Bambina @pastelblogsposts - Tumblr Blog

Jul 1

Already Spoken For

Jacaerys Velaryon x sister!reader - House of the Dragon

Summary: After years away Jacaerys comes home to King's Landing to join the realm in celebrating his sister's eighteenth name day. While watching lords swarm her and vie for her hand, he realises it should've always been him.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT no war au, EVENTUAL SMUT, targcest (reader is Daemon and Rhaenyra's daughter), lovemaking in the sky (srry Vermax), p in v, kinda handjob/fingering (both rec), manhandling, implied loss of virginity, kinda naive/innocent reader, alcohol

A/N: Rhaenyra is queen and they're all aged up -> reader is 18, Jace is unspecified but older. (i saw someone have a headcanon abt fucking on dragon back but i cant remember who, but its out there somewhere trust)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 5.4k

The castle has never been quiet on your name day.

From the moment the sun rises over Blackwater Bay the Red Keep hums with the kind of life that belongs only to celebrations.

Servants weave through its corridors, balancing polished silver and bolts of embroidered silk, cooks bark orders from kitchens already thick with the scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries, and somewhere below your window a quartet of musicians have spent the better part of an hour arguing over the same melody.

The sound drifts through the open casement in uneven bursts, carried on the warm summer breeze before it dissolves into the cries of gulls circling the harbour.

It is all for you.

Eighteen.

The number sits strangely in your mind. Lords who once ruffled your hair now bow a fraction lower. Ladies who used to coo at you now ask after your gowns and favourite jewels. Every smile feels just a little too measured, every compliment just a little too deliberate.

But you don't care, because all you're thinking about is Jacaerys.

And he is late.

Well, not truly. The sun has scarcely reached its highest point and no one expected him before midday, but that does little to quiet the restless anticipation thrumming beneath your skin.

It has been nearly two years.

At first the months passed quickly enough. Letters arrived regularly, each bearing your eldest brother's unmistakably careful hand, filled with dutiful accounts of the Riverlands, the Vale, or White Harbour. Tucked inside each letter had been some little trinket that reminded him of you; polished amber gathered along the eastern coast, a tiny wolf carved from pale weirwood by a Northern craftsman, a silver hairpin so delicately wrought that you had been terrified of wearing it the first time.

The gifts had never mattered.

You would have traded every last one simply to hear him laugh across the training yard again.

"Still waiting?"

The familiar voice draws your attention from the road.

Your mother stands a few paces behind you, sunlight catching in the silver-gold of her hair until it almost seems to glow. "I am merely enjoying the view," you reply, with all the dignity you can manage.

Rhaenyra arches a brow. "The view of the Kingsroad?"

"It is a very fine road."

She laughs then, the sound soft and knowing. "You have been watching that very fine road since dawn."

You sigh dramatically, resting your chin upon folded arms. "He promised."

"And Jacaerys has never broken a promise to you."

"No," you admit, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "He has not."

Then, finally, a horn sounds somewhere below.

The guards upon the gatehouse shift, peering out across the road before one suddenly straightens.

"Dragon!"

Every head upon the walls turns skyward.

Your heart leaps into your throat before your eyes have even found him.

Vermax appears, cutting through brilliant blue with powerful, measured strokes of emerald wings. Sunlight catches across his scales, throwing flashes of bronze and green over the city below as he wheels above the Red Keep. He is larger than you remember.

So is the rider upon his back.

"Gods be good," Rhaenyra murmurs behind you, though there is laughter in her voice already. You are halfway down the nearest staircase before she can finish the sentence.

The courtyard erupts into motion as Vermax settles with a thunderous beat of wings, servants scattering instinctively while guards struggle to look composed in the face of a dragon. Dust billows across the flagstones, catching in your skirts as you weave between startled courtiers, heedless of the calls following after you.

Jace has barely swung one leg over the saddle when he hears his name, he turns just in time to see a blur of deep crimson silk racing across the courtyard.

You collide with him hard enough to force him back a step.

The laugh leaves him before he can stop it.

Strong hands find your waist out of pure instinct, lifting you clean from the ground as though no time has passed at all, as though you are still the little girl forever launching yourself at him from staircases and behind pillars in hopes of catching him unaware.

Your feet dangle a good foot above the flagstones, your arms looped comfortably around his shoulders.

"You'll knock me over one day," he says, laughter still colouring every word.

