SUMMARY - Having met as children and reuniting once you've grown into a woman, Aerion's previous suspicion of you grows into the softest spot imaginable.
CONTAINS - pure fluff, reader is extremely kind, aerion is only kind to reader, classic sunshine x grumpy
A/N - i personally couldn't stop giggling while writing the "pastry" scene. Ughh i need him
The blazing sun over Summerhall was unforgiving, but it did nothing to melt the sour disposition of Prince Aerion.
At barely ten name days old, the boy was already terror embodied. He sat on a smooth rock by the edge of the river, a fishing rod held tight in his small, tense hands.
His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.
“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.
Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.
Instead, he saw you.
You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.
While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.
You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.
“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”
“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.
You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”
“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.
But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”
Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.
You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.
The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.
Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.
“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”
Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.
Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.
But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”
Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.
“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”
“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.
Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.
Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.
Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.
From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.
To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.
He waited for you to finally lose your cool.
But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.
You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.
A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.
“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”
You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.
An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.
Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.
“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”
“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.
Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.
“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”
You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.
“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”
He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.
“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”
“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”
The room went silent before you spoke again.
“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”
The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.
A breathless laugh escaped him.
“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.
He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”
“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.
He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”
“Of course,” you smiled.
As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.
Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.
The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.
You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.
“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”
“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”
“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”
“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.
The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.
Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.
Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.
“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.
“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.
“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.
Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.
You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”
“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.
That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.
During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.
He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.
“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.
Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.
“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”
His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.
The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.
Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.
Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.
A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.
You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.
Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.
“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.
“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”
Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.
Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.
Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.
You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.
Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.
However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.
The feast was deafeningly loud.
You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.
Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.
He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.
Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.
But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.
He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.
“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”
“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”
Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.
His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.
The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.
You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”
Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”
Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.
“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”
“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.
A faint smile broke across his face. “Watch me,” he repeated, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Now hold still and let me fix it.”
Preview, Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
"Say it again," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "Please. Say it again."
She looked at him. Her eyes were searching his face, her gaze moving between his
eyes, his lips, his eyes again. He could see the love in them, raw and unguarded.
"I love you," she said slowly. "Aerion Targaryen. More than I know what to do with."
He exhaled. A shaky, unsteady breath that seemed to carry the weight of everything he had been holding in.
"I'm trying so damn hard to be patient," he said, his voice cracking. "To go slow with you. But you- " He shook his head. " The way you look at me. It makes it so hard to be patient."
He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against hers. His grip on her face was tight, almost desperate.
"You have to stop testing me like this," he whispered.
Warnings: ANGST, criminal! Aerion x peoples princess!Reader, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic relationship, Fake dating, Modern AU, Violence, suggestiveness, political corruption, Manipulation, semi-slow burn, cheating (not Aerion or reader dw), infidelity accusations, insecurity, Aerion Targaryen (he’s his own warning), Streamer!Raymund
Modern Aerion! x Celebrity! Reader
WC: 6K
"What are you doing here?" she said. Her voice was flat. Tired. The words of someone who had already said goodbye.
"I needed to see you."
She rolled her eyes. A small, dismissive movement that said more than words ever could. "That's not an answer."
She started to close the door.
He moved before he could think. His foot slipped between the door and the frame, stopping it just before it could close completely. The wood pressed against his shoe, and he felt the pressure of her trying to push it shut. She was strong, but he was stronger.
She looked at him. Her eyes were hard.
"Aerion-"
"Forgive me for this."
He pushed the door open. It swung wide, and he stepped inside. She stumbled back, caught off guard, her eyes wide with shock. He closed the door behind him.
The click of the lock echoed in the silence.
She stared at him. He stared back. The only sound was the rain against the windows and the steady drip of water from his jacket onto the floor.
He was soaked. His hair was plastered to his forehead, dark strands clinging to his skin. His shirt was translucent with water, pressing against the hard lines of his chest, the curve of his shoulders, the defined planes of his stomach. His jacket was heavy, dripping water that pooled at his feet. His jaw was sharp, his eyes burning, his lips slightly parted.
She tried to keep her focus. She tried to remember why she was angry, why she had pushed him away, why she had tried to close the door in his face.
She tried to forget the way the rain made him look untouchable. The way the water traced the lines of his arms, the way his breath came steady and deep despite everything. The way he filled her doorway, her apartment, her entire field of vision.
She forced herself to look away. She forced herself to remember why she couldn't let him in.
"Don't do anything you can't undo," she said. Her voice was steadier than she expected. But her hands were trembling. She tucked them into the sleeves of her sweater to hide it.
He held her gaze. His eyes were dark, his face pale. He was dripping water onto her floor, and he didn't seem to care.
"I don't think things can get any worse than they are now," he said.
He stepped closer. The water from his jacket pooled on the floor between them. He didn't notice. He was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.
She could see the exhaustion in his face now. The dark circles under his eyes. The tight set of his jaw. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He looked like he had been running for hours.
And still, he was looking at her.
"I came here to tell you the truth," he said. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "So let me tell it."
She opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to stop him. She wanted to tell him to leave. She wanted to protect him from what was coming.
But he had locked the door. And she was tired. And she didn't want to fight anymore.
She nodded. Just once. A small, almost imperceptible movement.
She turned away from him, her shoulders hunched, her hand coming up to brush at her face as if she could hide it. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, her nose slightly pink. She had been crying for a long time. Maybe all night.
The sight of it hit him like a physical blow.
He stepped closer. She stepped back, instinctively, her back hitting the wall behind her. She didn't have anywhere else to go.
He raised his hand to her face. His palm was cold from the rain, but his touch was gentle. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped before she could stop it. She flinched at the contact, but she didn't pull away.
"You've been crying." he said. His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
She looked away. "It's nothing."
He opened his mouth to respond. Closed it. His hand was still on her face, and she could feel the slight tremor in his fingers. He was struggling. She could see it in the way his jaw worked, the way his eyes searched her face for something, permission maybe. Or forgiveness.
"I don't-" He stopped. His throat moved as he swallowed. "I don't know how to do this."
She blinked. "Do what?"
"This." He gestured vaguely between them with his free hand.
"Talk. Explain. Say the things I should have said weeks ago." He laughed, short and sharp, but there was no humor in it.
"I've never been good at this. I've never had to be. I just-" He stopped again. His jaw tightened. "I've spent my whole life making sure no one got close enough to need explanations. And now I'm standing here, dripping water on your floor, trying to find words I don't have."
She stared at him. She had never seen him like this. She had seen him angry, cold, dismissive. She had seen him vulnerable in flashes, brief moments that he quickly covered up. But this, this was different. This was him fighting through it. Him forcing himself to stay in the room, even when every instinct was telling him to run.
"Aerion," she said softly.
He shook his head. "I need to say this. I need to-" He stopped. His hand dropped from her face, and he turned away from her. He stood there for a moment, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched at his sides. The water was still dripping from his jacket, pooling at his feet. He didn't seem to notice.
She watched him. She didn't speak. She didn't move.
When he turned back to her, his face was raw in a way she had rarely seen. He looked tired. Exhausted. Like he had been fighting this battle for longer than he wanted to admit.
"I don't know what you're thinking," he said. His voice was quieter now, rougher. "I don't know if you hate me or if you're just- " He stopped. His jaw worked.
"I don't know if there's anything left to save. But I need you to know that I'm sorry. For everything I did. For everything I didn't do. For the way I made you feel like you were the problem when the problem was always me."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.
"Let me finish." His voice cracked, just slightly, on the last word. He cleared his throat. "I let you walk away because I was scared. I let you push me away because I thought you were better off without me. And maybe you are. Maybe I'm not the person you deserve. Maybe I'll never be that person." He paused.
His eyes met hers. "But I can't pretend I don't care about you. I can't pretend this doesn't matter. I can't-" He stopped again. His jaw was so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "I can't let you go without telling you the truth. All of it."
He dropped his gaze. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. The only sound was the rain against the windows and the steady drip of water from his jacket.
She looked at him. At the effort it was taking him to stay in this room. At the way he was forcing himself to speak even when every instinct was telling him to shut down. At the rawness of his face, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands were still trembling at his sides.
Something in her chest shifted.
"Okay," she said softly. "Say whatever you need to say."
He looked up. His eyes met hers, and she saw the relief in them. The gratitude. The fear.
Three years ago.
The car moved through the city like a shadow, sleek and silent, its black exterior absorbing the streetlights rather than reflecting them. The interior was a study in quiet luxury; rich wood paneling inlaid along the doors, soft leather seats that seemed to cradle whoever sat in them, polished chrome accents catching the faint glow of the dashboard lights. The air smelled of expensive cologne and the faint, clean scent of money.
A man sat in the back seat, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. His suit was immaculate: dark, tailored, the kind that cost more than most people made in a year.
His hair was perfectly styled, his jaw clean-shaven, his hands resting loosely on the tablet in his lap. He looked like a man who had everything he wanted and was bored by the fact.
Across from him sat his secretary. His suit was also expensive, though slightly less flashy, a subtle distinction that spoke volumes about the hierarchy between them. He held a leather portfolio in his lap, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on his employer with the careful attention of someone who knew better than to look away.
The man scrolled through his tablet with lazy, unhurried movements. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he read, his thumb flicking across the glass with practiced ease.
He stopped on a headline.
"UNIDENTIFIED MAN KILLED IN SUMMERHALL SECURITY INCIDENT."
The article beneath it was brief but damning:
"A man, whose identity has not yet been released, was shot and killed late last night at Summerhall, the ancestral estate of House Targaryen. Sources confirm the man was not a member of the household staff nor a known associate of the family. He was discovered in a restricted area of the estate and shot by security personnel. The investigation is ongoing, and the Targaryens security detail, The King's Guard, has declined to comment on the specifics of the incident. Questions are already being raised about the nature of the man's presence at Summerhall and the circumstances surrounding his death."
He scrolled to the next article.
"AERION TARGARYEN SENT TO LYS AMID SUMMERHALL MYSTERY."
The article detailed Aerion's sudden departure:
"Aerion Targaryen, the second son of Prince Maekar, has been sent to Lys on what sources describe as 'an extended business trip.' The timing of his departure, coming just hours after the Summerhall security incident, has raised eyebrows across the realm. Aerion has long been a controversial figure; known for his explosive temper, his history of violent outbursts, and his open contempt for the press. Critics have pointed to Incident 203, as well as incidents in which Aerion was accused of assaulting a reporter, as evidence of pattern behavior. The family has remained silent on the matter, and speculation is mounting that Aerion may have been involved in the Summerhall shooting. Neither the Targaryen family nor the King's Guard has issued a formal statement regarding his departure or the incident itself, which has left many to question his involvement in the shooting."
The man read both articles slowly, his lips curving into a smile. He set the tablet down and looked out the window.
"Fools," he murmured. "They have no idea."
Tymond,the secretary, glanced up from the leather portfolio in his lap.
"Sir?"
The man gestured at the tablet. "The Targaryens. They think they've buried the Summerhall incident. They think sending Aerion to Lys will make it all go away." He laughed softly. "They have no idea who they're dealing with."
Tymond hesitated. His grip on the portfolio tightened slightly. "It's a shame about the journalist," he said carefully. "He had a wife. Children, I believe."
The man's smile did not fade. If anything, it sharpened.
"He was a loose end," he said. "Loose ends need to be cut off."
Tymond's expression flickered in a brief, barely perceptible shift that suggested he was not entirely comfortable with the sentiment. He knew better than to argue. He nodded once and looked down at his portfolio.
The man's smile faded, replaced by something more contemplative. He picked up his tablet again, scrolling back to the first article.
"Tymond," he said.
"Sir?"
"Does it not strike you as curious...how a journalist with no known connection to House Targaryen ended up at Summerhall?"
Tymond hesitated. "I assumed he was investigating them."
"He was," the man said. "But he wasn't investigating the Targaryens. Not at first."
Tymond looked up. "Sir?"
The man's smile returned. It was not a warm smile.
"He was investigating us."
Tymond's face went pale. "The journalist-"
"Ethan Storm." The man said the name slowly, as if tasting it. "He was getting close. Too close. I needed to eliminate him, and I needed to do it without leaving a trail."
Tymond swallowed. "How did he end up at Summerhall?"
The man's smile widened. "I sent him."
Tymond stared at him.
"I tipped him off," the man continued, his voice smooth and unhurried. "An anonymous message, carefully crafted. I told him there was something hidden at Summerhall...something the Targaryens didn't want anyone to find. I knew he would follow the lead. I knew he would walk straight into their trap."
"And the Targaryens, they-" Tymond was interrupted before he could finish:
"Did exactly what I expected." The man's eyes glittered with satisfaction. "They killed him. Aerion Targaryen, I assume, pulled the trigger and they buried the story. Now Aerion is in Lys, the Targaryens are scrambling, and no one is looking at us."
Tymond was silent for a long moment. His face was carefully neutral, but his hands were gripping the portfolio a little too tightly.
"You planned this," he said quietly.
The man leaned back in his seat, his expression calm. "I orchestrated it."
Tymond nodded slowly. He understood now. This was not just a man, this was a predator. And the Targaryens had been used as pawns in a game they didn't even know they were playing.
The man's smile faded, replaced by something more businesslike.
"And what about that Lysene fool, Lysandro Pendaerys?"
Tymond straightened. "The Magistor has collected the funds, sir. The full amount has been transferred to the accounts you designated."
"How much?"
"Eighteen million Golden Dragons. As you requested."
The man leaned back in his seat, a look of satisfaction settling across his features. "Excellent. The things people do for their children."
Tymond's jaw tightened. He knew what that meant. He knew the Magistor was being blackmailed; threats had been made against his family, against his children. He knew the man across from him had planned it all. He also knew better than to comment.
He kept his face neutral and said nothing.
The man returned to his tablet, his expression shifting from satisfaction to something more calculating. "And the charity event?"
"It's all arranged, sir. The press will be there. The mayor has confirmed attendance. Your speech has been prepared."
"Good." He set the tablet aside and adjusted his cuff. "I want the world to see how much I care about the orphans of Lys."
A pause.
"Of course, sir."
The car slowed. The man looked out the window and saw the lights of the venue ahead: a grand building, its entrance flanked by reporters and photographers. The flashes of cameras reflected off the wet pavement like scattered stars.
His demeanor shifted instantly. The cold, calculating expression melted away, replaced by a warm, charming smile. His shoulders relaxed. His eyes softened. He became someone else entirely, a public figure, a philanthropist, a prince of the people.
The car stopped.
The door opened.
He stepped out into the glare of the cameras, his smile wide, his posture open and inviting. A reporter called out to him.
"Prince Trystane! Prince Trystane, over here!"
He turned toward the voice, his smile unwavering.
"Prince Trystane, how are you feeling about tonight's event? You've done so much for the orphans of Lys. What inspired you to get involved?"
He paused, letting the moment stretch. The cameras flashed. The crowd waited.
He smiled, warm and genuine, and began to speak.
"Thank you. I've always believed that those of us who have been blessed with privilege have a responsibility to give back. The children of Lys deserve a future. They deserve hope. And I am honored to play a small part in giving that to them."
The reporter nodded eagerly, scribbling notes. The cameras flashed again.
Trystane Martell smiled for the cameras, his eyes bright, his expression unreadable.
And somewhere in the shadows, Tymond watched, his face carefully neutral.
He had learned a long time ago not to let his discomfort show.
The Present
"Three years ago," he began, "a journalist died at Summerhall."
She didn't move. She just watched him, her eyes fixed on his face.
He paused. His jaw tightened. He was already struggling, already fighting through the words.
"He wasn't supposed to die," he said. "I didn't mean to kill him."
She blinked. "Then what happened?"
He dragged a hand through his wet hair, water dripping from his fingers. "He was investigating something. I don't know what. He got too close to a restricted area. I confronted him. There was a struggle." He paused. His voice dropped lower. "I aimed for his leg. I wanted to stop him, not kill him. But he tripped. The shot hit something vital. He bled out before anyone could help him."
She was quiet for a moment. Her eyes were searching his face, looking for the lie. He let her look. He had nothing left to hide.
"Did anyone else know?" she asked.
"My father. Baelor. A few others." He laughed, a hollow sound. "They buried it. Made it look like an accident. Sent me to Lys to hide from the scandal."
She processed that. Her fingers were still wrapped around her own arms, her posture still guarded.
"Who was he?" she asked. "The journalist."
"I don't know his name. I never knew his name. He was just a man who got too close to something he shouldn't have."
She nodded slowly. "And you've carried that guilt for three years."
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked away, his jaw tight.
"I found out something else while I was in Lys," he said. "About the Magistor. Lysandro Pendaerys."
She tilted her head. "The Magistor?"
"He was embezzling funds. Millions of Golden Dragons, funneled into private accounts. I discovered it while I was there."
He continued. "I was sent there to negotiate an oil deal. My father wanted me to make myself useful while the scandal died down. I found out about the embezzlement. I thought- " He stopped momentarily as is weighing the words he was about to say next.
"I thought I could use it. I thought I could prove myself."
She blinked. "And how did you find out about the embezzled funds?"
"His daughter," he said. "Her name was Lysara." he turned away from her.
She blinked. "The Magistors daughter?"
"She discovered her father was embezzling funds," he said. "She was trying to expose him. She came to me, trusted me, confided in me." He paused. "I used her. I used her trust to get the documents I needed. I let her believe I cared about her."
She was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"Did you?" she asked hesitant, clearly fearing his reply. "Care about her?"
"No." He said it immediately, without hesitation. "I used her. I'm not proud of it. But I did what I had to do to survive."
She studied his face. "And the oil deal?"
"I used the documents to negotiate with the governor. I reduced the tax from twenty-two percent to four percent. I got what I needed, and I left as soon as it was over."
His tongue moved over is dry lips.
"I'm not proud of what I did," he said. "I know it was wrong. I know I used her. I know I manipulated her. But I was desperate. I was trapped. I needed that deal to secure my family's future,"
He looked at her now, his eyes locked with hers as he continued "and I before you ask.... no I don't regret it, I did what I had to in order to survive, and I'd do it again."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she stepped closer.
"Aerion," she said.
He looked up.
"I believe you."
He stared at her. His lips parted. He looked like he was trying to process what she had just said.
"You believe me?" he repeated.
"Yes." She held his gaze. "I believe you."
He exhaled. It was shaky, unsteady, like he had been holding his breath for three years and was only now allowing himself to let it go.
"I knew you would," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You knew?"
"You lied at the dinner," he said. "When you said the rumours about me were true. I knew you were lying."
She paused, slightly amused. "How could you possibly know that?"
He smiled. It was a small, almost shy smile, the kind she had never seen on his face before.
"You have a habit," he said. "When you lie-" He reached out and touched the tip of her nose gently. "Your nose scrunches. Just slightly. It's barely noticeable. But I noticed."
She stared at him. Her cheeks flushed. "You noticed that?"
He nodded. "I notice everything about you."
She was quiet for a moment. Her heart was pounding. He noticed. He noticed things about her that no one else noticed. He paid attention to her in a way that made her feel seen.
"You're the only one who's ever noticed that," she said softly.
He didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes dark, his gaze steady.
She looked at him. Her eyes moved from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes. Something shifted in her expression.
"I think I might love you," she said. "Aerion Targaryen."
