mia, 21, she/her, daughter of cain, raccoon girl, writer
writing for: a knight of the seven kingdoms, house of the dragon, game of thrones, jujutsu kaisen, top gun, outer range, the pitt, criminal minds, & marvel
rules: i do not condone hate or bullying, please scroll if you dislike my content. minors and trolls will be blocked from interacting with me. i will write darker/mature content however i refuse to write for/about the following topics: rape/genuine noncon, gore, sexual torture, and anything about human excrement (especially in fetish content). my requests will reflect these rules.
sharing a gofundme link for @huda-42 🥹‼️‼️please read her story https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-feed-house-moataz-and-hoda?qid=2b3056ebc5df8dfb0e57bd466c63b74a
My name is Motaz, and my wife is Huda. We got married only three months before the war. We d… Adam M needs your support for Help Feed & Hous
or: your best friend valarr swears up and down daddy kinks are gross. so why are you tied to his bedframe?
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ৡঌ༄.°• ✸ .°•༄ঌৡ
You’re sitting cross-legged on his mattress, a romance novel propped between you; Valarr is taking it entirely too seriously. He’s sitting opposite you, arms crossed, his jaw set in a line of pure, competitive steel. He looks less like a guy hanging out in sweatpants and more like a judge presiding over a high court.
"Your turn," he murmurs, his voice a low, challenging drawl. "Page 142. Go."
You clear your throat, tapping the page, and start reading the dialogue in the most monotonous, flat, textbook voice you can muster.
"...He leaned down, whispering against her ear, 'Do you like that, baby?' She gasped, arching her back she whimpered, 'Yes, daddy.'"
Valarr freezes. The stoic, unbothered expression he’d been maintaining instantly completely crumbles, replaced by a look of sheer, visceral horror.
"Hold on. Stop. Pause," Valarr cuts in, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Did she actually just say that? Out loud? To a man she is actively sleeping with?"
"It's just a trope, Val," you wheeze, already losing the straight-face challenge as your shoulders shake with laughter.
"It’s fucking disgusting," he corrects aggressively, shifting around to face you fully, completely abandoning the game. "I mean, genuinely, what deep seeded issues do people who enjoy that have? Is it a validation thing? It ruins the entire mood. If a woman ever called me that while I was fucking her, I would genuinely put my clothes back on, leave the house, and recommend a therapist."
He goes on. And on. A solid, five-minute, passionate, deeply offended lecture about the absolute degeneracy of daddy kinks. He is gesturing with his hands, his mismatched eyes wide with genuine bafflement, completely oblivious to the massive, predatory grin spreading across your face.
You wait for him to finally take a breath, pausing his tirade.
You look him dead in the eye.
"Whatever you say, Daddy."
Valarr snaps his mouth shut. The silence that falls over the bedroom is sudden and deafening. His eyes narrow into slits, a dangerous, warning heat instantly flaring behind them.
"Do not," he says, his voice dropping an octave, dangerously quiet. "Do not call me that."
"Why not, Daddy?" you chirp, leaning forward, utterly delighted by how easy it is to press his buttons. "Scared you might start liking it, Daddy?"
"I am warning you," he mutters, his knuckles whitening where he’s gripping the edge of the blanket. "Stop saying it."
"Make me, Daddy."
You barely even see him move. One second you're smirking at his frustration, and the next, Valarr lunges. He tackles you back onto the pillows, his heavy frame instantly pinning yours into the mattress. Before you can even scream-laugh, he grabs your wrists, hauling them up over your head.
"You think you're so funny, don't you?" he growls, a dark, wicked smirk finally breaking through his annoyance.
"I think I'm hilarious, Dad—"
He cuts you off by crashing his lips onto yours, left hand grabbing his spare silk tie from the nightstand. With terrifyingly efficient speed, he secures your wrists together, looping the fabric securely around the sturdy, wrought-iron bar of his headboard.
You blink up at him, your heart suddenly doing a violent flip against your ribs as the reality of the situation settles in. You’re completely trapped, your arms anchored above you, and Valarr is hovering over you like a shadow, deliberately slow as he sits back on your thighs to completely pin you down.
"Let's see how long that smart mouth lasts when you aren't the one in control," he whispers, his fingers tracing a slow, agonizingly light line down your throat, making you shiver.
Valarr knows exactly what he’s doing. His hands are everywhere—touching, teasing, dragging his lips along your jawline, pulling soft, desperate gasps from your throat. He brings you right to the edge, the overwhelming ache building so intensely behind your eyes that you’re practically begging, your hips blindly rolling up into his hands.
And then, he stops. He pulls back just enough to leave you shivering, empty, and burning up from the inside out.
"Please," you whimper, pulling against the tie on the headboard, your head tossing back against the pillow. "Valarr, come on, don't be a dick."
He leans down, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a low, smug purr. "Admit it's gross. Promise me you’ll never say that word again, and I’ll finish what I started."
You take a ragged breath, looking up at him through heavy lids. Your chest is heaving, your body is screaming for release, and your best friend is looking down at you with absolute triumph written all over his face.
You swallow hard, summon every single ounce of stubborn defiance left in your trembling body, and give him a breathless, filthy smile.
"No way in hell... Daddy."
Valarr’s jaw tightens, a sudden, dark growl ripping from his throat as his eyes darken to near-black. You look at him—really look at him—noticing the way his dark hair is mussed and the way his eyes are blown wide with a hunger that matches your own. He’s dying to give in, you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, but his pride is a fortress.
You take a shuddering breath, a defiant, dizzying heat rushing to your cheeks. If he wants to play the long game, you'll play.
"I think..." you start, your voice trembling but thick with mischief, "that you're just mad because you actually like the sound of it coming from me Daddy."
Valarr’s eyes darken instantly, his nostrils flaring as he lets out a low, dangerous hiss of breath. He leans down, his hands pinning yours against the iron bar, his face inches from yours.
"I am going to make you take that back," he growls, "if it takes me all night. Don't think for a second I'm letting you off easy now." "Look at me," he commands, his voice like gravel.
You force your heavy lids open. He’s watching the way your chest heaves, the way your skin has flushed a deep, feverish pink. Every time your hips jerk upward in a desperate plea for friction, he replaces his hand with the soft, mocking brush of his lips, or worse—nothing at all.
"You’re shaking," he notes, a cruel, beautiful smirk tugging at his mouth. "Is it still funny? Is the joke still worth it?"
"It’s not a joke anymore," you gasp out, your wrists straining against the silk tie until the metal of the headboard rattles. The sensation is all-consuming; you are a taut string waiting to snap. You look up at him, your vision blurring. "Valarr, please. I can't... I’m going to lose my mind."
"Good," he whispers, leaning down so his chest brushes yours, the heat of him nearly making you black out. "Lose it. But tell me who’s in control first."
He slides his hand back down, his touch firm and possessive, and for one glorious second, you think he’s finally going to let the dam break. He builds the tension until you’re sobbing into the pillow, your entire body vibrating with the force of it—and then he stops. Again.
"Say it," he growls, his own composure finally beginning to fracture. He’s sweating now, his jaw ticking with the effort of holding himself back. "Say I’m the only one you're ever calling that. Say you're mine."
"You are" you echo, your voice breaking. "Fuck, you're my Daddy."
That’s the final thread. The "disgusting" cliche he spent ten minutes mocking is the very thing that finally shatters his restraint. Valarr lets out a sound that is half-snarl, half-groan, his pride finally collapsing under the weight of his own want.
He doesn't even bother untying you. He doesn't have the patience left.
He moves over you with a sudden, violent urgency, his hands gripping your waist so hard his fingers leave ghostly white marks against your skin. When he finally sinks into you, the sensation is so overwhelming that a high, keening sound leaves your throat.
