought—"

"I know." You reached up and touched his face, finding the tear tracks on his cheeks. "But I'm here. I'm right here."

"You're here," he agreed, and kissed your fingers. "You're here and I'm never letting you ride a horse again. Ever. We'll walk everywhere. We'll stay in our chambers forever. I'll carry you everywhere you need to go."

"That seems impractical."

"I don't care about practical. I care about you. I care about you not falling off things and hurting yourself and making my heart stop."

You smiled, despite the pain radiating from your ankle. "My hero."

"Your very terrified hero who is going to have words with whoever trained that horse. And possibly with the rabbit. If I ever meet that rabbit again, it will regret the day it was born."

"You're going to fight a rabbit?"

"I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe." He pressed his face into your hair. "Even if it means declaring war on small woodland creatures."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm devoted. There's a difference."

You laughed again, softer this time, and felt his arms tighten around you in response.

The ride back to the Red Keep was slow and careful, Valarr's eyes constantly scanning the path ahead for anything that might jostle you. When you finally reached the gates, he was shouting for a maester before the guards could even greet him, lifting you down from the horse with the same impossible gentleness he'd used in the woods.

"Get the Grand Maester," he ordered no one in particular, carrying you through the yard. "Tell him it's an emergency. Tell him my wife is hurt. Tell him—"

"Valarr." You touched his face. "It's just my ankle."

"Just your ankle," he repeated, and his voice broke on the words. "You fell off a horse. You could have broken your neck. You could have—" He couldn't finish.

You didn't try to make him. You just held onto him, letting him carry you through the corridors, letting him shout at servants and guards, letting him be as dramatic and terrified and devoted as he needed to be.

Because that was who Valarr was. He loved you too much, too intensely, too completely. And when something threatened you—even something as small as a startled horse and a twisted ankle—it shattered him.

Later, after the maester had bound your ankle and assured you both that it was a minor sprain that would heal in a few weeks, Valarr sat on the edge of your bed and held your hand.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For not catching you. For letting you fall. For—"

"Valarr." You squeezed his hand. "You couldn't have caught me. It happened too fast."

"I should have been closer. I should have been paying more attention. I was looking at you and I should have been looking at the path, at the horse, at—"

"You were looking at me because you love me."

"Yes, and that love nearly got you killed."

"It got me a sprained ankle. There's a difference."

He looked at you for a long moment, and then—slowly, carefully—he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

"I can't lose you," he whispered again. "I know I'm dramatic. I know I'm too much. But I can't—if something happened to you—I don't know how I'd survive it. You're half of me. You're the best half. You're—"

"I know." You brought your free hand up to cup his cheek. "I know. And I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not for a long, long time."

He nodded against your forehead, and you felt the wetness of tears again.

"I love you," he said. "I love you so much. Too much. More than is reasonable or sensible or—"

"I love you too." You kissed him, soft and gentle. "Every ridiculous, unreasonable, excessive part of you."

He kissed you back, just as soft, just as gentle.

And when he finally pulled away, he didn't go far. He simply climbed onto the bed beside you, wrapped himself around you as carefully as if you were made of glass, and held on.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again," he murmured against your hair.

"That seems excessive."

"I don't care."

"You'll have to attend council meetings."

"I'll bring you with me."

"I'll have to bathe."

A pause. "I'll can come too."

You laughed, and felt his arms tighten around you in response.

"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to keep saying it to remind himself you were still there.

"I love you too," you answered. "Now let me sleep. The maester said rest."

"Rest," he agreed. "I'll watch."

"You'll sleep too."

"I'll try."

You knew he wouldn't. You knew he'd lie awake, holding you, listening to you breathe, reassuring himself that you were still there, still alive, still his. But that was alright. That was Valarr.

The first few days of your confinement were almost pleasant.

Valarr barely left your side. He brought you breakfast in bed, fed you grapes with the solemnity of a maester administering medicine, read to you from books of poetry and history and once, memorably, from a treatise on horse breeding that he'd grabbed by mistake. He held your hand while you slept, kissed your forehead every time you woke, and generally behaved as if your sprained ankle was the most serious injury in the history of Westeros.

You loved every moment of it.

By day four, however, the world began to intrude.