The words hung in the air.
He stared at her. His lips parted. His heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears.
"Say it again," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "Please. Say it again."
She looked at him. Her eyes were searching his face, her gaze moving between his eyes, his lips, his eyes again. He could see the love in them, raw and unguarded.
"I love you," she said slowly. "Aerion Targaryen. More than I know what to do with."
He exhaled. A shaky, unsteady breath that seemed to carry the weight of everything he had been holding in.
"I'm trying so damn hard to be patient," he said, his voice cracking. "To go slow with you. But you- " He shook his head. "The way you look at me. It makes it so hard to be patient."
He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against hers. His grip on her face was tight, almost desperate.
"You have to stop testing me like this," he whispered.
She reached up and grabbed his collar. Her grip was firm, her eyes fierce.
"The least you can do after everything you've done to me," she said, "is kiss me."
He stared at her. His jaw tightened. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she deserved better than a frantic moment in her apartment. He wanted to be the man who could give her the romance she deserved.
She didn't give him a chance.
She pulled him down and kissed him.
It was fierce and desperate, a kiss that said more than words ever could. He was so shocked by her directness, he was so used to being the one in control, the one who made the first move, that he didn't react for a moment. He just stood there, frozen, his lips against hers.
Then he kissed her back.
She pushed him back onto the sofa. He fell onto the cushions, surprised, and she was on top of him, straddling his lap, her hands in his hair, her lips against his. He reached for her, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.
She broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Her face was flushed, her eyes dark.
"Don't you ever keep anything from me again," she said. "Do you understand?"
He nodded. "I understand."
"Good." She leaned in and kissed him again, softer this time. "Good."
"Fuck," he breathed against her lips. "I love you. You're so fucking perfect."
She smiled, a real smile, the first one he had seen all night and then he flipped them over, pressing her into the cushions.
"My turn," he said.
He kissed her. Hard. Passionate. The kind of kiss that felt like they were trying to press their very souls into each other. Their lips moved together like they were trying to fuse into one person, like they were terrified that if they stopped, the moment would shatter.
Clothes began to fall away in the heat of the moment. A jacket. A sweater. The world narrowed to just the two of them, the heat of their bodies, the urgency of their touch.
Then he stopped.
He pulled back, breathing heavily, his forehead pressed against hers.
"Wait," he said. His voice was rough, barely controlled. "We need to sort everything out first. Then we'll do this."
She blinked. Her eyes were still dark, still hungry. "Do you not want me?"
"Only the Seven know how badly I want you," his hoarse with the barely held back desire. "But I want to do this properly. I want to do this right."
She stared at him. She was still breathing heavily, her body still pressed against his.
"I've never met a woman like you," he said softly. "I've met plenty of women. Trust me, plenty. But none like you. None who looked at me like I was worth saving. None who saw me and didn't flinch."
She reached up and touched his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said. "I've never been afraid of you."
"I know," he said. "That's why I love you."
The apartment was quiet now, the only sounds the soft patter of rain against the windows and the distant hum of the city beyond. The intensity of the confession had faded into something softer, something more fragile. They had moved from the sofa to her bedroom, the weight of the evening pressing down on both of them.
She led the way, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor. He followed, his wet jacket discarded somewhere in the living room, his shirt still damp and clinging to his skin. He paused in the doorway, taking in the space.
Her room was warm, intimate in a way he hadn't expected. The walls were painted a soft cream, the furniture simple and elegant. A large bed dominated the centre of the room, its sheets rumpled from the night before.
There were books stacked on the nightstand, a half-empty glass of water, a small vase with a single dried flower. A delicate silver frame sat on her dresser, holding a photograph of a younger her, maybe sixteen or seventeen, her hair loose and her smile wide and unguarded, arms wrapped around a man who must have been her father. Lyonel looked younger too, his arm around her shoulders, both of them laughing at something off-camera.
Aerion's eyes lingered on the photograph for a moment longer than necessary. He had never seen her like that; so free, so unburdened. It made his chest ache.
She noticed him looking. "I was sixteen," she said softly. "Before everything got complicated."
He didn't respond. He just looked at her, his eyes dark.
She moved to her wardrobe and pulled out a blanket and a spare pillow, tossing them onto the floor beside her bed. "You can sleep here," she said. "The floor's not as comfortable as the bed, but it's better than the sofa."
He looked at the makeshift bed, then at her. "I'll take the floor."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're being a gentleman."
"I'm being practical. You need the bed more than I do."
She smiled. It was a small, tired smile, but it was real. "I didn't think you had it in you."
"Neither did I."
She climbed into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. He lowered himself onto the floor, the blanket rough against his palms, the pillow thin beneath his head. The ceiling was unfamiliar, the room unfamiliar, but the sound of her breathing was grounding.
The minutes stretched. The rain continued to fall. He stared at the ceiling, his body tense, his mind racing. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about everything she had said, everything he had revealed.
"You're like a restless dog down there," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. "What's wrong with you?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "Are you still going to marry Trystane?"
She sat up, leaning over the edge of the bed to look at him. Her hair fell forward, framing her face. "Aerion, I just kissed you. What makes you think I'm still marrying Trystane?"
"I don't know." He rolled onto his side to face her. "I just needed to be sure."
She studied his face. "Why wouldn't you be sure?"
He hesitated. He had already said too much. But he couldn't stop himself. "Because you had a history. Before me."
She blinked. "How do you know about that?"
He didn't answer. His jaw was tight.
"You've been doing research on me," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I wanted to know who I was dealing with," he said finally. "I needed to understand what I was walking into."
She stared at him. Her expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, she laughed.
"You're impossible," she said.
"I know."
She lay back down, her head still hanging over the edge of the bed, her eyes still fixed on him. "I used to think Trystane and I were aligned," she said. "We both cared about charity work. We both wanted to make a difference. He seemed genuine at first. Like he actually cared about the causes he supported."
He listened. He didn't interrupt.
"But then something happened," she continued. "I can't even tell you what it was. A moment where the mask slipped. A comment he made. A look in his eyes that didn't match the words coming out of his mouth."
She paused. Her voice dropped lower.
"After that, I couldn't unsee it. He felt hollow. Like everything he did was for show. Like he was performing, and I was just part of the audience."
He was quiet for a moment. He thought about himself; about all the things he had done, all the ways he had failed. He wasn't like Trystane. He was the opposite of the man she had described. He wasn't good. He wasn't kind. He wasn't genuine.
He didn't know why she was choosing him.
"I'm not the man you want," he said quietly. "I'm not the person you thought Trystane was."
She looked at him. Her eyes were soft, unflinching.
"I know," she said. "You're not him. And that's why I trust you."
He stared at her. Something in his chest shifted. He didn't know how to respond.
"I can tell by the way your eyes crinkle when you see your siblings laugh," she continued. "I can tell by the way you hesitated before kissing me...like you were afraid you'd hurt me. I can tell by the fact that you're sleeping on my floor instead of in my bed, even though I know you want to be there."
She paused. Her voice was softer now.
"You're not the same kind of good as Trystane. You're better."
He was quiet. He couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.
"About the earrings," she said softly, changing the subject. "I know they were your mother's."
He sat up slightly, turning to look at her. "How did you know?"
"The portrait," she said. "At Summerhall. She was wearing them in the painting."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand. She let him. He pressed a kiss to the back of it, his lips lingering against her skin.
"They were hers," he said. "She wore them every day. I took them after she died. I couldn't bear to look at them for years."
She watched him. She didn't interrupt.
"There's a tradition in my family," he continued, his voice rough. "The earrings are passed down. They're meant to be given to someone you want to marry."
Her eyes widened. "Aerion-"
"I didn't mean to give them to you the way I did," he said quickly. "I wasn't thinking. I just; I saw you in them, and I knew they belonged with you."
He laughed, a hollow sound. "I didn't even tell you what they meant. I just handed them to you like they were nothing. Like they were just a prop."
She stared at him. Her heart was pounding.
"Have you ever given them to anyone else?" she asked.
"No. Never. I've never even wanted to."
She was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers were still interlaced with his.
"Aerion," she said softly. "How long have you liked me?"
He stiffened. "That's-"
"Be honest."
He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced absent patterns on the back of her hand.
"Do you want me to be honest?" he asked.
"Always."
"Ever since our first dinner," he said quietly. "When you called me out for being late. When you smiled at me like you already saw through everything I was trying to hide. I knew then. I knew you were the one."
She stared at him. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted. "You've liked me this whole time?"
"Every single moment," he said. "Every single day."
He looked at her, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. "Now it's your turn. When did you start liking me?"
She blinked. "That's not fair."
"I just told you everything."
"I didn't ask you to."
He let out an exasperated laugh. "That's not an answer."
She smiled, a slow, teasing smile. "That's a secret."
"Seriously?"
"I'm not ready to tell you yet."
He stared at her. "You're impossible."
"I know." She pulled her hand back and settled deeper into her pillows. "It's late. We should sleep."
Aerion layed back down on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He could still feel the warmth of her hand in his, the ghost of her touch. He could still hear the echo of her voice saying you're better.
"Don't think I'll forget about this," he said quietly. "I'll ask you again in the morning."
She didn't answer. But he heard the soft, muffled sound of her smiling.
The rain continued to fall outside. The city hummed in the distance. And in her bedroom, on the floor beside her bed, Aerion Targaryen finally allowed himself to close his eyes.
For the first time in three years, he felt like he was home.
Notes:
GUYS PLEASE TELL ME YOU UNDERSTAND THE PLOT 😭😭😭
like Trystane set up the whole incident at summerhall with the journalist (which got Aerion banished) and he was also involved with the magister who Aerion caught embezzling funds (which Aerion used to negotiate the Lys Oil Trades from the OG 22% down to 4% which happens in the first scene of part 1).
Also I think this ending sets up well for the next pt which will probably be the ending
.ೃ࿔*:･ pairings: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dragonrider Reader | Flirty Valarr Targaryen x Fem!Reader
.ೃ࿔*:･ chapter 5/?
Chapter Index
.ೃ࿔*:･ wc: 8.4k
.ೃ࿔*:･ warnings/tags: enemies to lovers (if you squint), targaryen dragonriders, original dragon lore, original noble house, power imbalance, angst, eventual romance, slight mischaracterization, violence, political intrigue, fluff, reader has fixed appearance (hair colour and eyes), romantic themes, animal death/gore, animal hunting, slight jealousy, valarr is one sexy man who likes to flirt
.ೃ࿔*:･ an: enjoy this chapter with lotssss of Valarr Targaryen ;) also the last chapter was from before my trip to London (last week) soo wooo u guys get another chapter quick!!
The mountain had no sunrise of its own. Light did not flood its halls so much as creep through them, filtering down from great openings carved into the stone high above until the black basalt glimmered with streaks of gold. The warmth that never truly left the mountain softened the chill carried in from the forests beyond, and before long the castle was alive with servants, guards and visiting nobles making their way towards the Great Courtyard.
The feast had ended only hours before, yet no one appeared eager for rest.
Word had spread too quickly.
House Vezarion had planned another spectacle.
You joined your family beneath one of the towering basalt arches overlooking the courtyard below. Every great house represented at the feast had gathered there, colourful banners standing in sharp contrast against the mountain's dark stone.
Your father stepped forward first.
Conversation dwindled until only the distant cry of a dragon echoed through the mountain.
"I trust you all found Mount Vezrith... accommodating."
A ripple of polite laughter answered him.
"We Vezarions have never believed that a feast alone tells a man who sits across from him. Wine loosens tongues. The hunt reveals character."
Several lords nodded in agreement.
"So today," your father continued, "we hunt."
At a gesture from him, four household guards rolled forward an immense goblet fashioned entirely from polished obsidian. It stood almost to a man's waist, its surface carved with twisting dragons whose scales caught the morning light.
A murmur travelled through the assembled guests.Your younger brother leaned towards you.
"I almost forgot about the goblet."
"You forgot because you never pay attention."
"I pay attention when things are interesting."
"You find very little interesting."
"I find myself fascinating."
You looked at him.
"I know."
He grinned shamelessly
.Your father continued as though the interruption had never happened.
"Within this vessel are the names of every hunter who has agreed to participate."
A steward lifted the lid. Inside lay dozens of tightly rolled strips of parchment, each sealed with dark wax.
"The draw will decide your hunting companion."
Another murmur. This one louder. Some looked pleased. Others considerably less so.
"No pair shall consist of members of the same house," your father said. "Nor shall husband and wife ride together."
That earned a few smiles.
"Each pair will hunt until the twelfth bell of the night."
He allowed the words to settle before continuing.
"The pair returning with the greatest quarry shall each receive five hundred gold dragons."
Your youngest brother let out a low whistle.
"And..."
Your father's voice carried easily across the courtyard.
"The victorious pair shall earn something coin cannot purchase."
Now everyone listened.
"A guided passage into the Vein Vaults."
Silence.
Real silence.
Even those who had spent the previous evening pretending not to care about Vezarion history suddenly found themselves very interested indeed.
The Vein Vaults.
Every noble in Westeros had heard whispers. Ancient dragon eggs that had never hatched. Relics older than the Conquest.
Weapons forged in volcanic fire.
Blood records carved into black stone.
Almost no outsider had ever crossed their threshold.
The courtyard buzzed with conversation.
Prince Baelor exchanged a thoughtful glance with his brother.
Maekar merely folded his arms.
Your mother watched the reactions with quiet satisfaction.
Exactly as she had expected.
Your father rested one hand upon the obsidian goblet.
"Prince Baelor."
Baelor stepped forward first without hesitation. He reached inside, the parchments shifting softly beneath his hand before he withdrew one.
Breaking the wax seal, he read the name and smiled.
"Ser Humfrey Hardyng."
A ripple of amusement passed through the gathering.
"An honour, my prince," Ser Humfrey replied with an inclination of his head.
One by one the draw continued.
Lords.
Ladies.
Princes.
Knights.
Names were called, met with approval, disappointment or laughter in equal measure.
Your younger brother was paired with Ser Lyonel Baratheon.
"Gods preserve him," Khaerys muttered under his breath.
"I heard that," Lyonel called back with a grin.
"I wanted you to."
Even your older brother allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Then—
"Lady Y/n Vezarion."
Your father looked towards you.
You stepped forward, the courtyard strangely quiet as every eye followed.
Reaching into the great obsidian goblet, your fingers brushed against cool parchment before selecting one.
You broke the seal.
"Prince Valarr Targaryen."
There was a polite murmur throughout the courtyard.
Valarr stepped forward almost at once, smiling as though fortune had smiled especially kindly upon him.
"My lady."
"My prince."
"I believe the mountain has already favoured me once," he said warmly. "Now it appears it has done so again."
"You may wish to wait until we've returned before deciding that."
"I admire optimism."
"I call it caution."
"Then perhaps we'll balance one another."
Before you could answer, you felt it.
Not a touch.
A stare.
Across the courtyard, Aerion stood beside his horse, one gloved hand resting upon the pommel of his saddle.
His expression had not changed. Anyone looking at him would have seen only another Targaryen prince awaiting his own turn.
But you noticed his eyes. They were not on the goblet. Nor upon your father. They rested on Valarr.
Only Valarr.
Prince Maekar's voice carried across the courtyard.
"Aerion."
Without taking his eyes from his cousin, Aerion stepped forward. He reached into the goblet almost absently, withdrew a parchment and broke its seal.
"Lady Lynesse Hightower."
He folded the parchment once before handing it back to the steward.
Lady Lynesse approached with an easy smile. "My prince."
Aerion inclined his head courteously.
"My lady."
Nothing in his manner suggested displeasure. Nothing at all. Yet as the draw came to its close and the hunters dispersed to ready their horses, his gaze found yours only once. It lingered for scarcely a heartbeat. Then shifted, once more, to Valarr walking at your side.
Whatever had begun in the Dragon Galleries had not been forgotten.
It had merely acquired a rival.
—
The preparations began before the sun had fully risen.
Mount Vezrith was never a quiet place, but there was a particular energy to the castle that morning. Servants moved through the halls carrying provisions, armourers checked blades and bowstrings, and stablehands prepared horses brought by both House Vezarion and their honoured guests.
The mountain watched it all.
It always did.
You stood within the lower courtyard while your horse was readied, fastening the final clasp of your riding cloak as the morning wind swept down from the slopes beyond the castle walls. Unlike the delicate silks worn the previous evening, your clothing was practical. A fitted leather riding coat over a pale tunic, riding trousers rather than skirts, and boots made for uneven ground rather than polished floors.
The Vezarion way.
Your mother had always said that beauty had its place, but a noble who could not survive outside their own halls was nothing more than decoration.
"You look disappointed."
You turned at the sound of your brother's voice.
Caelor stood beside you, already mounted, his expression as unreadable as ever. He wore dark riding leathers, his sword resting comfortably at his hip. Unlike Khaerys, who looked as though he had been waiting all his life for the chance to impress every person watching him, Caelor appeared as though he had simply accepted another responsibility.
"I am not disappointed."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are terrible at lying."
You glanced at him. "You have spent years telling me I speak too freely. Now you are complaining that I am not honest enough?"
"The two are not connected."
"They seem very connected."
A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth but disappeared almost immediately.
"You know what I mean."
You did.
Caelor had always been like that. He rarely said exactly what he felt, but he expected those closest to him to understand anyway.
"You worry too much," you told him.
"And you do not worry enough."
"I have Vezaryn."
"That is precisely why you do not worry enough."
You looked away, hiding the small smile that threatened to appear.
"You make it sound as though having the oldest dragon alive is an inconvenience."
"Not an inconvenience."
Caelor adjusted his reins.
"A burden."
The words were not cruel. That was what made them harder to dismiss. Before you could answer, a loud voice interrupted from behind.
"Are you two discussing responsibility again?"
Khaerys approached on horseback, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had not even entered the forest yet.
"Gods, you both make hunting sound like a funeral."
"It is not a game," Caelor replied.
"It is literally a hunt."
"It is a contest arranged between noble houses."
"Which is a fancy way of saying a game."
Caelor gave him a look.
Khaerys grinned. "You see? This is why nobody invites you to anything enjoyable."
"You are standing in a courtyard full of invited nobles."
"And yet I feel your judgement from across the realm."
You shook your head. The two of them had argued since childhood. Sometimes it was exhausting. Sometimes it was the only proof that everything was still normal.
—
The hunters gathered near the great gates of Mount Vezrith shortly after.
Your father stood at the front, speaking with the visiting lords while your mother observed from beneath the shadow of the stone archway.
She looked every inch the woman the realm had named the Silver Rose.
Calm. Elegant. Dangerously intelligent.
Her eyes found yours almost immediately. Not your clothing. Not your weapons.
You.
A silent reminder.
Be careful.
You gave the smallest nod.
She understood.
Your attention shifted as the Targaryens approached. Prince Baelor rode first, as expected. There was a steadiness to him that made people naturally follow. He was not the loudest man in the courtyard, nor the most intimidating, but somehow attention always seemed to find him.
Behind him came Prince Maekar, stern and silent.
Then Valarr.
And finally Aerion.
You noticed him before you meant to. That irritated you more than you cared to admit. He looked different away from the court. Less like a prince being observed. More like a man preparing for something.