Up close he looks older. The softness that once lingered around his face has sharpened into something unmistakably princely, the line of his jaw more defined beneath the dust of travel, his hair longer than before where the sea wind has escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck.

He lowers you carefully back onto your feet.

Both hands rise to cradle your face with easy affection, his thumbs brushing absent-mindedly against your cheeks.

His expression softens. "You've grown."

"So have you."

A quiet laugh escapes him.

"I should hope so."

Before you can answer, he bends to press a familiar kiss against your forehead. You simply grin and lean briefly into the touch before stepping back, and he slings an arm around your shoulders, leading you back inside.

Neither of you notices Prince Daemon watching from the gallery above, and neither of you notices the faintest curve beginning at the corner of his mouth.

By the time the sun has slipped beneath the horizon the Great Hall glows beneath a hundred candles.

Music spills from the gallery above in soft, lilting melodies. Gold catches in polished plates, jewelled collars and the circlets worn by lords who have travelled from every corner of the realm to honour the queen's youngest daughter.

Jace has attended more feasts than he can remember.

They have blurred together over the years into a procession of banners and vows, polite smiles and carefully chosen words, each hall distinguished only by the sigil hanging above the high table.

Tonight should be no different.

Instead, he finds himself searching for you before he has even crossed the threshold.

You stand near the queen's chair while one of the ladies fusses with the sleeve of your gown, silver thread shimmering against deep burgundy velvet. Your hair has been left half unbound, pale waves falling over your shoulders in the old Valyrian fashion, catching the candlelight each time you laugh at something Baela says beside you.

You have always laughed with your whole face. That, at least, has not changed.

The feast begins in earnest soon after.

Your mother rises to speak, her words carrying easily across the hall as she welcomes those who have come to celebrate your name day. You sit at her right hand, smiling with the restrained grace expected of a princess, though every now and then your attention wanders, your eyes finding Jace somewhere further down the table.

Each time they do, you smile exactly as you always have.

Lord Rowan's youngest son cannot be much older than five-and-twenty.

Jace remembers meeting him briefly in the Reach; a courteous enough man with an easy smile and an unfortunate tendency to speak longer than necessary. Now he watches as the knight bows over your hand with every appearance of propriety, offering some finely wrapped gift that earns a laugh from you.

You thank him warmly.

The young lord moves away eventually, replaced almost immediately by another.

Then another.

A Lannister cousin. The heir to a minor Crownlands house. A knight from Driftmark whose name escapes him entirely.

Each offers congratulations and smiles, looking at you with unmistakable admiration. It is perfectly reasonable, you are a princess. after all, one who has just turned eighteen.

You are also beautiful, a treacherous corner of Jace's mind supplies.

"They are circling already." Rhaena speaks softly across the table, amusement dancing in her eyes as she follows his line of sight.

Jace frowns. "What do you mean?"

"The suitors." He says nothing. "The realm has been waiting for this birthday almost as eagerly as she has."

In that moment, Jace understands has been absent too long, and the little girl forever racing after him through the corridors of Dragonstone no longer exists outside his memory.

The woman seated at the queen's right hand does.

Some distant part of him, the dutiful prince who has spent years weighing every decision against the good of the realm, should perhaps be appalled by what has just taken root in his mind.

Instead, he is struck only by how little it surprises him.

'If a husband is to stand beside you one day... why should it be anyone but me?'

The feast dwindles by degrees.

One by one the visiting lords excuse themselves. The Great Hall grows quieter with every passing hour until only family and the queen's closest councillors remain, lingering more from habit than obligation.

Jace has scarcely taken three steps beyond the hall when Ser Lorent inclines his head.

"The Queen requests your presence, my prince."

The solar is warm despite the hour, lit by a scattering of candles that throw long shadows across maps and parchment left strewn over the great table. His mother stands beside the open window overlooking the bay, one hand resting against the carved stone.

Daemon lounges opposite her with infuriating ease, a goblet balanced loosely between his fingers.

Neither appears surprised to see him.

"You wished to see me?"

"I did." She gestures for him to come closer. "We were discussing your sister."

"Has something happened?"

"No," Daemon answers before Rhaenyra can speak. "Nothing has happened."

"Yet," Rhaenyra mutters.

Daemon ignores her. "Your sister is eighteen."

"I am aware."

"A great many others are as well."

Jace says nothing.

"The feast made that abundantly clear. It also made clear it is time we considered suitable matches."