Valarr buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in jagged, hot bursts. He’s no longer the composed lecturer; he’s a man possessed, his movements frantic as he tries to make up for every second he spent teasing you.
"You stubborn little bitch" he grunts, the words lost against your skin as he drives you higher and higher.
With your hands still anchored above your head, you’re forced to take every bit of him, your back arching off the mattress as the first wave of release finally, finally crashes over you. It’s more intense than anything you’ve ever felt, a literal white-out behind your eyelids that leaves you gasping his name.
Valarr follows a second later, his entire body tensing as he collapses against you, his forehead resting against yours as he tries to remember how to breathe. After a long moment, Valarr reaches up, his fingers slightly clumsy as he fumbles with the silk tie, finally freeing your wrists.
He rubs the red marks on your skin with a sudden, uncharacteristic tenderness, then looks you in the eye, his expression a mix of lingering heat and utter exhaustion.
"Don't," he pants, pulling the covers up over both of you as he settles into your side, "ever mention this to anyone. Ever."
You let out a weak, tired laugh, curling into his chest. "Whatever you say, Daddy."
"Go to sleep," he groans, though he pulls you closer, a faint, defeated smile touching his lips. "Before I tie you up again."
or: wildfire makes your husband wild with desire/aerion in heat?
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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.
post prison spencer reid who lets you believe that he’s a sub and lets you control him all you want because it’s easier than acting on all the depraved things/kinks he has.
post prison spencer reid who’s patience finally snaps when you ask him to fuck you with his gun.
post prison spencer reid who blindfolds you as he removes all the bullets from his revolver.
post prison spencer reid who drinks in the way you tremble with anticipation and fear as he runs the barrel of his gun against your folds.
post prison spencer reid who runs his tongue down your throat as his gun pistons into you.
post prison spencer reid who laughs at how naïve you were to think that a man of his height and experience was ever going to submit to you.
post prison spencer reid who replaces the weapon with his cock right before you cum.
sleepover with best friend! valarr where you guys try “reading smut with a straight face” and the fmc calls mmc "daddy" so valarr goes on a long ass rant about how disgusting people with daddy kinks are. so OBVIOUSLY you start calling him daddy to piss him off . only it backfires and now you're tied to his bedframe as he edges you and you still refuse to stop callinh him daddy
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.
okay but have you guys considered the possibility that instead of dying from drinking wildfire it could've made him even more physically fit and animalistic? have u ever thought abt post wildfire aerion in heat?
yay!! thank you for coming to every lesson, class dismissed (for now ;) ) also so sorry for the inconsistency, i've been so busy, nonetheless i love you guys and hope i can make more for you soon!!
(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)
read on ao3
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ৡঌ༄.°• ✸ .°•༄ঌৡ
night fell again, painting the bedroom in shades of deep blue and shadow. the rain had stopped, leaving the city quiet, almost reverent. aerion had carried you to his massive bed, laying you down on the dark silk sheets. he loomed over you, completely bare now, his silver hair reflecting the moonlight, his violet eyes burning with a terrifyingly pure intensity.
"are you ready, sweet thing?" he whispered, his hands pinning yours above your head, interlocking his fingers with yours.
you trembled beneath him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you looked up at him, feeling so incredibly small under his heavy, powerful frame. "aerion... i'm scared."
"i know," he murmured, his voice softening, though the possessive grip on your hands didn't loosen an inch. he leaned down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to each of your eyelids. "but i’ve got you. i've always had you. i'm going to be gentle, darling, but i am going to claim you. there's no turning back from tonight."
he freed your hands only to cradle your face, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear of anticipation. he parted your thighs slowly, settling his weight between them. the sheer heat of him made your breath hitch.
"look at me," he commanded softly, the familiar rule keeping your focus locked onto him. "keep your eyes on mine. don't look away from what we're doing."
he pressed forward, the initial intrusion making you gasp and tense up, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders. he stopped immediately, his jaw clenching as he held himself back, waiting for you to adjust.
"breathe, darling," he whispered, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. "just breathe me in. let me take the pain. let me take all of your firsts."
as you slowly relaxed, yielding to him, he pushed deeper, filling the space he had guarded for so many years. a soft sob escaped you, but it was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you deeply, holding you so tight against his chest that you couldn't tell where your body ended and his began.
"you're mine," he growled against your lips, his pace starting slow, a heavy, hypnotic rhythm that began to turn the ache into a deep, radiating warmth. "only mine. say it."
"i'm yours," you gasped out, your hips moving instinctively with him, completely lost in the overwhelming tide of his touch. "aerion... i'm yours."
he smiled as he pulled himself in and out of your achingly tight cunt, hissing at how you stretched beneath him.
he screwed his eyes shut, savouring the way you twitch and writhe around his cock. stretched taught you can do nothing but nod and babble as he continues talking about claiming you.
“all yours,” you manage to say through bated breaths, you feel as if you’re submerged in water and unable to breathe. your ears ring and your cheeks burn up.
through your daze you manage to make out aerion’s words, he urges you to cum and your body can do nothing but obey as you shatter beneath him.
he finishes right after you, your folds drip with love, sweat, and both of your releases. you’re still shivering when aerion wakes you from your trance with a gentle kiss on the forehead.
you hadn’t fallen behind, you simply needed a good teacher.
a/n: guess who's finally free from laptop-chargerless hell. ITS PTOLOMIAAAAA. eat up pretties this fic has been marinating all month.
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₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The war for the Iron Throne was fought in mud, blood, and the ashes of broken families. When King Daeron’s crown was threatened by his bastard brother, alliances were forged in a hurry, sealed with steel and marriage vows. You were a warrior of an ancient house of the Stormlands, bred for battle as much as Baelor was. Your union was meant to be one of cold military convenience—your house’s swords in exchange for the Targaryen prince’s favor.
But war has a strange way of melting the coldest armor.
In the quiet hours between bloody skirmishes, you and your husband found a strange sort of rhythm. He was the chivalrous shield of the realm, and you were the blade at his side. You shared the heavy silence of the battlefield, the dust of the road, and eventually, a fierce, desperate love that neither of you had anticipated.
"When this is over," Baelor had whispered one night, his calloused fingers tracing the scar on your collarbone, "you will be my queen, I will whisk you far from here and you will know no more bloodshed."
But the gods are rarely so kind.
The Targaryen host had established a temporary base near Tarth. It was a humid, stifling week of stagnant heat. After days of wearing heavy plate armor in the stifling humidity, your skin was raw, burning with sweat and dirt.
During a lull in the patrols, you slipped away to the nearest body of water—a deep, mist-veiled tributary hidden by a thick canopy of weeping willows. The water was cool, offering a fleeting, blissful relief. You unbuckled your armor, leaving your sword resting against a mossy stone, and stepped into the water, letting the grime of war wash away.
You never heard them approach.
Blackfyre scouts, lingering like shadows in the brush, descended upon you before you could reach your blade. Cold iron clamped around your wrists. A heavy sack was thrown over your head, cutting off the light and the air, suffocating your screams before they could echo back to the camp.
When Baelor realized you were gone, the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The discovery of your discarded armor and the trampled reeds by the water’s edge sent a cold terror through his chest that no army of Daemon’s ever could.
He did not call for an army. He simply rode out into the dark, tracked the broken branches, and walked straight into the enemy's territory alone.
It was a madness born of pure devotion. When the Blackfyre knights surrounded him in the dark woods, their swords drawn, Baelor did not draw his own. He stood before them, unarmed, his violet eyes burning with a desperate, singular focus.
"I am Baelor of House Targaryen," he announced, his voice carrying the commanding weight of a prince, though it trembled with a raw, bleeding edge. "Take me. Kill me if you must. But let my lady go. She is no longer of use to you, I am."