His armour was simple compared to what some nobles might have worn for display. He did not seem interested in impressing anyone.
Except perhaps himself.
His gaze moved over the assembled hunters before briefly meeting yours.
Only briefly. Then he looked away.
Valarr noticed.
You knew he did.
Perhaps not the reason.
But enough.
"My lady."
You turned as Valarr approached.
"Ready to discover whether the mountain favours us?"
"You sound confident."
"I am."
"That may prove your downfall."
"Or my greatest advantage."
You smiled slightly. "You are very certain of yourself."
"Not always."
That answer surprised you.
Valarr rested a hand against his horse's reins. "But I have found that uncertainty rarely impresses anyone."
"Is that what you are trying to do?"
"Impress you?" He smiled. "Perhaps."
The answer was so direct that it almost made you laugh.
"At least you are honest."
"I find it saves time."
Before you could reply, another voice joined the conversation.
"Valarr."
Aerion.
The single word was enough. Not angry. Not even particularly sharp. But Valarr looked over immediately.
"Cousin."
Aerion's expression remained composed.
"The hunt begins soon."
"So it does."
Valarr looked back to you. "I should let you prepare. It would be poor manners to leave my partner waiting before the hunt has even begun."
He offered you a slight bow before returning to his horse.
You watched him leave. Only for a moment. But apparently long enough. Because when you turned back, Aerion was watching you.
"You do not seem pleased," you said.
"I am perfectly pleased."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"You are a terrible liar."
Something almost like amusement crossed his face.
"Your family says that often."
"They are usually right."
"That must be inconvenient."
"Only for people who prefer I believe their lies."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Aerion looked towards the forest.
"You and Valarr."
There was something strange about the way he said his cousin's name. Not accusation. Not quite.
"You mean the hunt?" you asked.
"No."
His gaze moved briefly towards his cousin.
"I mean Valarr."
His eyes returned to yours. "He seems interested."
You raised an eyebrow. "And that concerns you?"
"It does not."
The answer came too quickly.
You smiled. "I did not ask if it did."
Aerion looked away. A small victory.
You decided not to mention it. Not yet at least.
The sound of horses shifting beneath their riders filled the courtyard as the final hunters prepared to depart. Servants moved between them carrying waterskins, bows and supplies, while the last of the guards checked the gates leading out beyond the mountain walls.
The forest surrounding Mount Vezrith stretched for miles, thick with ancient trees and broken stone. It was not the kind of land where a careless hunter lasted long. The ground was uneven, the paths were old, and the mountain had shaped everything around it.
Even the forest seemed to belong to the dragons.
Valarr returned as you adjusted the strap of your bow.
"My lady."
You glanced towards him.
"My prince."
He smiled slightly.
"I have been informed that you are a difficult person to impress."
"Who informed you of that?"
"Your brother."
You looked towards Khaerys immediately. "He said that?"
Valarr followed your gaze. "He also said you once challenged a man twice your size because he insulted your family."
You looked back at him. "That sounds like something Khaerys would say."
"It does."
"And?"
"And I thought it was probably true."
You narrowed your eyes. "Are you saying I am predictable?"
"No."
Valarr mounted his horse. "I am saying you seem exactly like the sort of person who would do something reckless for a reason you believe is entirely justified."
You considered that.
"That is a surprisingly accurate description."
"I thought so."
There was an ease to Valarr that was difficult to dislike. He did not try to overpower conversation. He did not speak as though every word had been placed carefully for political advantage. He laughed easily, listened when others spoke, and carried himself with the confidence of a man who had never needed to convince anyone of his worth.
It was different from Aerion.
Very different.
Aerion seemed to enter every room as though he were daring the world to question him. Valarr entered as though the world was already welcome to stand beside him.
Perhaps that was why so many people liked him. Perhaps that was why you found yourself enjoying his company.
A horn sounded from the gate.
The hunt was beginning.
You looked ahead as the great doors slowly opened.
"Ready?"
Valarr nodded. "More than ready."
"That confidence again."
"It has served me well."
"So far."
He laughed. A real laugh. Not the careful kind nobles used when they wished to appear amused. The kind that escaped before thought could stop it.
You found yourself smiling.
Then you noticed Aerion.
He sat mounted several yards away, Lady Lynesse Hightower beside him. She was speaking to him politely, and he appeared to be listening, but his attention had drifted elsewhere.
To you.
Only for a moment.
But long enough.
When your eyes met, he looked away first. That surprised you more than anything.
—
The hunters rode out beneath the shadow of Mount Vezrith.
The further you travelled from the castle, the quieter the world became. The distant sounds of servants and courtiers disappeared, replaced by the sounds of the forest itself. Leaves shifting. Hooves against earth. The occasional call of birds hidden among the trees.
Valarr rode beside you comfortably, never too close, never too far.
"You know," he said after some time, "I had expected this place to be intimidating."
You glanced towards him. "Mount Vezrith?"
"The entire thing."
He looked back towards the towering black mountain behind you.
"A castle carved into a volcano. Dragons older than kingdoms. A family that speaks to beasts as though they are old friends."
"You say that as if it is unusual."
"It is unusual."
"Perhaps only because most houses do not bother trying."
Valarr smiled. "I suppose that is true."
A silence settled between you, though unlike the one you shared with Aerion, it was not filled with questions. It was comfortable.
"You are different from what I expected as well," Valarr admitted.
You looked at him. "Another Targaryen saying that?"
"Another person."
"Better answer."
"I thought so."
You shook your head. "You are very good at that."
"At what?"
"Making people like you."
Valarr considered the accusation. "I do not think that is a bad thing."
"No. It is not."
"But?"
"But I wonder what happens when someone does not."
His smile faded slightly. Not completely. Just enough.
"Then I suppose I find out who they truly are."
That answer caught you off guard. For a moment, you understood why people trusted him.
—
Several miles away, Aerion sat quietly beside Lady Lynesse as their horses moved through the trees.
She was polite.
Beautiful.
Well spoken.
Everything a prince might be expected to appreciate. And yet his mind was elsewhere. He hated that. He hated that a language spoken in a dark cavern beneath a mountain had remained with him. He hated that the memory of Vezaryn's gaze had remained with him even more.
But most of all, he hated that when he thought of the Dragon Galleries, he did not only see the dragon. He saw you.
"My prince?"
Aerion looked towards Lady Lynesse. "My apologies."
"You seemed distracted."
"I was thinking."
"About the hunt?"
A lesser man might have lied. Aerion did not.
"No."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
He looked forward. "Dragons."
It was the simplest answer. The truest one.
Lady Lynesse smiled faintly. "Of course."
There was no mockery in it. No judgement. Only understanding.
Aerion appreciated that. Even if he did not say so.
—
The forest had changed as the day wore on.
The morning mist that had clung to the roots of the ancient trees had long since vanished, replaced by a thin grey sky that hung low over the Crownlands. It was not cold enough for snow, but the wind carried a sharpness that slipped beneath cloaks and settled into the bones.
The trees around Mount Vezrith were older than most men realised. Some had grown crooked from the heat that escaped the mountain. Others had twisted around black stone that had once been thrown from the volcano centuries before. The land itself felt caught between two worlds—part forest, part something far older and more dangerous.
You found yourself enjoying it.
Away from the feast.
Away from lords measuring every word.
Away from people wondering whether House Vezarion was a curiosity or a threat.
Here, there was only the hunt. And the person riding beside you.
Valarr had been quiet for the last several minutes, though not uncomfortably so. He was not like many noblemen you had met. Most men either spoke too much in an attempt to impress you or not enough because they were afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Valarr seemed content simply to exist beside you.
Eventually, he broke the silence.
"Do you always hunt like this?"
You glanced towards him. "Like what?"
"As though you are actually hunting."
You looked down at your bow resting across your saddle. "Should I not be?"
He smiled. "No, I suppose you should. But most noble ladies I have met prefer to stand at the edge of the forest, admire the scenery, and return before their boots become dirty."
"And what do you prefer?"
Valarr looked ahead through the trees. "I prefer people who do not pretend to be something they are not."
You studied him for a moment. "That sounds almost like a compliment."
"It was."
"Almost?"
He laughed quietly. "You make it difficult to flatter you."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yes."
You adjusted your reins as your horse stepped over a fallen branch. "Flattery is usually just another form of lying."
Valarr looked amused. "You truly believe that?"
"I know that."
"Then what would you prefer?"
The question was simple, but you noticed he was not asking it casually. He wanted the answer.
You looked towards the forest ahead. "Honesty."
"Even when it is unpleasant?"
"Especially then."
Valarr nodded slowly. "I think I understand."
"Do you?"
"I think so."
He looked at you. "Most people want honesty until it is given to them."
That earned a small smile from you. "That is a surprisingly wise thing to say for someone who spent half the feast charming every person in the room."
Valarr placed a hand against his chest in mock offence. "Is that how you see me?"
"Should I not?"
"No. I had hoped for something kinder."
"You are disappointed?"
"Only slightly."
You looked away to hide your amusement. "You are fortunate you are charming."
"So I have been told."
"By yourself, I assume."
"Mostly."
You laughed softly. And you hated that you did. Not because of him. Because it felt easy.
—
You both continued deeper into the forest. The hunting party had separated into smaller groups, each searching different sections of the land. The sounds of other riders had faded until only the two of you remained among the trees.
Valarr noticed everything. That was something you had not expected. He noticed when your horse slowed. When you looked towards the tree line. When your hand moved closer to your bow.
"You are waiting."
You glanced at him. "For what?"
"Whatever you have heard."
You smiled slightly. "You are observant."
"I try."
"That is dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because people reveal more when they think you are not paying attention."
Valarr looked at you. "And what have I revealed?"
You considered teasing him. Instead, you answered honestly. "That you are not as careless as people think."
The smile he gave you then was quieter than before. "Perhaps you are not as intimidating as people think either."
You raised an eyebrow. "Careful."
"That was not an insult."
"No. It was worse."
"Worse?"
"You sounded sincere."
He laughed.
A movement caught your attention. You raised a hand.
Valarr immediately stopped himself from speaking.
Ahead, between the trees, a deer stepped carefully through the brush. You dismounted without a word. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Your fingers moved smoothly as you drew your bow. You had done this a thousand times. Not with this exact forest. Not with these witnesses. But enough times that your body knew what to do before your mind did.
The arrow flew.
A heartbeat later—
Another arrow struck.
The deer stumbled. Then fell.
You lowered your bow slowly.
For a moment, you simply stared. Then a delighted sound came from behind you.
"I did it!"
You turned.
Lady Lynesse Hightower emerged from between the trees, her face bright with excitement. Her bow remained raised.
"I actually did it."
You blinked. Then looked at the deer. Then at the arrow. Then back at her.
Valarr had followed your gaze and immediately looked as though he was attempting not to smile.
"You are mistaken," you said.
Lynesse's expression shifted. "Pardon?"
You walked closer, examining the fallen animal. "My arrow struck first."
Lady Lynesse stared at you. "I believe you will find mine is the one that ended it."
You looked at her.
"That is not the same thing."
Her smile disappeared slightly. "My lady, I think you are misunderstanding how hunting works."
"No." You pulled your arrow free carefully. "I think you are misunderstanding what happened."
The air changed. Not dramatically. But enough.
Lynesse looked offended. "You are saying I did not earn this kill?"
"I am saying you did not make the first shot."
"And yet the animal is dead because of my arrow."
"Your arrow hit an animal that was already falling."
Lynesse's cheeks coloured. "How convenient that you see it that way."
You tilted your head. "How convenient that you arrived after."
Valarr looked down. You knew he was hiding a laugh.
Lady Lynesse noticed. Which only made things worse.
"I had heard House Vezarion was proud."
"We are."
"Perhaps too proud."
"Perhaps." You smiled politely. "Though I would rather be proud than wrong."
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Valarr cleared his throat. "My ladies." His tone was gentle, but there was amusement beneath it. "Perhaps we can agree that the deer was unfortunate enough to be found by two excellent archers."
You looked at him.
"That is a very diplomatic answer."
"It is a very useful skill."
Lynesse seemed satisfied enough with that and turned her horse away. You watched her leave. Then exhaled.
"I dislike her."
Valarr looked surprised. "That quickly?"
"She claimed my kill."
"Perhaps she was excited."
"Perhaps." You looked after her. "Or perhaps she simply dislikes admitting she was second." You continued.
Valarr smiled faintly. "You are aware that you are not exactly easy on people."
"I am aware."
"And you do not intend to change."
"No."
That answer seemed to amuse him. "You are very certain."
"I usually am."
Valarr looked back towards the path where his cousin and Lady Lynesse had appeared. Aerion remained there. Still mounted. Still watching. His expression revealed very little.
But Valarr knew his cousin well enough.
And so did Aerion.
Because neither man looked away.
Not from the argument. Not from you. Not from the fact that Valarr had been smiling beside you for most of the morning.
—
The forest had swallowed the last remains of daylight some time ago. What had once been green and gold beneath the afternoon sun was now nothing but shadow and silver, the tall trees standing like dark pillars against the night sky. The path beneath your horses' hooves had become harder to see, and the only light came from the moon slipping between the branches and the occasional lantern carried by distant hunting parties.
The hunt had changed after sunset.
The excitement of the morning had faded into something quieter. The laughter and confidence of the earlier hours had been replaced with tired voices, colder hands, and the occasional muttered complaint from men who had spent too long in the saddle.
Every so often, the forest would carry a sound from somewhere beyond the trees.
A man's laughter.
A cheer.
The distant call of someone announcing another successful kill.
The hunt was still alive.
But you were beginning to feel the weight of it. Your shoulders ached slightly beneath your cloak. Your fingers, despite the gloves, had grown stiff from holding your bow for most of the day. You had eaten very little before leaving Mount Vezrith that morning, too distracted by preparations and the gathering of nobles to bother with a proper meal.
And the small amount of water you had taken with you had been forgotten until now.
A mistake. A foolish one.
You disliked admitting those. Especially when Caelor would undoubtedly remind you of it for the next decade.
Valarr noticed before you said anything. Of course he did.
"You are quieter."
You looked towards him. "Am I?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps I am enjoying the silence."
He gave you a knowing look.
"You have spent the entire day speaking your mind. I find it unlikely you have suddenly discovered a love for silence."
Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. "You are becoming very familiar with my habits."
"I am observant."
"That is becoming your excuse for everything."
"Because it is usually true."
You shook your head, though there was little annoyance behind it.
The two of you continued for another few moments before you finally exhaled.
"Let us stop."
Valarr immediately turned towards you. "Are you injured?"
The concern in his voice was immediate. Not dramatic. Not performative. Genuine.
You shook your head. "No."
"Are you certain?"
"Valarr."
He quieted.
You softened slightly. "I am not made of glass."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me as though I have just fallen from a horse."
"I am looking at you as though you have spent an entire day riding through unfamiliar woodland, barely eaten, and are now pretending you are perfectly fine."
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Because unfortunately, he was not wrong.
You looked away.
"I dislike when people are correct."
"I have noticed."
A small smile touched his face. "That is why I try not to waste the opportunity."
You gave him a look. "Careful."
"I am."
He pulled his horse to a stop beside yours.
"Rest for a moment."
You remained mounted for another minute. Partly because you were deciding whether you actually needed to stop. Partly because admitting he was right was irritating.
Finally, with a quiet sigh, you dismounted. The earth beneath your boots felt strangely comforting after hours in the saddle.
You walked a short distance away from the path and settled beneath the roots of a large tree, resting your back against the rough bark. The cold had begun to creep in properly now, and you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself.
Valarr remained standing for a moment. "You should have told me sooner."
You looked up at him. "Told you what?"
"That you were tired."
"I am not tired."
His eyebrows lifted.
You sighed. "Fine. Slightly tired."
"That is what I said."
"You said it as though I was dying."
"I did not."
"You implied it."
"I did not."
"You did."
Valarr laughed quietly. It was softer than the laughter he had shared in the courtyard earlier. Less for the benefit of others. Just for you.
He crouched nearby, resting his arms against his knees. "Have you eaten anything today?"
You hesitated. That was enough of an answer.
Valarr looked at you. "Y/n."
"What?"
"You have not."
"I had something before we left."
"What?"
You looked away. "That is not important."
"It is when you are sitting in the forest at night looking as though you might argue with the ground itself."
A small laugh escaped you. "You think very highly of your observations."
"I think very highly of not allowing my hunting partner to collapse."
"I was not going to collapse."
"Of course not."
The way he said it made it obvious he did not believe you.
You looked towards the darkness beyond the trees. The forest was strangely peaceful. For all its dangers, there was something comforting about being away from stone walls and watchful eyes.
No lords. No whispers. No expectations.Just the two of you.
"You know," Valarr said after a while, "most people would be surprised by this."
"By what?"
"You."
You glanced at him. "That sounds suspiciously like something Aerion would say."
His expression changed slightly at the mention of his cousin. Not negatively. Just thoughtfully.
"No," Valarr said. "Aerion notices different things."
You looked at him. "What does he notice?"
Valarr was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled faintly. "Dragons."
You expected that answer. It still made you smile. "Yes. That sounds like him."
Valarr looked back towards the distant lights of the other hunting parties. "He has always been that way."
"With dragons?"
"With everything."
You considered that.
"He is difficult to understand."
"Yes."
"You say that as though you agree."
"I do."
That surprised you. "You are his cousin."
"I am."
"And yet you admit he is difficult."
Valarr shrugged slightly. "Being family does not make someone simple."
The answer lingered. Because it was true. The sounds of the forest filled the space between you.
Somewhere far away, another group of hunters shouted in triumph. A horn sounded faintly. The night continued around you. And for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to simply rest.
Valarr did not push you to move. He did not remind you of the competition. He did not ask whether you were ready to continue.
He simply stayed.
And somehow, that was what made you notice him most.
—
The forest continued around you, unaware of noble houses and royal bloodlines. The distant sounds of the hunt slowly became fewer as more groups began making their way back towards the castle.
You had intended to rest only for a moment. That was what you told yourself. Just a moment beneath the tree. Just enough time for your legs to recover before returning to the hunt.
But exhaustion had a way of making its own decisions.
The warmth of your cloak. The steady rhythm of the rainless forest. The quiet presence of Valarr nearby.
It all blurred together. And before you realised it, your eyes had closed.
—
When you woke, the first thing you noticed was the cold. Not the sharp cold of winter. Something softer. Damp.
The second thing you noticed was that you were no longer sitting upright. Your cheek rested against the wet earth beneath the tree, your cloak having slipped slightly during your sleep. The ground beneath you was uncomfortable, and yet somehow you had not noticed.
Then came the sound.
Rain.
A steady fall against leaves and branches.
For a moment, you simply lay there, confused. Then memory returned. The hunt. The forest. Valarr.
You pushed yourself up slowly.
Your hair fell around your shoulders, completely soaked through. The carefully arranged style from earlier was long gone, strands sticking against your face and neck. Your cloak had protected you somewhat, but not enough.
You must have looked dreadful.
Or at least that was what you assumed.
Valarr did not seem to agree. He was sitting a short distance away, leaning against his own tree, though he immediately straightened when he saw you move.
"Finally."
Your voice was rough from sleep.
"How long?"
