[onenonlyroseanne]

here’s what you want to know about me!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

Mee

Requests: open!

No AI

[onenonlyroseanne]

It's filthy, disgusting

Wife!reader X Aerion Targaryen

Summary: despite the hatred, you can’t get a grip of your own self control

Warnings: MDNI, toxic, unprotected p in v, nipples play, hate sex, slapping, aggression, edging, mock sympathy, no use of y/n. Aerion Targaryen (yes he’s a warning)

Words count: 2.5k

Yeah adding that GIF was completely intentional, enjoy XD

You stormed into his chambers clutching the hem of your dress to assist you in jogging faster to him, you saw him slumped on the chair holding his goblet of wine while staring into the darkness absentmindedly

You snapped out of his thoughts with a sharp stinging slap on his face making him jolt upward standing back on his feet

His violet eyes dug into yours

He couldn’t believe it how much nerve you had

You said nothing for a split second, but his eyes were deeply hypnotizing making you not only forget what you wanted to say, but also curse the moment you decided to take on your decision in confronting him

The faint cut on his lip, a purplish colour on his right cheek that almost matches his eyes, didn’t go unnoticed

“What you did to the girl was vile” you spat out “You’re mad, absolute garbage” you added not giving him time to speak

However, to your surprise, he didn’t ‘react’ in the way you expected him to do

He merely placed the goblet down, smoothing his tunic

You felt uneasy, that strange calmness didn’t suit him, steadiness, and calculation in his actions were not his best traits

What is happening?

“She disrespects our honour ” he muttered stating a fact ,while rubbing the back of his neck

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat

“Your honour” you corrected him, your tone showed no signs of weakness

Perhaps that seemed what provoked him the most, not the slap, not the interruption to his chambers

You turned your back to him scoffing and shaking your head in disbelief, the idea of him assaulting that poor puppet girl just because a foolish show that has no deep meaning made your blood boil, but you decided to let it go, at least you made your point that you didn’t apprecia-

THUD

A low sound came from behind you, forcing you to turn your head towards the sound

Only for you to find him grabbing the edge of the wooden table firmly you could see his knuckles turning white almost clear,

THUD

Aerion’s palm connected with the wooden table to create the loudest sound you’ll ever hear, your hands came to cover your ears unconsciously

He made another slap on the table but more violent- causing the wine bottle to fall and shatter on the floor, you took steps backwards from the shattered glass still shaken, but he didn’t move a muscle

“Our name!” His voice echoed through his chambers “Our blood, our honour!” He repeated manically

“You are like us the moment I wed you!, The moment you wore our colours you belong to the house of Targaryen” He yelled walking on the shattered glass barefoot, just to get to you, the sound of it digging through his skin made your stomach turn

You didn’t move, you physically couldn’t move. Fear was eating you,

“And you” his tone lowered as he reached for your face getting a grip of your jawline, his fingers showed no mercy, you held his forearm not to keep him in place- but waiting for him to loosen even accidentally so you could push him away

But that didn’t happen, he only grew stronger

“stood among all of them and watched that show and did nothing,” he joggled your head lightly with each word that left his mouth

“Because she did nothing!. Nothing!” You yelled back at him pushing his hand away from your face gesturing with your hands as if illustrating your point. “She's merely a puppet girl, how could she mean any harm or disrespect,” you added jamming your fist into his chest he toppled backwards with each jam, but Aerion held his ground

He stopped your fist but you continued arguing “You are brainwashed” you muttered through your gritted teeth your eyes found his but that didn’t faze you as much as his hand holding yours with enough strength to keep you distracted

You found yourself moving backwards and his tone dangerously lowered

“I am a prince, and I can do whatever I please, and I am not waiting for someone as little as you to tell me what’s wrong and what’s right “ your back hit the cold stone walls of his chambers

His chest is brushing against yours, your breasts peeking through your nightgown as your breathing quickened

His too

“And I am a princess, I tell you what to do and you must obey as I obey you” you sneered

And then you saw it- the slight shift in his gaze when he leaned backward making a hair-thin space between you

Hundreds and thousands of thoughts going through his mind and what frustrated you the most was that you couldn’t tell, his pupils travelled down your figure but you kept talking and arguing your mouth won’t just stop-

His gaze dropped to your lips then back up- with effort

His hands curled in fists beside him restraining himself from reaching you,

“Merely because you’re a Targaryen, a pale-headed idiot doesn’t mean you’re allowed-“ and yet you’re still talking

“Not in my chambers ” he cut you off as he surged forward crashing his lips onto yours

He silenced your gasp with his lips that pressed hardly onto yours knocking your breathing out, two firm hands came to hold your head in place, forcing his fingers into your scalp

You fisted his tunic with both of your hands lightly hitting him- due to the sensation of mixed feelings you can’t decide whether you push him or-

teasing the bottom of his lips with the tip of your tongue, he accepted your invitation parting his lips to welcome your tongue

Then a sound of pleasure came from him, it wasn’t a whimper, nor a moan it was more of an irritated groan

Perhaps this is a way of blowing off steam

A way of both of you expressing how frustrated you are with each other

“I despise your mouth” he muffled into your mouth while one of his hands let go of your head coming down reaching for your breast cupping it

“I despise you” You returned the insult wrapping your arm around his neck putting your body weight on him so you could push his body causing him to topple backwards, his hands never never came off your body,

He was interrupted by the chair he was previously sitting on; instinctively, he sat on it and you wasted no time in hopping on his lap, trapping his legs with yours

You both parted your lips from each other unwillingly a string of spit coming alive as you leaned backward just to catch your breath

With each inhale and exhale- panting the pale-headed boy's eyes never left your body