The Blackfyre commander, a scarred knight loyal to the bastard prince, stepped forward. He looked at the Targaryen heir, amused by the sheer folly of a prince risking the realm for a single soul. Yet, there was a cruel, poetic streak in the rebel knight.
"We do not want your head tonight, Prince Baelor," the commander sneered. "But we want your stronghold. The base you hold at the edge of Tarth. Yield it, and you may both live."
"It is yours," Baelor said without a shred of hesitation. To give up a strategic base was treason to his father’s cause, but to Baelor, the world was empty without you in it.
"Not so fast," the commander laughed, his voice dripping with malice. "There are conditions to this trade. A test of your legendary discipline."
The commander laid out the terms, a twisted game designed to break them.
"You will lead us to the base. You must walk on foot, guiding our vanguard. Your little wife will walk behind you. But you are not to look at her. Not once. Not a single glance, not a turn of the head to ensure she is still there, until your feet have fully stepped onto the wooden threshold of your camp. If you turn your head, even for a moment, she die."
Baelor’s jaw tightened. "And how do I know you won't kill them the moment my back is turned?"
"You don't," the commander replied. "You have only my word. Do we have a bargain, Prince?"
From the shadows, you were dragged forward. Your hands were bound behind your back, your lip split and bleeding, but your eyes burned with a fierce warning. No, your gaze pleaded. It is a trap.
Baelor met your eyes for one final, agonizing second. "I accept," he whispered.
The march began.
It was a journey of pure torment. The forest was pitch-black, illuminated only by the flickering torches of the Blackfyre knights riding behind you. Baelor walked at the front, his back straight, his eyes fixed resolutely on the dark path ahead.
You walked a pace behind him, your bare feet cutting on the sharp rocks and brambles.
The silence was deafening. The only sounds were the heavy thud of Baelor’s boots, the dragging of your feet, and the quiet sneers of the rebel soldiers.
Are you there? The question burned in Baelor's mind, a constant, agonizing thrum. Every time you stumbled, every muffled gasp of pain that escaped your lips, Baelor’s muscles locked. His instinct—his entire being—screamed at him to turn around, to catch you, to shield you in his arms.
Just look, a voice whispered in his ear. They have already slain her. You are walking a corpse back to camp.
"Keep walking, Breakspear," a Blackfyre knight hissed from the shadows.
Baelor clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, his nails digging into his palms until they bled. He kept his eyes locked onto the horizon, where the faint, warm glow of his camp's watchfires began to pierce the heavy mist.
Just a little further, he told himself. Just a few more steps.
Behind him, your breathing was shallow and ragged. You wanted to call out to him, to tell him you were there, but the rebel knights had pressed a dagger to your throat, warning you that a single word would end the game. You could only march, watching the broad, familiar shoulders of your husband, so close yet entirely unreachable.
The trees cleared. The wooden palisade of the Targaryen base loomed ahead. The guards on the watchtower called out in alarm, seeing the Blackfyre banners, but Baelor raised a hand, signaling them to hold their fire.
The threshold was right there. The heavy wooden fence had been opened slightly, casting a long line of warm light across the dirt.
Baelor’s heart hammered against his ribs. The tension that had held him in a vice-grip for hours finally began to fracture. He could taste the safety of the camp. He could feel the warmth of the fires.
His boot crossed the wooden threshold of the gate. He stepped onto the solid wood of the base's entrance.
In a rush of overwhelming relief, his mind short-circuited. The agony of the walk, the terror of the night, the sheer joy of survival erupted within him. He forgot the exact phrasing of the cruel bargain. He forgot the shadow that still lingered in the darkness. He only knew he had made it.
Baelor turned around, a radiant smile breaking across his weary face. "We are safe—"
The words died in his throat.
You were still one step behind. Your foot was raised, poised to step onto the wood, but you were still in the dirt. Still in the dark.
Your eyes met his, wide with sudden, catastrophic realization.
"Baelor," you whispered.
Twang.
The sound of releasing bowstrings shattered the morning air.
From the treeline, three black-fletched arrows tore through the mist. They struck with sickening, heavy thuds. One pierced your shoulder, another your chest, and the final one sank deep into your stomach.
Your breath caught. The light in your eyes, once so fierce and untamable, began to flicker like a dying candle.
"No!" Baelor screamed, a sound so raw and shattered it didn't sound human.
He lunged forward to catch you, but the world dissolved into chaos. With the bargain broken, the Blackfyre knights drew their swords with roaring battle cries. The vanguard surged forward, riding their warhorses straight into the opening gate.
Baelor collapsed to his knees on the wooden threshold, catching you just as your knees buckled. He pulled your bleeding body against his chest, his hands desperately trying to cover the wounds, to stem the torrent of crimson staining your tunic.
"No, no, no, please," Baelor choked out, tears blinding his vision. "I am sorry. I thought—I thought we were across. Please, look at me. Stay with me."
You coughed, blood staining your lips, your hand feebly rising to touch his cheek. Your fingers left a smear of red against his pale skin. You tried to speak, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but the strength was draining from you too fast. Your eyes slowly closed, your head falling heavy against his shoulder.
Around you, the base was trampled. Targaryen soldiers screamed as they were cut down, caught entirely unprepared. Horses hooves thundered past, kicking up dirt and blood, splattering Baelor’s face. The camp was falling, burning, being torn to pieces.
But Baelor heard none of it. He only rocked your lifeless body in his arms amidst the ashes, staring blankly into the dark woods, forever haunted by the single step that parted you.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
the pitt x off campus fanfic where tucker gets injured and victoria is taking care of him? mavadi in the big 26? or even better “the goal” rewrite with victoria as sabrina? walk with me. i want to write this….
I write these words to you with a heart filled with pain and loss.
Here in the heart of the Gaza Strip, from the heart of suffering, pain, hunger, and a severe siege.
I lost my mother, who meant life and hope to me.
I lost the eldest who was my support in this life.
Now I am alone in this life. My family is suffering and going through very difficult circumstances. I have a young child and a wife who is three months pregnant. We are exhausted from hunger due to the lack of food and medicine.
My baby won't stop crying because he's hungry and wants baby milk. My wife needs healthy food, vitamins, and protein for her unborn child's health.
Because of the war, I lost my job and everything I owned, and I can't provide them with even the most basic necessities.
I ask for your help with a broken heart, a heart wracked with pain and loss.
We urgently need 500 euros to save my family from hunger and the dire need for medicine. We ask nothing of you but your help to save us and keep us alive.
Oh my God, my little baby won't stop crying. He desperately needs baby formula, but I can't provide even the most basic necessities because of the high prices and food shortages here in Gaza.
My family is going through difficult times.
There is no food or medicine; everything here is expensive.
I haven't been able to provide food for my family yet. Please help me, even with a small amount, so I can provide food for my family. They are truly hungry. 😭😭
hello friends!!!! so sorry i’ve been gone a while ! my laptop charger broke and i don’t get my new one until tomorrow. + tumblr cleared my queue of posts so i’ll have to reformat and space out all the posts i intended do come out during my trip. please bear with me. :’> i just wanted to affirm that i am still here and i will keep writing since i’ve seen your asks and dms. i’m very grateful for the concern!!! i love you all very much!! (for my the pitt readers, i will be writing for shen soon bcs i am so shen-pilled rn i love him sm)
ps: enjoy this mini dump of my trip and life lately as a consolation <33 (mini author reveal)
Hunger is growing, illness is spreading, and fear never leaves
We are living in conditions no human should endure
Insects, rats, disease, and no real way to protect ourselves
My father is still very sick
He urgently needs treatment, but in a place like this, even basic medicine is out of reach
I try every day to keep my family going, but this is bigger than what we can handle alone
Please don’t scroll past this🥺🙏
Let your humanity speak💔
Donate and share
Dear Esteemed Donors,
My name is Ahmad, and I am a 16-year-old from northern Gaza… Ahmad family needs your support for Support Ahmad’s Fami
📌📌📌 Fundraiser vetted (#167 by el-shab-hussein & nabulsi), But we created a new GoFundMe page because GoFundMe suspended the beneficiary’s account on the platform, which put us in a very difficult situation.