"Long enough that I considered whether I should wake you or simply tell your father you had decided to become part of the forest."
You gave him a tired look. "You would have enjoyed that."
"Perhaps a little."
You attempted to stand, but paused when you realised how stiff your body had become. Valarr was immediately on his feet.
"Careful."
"I am fine."
"You always say that."
"Because I usually am."
"That does not make it convincing."
You ignored the offered hand, though not because you disliked the gesture. You simply refused to make things too easy for him.
You managed to stand regardless. "How long was I asleep?"
"Nearly an hour."
You looked at him. "An hour?"
"I did consider waking you sooner."
"And?"
"You looked like you needed it."
The answer caught you slightly off guard. There was no teasing. No flirtation. Just simple honesty. You looked away.
"Thank you."
Valarr smiled faintly. "You are welcome."
A louder roll of thunder moved somewhere beyond the trees. Not close. But enough.
Valarr looked upwards. "We should leave."
You nodded.
For once, you did not argue.
—
The ride back was quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just quieter. The rain had turned the forest paths slick, and both of you had to pay more attention to the ground beneath your horses than to conversation.
By the time the lights of Mount Vezrith appeared through the trees, the two of you were soaked through.
The designated meeting point had been established just beyond the castle walls, where guards waited with lanterns and servants prepared to record the returning hunters.
It was not only about victory.
The forest around Mount Vezrith was dangerous enough that no lord would risk allowing dozens of nobles to disappear into it without accounting for every single one.
When you and Valarr arrived, several groups had already returned.
Some looked exhausted. Some looked disappointed. Others looked far too pleased with themselves.
A servant approached immediately. "Prince Valarr. Lady Y/n."
Valarr handed over the proof of your kills. You remained mounted as the count was recorded.
"Not bad," Valarr said quietly.
You glanced towards him. "Not bad?"
"For a first attempt."
You looked offended. "For a first attempt?"
He laughed. "I was wondering how long it would take before you objected."
"I have hunted since I was young."
"Then I will say you performed well."
"Better."
"Much better."
You shook your head. The rain continued falling around you, soaking through clothing and darkening the ground, but neither of you seemed particularly concerned.
Somewhere along the way, the discomfort had become amusing.
"You know," Valarr said, looking over the gathered hunters, "I believe we may have a chance."
"At winning?"
"Yes."
"You sound surprised."
"I am not."
"You are."
He smiled. "I am surprised because you looked ready to declare war on a tree thirty minutes ago."
"I was tired."
"You fell asleep against one."
You narrowed your eyes. "Do not tell anyone."
"I would never."
"Especially not my brothers."
"Especially not your brothers."
That earned a genuine laugh from you.
Aerion and Lady Lynesse arrived moments later, their horses stepping carefully through the mud. The moment Lynesse dismounted, her attention went not to the count of kills, nor to the success of the hunt, but to herself.
"This rain has ruined everything," she said, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "My hair, my gown, my entire appearance."
Aerion barely looked at her. "It is rain, Lynesse."
She stared at him. "Yes. I am aware."
"Then why are you speaking of it as though the heavens have personally offended you?"
Her mouth opened slightly. "I only meant—"
"You meant that water has touched your hair."
The words were blunt enough that several nearby nobles turned their heads.
Lynesse's expression tightened. "You have very little sympathy."
"I have very little patience."
That was Aerion. He did not soften the blow because he noticed people watching. If anything, he seemed more inclined to continue.
"The forest does not care how you look."
"No, but others do."
Aerion finally looked at her. "Then they are fools."
Lynesse fell silent. Not because she agreed. Because arguing with Aerion was rarely worth the effort.
His attention had already moved elsewhere.
To you... again.
Aerion told himself it was not unusual. He had spent the entire day observing the hunters around him. It was natural for him to notice things. A weak shot. A careless rider. A man who boasted more than he achieved.
Observation was a strength.
A dragon's strength.
At least, that was what he told himself.But you were not difficult to observe. You were impossible not to. Not because you demanded attention. You did not.
That was the irritating part.
You did not behave like the noblewomen Aerion had grown accustomed to. You did not laugh louder when a prince entered the room. You did not adjust your words because of his name. You did not look at him as though he was some rare creature to be admired.
You looked at him as though he was simply a man.
And Aerion had never quite decided whether that annoyed him or intrigued him more. At the moment, he suspected both.
You sat upon your horse beside Valarr, still holding the small portion of food he had given you. Your hair was damp from the rain, loose strands falling around your face, and there was exhaustion in your expression that you attempted to hide.
Attempted. Poorly.
Aerion noticed.
Of course he did.
Valarr was speaking to you again, something that had you smiling despite yourself.
That bothered him. Not because Valarr was unworthy. That would have been easier. His cousin was charming, skilled, and well liked by nearly everyone who met him. Valarr had the sort of presence that made people comfortable. He did not need to prove he belonged.
Aerion had never understood that. The world had always felt like something that needed conquering. Valarr simply walked through it as though it welcomed him. Perhaps that was why people gravitated towards him. Perhaps that was why you did.
Aerion disliked the thought. He disliked it enough that he almost looked away.
Almost.
"My prince." Lady Lynesse's voice interrupted his thoughts.
He turned slowly. "What?"
Her expression tightened slightly at the sharpness of his reply. "You have been staring."
Aerion's eyes narrowed. "I have been looking."
"At Lady Vezarion."
He said nothing. That was answer enough. Lynesse followed his gaze briefly before looking back at him.
"She is certainly unusual."
Aerion did not like the way she said it. Not because it was an insult. Because it sounded like judgement.
"Unusual?"
"Most ladies would at least remember they were ladies after spending a day in the woods."
"Most ladies are not dragonriders."
The answer came immediately.
Lynesse tilted her head. "You admire that?"
Aerion looked back towards you. "I admire dragons."
A careful answer. A very Aerion answer.
Lynesse noticed. She was smarter than he gave her credit for.
"And Lady Vezarion?"
His expression hardened slightly. "She is the one who rides them."
That was not quite an answer. But it was the closest one he intended to give.
—
The servants eventually began guiding the hunters towards the castle entrance, where the evening feast would be held.
The rain had nearly stopped, leaving only droplets falling from the trees above.
The courtyard slowly came alive again. Tired hunters became louder once they were warm. Servants carried away soaked cloaks and muddy boots. Horses were taken back towards the stables.
The competition was no longer about survival. Now it was about pride.
Khaerys was already explaining his version of the hunt to anyone willing to listen.
"It was an enormous stag."
Caelor looked at him. "It was not."
"It was large."
"It was average."
"You were not there."
"I was."
Khaerys frowned. "That seems unlikely."
You laughed quietly. "Do you ever stop arguing?"
The two brothers looked at each other.
"No."
"Not once."
They answered together. You shook your head. Some things never changed.
—
Later, as everyone began entering the castle, Valarr remained beside you. The stone beneath your feet was familiar. The heat of Mount Vezrith slowly replaced the cold of the forest.
For the first time since morning, you felt properly warm.
"You should rest before the feast."
You looked at Valarr. "That sounds like an order."
"It is not."
"You are learning."
"Slowly."
You smiled. "Perhaps."
He hesitated briefly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you did.
"Something?"
Valarr looked towards the hall doors.
"No."
You waited.
He sighed. "You are difficult to convince when someone is concerned for you."
"I am aware."
"Good."
"Why good?"
"Because then you cannot pretend you did not know."
You studied him.
There it was. The difference. Valarr did not hide his interest particularly well. Not because he was foolish. Because he did not feel the need to.
He was not trying to win a game. He simply liked you. And perhaps that was why you found yourself uncertain how to respond.
Because Aerion was a storm.
Valarr was sunlight.
One made you feel challenged. The other made you feel seen. And you were beginning to realise that both could be dangerous.
—
From across the courtyard, Aerion watched Valarr leave your side.
Only then did he move. Not towards you. Not yet. He was not certain why he wanted to. And Aerion Targaryen hated uncertainty.
He had spent his life believing he understood himself better than anyone else. He was a dragon. He was fire. He was something greater than ordinary men. Yet somehow, standing in the halls of Mount Vezrith, surrounded by creatures older than kingdoms and a family whose blood was tied to dragons in a way even his own could not claim, he found himself troubled by something painfully human.
A smile.
A conversation.
A woman.
He hated that most of all.
Because dragons were simple. They wanted. They burned. They conquered. People were far more complicated. And unfortunately for Aerion... you were proving to be the most complicated creature he had encountered yet.
—
The warmth of Mount Vezrith welcomed everyone back before the castle gates had even fully closed.
The difference between the forest and the mountain halls could not have been greater. Outside, the rain had soaked through cloaks and turned the earth beneath their boots into mud. Inside, the volcanic stone radiated heat through the walls, the great braziers burned brightly, and servants moved quickly to offer dry cloths, warm wine and food to the returning hunters.
The castle seemed to breathe around them. As though it too was relieved to have its people home. You had expected to feel exhausted. And you were. But strangely, you found yourself reluctant for the day to end. Perhaps it was because, for once, you had spent hours away from the weight of being a Vezarion.
No council discussions. No whispered conversations about your dragons. No lords trying to decide whether you were a marvel or a threat.
Only the forest.
The hunt.
And Valarr.
"You are quieter now."
You looked towards him as the two of you walked through the entrance hall. "Again with that observation."
He smiled. "You make it very easy."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
You looked ahead towards the great staircase.
"Most people would say I make things difficult."
"I believe both can be true."
That earned a small laugh from you. Valarr glanced towards you, and there was something different in his expression. Not surprise. Not admiration. Something softer.
"I think people misunderstand you."
You raised an eyebrow. "Do they?"
"Often."
"How?"
He considered the question.
"They see the dragon first."
You said nothing. Because you knew he was right.
"They see Vezaryn. They see your blood. They see your family's history." His gaze shifted briefly towards the black stone walls around you. "They forget there is a person beneath all of it."
The words stayed with you. Because they were not something people often said.
Most people saw what came with your name.
Νot you.
"You are very different from what I expected."
Valarr smiled. "That seems to be the opinion of the evening."
"You and Aerion both."
The mention of his cousin caused the smallest change in his expression. Not anger. Recognition.
"Aerion notices different things."
You glanced at him.
"And what do you notice?"
Valarr looked at you. For a moment, he seemed about to answer honestly. Then he smiled.
"I notice that you are still standing here despite being soaked, exhausted, and probably hungry."
You narrowed your eyes. "That is avoiding the question."
"Perhaps."
"You admit it?"
"Yes."
You shook your head. "You are fortunate you are charming."
"I have been told."
"By yourself?"
"Mostly."
You laughed again. And this time, you did not mind that he noticed.
—
By the time you reached your chambers, the servants had already prepared everything. Fresh clothing. Warm water. Dry towels.
The simple comforts that felt especially valuable after a day spent beneath the trees.
Valarr stopped outside your door. "I will leave you to prepare."
You looked back at him. "You are not coming in?"
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "No."
The answer came so quickly that you smiled.
"I was joking."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
He smiled faintly. "I am learning when you are trying to test people."
"Am I that obvious?"
"To me?"
A small pause.
"Sometimes."
You looked at him. There was something about the way he said it that made you look away first.
Valarr stepped back. "I will be waiting in the dining hall."
"Waiting?"
"For my hunting partner."
You smiled slightly. "Of course."
He bowed his head before leaving. And for a moment, you found yourself watching him go.
—
The dining hall of Mount Vezrith had been transformed by the time you returned. The long stone tables were filled with food and drink. Fires burned brightly along the walls, their light reflecting against dark volcanic stone. The atmosphere was louder than usual, with nobles and knights already deep into their cups.
The hunt had become a story. As all hunts eventually did. A successful shot became a legendary one. A small animal became a great beast. A difficult ride became an impossible journey.
You found Valarr among the gathered nobles, and he immediately looked towards you.
"You survived."
You sat beside him.
"Disappointed?"
"Never."
"Good answer."
"I thought so."
Before you could continue, a horn sounded. The hall slowly quieted. Your father rose from his seat, holding a cup in one hand.
"The hunt was well fought by all who participated."
The room listened.
"Many proved themselves capable hunters, but only two parties returned with the highest count."
Whispers moved through the hall. Your father looked towards the gathered hunters.
"The winners are..."
A brief pause.
"Prince Aerion Targaryen and Lady Lynesse Hightower."
She clapped enthusiastically, looking towards Aerion with obvious excitement.
"We won."
Aerion looked less impressed by the announcement than she did.
Then your father continued.
"And Lady Y/n Vezarion and Prince Valarr Targaryen."
The hall reacted again. Valarr smiled. You looked towards him.
"A tie."
"Apparently."
Lynesse immediately began clapping again.
"How wonderful."
Her voice carried easily.
"A shared victory."
You watched her for a moment. She was not pretending. That was almost worse. She genuinely seemed pleased.
You glanced towards the entrance leading deeper into the mountain. The Vein Vaults. Your family's history. Your family's secrets. You did not care how charming someone was. You did not care who they were.
Not everyone was entitled to walk beneath Mount Vezrith.
You rose.
The hall quieted slightly.
"I believe there is something to be considered."
Your father looked towards you. You continued.
"Since I am a Vezarion, it would not be right for me to decide that I am the winner and grant myself access to my own family's vaults."
A few nobles exchanged amused looks. You ignored them.
"Therefore, I believe the rightful winners should be decided by those who earned it without that consideration."
Your gaze moved towards the Targaryens.
"Prince Aerion and Prince Valarr."
The room went quiet.
Valarr looked surprised.
Aerion looked at you carefully.
You continued.
"The Vein Vaults are not a place entered lightly. It would be unfair to allow my position within House Vezarion to influence the decision."
Your father studied you. Then slowly nodded. A small sign of approval.
Lynesse's smile faltered. Only slightly. But enough.
You had not insulted her.
You had not accused her.
You had simply removed her from the possibility.
And somehow, that seemed to bother her more. Aerion watched you from across the hall. Not with anger. Something else.
Because for all your defiance. For all your fire. You had chosen honour over advantage.
Summary: In which you save the realm by fucking your husband
TW: SMUT, Voyeurism
WC: 13K
The royal box had been an exquisite torture.
All day, you had sat among the lords and ladies of the Reach, the velvet cushion beneath you doing absolutely nothing to comfort the restless ache that had taken root deep in your belly. The sun had beaten down on the tourney grounds, the air thick with the smell of trampled grass and churned earth and the distant roasting meat from the feast-fires, but you had barely noticed any of it. Your attention had been fixed entirely, hopelessly, on the black knight.
Your husband. Every time his black destrier thundered down the lists, every time his black armor caught the sunlight and gleamed like polished obsidian, every time his lance shattered against an opponent's shield in an explosion of splinters, you felt it in the pit of your stomach, a clench, a slow molten roll of heat that had nothing to do with the summer sun. Your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Your thighs pressed together beneath your gown, shifting against the wetness that had gathered there. Your breath came shallow and quick.
He had unhorsed three men before midday. Three, and each time he rode past the royal box you could have sworn he lingered just a moment longer when his eyes found yours. Blue and brown. The gods had given him one eye the color of a summer sky and the other the rich dark of freshly turned earth, and you were absolutely certain they had done it specifically to ruin you.
You shifted in your seat for the dozenth time, squeezing your thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the throbbing pressure that had built between them. Lady Webber, seated beside you, leaned over with concern in her broad, honest face.
"Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look rather flushed."
"Perfectly well," you managed, not looking away from the grounds. Valarr was circling his horse at the far end, preparing for another pass. The way he sat in the saddle, the way his thighs gripped the horse's flanks, thick muscle flexing beneath dark steel, the easy confidence in his posture, the way he tucked his helm under his arm and ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, that silver gold streak on the left side catching the light—
"The heat," you added, gripping the arm of your chair until your knuckles went white. "It is only the heat."
But it was not the heat. It was remembering how those thighs felt when they were gripping your hips instead of a saddle. It was knowing exactly what that controlled violence looked like when it was unleashed in your bedchamber, when he was buried deep inside you and that same focused intensity was bent entirely on drawing scream after scream from your lips. It was the way his armor hugged his body and the way you knew every inch of what lay beneath, the lean muscle and warm skin, the trail of dark hair below his navel that you loved to follow with your tongue, the scattering of scars from a lifetime of training, the way his stomach tensed and jumped when you dragged your nails across it. It was knowing exactly what that body could do, the sounds it could wring from you, the positions it could fold you into, the seemingly endless stamina that left you wrecked and trembling and begging for more. And being forced to sit in polite company, smiling and nodding and making idle conversation, while he displayed all that power and grace and leashed violence before half the Reach—
By the time the final tilt was called and the tourney began to wind down for the day, you were fairly vibrating out of your skin. Your smallclothes were soaked through. You had imagined, in vivid and increasingly creative detail, at least seven different ways you wanted him to fuck you—bent over the railing of the royal box, on your knees in the shadow of the stands, on your back in the trampled grass with the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears—and you had reached the point where you no longer trusted yourself to speak to anyone without your voice cracking.
So when the crowds dispersed and the lords and ladies began drifting, you did not drift with them. You walked straight toward the black and red pennants that marked the Targaryen tents.
His squire was a boy of perhaps five and ten, all gangly limbs and anxious eyes, and he was already struggling with the straps of Valarr's vambraces when you swept through the canvas flap.
You did not break stride. "Out."
The boy's eyes went wide as saucers. "Your Grace, I was just—"
"Now."
He fled. The tent flap barely had time to settle before you turned to face your husband.
Valarr stood in the center of the pavilion, still armored, his helm already discarded on a nearby table. His odd eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, the smile of a man who knew exactly what he had been doing all day.
"My wife," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse from shouting commands over the din of the lists, and the roughness of it sent a shiver straight down your spine, straight to the aching place between your legs. "You dismissed my squire rather abruptly. Have I done something to offend?"
You crossed the space between you in four strides. The tent was warm, lit by a half-dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air smelled of leather and oiled metal and the faint, clean undertone of his sweat, that particular scent of him that made you want to press your nose to the base of his throat and breathe him in until you were dizzy with it.
"You have been offending me all day," you said, stopping so close that the steel of his cuirass nearly brushed your bodice. Your voice came out low and rough, barely more than a growl. "Parading around on that horse. Riding like that. Looking like that. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you have any idea how many times I had to press my thighs together just to keep from moaning aloud in front of half the nobility of the Reach?"
His brows lifted slightly, but the smile did not leave his lips. It deepened, if anything, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was positively smug. "I was competing in a tourney. It is generally what one does at a tourney."
"You know exactly what you were doing. Every time you rode past the royal box, you looked at me. You knew I was watching."
"Enlighten me," he said, his voice dropping into something darker, more dangerous. "What was I doing?"
You reached up and pressed your palms flat against his breastplate. The metal was warm from the sun and from the heat of his body beneath, and you could feel the faint vibration of his heartbeat through the steel, steady, strong, slightly faster than it should be.
"You were magnificent," you said, your voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Every pass. Every impact. When you unhorsed Lord Ashford's cousin, when that lance hit true and he went flying, I thought I might scream. Do you know what it does to a woman, watching her husband ride full tilt with a lance in his hand, fearless, perfect, everyone in the stands cheering his name? Do you know what it does to me, Valarr, watching you dominate every man who dares ride against you, knowing that same ferocity is going to be focused on me the moment we're alone?"