Jace nods once. Rhaenyra watches him closely. "So," she says gently, "what would you advise?"

"My advice?"

"You have travelled more of the realm than either of us these past years. You know its young heirs better than most."

Jace considers it carefully, because that is what is expected of him, because he has spent his whole life learning how to answer as the heir before he ever remembers how to answer as himself.

"There are worthy men," he finally scrapes out. Rhaenyra gives a small nod as though she had expected nothing less.

Jace continues, "The son of House Rowan conducted himself well in the Reach. The Redwynes would strengthen our position in the south. The Celtigars remain loyal."

At that, Daemon exhales through his nose with open disdain, swirling the wine lazily around his cup.

“Boring.”

Jace turns to him, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“You are answering as the heir,” Daemon says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am asking the man.”

He looks between his mother and Daemon, trying to decide whether he has missed some crucial piece of context, and finds only that strange, infuriating look on Daemon’s face.

“What exactly are you asking me?” Jace says at last.

Daemon studies him for a long moment. "Which of those boys would you choose for her?"

Jace exhales quietly. "I could not say."

"You have met most of them."

"I know them as lords."

Daemon leans back. "But not well enough to know which one deserves to share her bed."

The words strike the room like a thrown dagger. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a brief, pained moment, as though she can already feel the shape of the disaster coming and would very much like to stop it before it begins.

“Daemon...”

“What?” he asks mildly, with all the innocence of a man who has never once been innocent in his life. “The point of a political match is to produce heirs, and that is generally how marriages produce heirs.”

Jace says nothing.

Daemon watches him for another long moment, “I do not believe you could bear it,” he says at last.

The silence deepens.

“I beg your pardon?” Jace manages, barely.

“I do not believe,” Daemon repeats, his voice calm and level, “that you could bear another man laying hands upon her.”

Rhaenyra straightens at once. “Daemon.”

“I do not believe you could bear another man kissing her.”

“Enough.”

“I do not believe you could bear watching her swell with another man’s children.”

Jace feels the blood drain from his face, every muscle in him going rigid as if he has been struck.

“And I certainly do not believe,” he continues, his tone infuriatingly calm, “that you could stomach another man teaching her what it is to be loved.”

“Daemon.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is sharper now, edged with warning, but the prince merely lifts one hand in a gesture that is almost dismissive, never once taking his eyes from Jace.

“Am I wrong?”

Jace opens his mouth but nothing comes. Because the horror of it is not that Daemon has imagined such things, it is that Jace has.

Daemon’s mouth curves, just slightly.

“I...” Jace begins, and then abandons the sentence entirely, because there is no sentence that can save him now.

“You love her.”

It is not a question.

“You are so thoroughly, catastrophically in love with her that you have spent an entire evening glaring at boys who merely smiled in her general direction.”

Finally Rhaenyra rounds on him. “You cannot simply accuse our son of being in love with his sister.”

Jace would gladly vanish into the stone floor if the gods would be so merciful. Instead he stands rooted where he is while the two most formidable people in the realm discuss him as though he were not present.

“He is miserable,” Daemon says, finally turning his head to look at her. “Because half the realm has suddenly decided my daughter is fit to wed.”

Rhaenyra folds her arms more tightly. “And that does not concern you?”

“Of course it concerns me, hence why we are having this conversation.”

She stares at him in open disbelief. “You cannot seriously believe this is the best solution.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow. “Find me a better man.”

“The point is not whether he is a good man.”

“No?”

He waits. She opens her mouth, clearly intending to explain, and then stops, because whatever argument she had prepared has already begun to collapse under the weight of its own hypocrisy.

“You married your uncle.”

Rhaenyra points a finger at him. “That is entirely beside the point.”

Jace, who has thus far wished for nothing more than escape, finally exhales, very quietly, and when both of them turn to him he feels the full weight of their attention settle over him.

“With respect, Mother...” he says, and both of them look at him with identical expressions of wary expectation. He swallows, then presses on before he can lose his nerve. “...he does have you there.”

Rhaenyra blinks. “You are taking his side?”

“I am merely observing...” The faintest smile threatens despite himself, because if he does not laugh he may very well scream. “...that you did, in fact, marry your uncle.”

The silence that follows is brief, but heavy in a way that feels almost ceremonial, as though something unseen has just shifted its weight in the room and no one is yet willing to acknowledge it.

Rhaenyra is the first to recover.