📌📌📌 My main account @ahmadwaleed55 was suspended, so I will be using this account to continue sharing my family’s campaign and updates.
or: you know just how to get robby to shut up when you fight
(pre-schedule post 2!! i hope you guys enjoy this and all the upcoming content. love u guys lotsss)
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ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
the rain was still slicking the windows of the house when the door slammed. you didn’t even have your coat off before robby was filling the doorway of the kitchen, looking weary. his arms were crossed over his chest, his presence as immovable and imposing as the hospital walls he practically lived within.
"you went over my head," he growled, his voice a low vibration that usually made residents and interns tremble. "i told you that patient in south 14 was a flight risk, and you signed the discharge papers anyway."
"i signed them because he was medically stable, robby. we have a waiting room full of people bleeding out in the hallway because there are no beds," you snapped back, kicking your shoes off. the adrenaline from the chaotic shift had just curdled into a sharp, jagged frustration.
"he’s going to ghost before the follow-up, and it’s going to be your license on the line when he ends up back in trauma because you were 'clearing the board,'" he stepped closer, his shadow looming large against the cabinets. he was still in his dark scrubs, the fabric tight across his shoulders, his jaw set in that stubborn, clinical line that had earned him his reputation. "i’m trying to keep you from making a mistake that sticks."
"i don't need you to micromanage me at home, robby. i've spent twelve hours being your student; i'm not doing it here," you yelled, the heat rising in your chest. you were tired of the hovering, tired of the way his protective instincts felt like he was treating you like a first-year. "you want to talk about hospital policy? let's talk about how you can't seem to stop bringing the job home with us?"
"i don't stop being responsible for what happens in that unit," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous. "and i don't stop seeing when you’re being naive about the people we treat."
"is that what you think?" you marched right up to him, your heart hammering against your ribs. the air between you was thick, charged with the kind of friction that only comes from two people who spend their lives fighting death together—and then come home to fight each other.
the argument was circular, exhausting, and beneath the anger, there was a desperate, pulsing need to just stop the clinical talk. you looked at his mouth—the hard, uncompromising line of it—and then back up to those dark, relentless eyes that had seen too much.
"you think i'm too soft for the pitt?" you challenged, your voice dropping to a provocative whisper.
"i think you're reckless with your own career," he countered, though his gaze flickered down to the pulse jumping in your neck for a split second.
"reckless," you repeated. a slow, reckless smile spread across your face. "how’s this for irresponsible?"
your hands flew to your back, quickly undoing your bra. then, without breaking eye contact, your hands went to the hem of your shirt. robby didn’t move, his expression stony, until you gripped the fabric and yanked it upward in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor.
you stood there, bared to him in the dim light of the kitchen, your chest heaving with lingering anger and new, sharp intent. the shift in him was instantaneous. his pupils blew wide, swallowing the iris whole, and the hand that had been resting on the counter gripped the edge so hard his knuckles turned white.
"what’s the matter?" you breathed, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, "you’re so quiet now, robby." your grin spread to your eyes as you watched his bated breaths.
he didn't say a word. he didn't have to. the way he lunged across the small gap between you, his large hands bruising your waist as he hauled your body against the heat of his scrubs, told you everything you needed to know.
“y’ think you’re cute huh?” he teased against your neck, big hands pinching the sensitive buds of your nipples. “don’t you?” you shoot back, a whimper cracking through the teasing tone of your voice. he flips you to face away from him then, pressing your back into his chest.
“only when you shut up,” he says, digging his rough palm into the fabric of panties. you whimper as he drags a calloused finger around the soft pearl of your clit. the sound eggs him on more, pace quickening as he presses into your dripping cunt. “see? so easy for me now, so obedient.” he praises emptily, his free hand drags your clothes down to your thighs—his fingers push into your hole the second he frees you, index curling into you as his thumb draws circles against your clit.
the heat of the moment does nothing to stop the goosebumps decorating your skin as you clench your thighs together and trap his hand in. he chuckles then, a faint primal sound as he curls his finger into you faster. the coil in your stomach is about to break as he pulls his hand out. your legs wobble at the loss of him, skin on fire as he bends you over into the marble counter.
you watch his hungry eyes through the darkened window above the sink, your cunt salivating in anticipation as he fumbles with his scrubs. you’re so dazed that you don’t notice the way he slaps his hard cock against the delicious curve of your ass. his tip leaks precum against your wanting skin as he teases you.
he runs the crown of his cock against your wet slit, teasing your clit as you leak onto him. “want my cock, little brat?” he tsks at you. you nod at him, eyes meeting his in the faint reflection of the window. “gonna have to beg for it” he says, big hands cupping your face as he pushes your jaw up. you see him through the window, his skin stretching taught against his bulging veins. “please, ‘ll be good, i’ll be so good mikey please,” his name slips softly from your lips and straight to his angry cock.
he pushes into you without warning. hammering in and out so aggressively he doesn’t feel the drool falling from your chin. his eyes are half-lidded and unfocused as you constrict around him, babbling and moaning unintelligibly.
“s’ fuckin’ good for me sweetheart.”
thrust
“knew you could do it.”
thrust
“you just need me to fuck you dumb huh?”
thrust
“yes s…sir” you stutter out, eyes shutting instinctively.
he slaps you awake “uh-uh” he tuts, pounding into you. “look up there, want you to see how ruined you are for me.”
you try your hardest to focus on the image of you guys, sweaty and lustful against the glass, but he’s fucking you so good. your legs wobble as he hammers into you further, “can…t, s’ too good mikey, can’t help it”
the words come out fast and barely coherent, he presses into you more, “yeah? god y’re so fucking tight.” your body is warm all over and your muscles contract, your limbs shake as you exhale a final “c..cumming”
he groans in response wrapping his palm around your neck as he lifts you flush against his chest. he hugs you into him with his free arm, face buried in your neck as he relishes the way you tighten around him.
“tha’s it, good fucking girl.” he praises you—his tip shooting ropes of seed into your hungry cunt, walls closing up as you drink it all in.
he pants before kissing your cheek, big arms lifting you into his embrace as he carries you into the bathroom to clean up.
he lays you in the tub, turning the faucet up to the max as he undresses. the warm water surrounds you fast, your aching body easing into the sensation, but as michael sinks behind you, his fat cock presses against the small of your back—already prepared to bully your cervix.
this is gonna be a long night–you think to yourself as you feel him bottom out into your cunt once more.
request: hello hello! not sure if you’re taking requests, but could you do something in a modern setting? maybe baelor x reader where she gets into an accident and loses her memory, and the last thing she remembers is from 10 years ago; before she ever met him. and now he has to win her love back all over again. would be nice if there’s a drama like she remembers her ex but not him (ending is up to you hehehe) tq!!
a/n: hiii!! this was in the works for a VERYYYY long time.... i tried my best to do this plot justice and i'm quite happy with how it turned out. i hope you love it!!!
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Baelor stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection ghosted against the rainy skyline of the city. He still had his suit jacket on, though his tie was loosened, a rare sign of disarray for a man whose public image was surgically maintained. Even in his distress, he looked every bit the Prince of the City—dark, regal, and immovable.
"You weren't there, Baelor," you said, your voice cracking as you threw a few essentials into a designer tote. "It was our anniversary dinner. I sat at that table for two hours while the waitstaff looked at me with pity. Two hours."