His mismatched eyes had gone dark, his breath had changed, grown shallower. He did not move. "Tell me."
"It makes me wet," you said, blunt and shameless, your eyes locked on his. "It makes me ache. It makes me want to drag you off that horse by your hair and have my way with you in the dirt in front of everyone. I was ready to climb over the railing and ride you right there in the royal box. In front of Lord Ashford. In front of Lady Webber. In front of the gods and every noble house of the Reach. I would have let them all watch. I was so far gone I would not have cared." His breath caught. Through his breeches, you could see the growing evidence of his arousal, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the fabric.
"You are playing a dangerous game, wife."
"I am not playing." You pressed closer, your breasts flattening against the hard steel of his cuirass, your lips nearly brushing his chin. "I have been sitting in soaked smallclothes for hours, thinking about your cock. Thinking about how it feels when you first push inside me. Thinking about how you stretch me, how you fill me so completely I forget my own name. Thinking about the sounds you make when you're close—that raw, broken groan you try to swallow. I have been thinking about it all day, Valarr. And I am done thinking."
He kissed you. It was deep, hungry and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that matched everything you had been feeling all day. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, demanding, and you moaned into the kiss as his free hand found the small of your back and pulled you hard against him. Your body pressed flush against the unyielding plane of his armored chest, the contrast of cool steel against your heated breasts making your nipples tighten to aching peaks. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was pure filthy promise.
You fisted your hands in the collar of his gambeson, pulling him impossibly closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that vibrated through his chest and into yours. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the faint sweetness of the watered wine he must have drunk between tilts, the heat of him. Your body was on fire. Every inch of your skin felt electric, alive, aching. The slick heat between your thighs had grown almost unbearable; you could feel it on your inner thighs, could feel how ready you were for him.
"Help me," you gasped against his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buckles at his shoulders. "The pauldrons. Get them off. Get everything off. I need to feel your skin. I need your cock inside me before I lose my mind entirely."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen from your kisses. His eyes were blazing with a hunger that made your knees weak.
"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice a rasp that sent heat pooling low in your belly. "Exactly. Tell me every detail, and I will give it to you."
"I want you on your back in this tent." You wrenched one pauldron free and let it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. "I want to feel every inch of you against me without this damned steel in the way." The second pauldron followed. "I want to strip you bare and put my mouth on every part of you. Your throat. Your chest. Your stomach." Your fingers moved to the buckles of his cuirass as you spoke, your voice growing breathier with each word. "I want to take your cock in my mouth and feel you get harder on my tongue. I want to taste you, Valarr. I want to taste your release when you spend down my throat. And then I want you on top of me, driving into me so hard I cannot walk tomorrow. I want to feel you come inside me, hot and deep, filling me up until I can feel it dripping down my thighs. I want you to ruin me, Valarr Targaryen, until neither of us can remember our own names."
He stared at you for a long moment, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning. The bulge in his breeches was straining against the fabric now, thick and unmistakable. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"You," he said, the word barely more than a growl, "are the most infuriating, intoxicating, utterly maddening woman I have ever known."
"Less talking," you breathed, reaching for the final buckles of his cuirass. "More undressing. I want to see what I do to you. I want to see how hard you are for me."
You made quick work of the breastplate, your fingers moving with a speed born of pure, desperate need. The steel plate hit the ground with a clang that echoed through the tent, and then you were pressing yourself against his gambeson, the padded fabric still damp with his sweat, the heat of his body seeping through to meet your own. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of muscle, down his stomach, lower—
"Gods," you whispered, your forehead dropping to his chest as your palm pressed against the thick ridge of his erection through his breeches. He was hard as iron, hot even through the fabric, and he twitched against your touch. "Do you feel what you do to me? Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
His hands—still gauntleted, curse him—slid down your sides, over your hips, and settled on the curve of your backside. He pulled you flush against him, grinding his hardness against your belly, and there was no hiding what this was doing to him. The thick length of him pressed against you, and you whimpered at the feel of it, at the promise of being filled.
"I have some idea," he murmured against your hair, his voice strained. "I have been half-hard since the first tilt, watching you watch me. Do you know how difficult it is to ride with a cockstand?"
"Then why are you still wearing so many clothes?"
You dropped to your knees. His hands hovered in the air where you had been standing, and he looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts shock and raw, naked want. His cock was at eye level now, straining obscenely against his breeches, and you could see the damp spot where his arousal had already begun to leak through the fabric.
"You are kneeling in front of me." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and desperate. "In a tourney tent. Where anyone could walk in. Where anyone could hear you when I make you scream."
"Then you had better be quick about deciding what comes next." You pulled one greave free and started on the other, your fingers brushing deliberately against the inside of his thigh as you worked. He shuddered. "Though I should warn you—I'm not feeling particularly quiet tonight. And I'm not feeling particularly quick. When you finally put your cock inside me, I intend to take my time."
The second greave came off. You stayed on your knees, your hands resting on his armored thighs, your face tilted up to meet his gaze, your lips parted and your eyes heavy-lidded with want. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. And Valarr Targaryen looked down at you like you were the most terrifying, wonderful thing he had ever seen like he wanted to devour you whole.
"Stand up," he said, his voice rough as gravel.
"Make me."
He reached down and pulled you to your feet in one motion, his hands under your arms, and then his mouth was on yours again and you were being walked backward toward the cot in the corner of the tent. Your back hit the tent pole, and he pressed himself against you, one armored thigh sliding between your legs and grinding against your aching cunt through the layers of your gown. The pressure was maddening, not nearly enough, and the sound you made was absolutely shameless, a desperate, keening moan that would have been heard three tents away if anyone had been listening.
"Yes," you gasped, arching against him, rolling your hips to grind against his thigh. "Yes, please, yes, right there, gods, Valarr—"
He kissed down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders through the gambeson, your nails biting into the fabric.
"I want you," you said, the words tumbling out of you like a prayer. "I have wanted you since the first tilt. I have wanted you since I woke up this morning wet and aching from dreams of you. I want you all the time, Valarr, every moment of every day. I want your mouth on my breasts. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock so deep I can feel you in my throat. I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name, until my voice is hoarse from screaming yours, until I am so full of your seed that it takes days to stop feeling it drip out of me—"
He stopped. His mouth stilled against your collarbone. His thigh stopped its maddening pressure between your legs. His hands, which had been sliding down to the small of your back, went still.
"What—"
"My love."
The tone made you freeze. It was tender. Affectionate. Entirely too calm for a man whose cock had been pressed against your belly moments ago, hard and wanting.
You looked up. His eyes were soft now, the hunger banked, replaced by something warm and unbearably fond. And lurking in the corner of his mouth was that quirk, that maddening, insufferable little quirk that meant he was about to say something you did not want to hear.
"I am so very tired."
The words did not register at first. You blinked, your body still humming with unspent desire, your cunt still clenching around nothing, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "What?"
"The armor. You cannot imagine. I have been carrying it all day in this heat. Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My..." He gestured vaguely downward. "...everything."
"I will soothe your muscles. I will soothe every part of you. That is precisely what I am trying to do." You pressed your palm against the hard length of him through his breeches to emphasize your point. He was still rock hard. Still twitching at your touch. "This does not feel like a man who is too tired."
His smile widened. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes, the way the blue one sparkled with mischief and the brown one warmed with suppressed laughter. He was enjoying this entirely too much.
"You are very sweet," he said, and leaned down to press a kiss, soft, chaste, utterly infuriating, to your forehead. Then he gently removed your hand from his erection, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with infuriating tenderness. "But I fear I would be poor company. I can barely keep my eyes open. A man of two and twenty is not so spry as he once was. The spirit is willing, but the flesh..." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "The flesh is very, very tired."
"You are two and twenty. And your flesh is very clearly willing."
"An old two and twenty. The joints begin to protest. It is a terrible thing. The maesters have warned me about overexertion."
"Valarr Targaryen, I swear to every god in the Seven Kingdoms, if you do not put your cock inside me right now—"
"Perhaps tomorrow, my love." He stepped back, "After a proper night's rest. When my strength has returned. Then I will be able to give you the attention you deserve." His voice dropped, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face and heaving chest and the visible stiffness of your nipples through your gown. "Every. Single. Bit. Of it. I will take my time with you. Make you scream until you cannot remember your own name—wasn't that what you wanted? But I will only do it properly when I am not about to collapse from exhaustion."
He was already moving toward the armor stand, where a simple dark tunic and breeches lay waiting. You stood frozen in place, surrounded by the pieces of his discarded armor, your body still humming with unspent desire, your soaked smallclothes clinging to your heated flesh, your lips still tingling from his kiss.
"You cannot be serious."
He pulled the tunic over his head with deliberate, unhurried movements, covering the sweat-damp linen of his gambeson. He turned back to you, looking for all the world like a man without a care, his hair still tousled and that silver streak falling roguishly across his brow. The bulge in his breeches had—through what must have been monumental effort of will—begun to subside.
"I am always serious," he said, utterly failing to keep the mirth from his voice. "I shall send for wine. Something cool, to help with the heat. You look rather flushed, my love. And your breathing is quite... irregular. Have you been sitting in the sun? Perhaps you should lie down. In the cot. Alone. To recover your strength."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I have not been sitting in the sun. I have been sitting in the royal box watching my husband ride like a god of war and thinking about how much I wanted him to bend me over the railing and—"
"Careful," he said, raising a finger, his expression one of mock concern. "The canvas walls, remember? And I am so very weary I might faint at the details. Think of my delicate constitution."
You picked up the nearest object—a gauntlet—and hurled it at his head.
He caught it. One handed. Without looking away from your face. The man had been trained by knights of the Kingsguard since he could walk, and he caught it like it was a ball tossed by a child. He turned the gauntlet over in his hands, his smile widening into something that was pure, unrepentant mischief.
"Tomorrow, my love," he said, his voice dropping into something lower, something that promised and teased in equal measure. His eyes swept over you, lingering on your parted lips, on the flush that extended down your throat, on the way your hands were still clenched into fists at your sides. "I give you my word. Tomorrow, I will make you forget your own name. Tomorrow, I will have you in every way you described and several you have not yet imagined. Tomorrow, you will be so thoroughly satisfied that you will not be able to look at a tourney field without blushing for the rest of your life."
"Tomorrow," you repeated, your voice flat with disbelief and frustration and—gods help you—reluctant amusement.
"Tomorrow," he confirmed. And then he was at the tent flap, lifting the canvas, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder. His eyes raked over you one last time, and there was a flash of heat in them—a glimpse of the hunger he was so carefully restraining, a promise that he was suffering too, that every moment of this tease was costing him as much as it was costing you.
"Dream of me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent one last shiver down your spine. "Dream of what I'm going to do to you. In detail. I want a full report in the morning." And he winked.
The canvas fell closed behind him. You stood alone in the silence of the tent, surrounded by candlesmoke and the scent of him, your body still aching and your pride still smarting and your heart still racing and your cunt still throbbing with the orgasm he had denied you.
"Tomorrow," you muttered to the empty air, already beginning to smile despite yourself—a slow, predatory smile that promised retribution. "We shall see about tomorrow, my prince. You have made a grave tactical error. You have given me an entire night to plan." And somewhere outside the tent, you could have sworn you heard him laugh.
—
You woke to heat, a deep, liquid heat that was already pooling low in your belly, already drawing your thighs apart with an urgency that bordered on involuntary, already dragging you up from the depths of a dream you couldn't quite remember, a dream full of shadows and steel and a voice murmuring promises against your skin. Your body was responding before your mind could catch up, back arching slightly off the furs, fingers twisting in the linen sheets, a soft, confused sound escaping your lips that was half whimper, half question.
And then you felt it. The slow, deliberate, devastating drag of a tongue through your most intimate folds.
Your eyes flew open with a gasp that tore from somewhere deep in your chest. The world was waking up around you, ordinary and routine and utterly indifferent to the fact that beneath the furs, between your legs, was a head of brown hair with a distinctive streak of silver gold threading back from the temple like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.
"Valarr—" His name came out as a croak, half confusion, half moan, because his tongue had just circled the sensitive bud at the apex of your sex with devastating precision and your hips bucked entirely without your permission, your thighs clamping briefly against his ears before he pressed them back open with firm, unhurried hands. "What—what are you—isn't it—oh gods—"
He did not lift his head. He did not stop. He did not even acknowledge that you had spoken beyond a low, pleased hum that vibrated against your cunt and made your eyes roll back. His tongue flattened and dragged upward through your folds with a languid, unhurried thoroughness that spoke of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every single moment of it to reduce you to incoherence. One of his hands was splayed across your lower belly, holding you steady, pinning you to the cot with a casual possession that made your blood sing. The other was hooked under your right thigh, fingers dimpling your flesh, keeping you spread open for his attentions with an implacable gentleness that was somehow more devastating than force.
"Good morrow," he murmured against your cunt, the words shaped directly into your slick, heated flesh, and the vibration of his voice made you gasp and clutch at the furs beneath you.
"Isn't it—" You lost the words entirely as his tongue slipped inside you, just briefly, a teasing thrust that curled upward and made your hips roll in a helpless, seeking rhythm. "Isn't it a jousting day? The—the lists—you should be—you should be preparing—"
He hummed against you, a low sound of consideration, and the vibration coupled with the slow circle his tongue was tracing around your pearl nearly made you forget your own name, let alone your question. "The jousts have been suspended."
Your mind, hazy with pleasure and sleep and the insistent, expert pressure of his mouth, struggled to process this information with anything resembling coherence. "Suspended? Why would they—oh, right there, don't stop, please don't stop—why would they suspend the jousts?"
"The Bright Prince," Valarr said, pausing just long enough to press a hot, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin and leaving a trail of pleasant friction in its wake, "has demanded a trial of seven."
"Who—Aerion?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him through the disheveled curtain of your hair. His mismatched eyes gleamed up at you from between your thighs, one the deep blue of sapphires, one the warm brown of aged whisky, both filled with a lazy, predatory satisfaction that made your stomach flip and your cunt clench around nothing. "Aerion demanded a trial of seven? Against whom? Why? What in the seven hells happened while I was asleep?"
Valarr sighed, a warm exhale against your slick, swollen folds that made you shiver from your crown to your toes. "A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall. He struck Aerion to defend a puppeteer girl, and now my dear cousin demands blood and calls it justice." He pressed another kiss to your mound, the tip of his nose nudging against the thatch of curls there. "He has accused the hedge knight of assault and the knight has demanded a trial by combat. Aerion, being Aerion, has escalated it to a trial of seven."
"That's—that's absurd, Aerion is—" You gasped sharply as his tongue dipped back into you, long and slow and curling, cutting off your outrage with a wave of pleasure that made your elbows tremble. "Valarr, I'm trying to—to care about this, it's important, you must let me—"
"I am between your legs," he said, his voice muffled against your cunt, his tongue tracing idle patterns through your folds that made rational thought nearly impossible, "with my tongue inside my wife, and she is asking about my cousin."
"You cannot simply—wake me up like this and expect me not to—to have questions about a trial of seven when—oh, gods—"
He had found your pearl again, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, a feather light touch that somehow managed to be devastating in its precision. Your elbows gave out. You collapsed back against the pillows with a moan that was frankly indecent, one hand flying to his hair, your fingers threading through the brown strands and brushing against that distinctive silver streak that marked him as surely as a banner marked an army. He made a sound of deep, masculine approval against your flesh and redoubled his efforts, his tongue working you with a rhythm that was devastatingly precise, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered your entire cunt and focused, pointed flicks against your pearl that made sparks dance behind your closed eyelids.
"I am trying," he said between strokes, his voice low and rough with satisfaction, "to apologize for yesterday. For my behavior. For my cruelty."
"You are trying," you managed, your voice breathless and trembling and utterly lacking the sharp edge you wanted it to have, "to distract me from being angry with you. You're trying to lick your way out of the trouble you caused."
He paused, just for a moment, and looked up at you with an expression of mock-innocence that was entirely undermined by the slickness glistening on his lips and chin. "Is it working?"
Your hips were rolling against his mouth now, your body chasing its pleasure without any input from your pride, without any regard for your dignity. "No. Absolutely not. I am still—I am still furious with you—"
He sucked your pearl between his lips, gentle at first and then not, a sudden increase in pressure that bordered on overwhelming, and the sound you made was absolutely humiliating, a keening, desperate cry that you would deny to your dying day.
"You sound furious," he agreed, releasing you with a wet, obscene pop, his voice dripping with satisfaction and something deeper, something hungrier.
"You left me," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss. "You left me aching and desperate and so wet I was dripping down my own thighs, and you winked at me like it was a game, like I was a piece on a cyvasse board you'd already captured—"
"It was a game." He dragged his tongue through your folds again, slow and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your pearl, savoring you like a man savoring the finest vintage. "A very enjoyable game. One I intend to play again."
"For you."
"For both of us." He pressed a kiss to your mound, then another just below your navel, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensation. "I believe the terms of our game included a promise for tomorrow. And tomorrow, my sweet wife, has arrived. I woke before dawn thinking about this. Thinking about you. Thinking about how you looked when I left you—flushed and furious and so gods-damned beautiful I nearly turned around and took you right there on the floor of my tent."
You yanked his hair. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to pull his mouth away from where you desperately, desperately wanted it. He looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his chin wet, his eyes dark and amused and slightly reproachful at being denied his prize.
"I have not forgiven you," you informed him, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the fact that your thighs were trembling and your cunt was clenching around nothing and every nerve in your body was screaming for him to put his mouth back where it belonged.
"So you've said." He tried to lower his head again, but you tightened your grip, keeping him in place. A flash of something dangerous crossed his features, annoyance, yes, but also interest. He liked this. He liked you fighting back. It was, after all, why he had married you.
"You teased me," you said, and now your voice was steadier, fueled by the righteous indignation that had kept you awake half the night. "You worked me up until I was practically begging—until I was saying please and Valarr and I need you—until I would have done anything, anything you asked, just to feel you inside me. And then you patted my head like a well-behaved hound and sent me to bed alone, aching and empty and so frustrated I thought I might scream."
"I kissed your forehead."
"Worse." You glared down at him, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that you were still flushed and panting and spread open beneath him, your slickness still visible on his face, your nipples peaked and visible through the thin linen of your shift. "It was a forehead kiss. The forehead kiss of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and is enjoying it far, far too much." You leaned up slightly, your grip still tight in his hair. "Do you have any idea how long I lay awake last night after you left me? Do you have any idea what I did, alone in your tent, thinking about you?"
His smile widened, slow and wolfish. "Tell me."
"Hours." You released his hair, letting your hand trail down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the proud cheekbones, the slightly too full lips that were still wet with you. "Hours, Valarr. Thinking about what I was going to do to you today. Planning. Scheming. Touching myself in the dark while I imagined all the ways I would make you pay for your cruelty."
His eyes darkened further, the pupils swallowing the irises. "You touched yourself."
"I did. Twice. It wasn't enough." You let your hand drop back to the furs. "Nothing I did to myself was enough. That's what you did to me. You ruined me for my own fingers, and then you left me alone."
"Planning and scheming," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hip bone that was almost reverent. "And touching yourself in the dark. That sounds very industrious. What did you decide? What punishment have you devised for your wicked husband?"