“This is not something decided in a solar with three people and a bottle of wine.”

Jace shifts slightly where he stands, still trying to understand how he has become the subject of something that feels suspiciously like a verdict. “Mother,” he begins cautiously, “if this is about-”

“It is about nothing yet,” Rhaenyra cuts in quickly, sharper than intended, then exhales and forces her tone back down. “It is about considering what is best for her future.”

Daemon makes a quiet sound of amusement, leaning back in his chair as if the entire matter has already concluded and he is simply waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

“Then consider it done. I am her father and I have found a match for her.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snaps to him. “Excuse me?”

“You asked for a good man,” Daemon says, as though repeating something painfully obvious.

“You cannot simply decide this,” Rhaenyra says, though even she sounds less certain than before.

“I can,” Daemon replies. “And I have.”

A beat.

Then, almost lazily, he adds, “Unless you intend to send her to some Reachling with soft hands and softer loyalties.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardens. “Do not reduce this to-”

“To what?” Daemon interrupts, finally straightening in his chair. The amusement in him sharpens now, not into anger, but something more focused. “Politics? That is what you are trying to do. I am simply being honest about it. She is our daughter, Rhaenyra.”

Silence again.

He walks a few steps toward the window, looking out over the Blackwater as if the conversation has already moved past him.

“She stays within the family,” he says casually, almost conversationally, as though discussing ship routes. “She stays where she is known. Where she is protected. Where she is not bartered to men who would mistake her for an opportunity.”

Jace clears his throat once.

“If I may-”

“No,” both of them say at once.

He stops.

Daemon turns slightly, looking at him now with something like faint approval.

“You will marry her,” he says simply.

Jace looks at him with wide eyes, “Are you being serious?”

Rhaenyra closes her eyes again, slower this time, as though bracing for impact.

“I refuse to send my daughter away,” Daemon states. His gaze shifts briefly to Jace, sharp and unblinking.

The room goes still.

Jace should object. He should say something about choice, about propriety, about the absurdity of making such decisions in this manner.

“She does not even know we are having this conversation.”

Daemon’s smile returns, slow and infuriatingly certain.

“No,” he agrees. “She does not. And you will tell her, Jacaerys. Better you than either of us."

“And if she refuses?”

“She won't.”

Vermax takes to the sky just after dawn, when the castle is still half-swallowed in morning mist and the water below reflects a pale gold.

The world feels quieter from above, stretched thin and distant, as though all the noise of court and council has been left behind somewhere on the stone below.

You do not question it when Jace comes for you. You never have.

He arrives without ceremony in the inner courtyard where the dragonkeepers have already prepared Vermax for flight.

“You want to go flying?” He asks simply, as if it is an ordinary thing to offer a princess on the morning after her name day feast.

Your smile comes easily. “I always want to go flying.”

That earns the faintest curve of his mouth. He helps you mount with practised ease, hands steady at your waist as you swing your leg over Vermax’s neck.

Then he climbs up behind you.

The moment he settles into place, the world shifts; you can't help but be aware of the warmth at your back, the solid presence of him there, closer than anyone else has ever been permitted to be in this way. One arm reaches around you instinctively to secure the reins while the other steadies you at your side, palm firm against your ribs.

“You are sitting differently,” you note, turning your head slightly to glance at him.

His expression is unreadable for a moment, then softens. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Here, there is nothing between you but wind and sky and the steady rise and fall of Vermax’s wings beneath you.

He gives the command, and Vermax launches forward.

The world slowly drops away.

Wind tears at your hair, pulling laughter from your chest without permission, and you lean instinctively into Jace’s grip as Vermax climbs higher, circling the coast before cutting out over open water.

His arm tightens around you without hesitation.

Somewhere behind you, you feel rather than see him adjust his hold, pulling you slightly closer against him as the wind sharpens at altitude. It is automatic, the same instinct that has always placed him between you and anything that might hurt you.

You tilt your head back slightly, just enough to speak over the rush of air. “I like it when you come home,” you admit, without thinking much of it. “Everything feels louder when you are not here.”

You do not see the way his eyes linger on you again. The way they soften in a manner that has nothing to do with duty.

You are laughing at something Vermax does mid-turn when he speaks.

“I am not leaving again.”

The words take a moment to settle. You glance over your shoulder slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”

There is a pause so brief you almost miss it. “They have decided something.”

That makes you laugh lightly. “Have they?”

“Yes.” The tone is careful now, though still steady.