"I was in a closed-door meeting with the board of directors," Baelor replied, his voice low and vibrating with a controlled frustration. He didn't turn around. "The merger with Blackwood-Bracken is at a critical juncture. If I had walked out, it would have signaled weakness. My father’s legacy, the stability of the entire firm—"
"It’s always the firm, Baelor. Or the council. Or your father’s legacy," you snapped, cutting him off. "I’m not a wife to you. I’m a decorative piece of your brand. I’m the woman who smiles at the charity galas and wears the right colors to match your tie. I don’t even remember the last time we talked about something that wasn't a press release or a political strategy."
Baelor finally turned, his dark eyes weary, harboring a flicker of hurt he was too proud to voice. "That is unfair. Everything I do, I do to ensure we are untouchable. You knew the life I led when you married me."
"I knew I was marrying a man, not a monument!" you shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. You grabbed your car keys from the marble island, the metal jingling sharply in the quiet room.
"Where are you going?" he asked, stepping toward you. The authority in his voice was instinctual, the tone of a man used to being obeyed. "It’s nearly midnight and the weather is worsening."
"Anywhere where I can breathe without feeling like I'm being managed by a PR team," you said, heading for the door.
"Don't be dramatic," he sighed, the dismissal in his tone being the final straw. "We'll talk in the morning when you're less... spirited. We have the Ashford foundation gala tomorrow evening; you need your rest."
You stopped at the threshold, looking back at him with eyes bright with tears. "No, Baelor. That’s the problem. You always think there’s a tomorrow to fix what you’re breaking today. You think you can just schedule a 'reconciliation' into my calendar for next Tuesday."
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind you, a final, sharp punctuation to the decade you had spent trying to reach him.
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The city was blurred by a sudden, torrential downpour. Your hands were shaking on the steering wheel, tears making the neon lights of the street bleed together into streaks of gold and red. You felt a desperate, hollow ache for a time when things were simple—before the NDAs, the security details, and the coldness of the penthouse.
The anger had begun to drain away, replaced by a hollow, aching regret. You didn't want to be alone. You wanted your husband, your Baelor.
You reached for your phone and hit his contact at the top of your favorites. It rang. And rang. Then, the clinical click of his voicemail. He was likely already back in his office, phone silenced, buried in the Blackwood merger.
"Baelor," you whispered into the car's Bluetooth, your voice thick with tears as you pulled into the intersection. "I’m sorry for screaming, I should be more articulate but I just...I need some space to remember who we are. I’m going to stay at the—"
A pair of blinding white headlights suddenly illuminated the interior of your car from the left. There was a screech of tires on wet asphalt, a frantic crunch of metal, and the sound of the voicemail recording cutting into a sharp, static-filled silence.
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Back at the penthouse, Baelor’s phone buzzed on the marble counter. He didn't pick it up immediately; he was staring at the space where you had stood, feeling the weight of the silence you’d left behind. When he finally reached for it, it wasn't your name on the screen. It was an unknown number from the city’s Level One Trauma Center.
"This is Baelor Targaryen," he said, his voice instantly regaining its professional edge.
The voice on the other end was clipped and urgent. "Mr. Targaryen, there has been a severe motor vehicle accident. Your wife is being prepped for emergency surgery. You need to come to Ashford Memorial immediately."
The phone nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
Minutes later, he was in his own car, tearing through the rain-slicked streets with a reckless desperation that would have horrified his PR team. As the car’s system synced with his phone, a notification flashed on the dashboard: One New Voicemail.
He hit play, hoping for your voice, hoping for a sign of life.
"Baelor," your voice filled the car, trembling and wet with tears. "I’m sorry for screaming. I just... I need some space to remember who we are. I’m going to stay at the—"
Then came the sound. The sudden, violent roar of the impact, the shattering of glass, and your stifled, sharp gasp before the line went dead.
Baelor let out a choked, jagged sound that was half-sob, half-scream. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, the tears finally breaking through his stoic mask. He had ignored the call. He had chosen the merger, the legacy, the silence, and this was what it cost. He was hearing the moment your life—your life—was almost snuffed out because he wouldn't just answer the phone.
By the time he pulled into the hospital’s emergency bay, the level headed Baelor was gone. He was just a man, weeping and broken, stumbling toward the sliding glass doors.
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The days that followed were a blur of sterile white corridors and the rhythmic, mocking hiss of a ventilator. Baelor didn't leave the hospital. He ignored the frantic calls from the office, the mounting pressure of the merger, and the reporters circling the entrance like vultures. He sat in the hard plastic chair by your bedside, holding your cold hand, staring at the bandages that swathed your head.
Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the crunch of the metal from the voicemail. It played on a loop in his mind, a self-inflicted torture. He was haunted by your last words: to remember who we are. You had wanted to find your way back to him, and he had let the call go to voicemail.
On the third night, his brother Maekar found him in the sept, head bowed, shoulders shaking. Baelor, who never broke, was shattered. "I killed her, Maekar," he whispered into the candlelight. "I wasn't there. I’m never there." He had spent seventy-two hours bargaining with every god he didn't believe in, promising to burn his legacy to the ground if only you would open your eyes. He looked aged, the vibrant prince replaced by a hollow-eyed ghost of regret.
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When the light returned, it was clinical and harsh.
You blinked, trying to shield your eyes from the fluorescent hum of the hospital ceiling. A man was sitting in a chair beside your bed. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His hair was a mess, and his expensive shirt was wrinkled and stained with coffee. When he saw you move, he lunged forward, his face breaking into a look of such profound relief it was almost painful to witness.
"Thank the Gods," he breathed, reaching for your hand. His voice was thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "The doctors said...they said the swelling was the main concern. You're okay. You're safe."
You stared at his hand on yours. His wedding ring, a heavy band of Valyrian steel and gold, caught the light. You pulled your hand away, tucking it under the thin hospital sheet. A stranger’s touch felt like an intrusion.
"I’m sorry," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Do I... do I work for you? Did I cause a crash in a company car? Am I in trouble?"
Baelor froze. The relief on his face didn't just fade; it vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow terror that made him look older than the city itself.
"What did you say?"
"I don't know who you are," you said, your voice rising with panic. You looked around the room, searching for a familiar face. "I was on my way to Francis’s house. We’re supposed to go to the music festival tomorrow. I—I need to call him. He’ll be worried."
Baelor stood up slowly. He looked down at you, and for the first time in your life—though you didn't know it—you saw the legendary Baelor Breakspear look utterly defeated.
"Francis," Baelor repeated the name like it was a death sentence. "You think you're still with Francis?"
"Of course I am," you said, frowning. "We’ve been together for three years. We're moving in together next month. Now, please, who are you? Where is my boyfriend?"
Baelor walked to the door, calling for a nurse in a voice that sounded like it was coming from deep underwater. In your head, the last ten years—the marriage, the struggles, the love they had fought so hard to build—had been erased. He was the man who had ignored your final call, and in return, your mind had deleted him entirely.
Baelor’s breath hitched. He tried to stay calm, forcing his hands to remain still even as his world collapsed a second time. "Francis? Darling, it’s me. It’s Baelor. We’ve been married for seven years. We've been together for ten."
"Married?" You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh. "I’m twenty-two. I’m not married to anyone, especially not... a man like you. You look like you belong in a boardroom, not at a music festival. Please, just give me my phone. I need Francis."
Baelor leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "You had an accident. Your brain... the doctors call it retrograde amnesia. You've lost some time. But look at me, please. Look at the way I’m holding you. You know me." He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, his movements practiced and tender despite his shaking hands. "Here, just a sip. Your throat must be so dry."