"It's just a council meeting," you said, for the third time, as Valarr paced beside your bed like a caged animal.

"A council meeting," he repeated bitterly. "While you lie here, wounded, in pain—"

"My ankle barely hurts anymore."

"—suffering in silence, being brave for my sake—"

"Valarr, I'm reading a book."

He stopped pacing to look at you, and for a moment his expression was so tragic that you almost laughed. Almost. You'd learned by now that laughing at his dramatics only encouraged him.

"I'll be gone for hours," he said. "Hours. Without you. While you're here, alone, needing me—"

"I won't be alone. I have your pillow."

He considered this. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"It's not funny at all." But the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly, and he came to sit on the edge of the bed. "I hate leaving you."

"I know."

"I hate everything that takes me away from you. Council meetings. Meals. The need to breathe air that isn't yours."

"That last one seems medically necessary."

"Debatable." He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, a gesture so familiar now that you couldn't remember a time before it. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll sit through every boring report and every tedious argument and every moment I'll be thinking of you. Counting the minutes until I can return."

"I'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He kissed you—soft, lingering, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your lips—and then he was gone, and you were alone with your book and your pillow and the warm glow of being loved by someone who loved you entirely too much.

The small council chamber had never felt so much like a tomb.

Valarr sat in his usual place, staring at the table, seeing nothing. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was droning on about something—watch rotations, perhaps, or the need for additional men at the gates—and Valarr heard approximately none of it.

He was thinking about you.

Were you comfortable? Had the servants brought you lunch? Did you need more pillows? Had anyone remembered to stoke the fire? You always got cold in the afternoons, even when the rest of the castle was warm, and if you were cold and he wasn't there to warm you—

"Valarr."

He blinked. His father, Prince Baelor, was looking at him from across the table with an expression of long-suffering patience.

"Yes, Father?"

"The Master of Coin asked for your opinion on the matter of the new tariffs."

Tariffs. Right. There were tariffs. He should have an opinion about them. He opened his mouth, prepared to say something—anything—but what came out was:

"Do you think she's warm enough?"

Baelor closed his eyes.

"The princess," Valarr continued, because now that he'd started he couldn't stop. "Her ankle. She gets cold in the afternoons. I told the servants to keep the fire going, but what if they forgot? What if she's lying there, cold and alone and in pain, and I'm not there to—"

"Valarr."

"—hold her, to warm her, to make sure she's alright. She fell off a horse, Father. A horse. She could have been killed. She could have—"

"She sprained her ankle."

"It's a serious injury!"

"It's a sprain. The maester said she'll be fine in a few weeks."

"A few weeks during which she is bedbound and suffering and I am here, discussing tariffs." He said the word like it personally offended him. "Tariffs. While my wife lies wounded."

The Master of Coin cleared his throat. "Shall I continue with the report, or—"

"No one is continuing with anything until my son stops looking like a man attending his own funeral." Baelor rubbed the bridge of his nose "Son. I need you to listen to me."

Valarr tried to focus on his father's face. It was difficult. Your face kept appearing in his mind instead.

"Your wife is fine," Baelor said firmly. "She is warm, she is comfortable, and she is being attended by half the servants in the Keep because you have made it clear that her comfort is your highest priority. She does not need you to stare at a wall and worry about her. She needs you to participate in this council so we can finish and you can go back to her."

This was... actually reasonable.

"I can go back to her? When we're done?"

"When we're done. Which will be sooner if you stop asking about her warmth and start offering opinions on tariffs."

Valarr straightened in his seat. "Right. Tariffs. I have opinions."

"Excellent. Share them."

He shared them. They were not particularly informed opinions—he'd been too busy thinking about you to read the briefing materials—but he shared them anyway, and the meeting continued, and slowly the minutes began to pass.

But his mind never fully left you.

He wondered if you were reading. He wondered if you'd finished the book you'd started yesterday. He wondered if you missed him, even half as much as he missed you. He wondered if your ankle hurt, if you needed more pillows, if the fire was still going, if—

"Valarr." His father again.

"Yes?"

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Looking like a kicked puppy. We're almost done. Two more items, and then you can go."

Two more items. He could survive two more items.

He thought.

The meeting dragged on for another hour.