You frown slightly. “What sort of something?” The wind howls.

“You are to be married.”

For a moment, there is only the feel of him behind you, the steady beat of Vermax’s wings, and the distant horizon that suddenly feels much further away than it did a moment ago.

You blink. “...What do you mean?”

“It has been agreed,” he says more softly. “Between our mother and Daemon.”

Your grip on the reins tightens slightly, though Vermax does not react. “Oh,” you say slowly, as if testing the shape of the word. “That is… sudden.”

“It is.”

You turn your head further now, trying to see his face properly, though the angle is awkward with the wind pulling at you. “And who-”

You stop. Because when his jaw tightens you realise you already know.

“Jace,” you say carefully. He doesn't answer, just stares ahead. "Jace. Are we to be married?"

"...Yes."

You turn fully now as much as the space allows, looking at him properly for the first time.

“You are very composed about this,” you say, attempting levity and failing to find it entirely.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I had some time to think.”

The wind pulls at you again, but he shifts without thinking, bringing you closer still until there is barely any space between you at all. You are suddenly acutely aware of it; of the way his arm anchors you, of the warmth at your back, of the steady, unyielding presence of him in a place where there is nothing else to hold onto.

You swallow. “And what do you think?” you ask.

He finally looks at you. “That I would not allow anyone else to do this,” he says quietly.

Something in your chest tightens. “Do what?”

“I would never allow anyone else to stand where I stand.”

Vermax banks sharply beneath you; it sends you forward, straight into him. His arm tightens instantly, catching you before you can even think to steady yourself, and for a moment you are completely held there against him, suspended between sky and breath.

You search his face for something. Uncertainty? Jest? Anything that might soften what he has just said into something easier to carry. You find none.

Your hand rises without thinking, resting lightly against the side of his face. His breath catches, not sharply, but enough.

“Jace,” you say, and his name feels different in your mouth now. He does not answer.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the rush of wind and the distant cry of the sea far below.

Then he is kissing you.

Not like something uncertain or newly discovered, but like something that has finally been allowed to exist.

His hand tightens at your waist, suddenly far too close in a way neither of you can undo.

You make a small sound against his mouth, half surprise, half something you don’t yet have a name for, and it seems to undo whatever careful restraint he has been holding onto.

The arm around you shifts, pulling you back against him with a controlled urgency that sends your breath catching, your fingers instinctively curling into the front of his riding leathers as if that alone can keep you anchored.

Vermax turns beneath you and the world tilts, but Jace does not let you fall.

When you finally break just enough to breathe, it is only by a fraction, your forehead still close to his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air.

You look at him then, properly, and something in your expression seems to undo him more than the kiss itself ever could.

“This is…” you start, but the words fail you.

His thumb brushes lightly against your side where he still holds you.

“I know,” he says quietly.

The wind tears past again, colder now against your flushed skin, and you should pull away, should think, should question, should make sense of any of this.

You don't.

Instead he leans in again, lips claiming yours with a hunger that has been building since the moment he returned days ago. His mouth hot and insistent against your own.

The kiss deepens instantly, his tongue slides against the seam of your lips before you part them, letting him set the pace, and the one sets is perfect, a desperate rhythm that sends sparks racing through you.

Your fingers tangle in his dark curls, pulling him closer as his hands roam your body with possessive certainty, one sliding up to cup your breast through the thin fabric of your riding leathers while the other grips your hip, anchoring you against him on Vermax's broad back.

The dragon soars higher, the sea a glittering expanse far below, but all you can feel is the hard press of Jace's body.

You moan into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the rushing air and the steady beat of wings, as Jace shifts you effortlessly onto his lap, your legs straddling his.

His tongue delves deeper, exploring every inch of your mouth with an intensity that makes warmth gather in your belly, wetness already soaking your undergarments.

"You know," he breathes against your lips, his voice rough, "you're mine now. Always have been."

You let him move you as he pleases, but soon you can feel the way his cock strains against his breeches, thick and insistent against your thigh.

"Are you alright?"

You can only nod shakily, letting your head find the hollow of his shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Jace."

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers deftly undoing laces to find your slick folds, stroking you slow and gathering your wetness on his fingers.

Then he reaches to free himself, hot and heavy as you wrap your fingers around him. He covers your hand with his own, guiding your hand to stroke him slowly.

"We should probably stop." he grits out.

You whine in response, "No, Jace please. I don't want to stop."