"I decided you need to suffer the way I suffered." You watched his face carefully, saw the flicker of interest, of anticipation. "I decided I would make you want me so badly you couldn't think straight, and then I would deny you. I decided I would tie you to this cot and touch myself in front of you and let you watch, and watch, and watch, and never once let you inside me. I decided I would make you beg the way you made me beg."
He was very still now, his breath warm against your hip, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your heart race. "That would be a cruel punishment indeed."
"You taught me cruelty. You should be proud."
"I am." He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your hip bone, hard enough to make you jump and gasp. "I am so very proud. My wife, a quick study in vengeance." His tongue soothed the sting of his teeth. "But I notice you are not tying me to the cot. You are not touching yourself. You are not denying me anything. You are lying here, spread open, wet and wanting, letting me taste you."
You smiled. It was not a sweet smile. "Where is your armor?" you asked.
Valarr blinked. The question was so incongruous, so utterly unrelated to the situation at hand, his face still wet with you, your thighs still spread, his cock visibly straining against his smallclothes, that for a moment he simply stared at you.
"What?"
"Your armor. The black plate. The gauntlets. The gorget. All of it. Where is it?"
"In the tourney tent, I imagine." He spoke slowly, warily, as if you were a strange beast that might bite him. "My squire would have cleaned and laid it out for inspection, as he does every morning before a day of—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and something that might have been dawning comprehension. "Why?"
You released his hair and sat up slowly, pushing yourself back against the pillows, drawing your knees together with a deliberate, pointed movement that made his eyes flick down to your thighs with undisguised regret. You looked at him with an expression you had been perfecting since last night, sweet on the surface, sharp beneath, like honey hiding a blade.
"Take me there."
"To the tourney tent?" His voice had gone very careful, very controlled.
"To the tourney tent. Where your armor is. Where your squire has laid it out so carefully."
His brows drew together, a furrow appearing between them. "You want me to stop—" he glanced meaningfully at your thighs, at the evidence of his attentions still glistening on your skin, at the obvious, aching hard on tenting his smallclothes— "this, and walk across the tourney grounds in full view of half the realm, to my tent, because you want to see my armor?"
"I want you to put it on."
The words hung in the air between you like a challenge, like a thrown gauntlet.
Something flickered in his eyes. "You want me to put on my armor."
"Not all of it." You let your voice drop into something lower, something darker, something that made his pupils dilate and his breath catch almost imperceptibly. "Just enough. Just the pieces I want."
He was silent for a long moment, studying your face, reading the intention there. Then he sat back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes had gone very dark.
"You want me to fuck you in my armor." It was not a question.
"I want you to finish what you started yesterday." You sat up fully, drawing your knees together, letting the shift fall down over your thighs, letting him see that you were still in control of this situation despite the fact that your thighs were still slick and your heart was still racing and your cunt was still aching with the emptiness he had left. "You were in your armor yesterday. Every time I looked at you—on the field, in the tent, standing over me with your gauntlets dripping water—you were in your armor. Every fantasy I had last night, alone in this bed with my fingers between my legs, you were wearing your armor. I imagined the sound you would make when you walked toward me. I imagined the cold of the metal against my bare skin. I imagined you taking me in your armor, still sweating from the tourney, still smelling of leather and victory." She paused, watching his face, watching the way his jaw had tightened and his hands had curled into fists against his thighs. "And then you took it off piece by piece and left me standing in the wreckage of it while you walked away in a plain linen tunic like a common hedge knight."
"Like a hedge knight." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpening.
"A hedge knight would have stayed and finished what he started. A hedge knight would have put his mouth to better use. A hedge knight would have fucked me until I couldn't walk straight instead of patting me on the head and sending me to bed." You raised an eyebrow at him, letting the challenge hang in the air. "So yes. I want you in your armor. I want to feel the steel against my bare skin. I want to hear it creak and clank while you move inside me. I want to remember exactly who I married—the prince who rides like a god of war and fucks like one too, not the man who is too tired and too smug and too busy playing games to bed his wife properly." You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift pointedly to the obvious bulge in his smallclothes. "Unless, of course, you are still tired. Unless yesterday's exertions were too much for you. In which case, I am sure there is a cot somewhere you can nap on while I find other, more satisfying ways to amuse myself at this trial of seven."
The threat landed exactly as intended.
His jaw tightened until you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands flexed against his thighs, the knuckles whitening. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin linen of his tunic. And when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you, a sound that sent a shiver straight to your core and made your nipples tighten to aching points.
"Get dressed."
You smiled. Sweetly. Innocently. The smile of a woman who had just won the first tilt of the day and was already planning the second.
"As my prince commands," you murmured, and swung your legs over the side of the cot with deliberate, unhurried grace.
He caught your wrist before you could stand. The movement was so fast you barely saw it—one moment he was kneeling on the bed, the next he was pressed against your back, his chest against your spine, his mouth at your ear, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like a manacle of warm, living steel. You could feel every inch of him through the thin linen of his tunic, the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscles of his abdomen, and pressing insistently against the curve of your lower back, the hot, rigid length of his cock, still trapped in his smallclothes, still achingly hard.
"You are going to regret this," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his breath warm and uneven, his voice a promise and a threat and a prayer all tangled together. "When I get you in that tent, surrounded by my armor, with no one to hear you scream and nowhere to run and nothing between us but steel and need—you are going to regret every single moment of bratty defiance you have given me this morning. Every sharp word. Every wicked look. Every time you pulled my hair and stopped my tongue and denied me what is mine."
His free hand slid around your waist, palm flat against your belly, fingers splayed wide, pulling you back against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, exactly how much he wanted you.
"I am going to bend you over my shield," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout, "and fuck you until you cannot remember your own name. I am going to take you against the armor stand and let the whole camp hear you scream. I am going to put you on your knees in the middle of my war gear and use that clever mouth until tears are running down your cheeks and you are begging me—begging me, the way you made me beg with your eyes yesterday—to let you come. And I am not going to let you. Not until you have apologized. Not until you have taken back every insolent word. Not until you have admitted, out loud, that you are mine and that no one else—no hedge knight, no high lord, no god on earth or in the heavens—could ever satisfy you the way I do."
His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp, bright spark of sensation that made you gasp and arch against him involuntarily.
"Do you understand me?"
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Blue and brown. Burning with a fire that matched your own. The dragon's eyes, you thought, and felt a thrill of something that was half fear and half desperate, aching want.
"Prove it," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your thighs. "Put on the armor. Show me the prince I married. And then maybe—maybe—I'll let you have what you want."
You pulled your wrist free with a sharp twist, stood, and began to dress with hands that only trembled a little. Behind you, you heard him exhale, a long, slow breath, the breath of a man steadying himself for battle.
—
Valarr walked a half-step behind you the entire way, close enough that the heat radiating from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your gown like a fever you couldn't shake, close enough that when you passed through a narrow gap between two pavilions his hand found the curve of your backside and squeezed hard enough to make you stumble mid stride, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with proprietary confidence before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the confined space. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, heat flooding your cheeks. He smiled back, utterly unrepentant, his eyes glittering with dark promise and the kind of smug satisfaction that made you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
The camp churned with the news of the trial of seven like a kicked anthill. Everywhere you looked, men and women clustered in tight knots, speaking in low, urgent voices that hummed with equal parts dread and morbid fascination. You caught fragments as you passed, snippets of conversation that floated past your ears barely registered—"Aerion Brightflame," spoken with the particular revulsion reserved for mad dogs, and "the hedge knight, seven feet if he's an inch, and the Reachmen have flocked to his banner," and "who in the Seven Hells will stand for the accuser against a prince of the blood?"—but the words washed over you like water over stone. Your focus had narrowed to a single point, a lodestone pulling you inexorably forward: the black and red pennants of the Targaryen tourney tent, snapping and twisting in the morning breeze ahead, their fabric tongues of dragonfire against the pale blue sky.
His squire was waiting outside, a gangly boy of perhaps fifteen with anxious eyes that darted about like startled sparrows and a perpetually worried expression etched into the soft planes of a face still waiting for its first proper shave. He straightened so abruptly when he saw you both approaching that he nearly tripped over his own feet, relief flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Your Grace—"
"Leave us," Valarr said, not breaking stride, not sparing the boy so much as a glance. "Stand guard. No one enters this tent. Not the hand himself. Not the High Septon. Not the Stranger incarnate. Do you understand?"
The boy's eyes went very wide, the whites showing all around the dark irises. He swallowed audibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, my prince. No one. Absolutely no one. I will guard the tent with my life. I swear it on my mother's—"
"See that you do."
Valarr held the tent flap open for you, the heavy canvas lifted high on his forearm, and you stepped inside, the cooler shadows of the interior washing over your flushed skin like a balm.
The space within was exactly as you remembered it from yesterday, you walked to the center of the tent, the trampled grass soft beneath your slippers, and turned to face him with deliberate slowness, letting him see the curve of your smile, the arch of your brow.
"Well, my prince," you said, your voice pitched light and teasing, a silk-wrapped needle, "shall we begin?"
He was already reaching for the gambeson draped over the stand, the padded linen garment rustling as he lifted it. "You wanted to put me in my armor. Put me in my armor. Every piece. Every buckle. Every strap."
"I want you to tell me," you said, stepping close enough that the hem of your gown brushed against his boots, taking the padded garment from his hands with deliberate slowness, your fingers dragging across his knuckles, "what you're going to do to me. Every detail. Every moment. While I dress you piece by piece."
His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the violet and the black alike. "You want a story?"
"I want a promise." You shook out the gambeson, holding it open for him. "I want to hear exactly what's waiting for me. Consider it... motivation to survive the day."
He slid his arms into the padded sleeves, and you stepped behind him to help guide the garment over the broad expanse of his shoulders, your fingers brushing the bare, warm skin of his arms, the corded muscle that flexed beneath your touch like a living thing. The gambeson was still cool from the night air, but beneath it, his skin was furnace-hot, radiating warmth through the padded linen. You moved around to his front and began to lace the garment closed, starting at his sternum and working your way down with excruciating slowness, your knuckles pressing against his chest with every pass of the cord, feeling the steady, accelerating thunder of his heartbeat beneath your touch.
"When I have you," he began, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that vibrated in your bones, "the first thing I am going to do is put you on your knees."
You sank down before him, not in obedience but to reach for the sabatons, kneeling at his feet to fasten the articulated steel shoes around his boots. The position was not lost on him; you watched his hands flex at his sides, the tendons standing out against the skin, watched his jaw tighten as he looked down at you kneeling before him with your hair spilling over your shoulders and your face level with his hips. "On my knees," you repeated, your voice soft and feigned innocent. "And then?"
"And then I am going to watch you take my cock out of my breeches. Slowly. No rushing, no tearing at the laces like you're unwrapping a gift. I want to see your hands on me—both hands, your fingers wrapping around my length, your thumbs tracing the ridge of the head. I want to see your face when you first feel how hard I am for you, how much I've been aching for you since I opened my eyes this morning." His voice dropped to something barely above a growl. "I've been half-hard since I woke up thinking about the sounds you made last night. Since I tasted you on my tongue. Gods, I can still taste you—salt and sweet and something I can't name but can't forget. It's been driving me mad all morning."
You fastened the second sabaton, your fingers steady despite the molten heat building low in your belly, spreading outward like wine spilled on silk. You reached for the first greave, the shaped steel plate cool against your palms. "Go on," you said, and your voice emerged steadier than you felt. "Tell me more."
"Then I'm going to put my hand in your hair—" he reached down and suited the gesture to the word, his fingers threading through the hair at your crown, tightening just enough to tilt your head back, to force your gaze up to meet his, "—and guide your mouth to me. And you are going to take me as deep as you can, until your lips meet the base of my shaft and your nose presses against my belly. I want to feel the back of your throat. I want to feel you swallow around me. I want to see tears in your eyes—not from pain, but from the effort, from wanting to take all of me, from being so full of me you can barely breathe." He paused while you buckled the first greave around his shin, your fingers working the leather straps through the buckles, pulling them snug against the padded linen beneath. "But I'm not going to let you finish me that way. Not today."
"No?" You looked up at him through your lashes, your hands pausing on the second greave.
"No." The word was a growl that seemed to originate somewhere deep in his chest, rumbling through the air between you. "Today, I want to be inside you when I spend. I want to feel you come around my cock, feel you clench and pulse and cry out my name so loudly that the whole Red Keep knows who you belong to. I want to fill you up until it drips down your thighs, the way you said you wanted yesterday, the way you whispered in my ear when you thought you were being scandalous. Every word you said to me yesterday—I remember all of it. Every filthy, beautiful, desperate word. And I intend to make every single one of them come true before the sun sets."
You rose, your body humming with anticipation like a plucked harp string, and reached for the cuirass. The black steel was cool and heavy against your palms as you lifted it from the table, the three-headed dragon crest seeming to watch you with knowing ruby eyes. You pressed the breastplate into place against his chest, and he held it there while you moved around behind him to begin fastening the side buckles. His eyes tracked you in the polished reflection of the armor, never leaving your face as your fingers worked methodically down his sides, pulling each strap through its buckle, testing each fastening with a sharp tug.
"Then I'm going to bend you over the armor stand," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble that vibrated through the steel beneath your hands, through your fingertips, into the marrow of your bones. "And I'm going to push your skirts up around your waist—slowly, so I can watch the fabric slide up the backs of your thighs, so I can see the curve of your arse inch by inch before I bare you completely. And I'm going to take you from behind, standing up, with my armor still on. You'll feel the cold steel of my cuirass against your back, hard and unyielding. You'll feel the chill of my greaves against your calves. You'll smell the metal and the leather mixed with the scent of us. But inside you, I'll be hot. Hot and hard and so deep you'll feel me in your throat, in your chest, in the very core of you."
Your breath caught in your chest like a trapped bird. Your fingers fumbled on the last buckle, the leather slipping through your grasp before you caught it again, and you heard him exhale, not quite a laugh, but something darkly satisfied, something that said he knew exactly what his words were doing to you.
"Then," he continued, relentless, merciless, "when I've had my fill of watching myself disappear inside you from behind, I'm going to carry you to the cot and put you on your back. And I'm going to take off my gauntlets so I can feel your skin with my bare hands. I'm going to hold you down, one hand between your breasts, pinning you to the mattress. And I'm going to fuck you slowly. So slowly you'll feel every inch of me, every ridge, every pulse. So slowly you'll beg me to go faster. And I won't. Not until you apologize for every bratty, insolent, maddening thing you said to me this morning."
You finished the last buckle of the cuirass with hands that trembled ever so slightly—you knew he could see it, could feel it in the minute vibrations transmitted through the steel—and reached for the gorget. The throat armor was shaped to cradle his neck, to protect the vulnerable hollow where his pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. "Apologize?" you managed, your voice emerging breathier than you intended, a half-octave higher than your usual register. "For what, precisely?"
"For pulling my hair when you knew it would drive me to distraction. For denying me what we both wanted because you were enjoying the game too much to end it. For threatening to find satisfaction elsewhere." His eyes burned into yours, twin flames of violet and shadow, and his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, something that was somehow more commanding than any shout could be. "You are going to say 'I am yours, Valarr, and no one else's. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours.' And then, and only then, will I let you come. Not a moment before. No matter how much you plead."
You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry as parchment left in the sun. "And if I refuse? If I'm stubborn and willful and refuse to give you the satisfaction?"
His smile was slow and wolfish and altogether dangerous, the kind of smile that would have made a lesser woman run for the hills. "Then I'll keep going until you don't. I can do this all day, sweetheart. I can bring you to the edge again and again and again until you forget your own name, until you forget why you were resisting in the first place, until the only word left in your vocabulary is 'please.' And then I'll make you wait a little longer, just because I can."
The gorget was in place, the final buckle secured beneath his left ear. Only the gauntlets remained on the table, and the helm—a sculpted thing of black steel with a dragon crest sweeping back from the crown like frozen fire. You reached for the gauntlets, the articulated steel fingers clicking softly against each other, but he caught your wrists in his bare hands before you could lift them.
"Leave them," he said, his voice rough as stone dragged over gravel. "I want to feel you. I've been waiting all morning to feel you."
And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was a conquest and surrender woven together into a single act. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat before his mouth descended. His tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that bordered on violence, tasting of the wine he'd drunk before you arrived, tasting of want and need and barely leashed desperation. The steel of his cuirass pressed cold and unyielding against your breasts through the thin fabric of your gown, and the contrast of sensations, cold metal against your front, hot mouth against your lips, hard steel against your soft flesh, soft tongue sliding against yours, made your head spin like you'd drunk an entire flagon of the Arbor gold on the table.
You kissed him back with everything you had, with every ounce of frustration and desire and desperate wanting that had been building since yesterday, since this morning, since the moment you'd first laid eyes on him. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his gambeson where it showed above the cuirass, pulling him closer, closer, until the steel was pressed so tight against you that you could feel the steel imprinting on your skin through your dress.
"Gods," you gasped against his mouth, pulling back just far enough to drag air into your burning lungs, "I want you. I want you now. Right now."
"Then have me."
He walked you backward with the steady, unstoppable momentum of a tide, his armored body a wall of heat and steel pushing against your softness, until your spine hit the armor stand. The wooden frame rattled violently, a pauldron clattering to the trampled grass with a dull thud, a vambrace following it a moment later, and then his hands were on your hips, the heat of his bare palms searing through your gown, lifting you onto the edge of the campaign table with effortless strength. Your skirts bunched around your thighs, the fabric rucking up past your knees, past midthigh, until the cool morning air kissed skin that was already flushed and feverish. His armored body pressed between your legs, the steel of his cuirass shockingly cold against the heated, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a desperation that surprised you, pulling him closer, the ridges of the armor pressing into your soft flesh in ways that would leave marks, and you didn't care, you didn't care at all.
"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice ragged, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants that mingled with your own. "Tell me you want me. I need to hear you say it. I need to know this isn't just—I need to know you want this as much as I do."
"I want you," you breathed, the words spilling out of you like water from a cracked dam, unstoppable and honest and raw. "I want you all the time, every moment of every day, until it drives me to distraction. I am yours, Valarr Targaryen. I am yours and no one else's, now and always, today and tomorrow and every day after. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours."
He kissed you again, harder, more desperately, the careful control he'd maintained all morning finally snapping like an overwound harp string. One hand left your hip and you felt him fumbling between your bodies, working at the laces of his breeches with urgent, unsteady fingers, and then he was free, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your inner thigh, leaving a trail of slick moisture against your skin.
The first press of him against your entrance made you gasp into his mouth. You were still slick from his attentions this morning, your body still aching and empty from the interrupted promise of the night before, still desperate and ready despite—or perhaps because of—everything. And when he pushed inside you—one long, slow, relentless thrust that filled you completely, that stretched you in ways that walked the perfect line between pleasure and exquisite ache—you cried out so loudly you were certain the entire camp must have heard, certain the squire outside the tent must be blushing to the roots of his hair, certain the news would spread through the tourney grounds faster than word of the trial itself.