Your eyes met

Rawness, vulnerability was visible in his eyes

And that didn’t come into his liking

It made him feel small

So to take control back his gaze settled on your breast, a rough hand came to undo your laces, but you scoffed

“Is that how you cope when you know you’re wrong?” you said with a sardonic grin

He didn’t answer his shaky hand was not helping with the fabric that was abandoning what he needed the most

Your knuckles came to touch his chin, you tapped it to have his control

“What’s happened to your voice” you whispered provoking him by leaning over tracing the tip of your nose along his

“The dragon never loses” he whispered back- however he lost patience with the laces of your nightgown, his hands came now to rip it off your body making your breast bounce to him, Fully to him

Your body shuddered at the sight of his eyes swallowing you whole

His tongue moisted his lips before tilting his head down and bringing one of your hard nipples to the warmth of his mouth

You whimpered recklessly

His tongue traced your nipple without mercy, teasingly you felt how his tongue memorized each ridge, and you could feel him smiling smugly you looked down at him and you were right- his eyes met yours

The throbbing sensation in your cunt is unbearable and with his erection pressed between your thighs isn’t helping

A soft nip with his teeth came at your breast, you saw him licking the blood of your skin you hissed in return twisting your fingers in his pale locks, but he moved further up placing urgent open-mouthed kisses on your skin

You can not help but tilt your neck to the side giving him more access to your skin

His hand is dangerously close to your wetness

But you stopped him pushing him backward his back fell flatly on the back of the chair

“That’s all you could do huh?” You said disgustingly, parting your leg further, and of course he looked shamelessly

“Do not ask for something you can’t handle” he replied rubbing his a hand on his face his nose flaring

“Oh you know I can handle someone larger than you” you voice lowered with disdain

“Stronger than you” you added taking one leg off his lap agonizingly slow,

“Harder than you” your voice came again looking down at his bulge, rising from his lap now and it was like taking his oxygen out of his lungs away

His body trembled

He looked.. miserable

“I have no interest whatsoever in wasting my time on you” he said like your name on his lips was poisonous and you almost burst out laughing

“Me neither “ you replied, strangely calm

You stood in front of him now, your breast still on display in front of him yet he kept his gaze on yours, he mirrored you by standing as well putting a turbulent distance between the two of you

You caught him off guard by rolling your nightgown down your legs, letting yourself be fully unclothed in front of him

His chest puffed, his hands flexing in his side but your touring did not stop there

Aerion expected you to say something to provoke him more, but instead you said nothing it only took seconds before he started shedding himself of his clothes despite having a hard time doing so you showed no signs of helping

The moment you saw him fully bare in front of you, his cock looked painfully hard, and you only imagined him fucking you senselessly

As if both your have read each other's thoughts, the next moment you found your lips back pressing against each other, tongue swirling into your mouth, chin glittering with spit of yours

His hands cupped the back of your thighs to lift you off the ground, you moaned arching your back lightly while holding onto the back of his neck with both hands

He buried his face into the crook of your neck inhaling your scent that was a mixture of rosewater, arousal, and sweat and he loved every single one

He started moving the friction between the two of you was maddening yet not enough, he stumbled over the furniture groaning into your neck, grazing his teeth when his leg ache knew it was going to bruise later but your skin was more essential than anything else now, until he finally reached the bed, he threw both of you on the mattress the bed creaking under your weight

He placed furiously opened mouth kisses on your shoulder, your cleavage, your stomach, your thighs

The sounds he made were contradictory to the words he mouthed earlier

You clenched his hair pulling him towards your face again- he looked into your eyes and that gleam of frustration, lust and hint of desperation was clear to him, his gaze matched yours and he took the bait by lining his cock into your entrance you gasped into his mouth the fingers in his hair twisting, he thrusted deeply into you could feel your walk tightening around his veins

Both of his hands settled on the sides of your head your could hear the sound of the bedsheet twitching under his fingers

“Fuck-“ he whimpered but he replaced the sound with a groan instead “You,” he exclaimed growling

“Fuck you, Aerion” you moaned arching your back

“Yes- bless me with your insults” He bit onto the bottom of his lip; however, he didn’t fool, you could sense the mockery in his tone

You circle your legs around his waist rocking your hips creating more friction

He moaned involuntarily not expecting your bold move

The sound of both your skin echoing through the stone walls of his chambers, you both showed no shame in silencing your moans

He poured all his frustration into his thrusts, and they only grew more feral, more deep, pulling all the way out and thrusting all the way in, your face growing hot and your vision blurred,

He could feel your walls clutching around his cock and instead of giving you peace Aerion sped up chasing his orgasm

“What’s happened to your voice?” He mocked you slowing his pace now edging you

You clawed his back purposely wanting to leave marks, he hissed and leaned down to silence his whimpering into your mouth biting the bottom of your lip lightly

‘You reckon you can insult me all you want hmm?” He hummed “Let us see how long you can go “

You nearly choked on your moans, your eyebrow arched upwards. You could not deny that the feeling of your orgasm was closer than you would like to admit, but he did not give you the pleasure

“I can not hear you” he scoffed

Your moans turned into whimpers, you could not even hold your legs up to his waist anymore, they felt like jelly, trembling restlessly your hand came to his shoulder idly to push him away but he shook his head making you dig your nails into his flesh instead- he gifted you with a smile of approval

“There you go, you can handle me” he chuckled breathlessly the mockery in his tone was dripping off his tongue as he kept on thrusting sluggishly “Can you not?”