By the end, Valarr had contributed exactly three useful comments, spent approximately fifty minutes thinking about you, and developed a new appreciation for the phrase "death by boredom." He was out of his chair before the king had finished speaking, bowing hastily to his grandfather and striding toward the door with the speed of a man being chased.

"Valarr."

He stopped. Turned. His father had followed him into the corridor.

"Walk with me."

It wasn't a request. Valarr fell into step beside Baelor, trying to moderate his pace despite every instinct screaming at him to run.

"She's fine, you know," Baelor said quietly. "Your wife. I checked on her this morning before the meeting."

Valarr blinked. "You did?"

"I did. She was reading, she was comfortable, and she asked me to remind you that you're being ridiculous but that she loves you anyway." A pause. "She also asked me to tell you that the pillow is not an adequate substitute for your presence, which I assume means something to you."

It meant everything to him.

"She said that?"

"She did." Baelor glanced at him, and there was something soft in his eyes—something that looked almost like understanding. "I remember what it was like. When your mother and I were first married. Every moment apart felt like a small death."

Valarr had never heard his father speak of this. He didn't know what to say.

"She's fine," Baelor repeated. "She'll continue to be fine. But I know that doesn't stop the worrying. It never does. So go. Go to her. Hold her. Reassure yourself that she's still there." He clapped Valarr on the shoulder. "But try to focus during the next council meeting, yes? The Master of Coin looked genuinely hurt by your inattention to his tariffs."

Valarr managed a small smile. "I'll try."

"Good. Now go. Before you vibrate out of your skin."

He went.

He burst through the door of your chambers like a man pursued, and there you were—exactly where he'd left you, propped up on pillows, a book in your hands, looking up at him with that familiar warm smile.

"You're back," you said.

"I'm back." He crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the bed beside you, gathering you into his arms before you could say another word. "I'm back and I'm never leaving again. The council can meet without me. The realm can manage. I'm staying right here."

You laughed softly, your hands coming up to stroke his hair. "The meeting went well, I take it?"

"It was terrible. I thought about you the entire time. Every moment. I kept wondering if you were warm, if you were comfortable, if you needed me. Father had to remind me to pay attention three times."

"Only three? That's better than I expected."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to drink you in. You looked... fine. More than fine. Your cheeks were pink, your eyes were bright, and there was a book in your lap and a cup of tea on the table beside you.

"You're alright," he breathed.

"I'm alright." You touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "I told you I would be."

"I know. I just—I needed to see it. To be sure."

You pulled him down and kissed him, slow and sweet, and he melted into you like he always did. Like you were home and he'd been lost and now, finally, he'd found his way back.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips.

"I love you too." Another kiss. "Even when you're dramatic."

"Especially when I'm dramatic?"

"Don't push your luck."

He laughed—actually laughed, for the first time since leaving you that morning—and settled against your side, his head on your shoulder, his arm around your waist, his body curved around yours like he was trying to shield you from the world.

"How much longer do you have to stay in bed?" he asked.

"A few more days, the maester said. Then I can start putting weight on it."

"A few more days." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "I can do a few more days."

"You don't have a choice."

"I know." Another kiss. "But I'll be here for every one of them. Every hour. Every minute. Every—"

"Valarr."

"Yes?"

"I know."

He smiled against your skin, content for the first time all day.

And when his father came by that evening to check on you both, he found his son curled around his wife like a dragon guarding its treasure, fast asleep, with a look of utter peace on his face.

Baelor smiled, closed the door quietly, and left them to it.

A few days later…

The solar was quiet, the hour late, and Baelor Targaryen was rubbing the bridge of his nose in a way that had become habit over the past several weeks.

His brother Maekar sat across from him, a cup of wine in hand, watching with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and sympathy.

"That bad?" Maekar asked.

"He left the council meeting early today." Baelor's voice was flat. "Again. Claimed his wife needed him."

"Did she?"

"She was reading. Apparently she'd turned a page without him there to witness it, and he felt she shouldn't have to endure such moments alone."

Maekar snorted into his wine.

"It's not funny." But Baelor's lip twitched. "He's been like this since the accident. Worse, actually. Before, he merely talked about her constantly. Now he has to be with her constantly. I found him having breakfast brought to their chambers so they could eat together. As if the servants don't do that."

"He's in love."