"Yes," you sobbed, your head falling back, your nails digging into the back of his neck hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, your inner muscles clenching around the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. "Yes, yes, yes—"
He took you with a ferocity that drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out cries, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your vision blur at the edges. His bare hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto him with every driving thrust, meeting your body with his own in a rhythm that was more storm than song. The armor stand rattled and creaked beneath you with the force of his movements, the remaining pieces of armor clanking against each other like discordant bells, and you had to brace one hand behind you on the table to keep from being driven backward onto the scattered steel.
The sound of it was utterly obscene, and you were past caring. The clank of steel against steel. The creak of leather straps straining. The wet, rhythmic slide of your bodies joining and parting and joining again. The raw, desperate, animal sounds tearing from your throat with every thrust, moans and gasps and half-formed words that might have been his name or might have been prayers. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your ankles locking behind the small of his back, and the slight shift in angle made him hit a spot deep inside you that sent white lightning arcing up your spine, that made you scream, that made your inner muscles flutter and clench around him in involuntary spasm.
"That's it," he growled against your ear, his voice dark with satisfaction and unspent hunger. "Let them hear you. Let the whole camp hear who you belong to. Let the gods hear. I don't care. I want everyone to know."
"Valarr—Valarr—I'm going to—I'm so close, I'm going to—"
"Come for me." The command was a growl, a plea, a demand all at once. "Now. I want to feel you."
The command shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave in a storm, white-hot and blinding, starting somewhere deep in your core and radiating outward in pulses of pure, incandescent pleasure. You screamed his name so loudly your voice cracked and broke on the second syllable, your head thrown back, your spine arching, your body convulsing around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that drew a guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest. The world went white at the edges, then gray, then nothing at all for a suspended moment of pure, perfect oblivion.
He followed you over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a final, deep thrust, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-damp skin, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You felt him pulse inside you—once, twice, three times, four—felt the hot, flooding spill of his seed filling you, felt it begin to drip down your thighs even before he pulled out, a slow, warm trickle that traced paths down your trembling skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tent was filled with the sound of ragged, desperate breathing, yours, his, indistinguishable from each other, two sets of lungs working in tandem. The armor stand creaked beneath you with a final, settling groan. The fallen pauldron gleamed on the grass, its polished surface now smudged with fingerprints. Somewhere in the distance, a crier was calling something about the trial of seven, his voice high and thin and utterly irrelevant, a fly buzzing at the edge of a world that had shrunk to the space between your bodies.
Valarr lifted his head from your shoulder slowly, as if it weighed more than his helm, and looked at you with those eyes still hazy with the remnants of pleasure, still dark with hunger despite everything you'd just done, still burning with something that looked terrifyingly like devotion and his lips were kiss-swollen, and there was a mark on his neck where your nails had raked across the skin, and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
"I believe," he said, his voice hoarse and scraped-raw, the words emerging between still-labored breaths, "that I owed you a proper apology. For my behavior. For my presumption. For everything."
You laughed, a breathless, exhausted, utterly satisfied sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest and emerged as something between a giggle and a sigh. The movement made him shift inside you, still half-hard, and you gasped at the oversensitive friction. "Accepted," you managed, your own voice barely more than a whisper. "Though I should warn you—if that's how you apologize, I may need to find reasons to be cross with you more often."
—
Outside the tent, the squire stood at rigid attention, his spine so straight it was on the verge of snapping, his face the color of curdled milk, his eyes fixed on the distant treeline with the desperate intensity of a man who was trying very, very hard to be somewhere else entirely. His name was Edric, he was fifteen years old, he had been in Prince Valarr's service for exactly eight months, and he was fairly certain that nothing in his life had prepared him for this.
He had heard everything. Everything. The first moan had been bad enough, a high, breathy sound that had made his ears turn pink and his gaze drop to his boots. The second moan had been worse, drawn out and trembling, followed by a rhythmic creaking that could only be the armor stand, the armor stand, gods preserve him, the very armor stand he had polished that morning, taking a structural battering it had never been designed to withstand. And then there had been words. Words. The princess had said things—things he was fairly certain he should not repeat even under threat of torture—and the prince had responded in a voice so low and rough and possessive that Edric had actually taken three involuntary steps away from the tent flap.
Now there was screaming. Not the bad kind of screaming but the kind of screaming that made his entire body flush with heat and his throat go dry and his brain very pointedly refuse to form coherent thoughts.
He was going to die. He was going to die of embarrassment right here, outside his prince's tent, and the maesters would have to invent an entirely new category of death to explain what had happened to him.
Maybe I should have become a septon, he thought miserably. Septons don't have to stand outside tents listening to—
A particularly sharp cry rang out from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of something wooden and structural creaking in rhythmic protest. Edric squeezed his eyes shut and began mentally reciting the names of all seven aspects of the Seven. Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, Stranger—
The Stranger, he felt, was particularly appropriate. He was fairly certain he was about to die of embarrassment.
"VALARR—yes—right THERE—"
Edric opened his eyes and fixed them on a cloud that was drifting lazily across the morning sky. That was a nice cloud. Clouds were safe. Clouds did not make sounds that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his natural life.
He was so focused on the cloud—and on mentally reciting every prayer he knew, and on wondering whether it was possible to un-hear something through sheer force of will—that he did not notice the approach of the man until a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke from approximately two feet away.
"Where is my son's armor?"
Edric jumped approximately three feet into the air and spun around with a strangled yelp that he would deny to his dying day.
Prince Baelor Breakspear stood before him.
"Y-y-your Grace." Edric's voice cracked on every syllable, pitching upward like a boy of twelve instead of a squire of fifteen. "Prince Valarr's armor is—ah—it is—it is inside the tent. Yes. Inside. The tent. Where the armor is."
Baelor's eyes, the same deep blue as his son's left eye, narrowed slightly. "Are you quite well, lad? You look rather flushed."
"I am perfectly well, Your Grace. Perfectly. It is only the—the heat. The morning heat. Very hot this morning. Unusually hot. I was just—standing here. Guarding. As one does."
Baelor studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then seemed to decide that squires were simply peculiar creatures and not worth further investigation. "Good. I have need of the armor before—"
His hand was already reaching for the tent flap and Edric's soul departed his body.
"Your Grace, wait—"
Baelor stopped, his fingers an inch from the canvas. He had heard something.
A sound. A distinctly human sound. "Oh, Valarr—" The voice from within was high and breathy and unmistakably feminine, stretched taut with something between ecstasy and desperation. "Right THERE—don't stop—gods, don't you DARE stop—"
Baelor Breakspear's hand froze in midair. His fingers curled inward, retreating from the canvas as though it had suddenly burst into flame.
Edric wanted to die. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms—the Wall, the deserts of Dorne, the smoking ruins of Valyria itself—anywhere but standing next to his prince's father while said prince was audibly, enthusiastically, thoroughly fucking his wife twenty feet away.
"I—Your Grace, I am under—under very strict orders—" Edric's voice was barely a whisper, his face now achieving a shade of crimson that would have impressed a painter. "No one is to enter the tent. Not anyone. Not for any reason. Those were—those were Prince Valarr's exact words. His very exact words. He was quite specific."
Another sound from within, a rhythmic creaking, the unmistakable clank of steel against something wooden, a low, rough, guttural male groan that was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically Prince Valarr's voice.
Baelor stood frozen outside his son's tent with his mouth slightly open and his cheeks slowly, inexorably turning the color of a summer rose.
"Valarr! VALARR—I'm—I'm going to—I'm—"
A scream. Female. Ecstatic. Utterly, comprehensively unmistakable. It was the kind of scream that left nothing to the imagination—the kind of scream that painted a very detailed picture of exactly what was happening inside that tent, a picture that Edric desperately, desperately did not want to be seeing in his mind's eye.
And then, as if the scream had not been damning enough:
"VALARR! YES! YES, RIGHT THERE—FILL ME UP—DON'T STOP—"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Baelor Breakspear stared at the tent flap as though it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. His hand, still raised, slowly lowered to his side. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment—opening, closing, opening again—like a fish that had been unexpectedly yanked from the water and was still trying to process its new reality.
"I..." He cleared his throat. "I... see."
"The armor," Edric whispered miserably, staring at the ground as though it might offer him salvation, "is... occupied, Your Grace."
Baelor's voice, when he finally found it, was remarkably steady for a man who had just been forced to confront the fact that his son was, at present, engaged in activities that would make a Dornish courtesan blush. "Occupied."
"Very occupied."
"Yes—like that—exactly like that—oh, gods, I can feel you so deep—"
"Extremely occupied," Edric amended, his voice barely audible. "Thoroughly occupied. Could not be more occupied if they tried."
A long, agonizing pause. From within the tent came the unmistakable sound of bodies shifting, the creak of the cot—the cot, gods, they had moved to the cot—and a low, breathy laugh that was definitely the princess.
"Well," Baelor said, and his voice had acquired a slightly strangled quality, as though someone had their hands wrapped around his throat, "it is... it is good that they are... that the marriage is... that they are clearly very..." He paused, searching for a word that would not make this situation worse. "...compatible.""
"Harder—HARDER—I want to feel you for DAYS—"
Baelor closed his eyes. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose. He opened his eyes again and looked at the sky as though beseeching the Seven themselves for intervention.
"Right," he said, to no one in particular. "Right. Well. I suppose... I suppose I shall find armor elsewhere. Ser Humfrey Hardyng may have something suitable. He is roughly my same proportions. Give or take. Or perhaps Lord Ashford keeps spares in the armory. For... for emergencies." He paused.
"VALARR, I'M GOING TO COME AGAIN—"
Baelor turned on his heel with the rigid, mechanical dignity of a man who had decided that the only way to survive this encounter was to pretend it had never happened. His movements were stiff, precise, the movements of a soldier retreating in good order from a battle that could not be won.
"I shall go now," he announced to the world at large. He took three long strides toward the main thoroughfare of the camp.
"Your Grace!" Edric called after him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shall I—should I—do you want me to tell Prince Valarr that you came looking for him? When he is—when he is finished with his—with the armor?"
Baelor did not break stride. He did not slow down. He did not look back. If anything, he appeared to walk faster.
"You may tell my son," he said, his voice carrying back over his shoulder with a strained composure that was honestly quite heroic under the circumstances, "that I wish him joy of his morning. That I am pleased—very pleased—that his marriage is so... vigorous. That I am profoundly, deeply, inexpressibly glad that I did not walk into that tent. And that if either of them ever—ever—speaks of this in my presence, I shall deny it happened until my dying breath."
He paused, just for a moment, and added in a tone of immense, bone-deep exhaustion: "The Seven give me strength."
And then Prince Baelor Breakspear, the finest knight of the realm, disappeared around the corner of a supply tent with the speed of a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of the known world.
Edric stood alone, staring at the spot where his prince's father had been, listening to the sounds still emerging from within the tent—a rhythmic thumping now, another rising moan, and something that sounded distressingly like the cot beginning to splinter—and wondered if it was physically possible to die of embarrassment.
It was, he concluded, probably not possible. Which meant he would have to live with this memory for the rest of his natural life.
"Oh—oh—VALARR—"
The rest of his natural life was looking to be very, very long indeed.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
Preview, Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4, Part 5
"I cared about you."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. She saw them land. She saw the flicker in his eyes, the crack in his carefully guarded expression.
"Then why are you doing this?" he asked.
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
He looked at the earrings again. His hand hovered over them, close enough to touch, but he didn't. He pushed the pouch back toward her.
"Keep them," he said.
"Aerion—"
"I said keep them." His voice was flat, final. "I don't want them back."
She stared at him.
"I think we're done here." He was already standing
Warnings: ANGST, criminal! Aerion x peoples princess!Reader, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic relationship, Fake dating, Modern AU, Violence, suggestiveness, political corruption, Manipulation, semi-slow burn, cheating (not Aerion or reader dw), infidelity accusations, insecurity, Aerion Targaryen (he’s his own warning), Streamer!Raymund
Modern Aerion! x Celebrity! Reader
WC: 6.1 K
The morning of the dinner arrived grey and quiet.
She had spent the night staring at her ceiling, her phone face-down on the pillow beside her, the anonymous message burned into her mind. She had read it once. Then again. Then a third time, because she couldn't believe what she was seeing. She had not replied. She had not deleted it. She had simply set the phone down and let the weight of it settle over her like a shroud.
Now, an hour before Aerion was supposed to pick her up, she sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped in her lap, staring at the wall. Her dress was laid out across the chair, deep blue, elegant, the one she had chosen carefully for this evening.
She didn't feel like wearing it.
She felt like crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her head. She felt like pretending this day had never happened. She felt like calling the whole thing off and never seeing Aerion Targaryen again.
But she couldn't do that. Not now. Not after everything.
She reached for her phone.
Her thumb hovered over his name. The message from the anonymous number was still there, still waiting, still burning a hole in her chest. She didn't read it again. She didn't need to. She knew every word by heart.
She pressed call.
He answered on the second ring. "I was just about to leave."
"Don't." Her voice was steadier than she expected.
"Don't pick me up. I'll meet you there."
A pause. She could hear the confusion in his silence. "Why?"
"Just-" She closed her eyes. "Just meet me there. Please."
Another pause. Longer this time. Then, slowly: "Okay."
She hung up before he could ask anything else. She set the phone down and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until she saw stars.
Then she stood, walked to the dress laid out across the chair, and began to get ready.
The restaurant was the same as before.
The same candlelit tables. The same quiet murmur of conversation. The same careful, deliberate elegance that made her feel like she was stepping into a painting.
She had arrived early. She had chosen a table in the corner, half-hidden from the rest of the room, where she could see the entrance without being seen. She had ordered water she didn't drink and sat with her hands folded in her lap, waiting.
Aerion arrived exactly on time.
She watched him walk through the door. He was wearing a dark suit; sharp, fitted, clearly chosen with care. His hair was pushed back, his jaw clean-shaven, his posture straight. He had put extra effort into tonight. She could see it in the way his eyes swept the room, searching for her. In the way his hand adjusted his cuff, a small, nervous gesture she had never seen him make before. In the way his face softened, just slightly, when he found her.
He crossed the room and took the seat across from her. His eyes went to her ears immediately. His gaze lingered there for a moment, then moved to her face. He didn't mention it. But she saw his jaw tighten, just slightly, before he controlled it.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
He reached for the menu, then set it down without opening it. His eyes were on her face now, studying her with an intensity that made her want to look away.
"You've been crying," he said. It wasn't a question.
She forced a smile. "I haven't."
"Your eyes are red."
"Allergies."
He didn't believe her. She could see it in the way his gaze held hers, searching for something she wasn't willing to give. But he didn't push.
"Tell me what you wanted to say," she said. Her voice was flat. Direct. She didn't have the energy for small talk, didn't have the patience for the careful dance they had been doing for weeks. "You said there were things we needed to talk about. So talk."
He blinked. The directness caught him off guard. She saw him gather himself, his hand moving to the back of his neck, that familiar gesture of discomfort.
"I didn't-" He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to explain what happened. At the gala."
She waited.
He took a breath. She watched him struggle with the words, watched the battle between his pride and his desire to be honest play out across his face. He wasn't good at this. She had always known that. But he was trying.
"I pulled away," he said slowly, "because I was scared."
She said nothing.
"Not of you." He said it quickly, almost defensively. "Of- " He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at... letting people in. I never have been. And with you, it was- " He shook his head. "It was different. I didn't know how to handle it."
She watched him. Her hands were still folded in her lap. Her face was still composed. But inside, something was cracking.
"I know this is- " He paused. "I know this is cliché. And a little cringe. But Rhae said girls like it when you're vulnerable with them, so- " He stopped. Shook his head. "I'm making a mess of this."
She stared at him. For a moment, the mask almost slipped. The urge to reach across the table and take his hand was almost overwhelming. She thought of the anonymous message. She thought of the words burned into her mind. She thought of what she had to do.
She didn't reach for him.
"Aerion," she said, her voice softer now, "did your father tell you the news?"
He frowned. "What news?"
She took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
"The contract," she said. "It's coming to an end. We don't have to pretend anymore."
He went still. His face was unreadable, but she saw the shift, the way his hand tightened around his water glass, the way his shoulders went rigid.
"What are you talking about?"
"The Essos expansion," she said. "The funding. My father found another source. We don't need the Targaryen money anymore."
He stared at her. She watched him process the words, watched them land, watched the meaning settle over him like a weight.
"So that's it," he said. His voice was flat. Controlled. "The arrangement is over."
"Yes."
"And you came here to tell me this."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a long moment. His eyes were fixed on her, searching her face for something. She didn't know what he was looking for. She hoped he wouldn't find it.
"It wasn't real," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was colder now, harder. "The whole thing. It was just a transaction to you."
"Aerion-"
"Fake." He said it like the word tasted bad. "That's what this was to you. A performance. A means to an end."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. Because he was right. That was how it had started. That was what she had agreed to. But that wasn't what it had become.
"You're the one who made it clear," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "You pushed me away. You told me to leave. You made it obvious that this was never going to be anything more."
His jaw tightened. "I told you why I pulled away."
"You told me you were scared."
"Yes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She shook her head. "It's not enough."
He stared at her. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. She could see the anger building behind his careful composure, the frustration he was trying to contain.
"You think this is easy for me?" he said. "You think I wanted to- " He stopped. His hand came up, raking through his hair. "I've never- " He stopped again. His jaw was tight. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. I didn't know what to do with it. I still don't."
"Then maybe you should have tried harder."
The words landed like a slap. She saw them hit him. She saw the flicker of hurt beneath the anger, there and gone before he could hide it.
She forced herself to continue. "You can't just show up when it's convenient and expect me to be waiting. You can't push me away and then pull me back whenever you feel like it. That's not how this works."
"I know that."
"Then why did you do it?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes burning, his jaw tight.
She shook her head again. "I can't do this with you. I can't keep- " She stopped. Swallowed. "We'll never work. Your past- what happened- everyone was right about you."
The words hung in the air between them.
Aerion went still. His eyes were flat now, his face carefully blank. But she saw the flash of pain beneath the surface, the blow that landed harder than he wanted to show.
"I thought," he said slowly, "you said you didn't believe the rumors."
She met his eyes. "I lied."
He stared at her. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick.
"You lied," he repeated.
"Yes."
He nodded slowly. His hand was still wrapped around his water glass, his knuckles white. She watched him process the words. Watched the walls go up. Watched the man she was starting to fall for disappear behind a careful, guarded mask.
She reached into her bag. Her fingers found the small velvet pouch. She had brought it with her, knowing she would need to give it back, knowing it was the right thing to do.
She set it on the table between them.
He looked at it. Then at her.
"What is that?"
She didn't answer. She pushed it toward him.
He opened it. His hand stilled when he saw what was inside. The rubies. His mother's rubies. The ones he had given her without thinking, without planning, because they had caught the light and he had wanted to see them on her.
"You should give these to someone who deserves them," she said quietly.
He stared at the earrings. His jaw was tight. She could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
"I don't want them back," he said.
"I can't keep them."
"You can."
She shook her head. "It's not right."
"Right." He said the word like it was a joke. "Right. Because you care so much about what's right."
"I cared about you."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. She saw them land. She saw the flicker in his eyes, the crack in his carefully guarded expression.
"Then why are you doing this?" he asked.