He kept thrusting into you one, two, more three times before he couldn’t hold it anymore- both of all that edging and painfully slow thrusts were coming to an end

You cried out and his eyes shut tightly closed, he made a half-groan, half-moan sound into your hair, feeling his cock twitching inside your cunt

Both of you came undone, his seeds hot sticky gush into you, his body rested on top of yours it took him quite a while to pull out and your fluid poured out of your overused cunt staining the bedsheets below

Suddenly the world felt quite different, the sound of your moans was gone now only replaced by your panting,

He lift himself reluctantly off you not saying anything, despite the dizziness you both felt you both telepathically agreed on not having ‘after care’ or whatsoever

“Watch your tongue around me” his tone came to its familiarity, brutal. As he brought himself to wear his clothes back

You did the same finding it harder than him with your wobbly legs, you covered your shuddering body and headed to the door not wanting to acknowledge your tousled hair or even your flushed glistening face

“Behave yourself first” you bite back looking over your shoulder at him,

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚ ⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚ ⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

[onenonlyroseanne]

Im working on Aerion Targaryen ff once again

[onenonlyroseanne]

Thinking about how Duncan's large hands would glide all over your body as you lay beside him watching the starling stars of the sky, his fingers travelling down to your thighs and making their way back up to your stomach repeatedly while listening to you or just absentmindedly staring at the sky, his fingers looks rough and slightly intimidating but his touch is far from that, if so it’s tender, warm and grounding, he’s very careful with you

He would let you use his bicep as a pillow while his hand plays with your hair, he simply can’t keep his hands off of you, despite the numbness he feels on his arm he’d bring his other hand to trace slow delicate circles on your hip, shoulder, thigh, any skin of yours that is close to him

You would both talk about everything, horses, puppet shows, or even other kingdoms you’re both excited to explore, he would yap about Ser Arlan of course while you already know everything at this point but seeing him getting really enthusiastic about becoming a knight that everyone would speak of warms your heart

Eventually both of you would drift to sleep, he would wrap his arms around your nearly squeezing you while your asleep to the point you have to wiggle yourself just to breathe, his grip is very strong comparing to yours especially the more he drowns to his dreams it would be impossible to free from his grip, you’d give up and just press your face into his chest and sleep along

I love this half-man half-giant lad xD

not my pic

[onenonlyroseanne]

[a-certain-slant-of-the-light]

Aerion in Lys

After his brother Baelor’s tragic death in the Trial of Seven at Ashford, Maekar exiled his son Aerion Targaryen to Lys. Now he sends you to fetch Aerion back.

Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Reader

Reader: A Targaryen, cousin to Aerion.

Warnings: Sexual content.

Word Count: 5.9k+

-

Damn Aerion. You watch the sea spray off the ship.

Days ago, Maekar summoned you to his solar. The guard opened the door for you. Maekar sat at his desk, head in one hand, the other writing. He rose and greeted you, never losing his scowl. Maekar had always been grumpier, but the something in him that could be brought begrudgingly to laughter had gone forever cold by the time the flames of his brother funeral pyre had burnt out at Ashford. 

“I’m sending for Aerion.” He corrected, “I’ve sent for Aerion. We’ve yet to get a message to him, or one he will listen to, at any rate.” You wait, hands clasped before you. “I ask you to go to Lys and bring him back.” 

And you see it: Aerion has listened to no messenger; Maekar cannot leave his duties here; Aerion’s brothers, the ones old enough to go, wouldn’t suit: Daeron drunk, Aemon at the Citadel, and Aerion unlikely to listen to either. So, it is you, a cousin with fewer responsibilities, no drinking habit, and, one hopes, more clout than a messenger.

Maekar continued, “Mayhap he’ll listen to you. If not, you have my permission to have him captured and brought back as cargo.”

 The ship docks in Lys as the sun set orange. You inform the guards, “We’ll eat dinner on the ship and start our search tonight.” You hope to have Aerion in hand as soon as possible. From reports, he spent mornings sleeping, afternoons training, and then out to the taverns and pleasure houses. No rest for the wicked—or for those searching for them.

The captain is of Westerosi extraction, in service to the Targaryens out of Blackwater Bay, but some of his crew hailed from Lys and most of the men had been there before. You question them about which sort of establishments a Targaryen prince would be most likely to visit. You get various answers, mostly from sailors who would not look you in the eye—speaking to a lady of the royal family about such things, oh no. You finally take the expedient of a mug of ale and standing off behind the hold stairs while a guard did the questioning. 

One of the sailors, however, has no qualms about speaking to you. He is old, a few strands of scraggly gray hair, one eye, and three teeth, more or less. You slide the ale across the table and don’t even have to ask the question, it’s already been spread about the ship. 

“I’ll tell you where to find that prince. He’ll be in the Aviary. That’s where.” He takes a big swig, smacks foam from his lips. “You just head southeast from the docks and you’ll smell it, yes you will.”

“Smell it?”

He giggles. “Yes, yes, your ladyship, once you start smelling all them perfumes and flowers, you’re near. Looks like a big gold bird cage it does.” He describes some curves in the air with his broken and bruised fingernails.

“Thank you for your time.” 

He grasps at the ale, trying to drink it all down. “You can take that with you,” you say. He grins with all three of his teeth and hobbles out of the hold, ale in hand.

“We’ll start with the Aviary,” you tell the guards. 

“Yes my lady. We’ll report back.”

“No. Maekar sent me; I am going.” The guards shift behind you but don’t say anything.

 The old sailor was right—you did smell it. Compared to the Street of Silk in King’s Landing. Lys has a more sprawling pleasure district. Rougher, cheaper brothels double with taverns near the docks for just disembarked sailors. Further away from the water, the pleasure houses grow ornate, particular. Something for every sort of sinner. 

The guards walk at your shoulders; one slightly ahead and the other slightly behind. People bump in and out of doors, laughing. The choking perfume makes you miss the muddy salt and urine smell of the docks.