"He's obsessed." Baelor leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "I thought it would pass. The intensity. The constant need to be near her. I thought once they were married, once the newness wore off, he'd settle into something more... reasonable."

"And?"

"And it's been nearly a year. The newness should have worn off by now."

Maekar considered this. "They're still newlyweds, in a sense. The first year is—"

"He was like this the moment he met her." Baelor cut him off, fixing his brother with a weary look. "Do you remember? He couldn't stop staring at her. Couldn't stop touching her hand, her shoulder, her hair. I thought he'd calm down once he'd secured her. Instead, he's gotten worse."

Maekar was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully "He loves her."

"He loves her too much."

"Is there such a thing?"

Baelor finally looked at his brother, Maekar's face was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes that Baelor recognized. A softness. A knowing.

"You're enjoying this," Baelor realized.

"I'm not."

"You are. You're sitting there, drinking my wine, watching me complain about my son, and you're enjoying it."

Maekar's composure cracked, just slightly. "I may be finding it... mildly entertaining."

"Because your children are monsters."

"My children are spirited."

"Your children have set fires in the throne room. Multiple times. Aerion once tried to eat raw meat. Your eldest has made half the ladies at court cry." Baelor leaned forward, pointing at his brother. "For years, I've listened to you complain. For years, Maekar. And now, finally—finally—it's my son causing the chaos."

Maekar's lip twitched again. "He's not causing chaos. He's just... very devoted."

"He's excessive. He commissioned a locket with her face. Then another. Then a third with both their faces together. He talks to her pillow when she's away. He told me last week that he's learned to recognize her footsteps in the corridor and can tell her mood by how quickly she's walking."

"That's... actually rather sweet."

"I think," Baelor said heavily, "that I have accepted my fate. This is our life now. Valarr will love that girl with every fiber of his being until one of them is in the grave. Possibly beyond. I wouldn't put it past him to find a way to love her in the afterlife."

Maekar was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly "You're happy about it."

Baelor looked at him sharply. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Maekar set down his wine, crossing his arms. "You're sitting here complaining, but underneath it, you're pleased. Your son loves his wife the way a Targaryen should love, completely, utterly, without reservation. It's excessive, yes. It's dramatic, certainly. But it's real. It's the kind of love that builds dynasties. The kind that songs are written about."

Baelor didn't answer.

"And," Maekar added, a smile tugging at his lips, "for the first time in years, it's not my children causing the family headaches. That alone is worth celebrating."

Despite himself, Baelor laughed.

[nsainmoonchild]

I love this series 😂 because honestly this is how I see a Targ loving. Completely OBSESSED

[cluz1babe]

PSA: Some of us need your fics to be in regular sized font, not tiny font.

Sincerely, Bad Eyes.

[nsainmoonchild]

Oh my god I hate the tiny font. Please, please stop using that itty bitty shit. It hurts my eyeballs.

[wcnderlnds]

THE FIT, THE FACE CARD. HE IS LETHALLLL 🫠

[wcnderlnds]

never seen a man so fine

[ghostintheclub]

Clingy | Kwon Jiyong

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Summary: You threaten Jiyong that if he doesn’t behave he’s gonna sleep on the couch so he becomes extra clingy

Warnings: None

Word Count: 850

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re halfway through fixing his collar when Kwon Ji-yong decides, for reasons unknown to humanity, that standing still is optional.

“Stop moving,” you mutter, tugging the fabric into place again.

“I am still,” he insists, immediately shifting his shoulders like a cat who’s been told not to sit on the keyboard.

You stare at him. Slowly. Very deliberately. He grins that grin that has gotten him out of everything since 2006.

“Ji-yong,” you say, voice sweet in a way that should concern him, “if you don’t behave for the next… let’s say two hours?” A small pause. A tilt of your head. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

Silence. It lands. You can actually see the moment it hits him, like a cartoon lightbulb flickering… then exploding.

“The couch?” he repeats, offended, scandalized, personally attacked.

“Yes. The couch.”

“That’s not even a real threat,” he scoffs, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Suspicion. Calculation. Fear, even.

You raise an eyebrow. Don’t say a word. Just reach past him and pick up your phone like the conversation’s over.

He folds in seconds.

“Okay,” he blurts. “Okay. I’ll behave.”