Jace lifts you higher, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"You tell me if that changes, okay."

"Yes."

"Promise me." He tilts your head towards him, holding your eyes with his own.

"I promise." With that he thrusts upward in one smooth motion, burying himself deep inside you with a groan that vibrates through his chest into yours.

The fullness stretches you perfectly, every ridge and vein of him dragging against your inner walls as he begins to move.

"Gods you're tight." He grunts, his hands gripping to guide your hips in a grinding rhythm that matches the dragon's powerful wingbeats.

Pleasure coils tight in your core, building with each thrust, the wind caressing your exposed skin where leathers have been shoved aside, breasts pressed to his chest, nipples hard from the chill and his touch.

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss messy and passionate, tongues tangling as he fucks into you over and over.

You can feel it — his claim, his love, his protection — in every thrust.

He feels you start to tighten around him, one hand fisting your hair to make you look at him. His eyes are wild, hair messed by wind and jaw clenched to tight its a wonder its not cracked.

"Not yet my love. Hold on for me."

"I cannot, Jace." You gasp, hand flying to his shoulder in desperation.

"Yes, you can." He coos, pulling your face up to meet his in another kiss, this one softer, coaxing you to match him as his thrusts grew harsher, rougher.

Only then does his hand move from your hair, snaking down to find where your bodies are joined. He rubs tight, deliberate circles that have you arching into him.

"Jace, please, it's too much."

"Okay, you can come now."

You do, raw ecstasy filling your body as you shatter around him, crying out his name into the endless sky.

Your eyes shut, body going completely slack against his for the trembling that claims you. Your legs are shaking where they're slotted around his hips.

"Good girl, just like that. Let me take care of you." He says as his thrusts get harder, his hands now assisting to pull you down to meet them.

Then, his pace grows erratic, and you can feel his breathing is more laboured as it hits your temple.

With one final thrust he goes rigid, following you over the edge, pulsing hot and deep within you. His arms wrap around you, the world reduced to the two of you and the endless blue above the waves.

Jace is the first to move.

It is small at first, almost hesitant, as if he is afraid that shifting even slightly might undo something irreparable.

His hand, which had been steady at your waist only moments ago, loosens just enough for him to adjust you more carefully against him, pulling off his cloak and draping it around your shoulders with a gentleness that feels entirely at odds with the fact that you are both still several thousand feet and he's still inside you.

“You’re cold,” he says, though it sounds more like something he needs to believe than something he has observed.

“I’m fine,” you reply automatically.

He doesn’t look reassured.

Instead, he shifts again, this time lifting you off him with a hiss and placing you in front of him on the saddle again.

“You didn’t have to-” he starts.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have to what?”

The words seem to catch somewhere behind his teeth, like everything he might say is either too much or not enough.

“Do that,” he settles on finally, quieter now. “Like that.”

You blink at him, trying to follow. “Jace.”

His jaw tightens slightly at the sound of his name, but he doesn’t look away.

“It should not have been like that,” he says, and there is something carefully restrained in his voice now, something that feels like it has been pushed down hard. “Your first time should have been-” He exhales through his nose, frustrated with himself more than anything else. “Well, for starters, not in the sky.”

For a moment, you just stare at him. “You think I am going to complain because it was in the sky?”

“I am serious,” he says.

“I know you are,” you reply, smiling faintly. “That’s the problem.”

He blinks once.

You shift slightly in his arms so you can see his face more clearly, even as Vermax continues his smooth, unbothered flight beneath you both.

“I do not need it to be… whatever you are imagining it should have been,” you continue, voice softening now, grounding into something steadier. “I did not think about it being in a bed or a room or anywhere else."

"You must've had some fantasy, something you hoped for or wanted from it." He presses, seemingly not content with your reassurance.

"Jacaerys, I wanted it to be you.”

That quiets him completely.

“That is not-” he starts. “It is,” you interrupt gently.

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost teasing now that you have his full attention again, “Besides, I think I will remember this more than if it had been in a bed.”

Something like a reluctant sound leaves him, half laugh and half exhale, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.

“You are certain?” he asks after a moment.

"Of course."

IYou lean back into him properly, letting the wind rush past as Vermax carries you both forward, the world still impossibly wide beneath you and forever changed.

hes so sweet ik it (but also lowkey freaky) also I knowww people have mixed feeling abt targcest and im sorry but it felt sooo perfect for this fic

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