And, at the top of the street: the Aviary. The building itself is set within a structure of columns, fluted and gilded to look like a birdcage. Marble fountains splash. Multi-colored birds perch. You wonder who cleans up all the bird droppings. Music comes from somewhere inside through the white lattice work, a lighter, flitting sound over top with something sinuous underneath.

Inside, the birds turn human. Hanging from the ceiling on gold swings, girls with dresses made from plumage, purples and reds spilling down behind them, twist and writhe. Men and women lounge on pillows spread about on rugs. Slight serving girls with small silver bells circling their ankles and dressed in feathered skirts flit from patron to patron with trays of drinks. A dark man brushed past, catches your attention. Paint of gold outlines his eyes, a gold earring, brown hawk feathers fall in a short cape from his bare shoulders. He gives you an appraising look.

You scan the crowd looking for that pale bit of Aerion’s hair. “Looking for someone dear?” You look down. Beside you, a short, heavy woman stands, speaking close. She is older, large breasts pushed up in a low-cut, tight purple dress, the fabric wrapped about her. Her pale, thick makeup creases, eyes lined kohl, dark hair piled in curls on her head. The perfume of the street seems to emanate from her.

“Perhaps I could arrange a peacock for you?” She glances down your dark, simple clothes. “Or a peahen?”

“I’m looking for a man with hair like mine.” You push the hood of your cloak back. She takes in your straight silver and gold hair. Targaryen. Her eyes flit to the guards. You can feel the price ticking up. “I have just the—”  

You cut her off: “No, he’ll be a client.” 

“We don’t give out information about patrons.” Her accent seems to slip with each line. She rubs her white, pillowy hands together, each finger ringed, and you are sure her hands can count coin by weight alone without even looking. 

You gesture to one of the guards. You had arranged coin for bribes beforehand. You told the guard to keep the coins separate, only take out one at a time, no need to pull out a whole purse and let them see how much you had, how hard they ought to negotiate.

The guard has the coin in his hand and then its between the madame’s fingers and tucked away so rapidly you hardly catch it. Well, if the brothel business goes under, she always has pickpocketing to fall back on. 

“He’s upstairs with the dragon,” she says.

Of course he is. “Strange sort of bird,” you murmur.

There is a scuffle across the room. A large man already shoulders his way to the disturbance. “Excuse me.” The madame sails sway toward it. You lift your eyes and stalk through the crowd, the guards struggling to keep pace. 

Through open double doors, you make your way up the wide, white marble staircase, steps low and deep. The staircase corners round the perimeter of a courtyard garden below. Another fountain is in the center and, amongst the citrus trees, gilded cages with more bird-women. A man opens the door to one and the women steps out, lands a hand on his arm. Overhead, you can see the night sky through more open lattice work. No flying free here.

Upstairs, on a sort of wide balcony, there are fewer people and fewer clothes. Men and women twist together in the torchlight. You can feel the guards’ discomfort and are sure, in part, it has less to do with the nudity itself and more that you are here with them. If you were a man, on your return home, you’d ask Maekar for a knighthood. “Wait here,” you tell the guards. The hallway is short and you’d rather not have them sweating behind you.

The hall is lined with curtained rooms. You start lifting curtains. Inside, men and women couple. Scratch the knighthood, you’d ask for a lordship; and not one of those in-name-only ones, one with lands and income. Fewer people protest your intrusions than you’d think. Most are too occupied and too far gone on drink and whatever else they serve in Lys. You even get one invitation to join. Hospitable folk. One by one you lift and let fall the curtains. 

Toward the end of the hall, you lift a curtain to the largest room yet. A big, low bed set on a platform across the room. The back of a woman, her dark hair braided in a ridge down the center of her head. A netted web of rubies across her back. And you can imagine it: dragon scales. And there, lying naked in bed: Aerion. His pale hair and pale skin like stardust. You can see up his body, over the woman slithering low, his throat, the underside of his chin, and Aerion looks…bored. Like a man trapped by the dullest, most long-winded guest at the feast; a lord listening to the septon drone when he’d much rather be out hunting. A man imprisoned with no hope of either escape or release; the prisoner has stopped shouting for someone to come, given up looking for a loose stone in the dungeon, waits with nothing to wait for. 

He sees you. He says your name with a sort of perverse pleasure like mentioning something shocking at the dinner table, rolling it over his tongue like learning a new word in a foreign language—and a salacious one at that—like greeting an old friend long missed, like a gasp at unexpected news. And someone more interesting to talk to has come along at the feast; the sexton has stopped droning and the lord is out in the wood, hunting horn blowing; someone has come along with the key. Oh yes, Aerion would come back with you. 

The woman notices by now. She says to him, “Is that your wife?” 

“Worse,” you reply, “leave us.” The woman glances at Aerion, who only looks at you, and she slips out of the room. Aerion had nearly jerked to a seat when he saw you, but, remembering himself, relaxes back, lounging on the bed, making no effort to cover himself. You say with a sort of mock formality: “Prince Aerion Targaryen, your father has requested your presence in Westeros.”

“You came to fetch me,” he says.

Back to your normal tone: “Your father sent me.”

“Come here.”

You approach the bed and look down at him. Aerion’s pupils are wide and his eyes are too bright. He says, “Since you sent the girl away, you ought to finish what she started.”

“You’ve gotten too used to girls who take coin to do whatever you command.” You lean closer, say in almost a whisper,“You don’t pay me.” Aerion can feel the dance of your breath over his ear and his eyes widen. 

You straighten. “Get dressed.”

Aerion rises from the bed. You scoop his clothes from the floor and press them to him, go wait by the exit. Aerion considers his bundle of clothes, shoots you a look: “Dress me.” 

“Do you want me to send for one of the guards?” You don’t tell him what for. 

But Aerion stands there, challenging, with that little smirk on his face. You sigh and cross to him, pull his clothes from him, drop the pile on the bed. You shake loose his trousers. You can smell the alcohol coming off him. You bend, holding his trousers low. “Step in.” 