You hum. Noncommittal. You’ve been here before.

Five minutes later, he’s perfect. Too perfect. Standing still. Quiet. Watching you like you might revoke his human rights at any second.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m just… respectful.”

That word doesn’t belong in his mouth like this.

You finish adjusting his outfit anyway, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

The event is packed. Cameras flashing like tiny lightning storms, voices overlapping into one long, shimmering buzz.

And Ji-yong? He’s Attached.His hand in yours, fingers laced tight enough to feel like a promise. His arm sneaking around your waist any chance it gets. At one point he literally rests his chin on your shoulder mid-conversation with someone important, like he forgot you exist in public spaces too.

You lean back slightly. “You’re being obvious.”

“We’re public,” he murmurs, not even a little ashamed.

“That’s not the point.”

He squeezes your hand. “I’m just… appreciating you.”

You turn your head just enough to catch his expression. There’s a softness there. And something else. Something suspiciously like strategy.

“You’re scared of the couch,” you whisper.

“I am not scared of the couch,” he whispers back, immediately pulling you a little closer.

You let out a quiet laugh. “You totally are.”

“Mm,” he hums, resting his cheek briefly against your hair. “But I’m not sleeping on it.”

It doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets worse.

During photos, his hand never leaves your back. During conversations, he drifts closer until your sides touch. At one point, he literally interrupts someone mid-sentence just to ask if you’re cold and then drapes his jacket over your shoulders like a man trying to secure his future.

“You’re overcompensating,” you tell him under your breath.

“I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being strategic.”

He smiles. Slow. Unrepentant. “Both can be true.”

By the time you get home, the adrenaline has worn off and the quiet settles in like a blanket.

You barely make it through the door before he’s right there again, arms wrapping around you from behind.

“You did good tonight,” you say, kicking off your shoes.

“I always do good,” he replies, but he presses his face into your shoulder anyway, voice softer now. “But I did extra good.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You did.”

A beat.

“…So no couch?” he tries.

You pretend to think about it. Long enough to make him sweat.

“No couch,” you decide.

The relief is immediate. Visible. He actually exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“Thank God,” he mutters, pulling you closer like you might change your mind.

Later, in bed, it becomes a problem. You’re lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, while Ji-yong has somehow… migrated. Half on top of you. One leg thrown over yours, an arm wrapped around your middle, his face tucked into your neck like you’re a very comfortable pillow he refuses to share.

“Ji-yong,” you mumble. “I can’t breathe.”

“You’re fine,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.

“I’m being crushed.”

He shifts. For a second, you think he’s going to move. He doesn’t. If anything, he settles more. Dead weight now. Fully committed. You huff out a laugh despite yourself, one hand coming up to run through his hair.

After a minute, you sigh and let your head turn toward him, pressing a light kiss to his temple. “Goodnight, you menace.”

Nothing. He’s out. Completely.

And somehow, despite the fact that you’re pinned under a human blanket with questionable circulation, you don’t mind all that much.

Tag list: @hrtswon @jiyongieahx @hannalegie @jajabro @kikokikokikokikokiko @cchapssaltteok @strawinyourdrink @ellyyyysstuff @redryy @aemrsy @sanniix33 @irishxgem @missleezylou @imthefreakyg @jiyongshuzz @bunnygirlgonewild @karlee10261990 @babyzzzzz @ItsOnlySkye @readmyeulogy @delightful-light @theartisticlibrarian @jiyongiie

[itsthenovelteafactor]

xavier baxter is really the character of all time. like. he’s a high school slacker archetype. he was accused of murdering his girlfriend. his favorite movie is dirty dancing. he can see ghosts. he’s a terrible boyfriend. he’s the world’s most supportive ex boyfriend. he tried to spill salt on a ghost to exorcise them. his online username is shredhead. he was hit by a car and died for a few minutes. his dad is the sheriff and he loves to break and enter. he’s scared of hospitals. he makes bird noises to alert his friends of danger. he’s never once had the brain cell. he has unnervingly blue eyes. he definitely has brain damage. he’s uncomfortable in the morgue but hangs out there with his ex girlfriend’s dad. he has a thing for strong women. he’s trying to be a better person. he’s smarter than he gives himself credit for.