You pushed his hand away, the water splashing onto his silk shirt. "I don't want water from you! I want to know why you're keeping me here and why Francis isn't here. Did he get into the accident too? Is he okay?"
"Francis is fine," Baelor said, his voice cracking. He didn't tell you that Francis was three thousand miles away, married with two children, and hadn't spoken to you since the Obama administration. He couldn't bring himself to destroy the only reality you had left. "He just... he isn't the one you call anymore. I am."
"You're lying," you hissed, tears of frustration welling in your eyes. "I don't care who you think you are. You're a stranger. I want to go home. I want my life back."
Baelor stood up slowly, looking down at you with a devastation so profound it felt like a physical weight in the room. He had spent ten years winning you, ten years convincing you that a life with a Targaryen was worth the sacrifice, and in a single night, all that progress had been reset to zero.
"I’m going to take care of you, even if you hate me for it. I'm not leaving you again."
The door swished open and a team of doctors entered. The attending physician, a woman with a sharp but kind gaze, checked your vitals while a nurse adjusted your IV.
"It’s normal to feel disoriented," the doctor said, looking directly at you. "You’ve sustained a traumatic brain injury. We call what you're experiencing retrograde amnesia. Your long-term memories are intact, but your brain has temporarily lost access to the last several years."
"Temporary?" Baelor asked, his voice cracking.
"In many cases, yes. It could be days, weeks, or months," the doctor explained. "But for now, to her, those years simply haven't happened."
"I don't care!" you shouted, the panic reaching a fever pitch. "I care about Francis! Why is he not here? Why is this man claiming we're married? I want my phone. I want to talk to my boyfriend."
The nurse stepped forward, trying to soothe you. "Honey, you need to stay calm. Your blood pressure is spiking."
"I won't stay calm! You're all in on this!" You turned your tear-streaked face to Baelor, your eyes filled with a terrifying mixture of hatred and fear. "If you're who you say you are, call him. Call Francis and tell him where I am. If you don't, I'll scream until the police come."
Baelor looked at the doctor, who gave a small, somber nod. Forcing a patient into a reality they don't recognize can cause further psychological trauma. Baelor reached into his pocket, his hand trembling as he pulled out his phone. He walked out into the hallway, the sterile air feeling like ice in his lungs.
He scrolled through his contacts—not his own, but the ones he had archived years ago from your old life, back when he had first started seeing you and had to deal with the fallout of your breakup with Francis. He found the number.
The phone rang three times before a man answered, sounding distracted, the background noise of children laughing and a television playing in the distance. "Hello?"
"Francis," Baelor said, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel. "It’s Baelor Targaryen."
There was a long, stunned silence on the other end. "Baelor? What the hell... it’s been years. Is everything okay?"
"No," Baelor whispered, leaning his forehead against the cold hospital wall. "There was an accident. My wife... she’s woken up, but she thinks it’s ten years ago. She thinks she’s still with you. She won't stop crying for you, Francis. I need... I need you to help her understand."
He had spent a decade building a fortress around your heart, making sure you felt safe, loved, and chosen. And now, he was calling the one man he had always feared replaced him, begging him to come and break your heart so Baelor could have a chance to mend it again.
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Two hours later, the door to your room opened again. You sat up as much as the monitors would allow, your breath catching. "Francis?"
The man who walked in was wearing a fleece jacket and jeans, his face etched with a kindness that felt familiar, but his hair was thinner than you remembered, and he moved with a settled, domestic weariness. He didn't rush to your side to kiss you. He stood at the foot of the bed, his expression a painful mixture of pity and awkwardness.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Francis! Oh thank God," you sobbed, reaching out. "Tell them. Tell this man to leave. We have the festival, remember? Why aren't you taking me home?"
Francis looked at Baelor, who was standing in the corner of the room, shadows clinging to his eyes. Baelor’s jaw was set tight, watching the woman he loved beg for another man.
"Listen to me," Francis said, moving closer but not taking your hand. "That festival was a long time ago. Ten years ago, actually."
You shook your head violently. "No. No, we just talked about it. We're moving in—"
"We didn't move in," Francis interrupted gently. "We broke up, honey. A few months after that festival. It was hard, but... we weren't right for each other. I've been married to someone else for six years now. I have two kids." He pulled out his phone, showing you a lock screen of a blonde woman and two toddlers in a park.
The world tilted. The air in the room felt like it was being sucked out. "No," you whispered. "That's not... that can't be right."
"It is," Francis said. He looked toward Baelor. "And that man over there? That’s your husband. You’ve been married to him for seven years. I’ve seen the news, I've seen the photos... you love him. Or, you did."
You looked at Baelor. He looked back at you, and for a second, the raw, bleeding love in his eyes was so intense it terrified you.
"I don't know him," you whimpered, looking back at Francis. "I don't know any of this. Please don't leave me here with him."
"I have to go back to my family," Francis said, his voice firm but sad. "I'm sorry. I really hope you get your memory back. But I'm not your person anymore. He is."
When Francis walked out, the silence he left behind was worse than the screaming had been. You turned your face away from Baelor, staring at the white wall. You felt cold, as if your blood had turned to slush. You didn't feel relief that Francis was okay; you felt the jagged, fresh trauma of a breakup you should have processed a decade ago.
"Leave," you whispered, your voice trembling.
Baelor moved a step closer, his hand reaching out instinctively before he caught himself. "Darling, I know this is a lot to take in—"
"I said leave!" you screamed, snapping your head around to glare at him. Your eyes were red and burning with a pure, concentrated loathing. "You brought him here. You brought him here just to make him say those things. To break my heart just so you could swoop in and be the hero."
"I brought him here because you were in pain!" Baelor’s voice rose, desperate and cracking. "I brought him here to help you!"
"You didn't help me! You destroyed my life!" You clutched the hospital gown over your chest, feeling the hollow ache where your future with Francis used to be. "I don't care if we're married. I don't care if I loved you yesterday. To me, you are the man who just stood there and watched my world end. You're the one who stole ten years of my life and replaced them with... with whatever this is. This sterile, rich, fake nightmare."
Baelor flinched as if you had struck him. Every word was a serrated blade, cutting through the guilt he already carried. He had expected confusion. He had expected sadness. He hadn't expected to become the villain in the only story you had left.
"You're a stranger, Baelor," you said, your voice dropping to a deathly, flat coldness. "And right now, I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone. Get out of my room."
He stood there for a long time, the most powerful man in the city, rendered utterly powerless by the woman he would have died for. He had spent days praying for you to wake up, never realizing that when you did, you would look at him with the eyes of someone staring at a monster. He turned and walked out, the sound of his expensive leather shoes on the hospital tile sounding like the slow, steady beat of a funeral march.
He stood there for a long time, the most powerful man in the city, rendered utterly powerless by the woman he would have died for. He had spent days praying for you to wake up, never realizing that when you did, you would look at him with the eyes of someone staring at a monster. He turned and walked out, the sound of his expensive leather shoes on the hospital tile sounding like the slow, steady beat of a funeral march.
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The weeks that followed were his penance.
Baelor didn't return to the office. He didn't take the calls from the board. Instead, he arrived at the hospital every morning at 6:00 AM, before you were even awake. He would bring fresh flowers—yellow lilies, which you once told him reminded you of your grandmother’s garden, though now you just looked at them with suspicion.
He performed the tasks the nurses usually handled, his movements hesitant and deeply humble. He learned how to adjust your pillows perfectly, how to help you sip from a straw without spilling, and how to rub the lotion into your skin to keep it from drying out under the harsh hospital air.
"I can do it myself," you snapped one afternoon when he reached for your hand to help you sit up.
"I know you can," he replied softly. He didn't pull away; he simply waited. "But you don't have to. Let me."