He plants a weighted hand on the back of your shoulder for balance. One foot, then the other. He lurches and bumps his bare hips into your cheek, pretending a stumble. You place a flat hand low on his stomach, just above, bend your knuckles so your fingernails dig into his abdomen, claws, look up at him sidelong: a warning. His bratty grin turns opened-lipped. Who’s the dragon now. 

You draw his trousers up, hands on either side of his hips, chest to chest. You pull his laces tighter than necessary. He sways into you with each tug of the laces. You pull his shirt over his head. When your knuckles graze his ribs, he arches into them. He leans his head forward into your neck as you settle the shirt on his shoulders. “Aerion.” You press him upright, hands to his upper arms. You don’t bother with the rest of it. He can walk barefoot to the ship. 

You gather his remaining clothes, boots, and sword. “Come,” you order. When Aerion stays, swaying on the spot, you shift the bundle of his belongings to one arm, grasp his elbow and march him out of the room. The whole routine pleases Aerion.

“You found him,” one of the guards says. You hope their swords aren’t as dull. Aerion wrests his arm from your grasp, flings it over your shoulder, rests his weight heavy on you like he has a twisted ankle or a broken leg, or maybe he’s just a prick. The guards hold out hands as if they might assist, take his clothes, hold Aerion. Their sword arms will be occupied, and it is like to cost you Aerion’s compliance, not getting to hang on you, instead you say, “Let’s go.”

The four of you head downstairs. Aerion is grinning against your ear. The guards help part the crowd and some curious, some glazed eyes follow you, as you stagger under Aerion’s weight and his listing stumbles.

Out in the street, you contemplate handing him to the guards anyway, because you do not see making it back to the ship in the current manner. Aerion pulls you towards a group of carts, two wheeled, long-handled contraptions held by wiry men. “Let’s take a rickshaw,” he slurs. You frown, but Aerion is already climbing in. Fine. “My lady,” he says holding out a hand with a mocking bow. You take it and step in, settle Aerion’s things on your lap. “To the docks,” you lean to tell the driver. The guards walk alongside.

With each lurch of the rickshaw, the full length of Aerion’s thigh, knee to hip, bumps against yours. He’s got his upper body twisted sideways and squints one-eyed at your profile. He lets out something like a snort and untwists his body, slumps, lets his head loll on to your shoulder, and he takes a big inhale. 

You glance down at him. You can see the straight line of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones. And, in the intermittent torch light, his pale hair, still the same. You don’t know what you expected. Maybe you thought he’d go softer. Softer with drink and loose living. Instead, he seems to have gotten sharper. Aerion has always be cutting, but someone has put an edge on him. He did not seem a prince just drug off silk in a perfumed pleasure house. No, he seems a man brought back from a long campaign of low rations, long marches, and brutal fighting.

Aerion’s eyes have closed now, pale eye lashes forming two crescent moons on his cheeks. His breathing has deepened. You have a strange urge to set your hand on his head: a benediction. Instead, you tighten your fingers in his bundle of clothes. The perfume fades and the sea returns.

At the docks, you shift under Aerion, give him a nudge. “Aerion.” He grumbles into your neck. You pass his clothes and sword to a guard. The other pays the rickshaw man. 

You get Aerion under his arms, work yourself back out of the rickshaw. Aerion steps out landing chest against chest, arms about you like a loose hug. He really was going to make you work for this, wasn’t he? You shift him to your side, his arm about your neck, shoulder up into his armpit. You loop an arm about his waist, the other hand on his stomach to hold him steady. The two of you set off up the gangplank, walking like you are already on a moving ship, swerving from one side rail to the other.

On the ship, you order the servants, “Arrange the prince a room.” Why this was not already done, you have to wonder. 

You let Aerion slide off onto one of the raised hold vents. He continues to lean against you, head to waist, shoulder to hip. You bump him with your hip, “Do you still have belongings at your house?” 

“I haven’t been there in ages,” he drawls.

You say to a guard: “See that someone retrieves the prince’s belongings from his house. Have them packed and brought to the ship tonight. Close out the lease. The Captain is most like asleep at this hour, so inform whoever is the awake senior-on-duty we’d like to leave as soon as the ship can be resupplied and ready.”

A servant has come back, “The room’s ready, my lady.”

You let two servants walk Aerion down and follow. They have prepared the room beside yours. They deposit Aerion on the bed. “That’ll be all,” you dismiss them.

By the single candle, you can see his outline sitting on the bed, edges all pale and silver. “Undress me,” Aerion commands. A great weariness settles over you. You stand before him. Aerion peers up at you, “You seem tired.”

“Have you learned empathy in your time abroad?”

“No. I say it because you look awful.”

“Having to chase after you. Go to sleep”

With two hands on his shoulders, you press him back onto the bed. You bend and swing his legs up, lift the sheets over him. “Good night, prince.” You blow the candle out and leave Aerion in the dark.

Before you retire, you have a guard posted outside Aerion’s door. No sense in letting the quarry escape.

The next morning, you come up onto the deck. The sea breeze lifts your hair. The captain needed a few hours of daylight to put the ship in order, but you got underway in good time only a few hours after dawn. 

It is late morning now and the sun is bright, glittering off the dark water. In all the glorious sea air, you find Aerion bent to the side of the ship, forearms folded, forehead resting on the rail. Lys didn’t let go so easily. You say, “For the wages of sin is feeling very sick on the ship the next day.” 