He was constantly repenting, though not always with words. It was in the way he stood by the window when you were angry, letting you scream at him until your voice went hoarse, never once raising his own. It was in the way he brought in your favorite books from the penthouse—books you didn't remember owning—and read them to you for hours, even when you pretended to be asleep.
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"I’m sorry," he whispered one night, thinking you were unconscious. He was sitting on the edge of the hard plastic chair, his head in his hands. "I’m so sorry I didn't pick up the phone. I’m sorry I let the world get between us. I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you, if you just... if you just give me a chance to be a stranger you can tolerate."
You felt a lump form in your throat, but you didn't open your eyes. You couldn't. Because if you looked at him, you might see the man Francis said you loved, and right now, the twenty-two-year-old girl inside you was still too busy mourning the life he had stolen.
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He brought you your favorite meals from a small deli three blocks from your old apartment—a place he shouldn't even know about. He had clearly spent hours researching the woman you were ten years ago, desperate to find a bridge back to you.
"Is this supposed to make me like you?" you asked as he set the sandwich down on your tray.
Baelor looked at you, his eyes brimming with a quiet, persistent hope that broke your heart even as you fought to keep it hardened. "No. It’s supposed to make you feel like yourself. If you ever want to leave this room and never see me again, I’ll let you. But until then, please... let me take care of you."
He was a prince begging for scraps of your attention, a man who had everything except the one thing he actually needed: your forgiveness.
Trust returned in tiny, begrudging increments.
It started with the way he handled your migraines. When the hospital lights became too much, he didn’t wait for you to ask. He would simply rise, draw the heavy blackout curtains, and sit in the darkness with you. He didn't try to talk; he just stayed, a steady anchor in the void.
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By the fourth week, you stopped flinching when his hand brushed yours. One evening, as he was reading a particularly dense biography of a queen you once admired, you caught yourself watching him. The way the light hit the silver at his temples—stress from the accident, you realized—and the way his voice softened when he thought a passage might move you.
You looked at him then, really looked at him. At the way his eyes were starting to darken and the way you he had aged since you first opened your eyes. Did you love him? Could you still love him. The thought of it blooms terrifyingly across your chest, heart warming up to the notion.
Though you’d never admit it to him, you saw him for who he was then. Just a man trying to survive the loss of his wife while she was sitting right in front of him.
"Baelor," you whispered, interrupting him mid-sentence.
He froze, his thumb lingering on the page. It was the first time you had used his name without spitting it like a curse. "Yes?"
"I don't remember being that woman," you said, gesturing to the book and the expensive flowers. "The one who liked those things. But...I think I see why she liked you."
Baelor didn't smile; his eyes simply shimmered with a sudden, wet intensity. He closed the book and looked at you with a reverence that made your skin tingle. "I don't need you to be her. I just need you to be okay."
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The day of discharge arrived with a mixture of relief and fresh terror. The doctors declared you physically fit, though the "gap" remained as wide as ever. As the nurse wheeled you toward the sliding glass doors, Baelor walked beside you, carrying your bags. He had traded his sharp suits for a soft cashmere sweater and charcoal trousers—a "casual" look that felt like another peace offering.
A sleek black car waited at the curb. As Baelor helped you into the passenger seat, he paused, his face inches from yours. "We don't have to go back to the penthouse," he said, his voice low. "I know you said it felt like a nightmare. I’ve had the staff prepare the house in the Heights. It’s smaller. More gardens. You used to call it our 'escape.'"
"The penthouse... that’s where the anniversary was, right?" you asked, remembering the bitter fight that started all of this.
Baelor nodded, a flash of pain crossing his features. "Yes. We’ll go to the Heights. Just us, no one else, no one to please."
The drive was quiet. You watched the city blur past, feeling like an immigrant in a country you had once ruled. When the car pulled into a gated driveway lined with ancient oaks, you felt a strange, ghostly tug of familiarity at the sight of a swing set in the neighbor's yard and the smell of jasmine in the air.
Baelor opened your door and offered his hand. This time, you didn't hide yours under the sheet. You took it. His grip was warm, solid, and humbler than the man you thought you hated.
As he led you across the threshold of the sun-drenched house, he stopped in the foyer. "Welcome home," he whispered. "I know you don't remember it, but I’ll spend every second helping you build something new here."
You looked at him, the same way you had when he read to you those nights ago–and for the first time since waking up, the ghost of Francis didn't feel like the only thing keeping you upright. You were still lost, but as Baelor gently closed the door on the world outside, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were lost with the right person.
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Life at the Heights settled into a quiet, rhythmic domesticity that Baelor guarded with a ferocity he had once reserved for hostile takeovers.
He didn't go back to the city. He didn't even go back to the penthouse. He moved his entire life—his files, his encrypted laptop, his stacks of reports—into the library overlooking the rose garden. Every morning, you would find him there, the glow of the screen illuminating his face as he navigated the chaos of his life from a distance.
But the second you stirred, the work stopped. He would mute his calls, ignore the frantic emails from the board, and step out into the kitchen. He became your primary caretaker, refusing to hire a live-in nurse. He remembered the exact temperature you liked your tea, the specific way you liked your toast, and the precise timing for your medication.
"I can make the tea, Baelor," you said one morning, finding him already at the stove, his eyes dark from a late night of negotiations he hadn't told you about.
"I know you can," he murmured, his back to you. "But let me. It’s the only time I feel like I'm actually doing something right for you."
He spent his days working from home, his office door always open so he could hear your footsteps. If a director called while you were having a "bad day"—one of those afternoons where the gaps in your memory felt like physical weights—he would hang up without an apology.
"Baelor, the company, your life" you prompted one afternoon as he ignored a buzzing phone to help you prune the hydrangeas. "Maekar says they're struggling because you aren't there."
Baelor didn't even look at the phone. He reached out, his hand steady as he guided your shears. "Let them. I spent ten years building that firm and only a few seconds losing you. I think my priorities are exactly where they should have been a long time ago."
He was groveling in the most profound way a man like him could: by sacrificing the only thing he had ever valued more than himself—his power.
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After two months of living in the quiet gravity of the Heights, Baelor did something he hadn't done since the accident. He didn't wear a cashmere sweater or a t-shirt. He emerged from his room wearing a crisp, white linen shirt and dark trousers—no tie, but polished.
"I'd like to take you somewhere," he said, standing in the kitchen as you finished your lunch. "A date. If you'll have me."
You looked at him, surprised. The word "date" felt heavy between you. "Where?"
"Somewhere special," he promised. "I know you’ll love it."
He drove you to a small, hidden pier on the edge of the city, far from the gleaming skyscrapers of his office. It was a weather-beaten boardwalk with a single, unassuming seafood shack at the end of it. It was the kind of place your twenty-two-year-old self would have loved—no dress codes, just the smell of salt and the sound of gulls.
"We used to come here when we were hiding," Baelor said as he led you to a table at the very edge of the pier, overlooking the water. "In the first year. Before my father found out. You said the plastic chairs made the lobster taste better."
You sat down, feeling the breeze tug at your hair. You didn't remember the lobster, but you felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time, Baelor wasn't hovering. He wasn't checking your pulse or asking about your headache. He was just sitting across from you, his hands folded on the table, looking at the horizon.
"Tell me about her," you said suddenly. "The version of me you're missing."
Baelor’s gaze snapped back to you. He was silent for a long time. "She was brave," he said eventually. "Brave enough to tell me when I was being an idiot. Brave enough to marry a man who she knew was buried in his own ambition. She was...she was the only person who looked at me and didn't see me for my name. SHe held me down when I was hurt and stayed even when I didn’t see her'"
"And now?" you asked.