Aerion cuts eyes at you underneath his arm. He turns to look at you better, still using the ship rail to stay upright. You have looked off at the horizon, so he takes in your face, pale, thinner, shadows under the eyes the color of a faint bruise. It’s what niggled at him last night, even in the dark, even with his addled brain. Now here, in the full sunlight with a clear head (marginally), he sees it: eyes far off and a sort of bone-tiredness for which a few days at sea cannot account. And, Gods, you were still beautiful, your hair bright in the sunlight, a few pieces blown across your face. You lift a hand to brush a strand from your eyes, eyes like his eyes. Eyes he missed seeing, and you look back at him, and now he’s too far mired for his muddled morning-after mind, so Aerion turns again to the sea.

That night, as Aerion sleeps, better than he has all his time in Lys, he is woken by a sound, a voice.

You are in the dark again. And somewhere worse than the dark: the dreams. It is loud, so loud, and you must fix it, there must be a way. And then, above, underneath all the noise, you hear someone whisper your name, say your name, a voice you know. 

And you are back.

“Shh, it’s me, it’s me.” 

You’ve got a knife at Aerion’s throat; tip into his pulse point. You look from the knife to his level, glittering eyes. You lower the blade and Aerion extracts it from your hand, sets it aside.

And then you gasp like a swimmer breaking the surface after too long under. It is not really breathing like you’ve exerted yourself. More like your breath moves too fast and you heave just to stay on top of it, to keep up. The sheets are a tangle down at your feet and you realize you shiver.

The good people of Westeros would fain believe it, but the volatile Targaryen prince gathers you like a child into his arms, speaks soothingly. He sits on the bed and you press yourself into his chest like it might be a fortress you can escape into from whatever enemy assails you, if only you can get inside and close the gate in time. Your hands twist his clothes. He has got his arms around you, steady against your gasping. 

After a few moments—or maybe part the night, you cannot tell—when your breathing begins to quiet, you realize what he speaks into your hair: whispers of High Valyrian, all soft, hushing hisses and sibilant words. You take a shaky breath, getting mostly him—his skin, him, straight from sleep—and sigh. No longer pressing into him, just resting there.

“How long have you had the dreams?” He knows. He has seen them, the dreamers. His brother going half mad, trying to escape into his cups. You speak into his shirt, into his chest, “Since Baelor’s death.” He stays quiet with you.

And the next moment you are conscious to, is lying in the white light of dawn, golden arrows of light sliding across the opposite wall with the movement of the ship. Despite the cool sea air, you feel warm. Aerion is there against you. Your hands are loosely fisted in his shirt. 

He lies—awake, still, eyes to the ceiling. You can see his profile like a distant mountain range, his forehead to nose, over his lip to his chin, a valley steep to his throat. How long you have known that face, since childhood. It was always all the Targaryens, Baelor’s and Maekar’s families, yours, the brothers and cousins. You and Aerion sat at feasts together, travelled to tourneys together, rode on horseback and in wheelhouses together. You played as children together: cyvasse, fishing, imaginary games of dragons. All your life. Changed, of course, from young to grown, but still Aerion.

Your breathing has shifted enough for him to know you are awake. He glances at you, a check, then he gently releases your hands from him, gets out of bed, and walks out of the room like he had just come for a short, day-time visit or maybe like he had not been there at all.

 The next night, you go to Aerion’s room, barefoot in your shift. You do not knock, just open the door. He lies on the covers of his bed, legs extended, ankles crossed, hands behind his head. He lies like an effigy on a tomb, some stone-carved king reclined above his own bones in a hushed sept. His eyes cut to you and hold. The ship creaks, moves with the swell. 

You step toward Aerion, and he has a fleeting vision of you, dressed in white, as a phantom, some old sailor ghost story, some tale about a woman. But, you are real enough when you sit and your weight dips his pallet. 

You place your hands flat, even and level, fingers together, near his shoulders on either side of his chest. And you bow your head to Aerion. For a moment, you are profile to profile, foreheads, eyes, noses, lips, all pale familiarity in a sort of silvered mirror. You both go near colorless in the dark. 

Then, with breath of sea foam you touch his lips with yours. Aerion has a roar in his ears not of the sea, something continual and consuming. You pull back. 

Aerion lifts his pale head now, arms still behind him like a man in chains, reaches up for you, lips parted and brushes a breath of his own against your mouth. It is a moment pale and still. Then Aerion unbends an arm, reaches a hand for your face. He touches you like he reaches out for smoke from some extinguished candle, the white curves, the after-bones of fire that you can run a hand through and let twist and curl around your fingers. But his fingertips find the solid of your face, and he is a blind man at a statue, hands on a carved marble face, feeling the features, wanting more than eyes can see. His eyes follow his fingers across your cheekbones, along your jaw, a brush over brow bones—he might number your eyelashes—a pass over temples. His fingers leave the bones for the silk, a skim of your hair falling straight and pale, his hair. 

Then, he moves his fingers back to your face, to your lips where something warm and living breathes through all the pale stone. And his fingers hover there in that heat. The candle still burns. You look at each other, the dark glimmer. You close your eyes, lips which you press to his fingers as to the extended hand of a conquering king, on your knees, as to the forehead of a child. Aerion trembles.

He moves his hand full against you, palm and all, to cup your cheek, flush, and this is no spirit brush but contact, hot and complete. You tilt your head into his hands, cradled there. Your brow furrows and you turn your head into his palm. Forehead presses like the heat of his hand might burn away all the dreams. You can hear Aerion breathing now. His legs shift beside you, but he stills again and speaks, “Is it me you want or distraction from the dreams?”

Your gaze shifts from one of his eyes to the other and then finds somewhere in the space between you. Why did he ask, Aerion thinks, gods, he does not want the answer. The proud prince, the arrogant prince is, here, a thirsting man, who is offered water he refuses for a dislike of the taste, because the cup it is poured into is dented. And here you are, pouring him wine into a goblet, him gasping for want of drink, and he has the stupidity to ask for the origin of the wine. When he knows—he knows—he should drink it down: sweet, bitter, poisoned, tip it all back to the dregs because it comes from you. 