"Now," Baelor reached across the table, pausing for a second to see if you would pull away. When you didn't, he laid his hand over yours. "I’m realizing that she’s still in there. Because you're still brave enough to be here with a stranger. And I'm realizing that maybe I don't want her back as much as I want to earn the person you are today."
The dinner was simple. No champagne, no three-course formality. Just fried clams and paper napkins. As the sun began to set, painting the water in bruised purples and oranges, you found yourself laughing—a real, genuine sound that made Baelor’s entire face light up.
"What?" you asked, catching him staring.
"Nothing," he whispered, his eyes soft. "I just haven't heard that sound in a long time. I thought I'd never hear it again."
As he drove you back to the Heights, the silence in the car wasn't the cold, expensive silence of the penthouse. it was something different. It was the sound of a foundation being laid. When you got to the house, you stopped him before he could open his office door to check his missed calls.
"Baelor?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Thank you," you said. "For the lobster. And for not talking about duties."
Baelor leaned against the doorframe, a small, tired smile on his face. "I think the firm can survive another night without me. I'd rather stay here."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The weeks that followed the pier date felt lighter, though the shadows of the forgotten years still loomed. You spent more time in the library, a room Baelor had stocked with the books you supposedly loved, though many felt like first-time reads to you.
One rainy Tuesday, Baelor was sitting on the sofa across from you, ostensibly reading a brief, but his eyes kept drifting toward you. You were curled up in an oversized armchair with a worn copy of The Great Gatsby.
"You've read that one four times," Baelor remarked softly. "Or so you told me."
"It feels new," you murmured, turning a page.
You reached a passage you’d underlined—or rather, the you from before had underlined. The ink was a specific shade of teal. You read the words: "He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
Something in the margin caught your eye. A small, handwritten note in that same teal ink: Rainy Tuesday, 4:12 PM. He finally looked up from the phone. He actually saw me.
Your heart gave a violent, sudden kick against your ribs. The room seemed to tilt. The smell of the rain outside merged with a memory of expensive cologne and the scent of old paper.
You were sitting in a different library—the one in the penthouse. It was raining just like this. Baelor was at his desk, his brow furrowed over a tablet. You had been reading this exact book, feeling that familiar, hollow ache of being second to his work. You had sighed, a small, frustrated sound, and for the first time in weeks, he hadn't just hummed an acknowledgment. He had set the tablet down. He had walked over, knelt by your chair, and kissed the palm of your hand.
"I see you," he had whispered into your skin. "I'm sorry I make it so hard to believe that."
The memory hit you with the force of a physical blow. You gasped, the book slipping from your fingers and thudding onto the rug.
"What is it?" Baelor was on his feet instantly, his face pale with alarm. "Are you having a dizzy spell? Do I need to call—"
"No," you breathed, staring at him. You weren't seeing the man in the linen shirt. You were seeing the man at the desk, the one who had finally looked up. "The teal ink. I remember the teal ink."
Baelor froze. "You... you remember?"
"I remember that day," you said, your voice trembling. "I remember feeling so lonely, and then you... you apologized. You said you were sorry you made it hard to believe you saw me."
Baelor’s eyes filled with a sudden, shimmering brilliance. He didn't move, as if afraid that any sudden motion would shatter the moment. "That was three years ago. The first time I almost lost the Blackwood merger because I chose to spend the afternoon in the library with you instead of on the conference call."
You looked down at your hands, then back at him. It wasn't a complete restoration—the years were still mostly a blur—but that one moment was vivid, a colorful thread pulled from a grey tapestry. It was the first time you remembered loving him, not just being told that you did.
"You really did try, didn't you?" you asked softly. "Even back then. You were just... bad at it."
Baelor let out a shaky, relieved laugh, stepping closer and sinking onto the ottoman at your feet. "I was terrible at it. I thought providing the world for you was the same thing as being in it with you."
He reached out, hesitant, until you took his hand. For the first time, your fingers intertwined not out of necessity or caretaking, but out of a shared, rediscovered history.
"Don't go back to the work tomorrow," you said, your voice stronger now.
"I wasn't planning on it," Baelor replied, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. "I have a lot more books to help you read."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You rebuilt your marriage in the quiet unscripted corners of the day.
Baelor began to strip away the armor of his status. One morning, you walked into the kitchen to find him struggling with a box of pancake mix, flour dusted across his dark hair. He looked utterly defeated by a non-stick pan.
"You usually have a chef for this," you pointed out, leaning against the doorframe with a growing smile.
"The chef didn't marry you," Baelor grunted, flipping a pancake that was more of a scrambled mess than a circle. He looked at you, and the sheer earnestness in his eyes made your chest ache. "I want to be the one who does the small things. I want to be the one you wake up to, not just the man you see in the papers."
You walked over, taking the spatula from his hand. "Wait for the bubbles." As you stood together over the stove, the proximity felt natural—a muscle memory of the heart. You found yourself leaning into him, and he didn't pull away; he rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Weeks later, the rebuilding moved to the garden. You had expressed a vague interest in planting herbs, a detail you'd mentioned only once. The next day, a truck arrived with mounds of soil and cedar planks.
"I'm not letting a landscaping crew do this," Baelor said, already rolling up his sleeves. For three days, he labored in the sun, digging and hammering. He was sore, his hands calloused in a way a man of his status’ hands never should be, but when he presented the finished planters to you, he looked more proud than he ever had after closing a multi-billion dollar deal.
"It’s not perfect," he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It's better than perfect," you replied, looking at the lopsided corner he’d spent two hours trying to level. "It's ours."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The most significant shift, however, came on a night when the power went out during a summer storm. The Heights was plunged into a soft, velvety darkness. Instead of frantically calling the utility company or checking his backup generators, Baelor lit candles and sat with you on the floor of the living room.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," you challenged, the candlelight flickering in his dark eyes. "Something that isn't in a biography."
He was silent for a long time, the rain drumming a steady rhythm on the roof. "I used to be terrified of the dark," he confessed in a low voice. "When I was a boy, my father told me a Targaryen shouldn't fear anything. So I would stay up all night with a single matchbook, striking them one by one just to keep the shadows at bay."
You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw. "And now?"
"Now," he said, taking your hand and pressing it to his heart, "I think I was just waiting for someone to sit in the dark with me. I don't need the matches anymore."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Over the years, those early days of recovery didn't fade; they became the bedrock of your shared language. The legend returned to the city, but Baelor kept the Heights as a sanctuary where he was merely a man who loved a woman.
The pancake disaster of that first summer became a permanent fixture in your lives. Every year on the anniversary of your "first date" at the pier, Baelor insisted on making breakfast. By year five, he had mastered the technique, but he still intentionally "accidentally" scrambled the first one, placing a charred, amorphous blob onto your plate with a straight face.
"Wait for the bubbles, Prince," you would tease, leaning over his shoulder just as you had that first morning.
"I’m a slow learner," he’d reply, his voice low and rich with a satisfaction no merger could provide. "But I have a very patient teacher."
Even the lopsided garden boxes became a hallowed site. When a professional gardener suggested replacing them with stone tiers during a renovation, Baelor had shut the idea down with a terrifying coldness.
"Those boards stay," he had said firmly. To the world, they were decaying cedar; to him, they were the first thing he had ever built with his own two hands that truly mattered. Sometimes, you would find him sitting on the edge of the lopsided corner, staring at the mint and rosemary, his thumb tracing the uneven grain of the wood.
"Is the board meeting getting to you?" you asked him one evening, a decade after the accident, as you joined him in the garden.
Baelor pulled you into his side, his arm heavy and warm. "No. I was just thinking that this corner is still exactly two degrees off-center. Just like me."
"It's my favorite part of the garden," you whispered.
He kissed the top of your head, the scent of the rain and herbs surrounding you both. "It's the only part that's actually ours."