And behind that, the accusation. The dreams you cannot choose, either for or against, but must have. And he wonders how long he has. Not himself but you. Of course, the times are the same. The Targaryen dreamers go mad, die young. And its your mind he has relied on, he knows, the steady and strategic. He could wander through it, turning corners unexpected, into hanging gardens and columned buildings, a whole world bounded, and to have it all taken by the dreams as Valyria by the Doom. Something—to Aerion—hallowed made hollow. And the prospect, the potentiality burns through him like drinking wildfire. If you go, he will go. He knows it like an oath. Will follow you into madness, into death, into the dark abyss beyond, and, if he must, he will negotiate, fight, cheat his way through, out of, each of the seven hells to find you. 

But, here, his thumb presses into your cheek. You close your eyes and kiss his palm there where they made bloody cuts in ancient Valyrian wedding ceremonies. You back your wrist behind his and move to the inside where his blood flows thin to the surface, skin flickering, and there, you kiss, bite, teeth and lips close over the tendon, tongue to measure the beat of his pulse, holding his hand to you like it is something dear and sacred and necessary to your existence. 

Aerion brings his other hand up to thread through your hair. He pulls you down to him, and, lips to your lips, he drinks full and long and deep. 

You pull back. And you stand, lift hands to opposite shoulders, arms crossed, your own sept statue, and push your shift off your shoulders. It slides down arms, off waist and hips, and puddles there about your bare feet. Aerion looks, watches, sees, rapt. Then you return to the bed, his bed, lie your body down full and flat on his, flesh and blood. You lie down carefully as if onto a hard, stone surface with a long way to fall. Ribs to ribs, arms along his, hips meet, legs drape. You turn your head and he turns his so you rest cheek to cheek. 

Each of his breaths numbered oh so much more carefully now you rise and fall with them. Your hair skims loose on your back and falls to his arms. Something inside Aerion, some noisy part always seeking offense, stimulation, something prickly and proud, goes still. And it is just your weight and breathing. 

Your fingers curl against his, lifting your cheek, you run your palms over his face, eyes going with hands like you might mold his face in clay, and you breathe, “Aerion.” You replace your palms with lips, the tip of your nose brushing. 

There is so much territory to explore, to fill your head with: his pale eyebrows, the slight silver scar on his temple, the small divot under his nose, the shadow curve under his lips. And to his lips themselves you go open-mouthed, urgent. Your hands climb his jaw, cheekbones, into his hair there to twine, twist, hold, while his hands still rest on the bed. 

You pull yourself closer, knees bending, to straddle him, crouching like some kneeling, praying supplicant. Aerion opens his lips to you but stays still. You look into his eyes, hands on either side of his face like cupping water. “Aerion.” Then you bow your head along his jaw like it might be easier to speak without looking directly at him. There, you break, plead, nothing desperate it is past that. Desperate would be wheedling, crying, threatening, demanding, begging. So its really just an ask and maybe its for something more than the here-and-now, but an ask: “Aerion,” a breath, “Aerion.” 

His hand finds the back of your head. He grasps your hand and pulls you out, pulls you free, and maybe its selfish—his life takes its measure with yours—but then he thinks he would take the dreams, step in front of a sword swing meant for you, so he does what he can. He kisses you. It is fatalistic living, a dark light. But it is living, it is a light. For all the thought of darkness, dreams, cold stone, and stillness, there are still in both of you, dragons. The fire flickers warm from your stomachs, tongues of flame up your throats and it is enough to keep off the night, to keep out the dark and whatever beasts prowl there. 

You lift Aerion’s shirt clear of his head, blond hair tousling, eyes pale with watching. He watches you move down his body, not just mouth now, but teeth, over his pulse, down his throat from blood to bones, across his collarbone, his ribs, finding his hip bone like a landmark on a map, removing the rest of his clothes till he is pale as moonlight on the bed. Wrapping your hand around his ankle bone, you slide his foot up, bend his leg. Your other hand wraps, drapes, loose under and around his leg. You drag your nose up his calf and, at the crease of his knee, place your lips there in a pulling press, eyes closed, brow furrowed, and just the smell of Aerion’s skin, pressing deeper, holding tighter like an embrace after a nightmare. 

Aerion watches. Then he sits up and gathers you to him. Hands hold either side of your head, tangled deep in your hair, he crushes your face to his. He has you tight against his ribs, between his legs, and he turns you down to the bed. He puts his lips soft then teeth sharp to the side of your neck. You wrap your legs about him, a bent-fingered claw grasp to his back, set your own teeth against the top of his shoulder. And Aerion is there. He scrapes fingers up your neck into your hair and slides lower bites across your chest, but you do not want the full weight of him gone.

A desperate pull, a clutch at the shoulder, like someone who missteps, stumbles, on a narrow mountain path and reaches for the one thing within their grasp. Aerion raises his head, just, eyebrows lifted, and he see you, lets you pull him back even. He brushes the back of his fingers to your lips. I’m here. 

And you open your self up, Aerion to fill every gap, stopping leaks and places for drafts, anywhere the dreams could slip through like cold water, bone-chilling wind. Instead, you take Aerion, all heat and flames, into you. 

And you’d near forgotten what it was like to have fire in you. The dreams had damped your fire to an unendurable smolder, all choking smoke and miserable cold. You almost understood why Daeron drinks. If you could not have a full fire, better to pour onto it, dumping spirits by the cupful, extinguish it and go out with it. It was the surviving that hurt: not enough warmth, but you could not blink out into the encompassing darkness either, so you sat, still feeling the cold. 

And Aerion had fire to burn. His whole life had been setting the wrong things on fire: burning his family, burning at tourneys, seeing imagined slights and offenses that he fans into conflagrations. But here, with you, he could burn. Put fire into something that had been made to withstand it because it once had its own, into something that wanted it, someone who said ‘yes’, someone who said ‘Dracarys’ with their arms held wide because burning was preferable to the cold.

So Aerion burns through you, never back and away, but up and in. The flames move through your belly, limbs, fingers. You keep your face against his, turned into his neck where the blood runs blazing. As he moves, you can nearly smell the flames in the heat of his skin. And when you close your eyes, this time it is not that nightmare noise you hear but just a voice you know, Aerion’s voice, saying your name. This time it is not darkness that you see but a blinding white, the color of Aerion’s hair.

The fire settles to a warming glow, the natural heat that rolls of a dragon—or so the stories say. Aerion has his weight on you, each breath easier with him than without, rests his head in the hollow of your throat. His breath warm over your breasts. You bring a hand absently to his hair where it touches the underside of your jaw. And Aerion, in his twisted but devout sensibility, swears to himself, swears, he will keep the darkness, the coldness of dreams at bay, as long as he can he will burn. And, if you do go into the cold, into the dark, he will follow you, embrace the end in one final burn, drinking it down like a draught of wildfire.

[onenonlyroseanne]

Aerion Targaryen as a husband

Aerion treats marriage like something he owns rather than shares, a duty that lies heavily on his shoulders. He doesn’t care if his father, Maekar, loved and cherished his Wife (His mother); he won’t do the same. He won’t allow you to hold his hand or even say his name; it’s either ‘My prince ’ or ‘my dragon’.

Because he’s a Dragon, is he not?

Walking around the castle with him would feel heavy, unsettling you would fear that you might say something wrong and he would punish you for it, so talking with him is limited, small words, small answers, the time would feel slower and not in a good thing, your throat feels dry, your hands feels sweaty and your heart is thumping rapidly in your ears, despite the slight breeze in the atmosphere that it’s supposed to make your muscles loosen, however that’s hopeless when he’s with you

Because your marriage is merely beneficial for both families, he’s not going to waste time on you, right?

His hand would rarely touch you, but when it does, it would feel firm, hollow, a lack of affection, because he doesn’t care if you feel neglected. At the end, you’d realize he only held your hand, or even placed a hand on the small of your back, because Prince Maekar and His honourable brother, Prince Baelor, are around

Because who is Aerion Brightflame without showing off in front of his uncle and Father?

Maekar forced him into this marriage for him to ‘mature’, so most nights he would come to your shared chambers smelling different… and that only meant that he was with one of the whore’s; you don’t say anything, but the anger within you is unbearable. You wish you to him- you wish to give him a taste of his medicine.

However this marriage only made him worse

He doesn’t desire you; he longs for something erotic, something that would keep the dragon inside entertained, something deep, something even ecstatic

one day roaming outside the Ashford castle, away from the pressure, away from the lies, away from all the pretensions act in front of everyone, you met a good lad, merely a friend he was a square perhaps?, you shared thoughts, you watched the the starling nights sky together, you drew, you drank, danced, he made you feel like you weren’t a burden. As the days passed by and the meetings became regular, you both were basically friends,

But Aerion Brightflame kept an eye on you. He was aware of how unpleasant he could be, so he didn’t trust you; he ordered one of the Maeaters to follow you around when your absence became frequent

Coming back to the Castle heavily intoxicated, hair tousled, your burgundy gown slightly loose from the back due to all the dancing- you threw your exhausted body on the bed. You were staring at the ceiling, wondering how your life took a massive turn. Before you could realize it, an arm came to ring around your waist, gliding you until your back hit his chest; he nuzzles his face into your hair. “You smell of him,” he whispers into your ear. This is the first time he ever held you when there was no one around to impress

Days passed, and he acted surprisingly calm, calculated like always, and that’s what horrified you the most; he was planning something

A dragon can be very unpredictable

You occupied yourself with painting, your stomach-turning, uneven breath, unwilling to leave the castle after finding out he knew. Every time you remember that he is planning something ‘monstrous’. The paintbrush jumped out of your grip when the knocking on the door snapped you out of your endless thoughts

The Steward came, greeting you and placing a rather large box in front of you

You thanked the steward, not needing to order them to leave; they had already left. An apprehensive feeling filled your stomach; your hands couldn’t seem to stop trembling as you crouched down to open the box. You expected everything but what you saw

A human arms lies there in a pool of blood- you recognized the sleeves. A choked sob left you before you decided to pick up the piece of paper. You wished you didn’t recognize the handwriting, but you were smarter than that

“The dragon ought never lose, never shares”

You threw the paper as your sobs came into uncontrollable screaming, kicking the box away with your feet, unable to stand,

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

[onenonlyroseanne]

Sucks they dont work

@/narniaqueen3377 on pinterest

[unscentedbabylotion]

calico critters baby band playset

[fiskler]

buckdaniel edit !!

i finally made a tiktok account to post these edits on (my user is fiskler on there, too)

[onenonlyroseanne]

Comic accurate Matt

@/theMultiversEditor on pinterest

[onenonlyroseanne]

This is very sensitive topic for me

[onenonlyroseanne]

I refuse to suffer alone

@/3ullsye on Tiktok

[onenonlyroseanne]

Rip, evilFoggy 🕊️🕊️💔🪦

[taylurking101]

Between Matt's feet fetish, Buck's choking kink and Dex's gunplay, everyone's FREAKED OUT

[olympain]

[onenonlyroseanne]

The feminine urge to be thrown back effortlessly like this and held over the shoulder by Oscar Isaac

Oh im going feral

Show me a hero (2015)