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
He looked at the earrings again. His hand hovered over them, close enough to touch, but he didn't. He pushed the pouch back toward her.
"Keep them," he said.
"Aerion- "
"I said keep them." His voice was flat, final. "I don't want them back."
She stared at him.
"I think we're done here." He was already standing
"Thank you for the dinner," he said. His voice was flat, formal, utterly without emotion. "I'll make sure the staff takes care of the bill."
He walked away. He didn't look back.
She sat there, alone, the velvet pouch still on the table between them. She reached for it, her fingers closing around the soft fabric. It was still warm from his hand. She could still feel the ghost of his touch.
She didn't know how long she sat there. Minutes. Hours. The candle burned low.
Eventually, she stood. She gathered her things. She tucked the earrings back into her bag.
She walked out of the restaurant and into the cold night air. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't know if she could ever go home.
The earrings weighed heavy in her bag.
She didn't let go of them, she couldn't bring herself to.
Aerion's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel the ache spreading through his temples. The dinner replayed in his mind like a loop he couldn't escape, her red eyes, the tremor in her lips, the way her voice had cracked when she said she cared about him. The way she had pushed the velvet pouch across the table like she was handing back a piece of herself.
He had believed her. For a moment, just a moment, he had believed her cruelty. He had walked out of that restaurant convinced that she was just like everyone else, that she had been using him, that the whole thing had been a transaction from the start.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Her eyes had been red. She had been crying before she even got there. And the way she had said I lied, it hadn't sounded like triumph. It had sounded like she was forcing the words out, like she was breaking something inside herself just to say them.
He had been so consumed by his own anger that he hadn't seen it.
He made a U-turn so sharp the tires screeched against the asphalt.
The Targaryen Tower rose before him like a monument to everything he hated about his family, glass and steel, cold and untouchable, built to keep people out. He parked illegally, abandoned the car, and walked through the lobby without acknowledging anyone.
The elevator ride was interminable. He stared at his reflection in the polished doors, watching his own jaw tighten, his hands curl into fists.
He was about to start a war.
He didn't care.
The boardroom doors were closed.
Aerion didn't knock.
He slammed them open with enough force that they crashed against the walls, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
The room was full; Baelor at the head of the table, Maekar to his left, Valarr seated further down, a dozen executives and advisors scattered around them. They all looked up at once. Some startled. Some alarmed. Some namely Baelor, Maekar and Valarr, already watching him with expressions that suggested they had been waiting.
Aerion didn't give them time to speak.
"Everyone out," he said. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of calm that was far more dangerous than shouting. "Now."
No one moved. The executives exchanged glances. A woman near the window opened her mouth to speak.
He slammed his hands on the table. The impact was loud enough to make several of them flinch, papers scattering across the polished surface, a coffee cup tipping over and spilling dark liquid across the wood.
"GET OUT."
They scrambled. Chairs scraped against the floor. Papers were gathered in haste. The executives poured toward the doors like water through a crack, their eyes fixed on the floor, none of them daring to look back.
The doors swung shut behind them.
Aerion stood at the head of the table, his hands flat on the wood, his chest heaving. His eyes swept across the three men who remained and saw the confirmation he had been dreading.
They were not surprised.
"You knew," he said. His voice was flat, almost hollow. "You knew what was happening. All of you."
Baelor leaned back in his chair, his expression composed. "We suspected."
"You suspected." Aerion's voice rose, a crack appearing in his composure. "You suspected, and you didn't tell me."
"We couldn't," Maekar said. His voice was calm, measured, the voice of a man who had been expecting this conversation for days. "You wouldn't have believed us without proof."
"Proof." Aerion laughed, short, sharp, humorless. "You manipulated me. You sent me to that dinner knowing what was going to happen. Knowing she was going to " He stopped. His jaw was so tight it hurt to speak. "You knew about the contract."
"We knew," Baelor said quietly, "that it was being terminated. We did not know how it would happen. Or who would deliver the news."
Aerion stared at them. His hands were still flat on the table, his knuckles white.
"Who paid the sum?" he demanded. "The contract can't be canceled unless the sum is paid. Who paid it?"
Baelor and Maekar exchanged a glance. A long, deliberate glance that said more than words ever could. Aerion felt the rage building in his chest, hot and suffocating.
"We can't disclose that information," Maekar said slowly. "It's confidential."
"Confidential." Aerion repeated the word like it was poison. "You're going to tell me it's confidential? After everything- after you sent me to that dinner, after you let her- " He stopped. His hand came up, shoving through his hair. "I'll show you fucking confidential."
He grabbed the nearest object, a heavy crystal paperweight, cold and sharp, and threw it.
It sailed past Valarr's head, close enough to stir his hair. Valarr didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply moved his head an inch to the side and watched the paperweight shatter against the wall behind him.
The room was silent.
Aerion was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. He looked at the three men before him, Baelor, composed and unreadable. Maekar, watching him with something that might have been concern. Valarr, still as stone, his expression giving nothing away.
"You knew she was going to end it," Aerion said. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "You knew she was going to push me away. And you didn't warn me."
"We couldn't," Maekar said again. "We weren't sure- "
"Bullshit." Aerion's hand slammed against the table. "You knew. You always know. You knew about the contract, you knew about the sum, you knew she was going to- " He stopped. His jaw was trembling. He forced it still. "You let me walk into that dinner blind. You let me- " He stopped again. His voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what she said to me?"
The silence stretched.
Baelor set down his pen. He folded his hands on the table and looked at Aerion with an expression that was almost gentle.
"Would you have met her," he asked slowly, "if you had known?"
Aerion stared at him.
The question hung in the air between them. It was the only question that mattered. The only one he couldn't answer.
Because the truth was, he didn't know.
He would never have agreed to the PR stunt if he had known it was a setup. He would have walked away before he ever met her. He would have spent the rest of his life not knowing what he was missing.
And the thought of that, of never having met her, never having kissed her, never having sat in that kitchen with his siblings and watched her laugh, was somehow worse than the pain of losing her.
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Baelor watched him, his expression unreadable. Maekar was still holding his gaze, waiting. Valarr hadn't moved.
Aerion's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the table to still them.
"Who paid the sum?" he asked again. His voice was rough, barely controlled.
Aerion stared at him. His eyes were burning, his jaw tight. He looked between Baelor and Maekar, searching for something, a crack, a hesitation, anything.
He found nothing.
Baelor watched him, his expression unreadable. Maekar was still holding his gaze, his hands flat on the table, his knuckles white. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight. He looked like a man who had been played and didn't like it any more than Aerion did.
"We were played too," Maekar said, the words coming out like shards of glass. "Whoever did this, they moved fast. Before we could react. Before we could warn you."
"Who paid the sum?" he asked for the final time. "Was it Lyonel?"
Baelor shook his head. "Lyonel is too cheap for that kind of money. It was someone else."
"Who?"
"I can't tell you." Baelor's voice was firm, but not unkind. "It's not my secret to share. You'll have to find out on your own."
"Find out." Aerion laughed. His voice was hollow. "Fine. Don't tell me. But you'll regret it."
He turned and walked toward the doors. His hand was on the handle when Maekar spoke.
"Where are you going?"
He didn't turn around.
"I'm going to find out the truth," he said. "With or without you."
He stepped through the doors and let them slam shut behind him.
The elevator ride was silent.
Aerion stared at his reflection in the polished doors. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw still tight, his hands still trembling. He looked like a man who had just lost everything.
He hadn't lost everything.
He had lost the woman he loved, and he hadn't even told her.
But he was going to find out who had done this to them. He was going to find out who had manipulated her into pushing him away. He was going to find out who had paid the sum.
And when he did-
He stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the lobby, his phone already in his hand.
He had a call to make.
Aerion stepped out of the Targaryen Tower and walked toward his car, his phone already pressed to his ear. His hand was still shaking, his jaw still tight, but his voice was steady; cold, controlled, the voice of a man who had nothing left to lose.
The line rang once. Twice. Then a familiar voice answered, weary and resigned.
"Aerion. I can't help you with this."
"You will." Aerion's voice was flat, without inflection. "You owe me."
There was a pause on the other end. A long, heavy pause. When the voice spoke again, it was quieter. "You know I can't-"
"You will fucking help me," Aerion cut in, "or I'll tell your little blonde exactly what you've been scheming behind her back."
The silence that followed was deafening. He could almost hear the calculation happening on the other end, the weighing of options, the realization that Aerion wasn't bluffing.
Then, slowly: "Fine. I'll send you the documents."
Aerion reached his car and yanked the door open, sliding into the driver's seat. "Send them now."
"Give me a minute." There was a rustle of papers, the sound of typing. Then, quieter: "You should know, Aerion, you're not ready for what's in them."
"I don't need your warnings."
"You always need my warnings. You just never listen."
Aerion's jaw tightened. "Send the documents, Valarr."
A pause. Then, cold: "Don't threaten me again."
Aerion rolled his eyes. "Just send them."
He hung up before Valarr could respond.
The encrypted message arrived a minute later.
Aerion stared at the screen, his jaw working. Of course Valarr had sent it encrypted. Of course he was making Aerion work for it. The man was a pedantic, insufferable control freak who enjoyed watching other people struggle.
Aerion reached into the back seat and grabbed his laptop. He opened it, connected his phone, and began the tedious process of decoding the file.
The minutes stretched. The city hummed around him. His hands were steady on the keyboard, but his mind was racing.
Trystane. It had to be Trystane.
He worked faster.
The file finally unlocked.
Aerion scrolled through the documents, his eyes scanning the legal jargon, the signatures, the dates. And there it was, the name he had been expecting.
Prince Trystane Martell.
He had paid the sum. He had terminated the contract. He had orchestrated the entire thing.
Aerion stared at the screen. His hands were still. His expression was blank. Then something shifted behind his eyes, something cold and dangerous.
He grabbed his phone and dialed another number.
The line picked up on the second ring. "Yes?"
"Trystane Martell. Where is he?"
A pause. Then, the voice on the other end: "I'll send you his coordinates. He's staying at the Martell Hotel. Penthouse suite."
"Send it."
A beat. Then, carefully: "Should I keep tracking Raven?"
Aerion went still.
The name hung in the air between them. Raven. His name for her. His. And someone else was using it.
He should say no. He should tell them to stop tracking her, to leave her alone, to let her go. That was the right thing to do. That was what a good man would do.
He wasn't a good man.
"Yes," he said. His voice was rough. "Keep tracking her."
He hung up before the other person could respond.
He sat there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the coordinates that had just appeared on his screen. The Martell Hotel. The penthouse suite.
He started the car.
The drive was a blur of neon and shadow.
Aerion's mind was churning. Trystane. Of course it was Trystane. The man had been circling her for weeks, waiting for his moment. And now he had made his move, not by winning her, but by destroying what she had with Aerion.
It was clever. It was calculated. It was infuriating.
He pulled up to the Martell Hotel and parked illegally. He didn't care. He walked through the lobby without acknowledging anyone, his stride purposeful, his expression unreadable.
The elevator ride was silent. He stared at his reflection again, the same reflection he had seen in the Targaryen Tower, the same red-rimmed eyes, the same tight jaw.
He was about to start another war.
He still didn't care.
The elevator doors opened onto the penthouse floor. The corridor was quiet, the carpet thick and soundless. Aerion walked to the door of the penthouse suite and knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again. Harder.
The door opened.
Trystane Martell stood in the doorway, his expression caught between surprise and something that looked almost like amusement. He was in a silk robe, his hair still slightly damp, a glass of wine in his hand.
"Aerion," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "This is unexpected."
Aerion's jaw tightened. "You paid the sum."
Trystane's smile didn't waver. "I did."
"You terminated the contract."
"I did."
"You manipulated her into pushing me away."
Trystane's smile widened. "I didn't manipulate anyone. I simply made her an offer she couldn't refuse." He took a sip of his wine. "The funding for her charity, the connections she needed, the freedom to walk away from the arrangement. She chose to leave you, Aerion. I didn't make her do anything."
Aerion's hands curled into fists. He could feel the rage building in his chest, hot and suffocating.
"She doesn't even like you," Aerion said. His voice was low, dangerous. "Let alone love you."
Trystane's smile faltered. Just slightly. "And what? You think she loves you?"
"I think she would never choose you willingly. I think you had to destroy what we had just to get her to look at you."
Trystane laughed; a short, sharp sound. "You're delusional. She's not in love with you. She was playing a role, just like you were. The only difference is that I'm offering her something real. A future. A partnership."
"You're offering her a transaction."
"Call it what you want. She said yes."
Aerion stepped closer, his eyes burning. "She was crying. When she told me. She was crying."
Trystane's smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind his eyes. "She made her choice."
"She made a choice because you cornered her. Because you gave her no other option. And we both know it."
Trystane set down his wine glass. His expression shifted; less amused, more calculating.
"Even if she did love you," he said slowly, "would she still feel the same way if she knew the truth about Summerhall?"
Aerion went still.
"Or what about your activities in Lys?" Trystane continued, his voice smooth, almost conversational. "Don't think I don't know what you did to get that oil contract. The people you stepped on. The deals you made. The- "
"Shut up."
"Or the journalist who- m"
"I said shut up."
Aerion's voice cracked like a whip. Trystane fell silent, but his smile remained.
"You see, Aerion," Trystane said, his voice soft, "I'm not the villain here. I'm just the one who told her the truth about who you really are. And once she knew, once she understood, she made the only choice she could make."
Aerion stared at him. His hands were shaking.
"You think you've won," he said. His voice was rough, barely controlled.
"I think I've given her the chance to make a choice without you clouding her judgment. That's not winning. That's just... fairness."
Aerion's jaw was so tight it hurt. His chest was burning. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to destroy him. He wanted to-
He stepped back.
"This isn't over," he said.
Trystane raised his glass. "I'm counting on it."
Aerion turned and walked away.
He didn't look back.
The elevator ride was silent.
Aerion stared at his reflection in the polished doors. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw still tight, his hands still trembling.
Summerhall. Lys. The journalist. Trystane knew everything. And he had used it against him, not to hurt him, but to turn her against him.
The worst part was that Trystane was right.
If she knew the full truth; if she knew what he had done, what he was capable of, she might never look at him the same way again.
But she was still wearing his earrings. She had still chosen to keep them, even after she had tried to give them back.
That had to mean something.
He stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the lobby.
He had to find her. He had to tell her the truth, all of it. And then he had to let her decide.
He pulled out his phone and sent a message to the number he had used to track her.
Where is she?
The response came a moment later.
She's at her apartment. She hasn't left all night.
Aerion pocketed his phone and walked toward his car. The city stretched before him, dark and endless.
He had a long drive ahead of him.
The screen flickered to life, and Raymun Fossoway looked like he hadn't slept in three days.
His hair was a disaster. His rhinestoned "CLOCK IT" mug sat untouched in the corner of the frame, its contents long gone cold. He was staring at his monitor with the hollow, shell-shocked expression of a man who had just watched his favourite sports team lose in the final seconds of the game.
"Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "Okay."
He looked directly into the camera.
"I need everyone to take a breath."
The chat was already a mess.
InSevenHells: RAYMUN IM THROWING UP
DrunkOnDornishRed: SAY SIKE RN
Stagflation: BNN WHEN I CATCH YOU 🔪
TheStranger: THIS IS MY 9/11
MoonteaConnoisseur: love is DEAD btw
Raymun rubbed both hands down his face.
"I know."
"I KNOW."
"I've refreshed the page thirty-seven times."
FreeMyManAerion: bro got dumped ON MY WIFI???
AerionStepOnMe: i actually built my personality around them...
ChaosIsMyLiege: deleting my pinterest boards as we speak
GoldenBoyFan: i survived incident 203 JUST FOR THIS???
Raymun sniffed dramatically.
"I had plans."
"I had wedding predictions."
"I had grandchildren names."
"I had LORE."
BaelorsToe: the scented candle era has fallen
WessyWatch: REST IN PEACE SOFT BOY AERION 😭🕊️
TheLastDragonrider: he was carrying BAGS...
StormlandsIntern: HE WAITED OUTSIDE THE CHANGING ROOM...
LysExileTruther: he wore MATCHING TIES...
FreeMyManAerion: FOR WHAT???
Raymun scrolled down the statement.
"'Mutually agreed to part ways.'"
He stared at it.
"...That's corporate for 'mind your fucking business.'"
InSevenHells: mutually agreed MY ASS 😭😭
DrunkOnDornishRed: PR TEAM WROTE THIS WITH A GUN TO THEIR HEAD
TheStranger: "remain friends" I'VE SEEN ENOUGH DIVORCES TO KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS
ChaosIsMyLiege: this statement has HR energy
Raymun clicked open another photo.
The room seemed to quiet with him.
She looked exhausted.
Not glamorous exhausted.
The sort that settled behind someone's eyes after they hadn't slept. Her makeup hid most of it, but not enough. Her smile was gone completely.
Raymun leaned closer to the screen.
"...Yeah."
"I don't buy it."
SirenSupporter: GIRL LOOKS LIKE SHE HASN'T KNOWN PEACE SINCE THE GALA
MoonteaConnoisseur: she looks like she's buffering 😭
BaelorsToe: someone HUG HER???
GoldenBoyFan: i volunteer as tribute
He clicked to another photograph.
Aerion.
Leaving through another exit.
Head down.
Suit jacket over one shoulder.
Bandaged hand.
Expression completely unreadable.
Raymun let out a slow breath.
"...He's doing the thing."
AerionStepOnMe: OH NO NOT THE AERION SHUTDOWN™
FreeMyManAerion: he's factory resetting 😭😭
ChaosIsMyLiege: bro entered airplane mode
TheLastDragonrider: windows xp shutdown noise
DrunkOnDornishRed: emotionally unavailable final boss unlocked
Raymun nodded.
"Exactly."
"That's exactly what he's doing."
Stagflation: somebody check on the WALLS
InSevenHells: LOCK UP ALL LOAD BEARING STRUCTURES
TheStranger: drywall nationwide is terrified
BaelorsToe: the walls in summerhall just started praying
Raymun couldn't help laughing.
"Okay- that one got me."
"I'll admit it."
He scrolled through another article.
"People keep blaming Trystane."
He shrugged.
"I'm not saying they're right."
"I'm just saying..."
He slowly looked into the camera.
"...the timing is suspicious."
ChaosIsMyLiege: GET BEHIND ME SIR TRYSTANE
MoonteaConnoisseur: FREE MY MAN (i have no evidence)
DrunkOnDornishRed: BRO WAS WAITING IN THE BUSHES
GoldenBoyFan: THIS IS A HATER OPERATION
InSevenHells: "he's right behind me isn't he"
Raymun pointed at the chat.
"Exactly."
"You people are insane."
"I respect it."
He looked back at the photo again.
Longer this time.
When he spoke again, the jokes were gone.
"I don't know what happened."
"I don't."
"But..."
He tapped the image lightly.
"She looks like someone whose heart got broken."
He clicked to Aerion.
"And he looks like someone who broke his own."
Silence.
Even the chat slowed.
SirenSupporter: ...
FreeMyManAerion: don't do this to me man
MoonteaConnoisseur: i'm actually gonna cry
TheStranger: they'll find each other again right...?
ChaosIsMyLiege: i'm coping so hard rn
BaelorsToe: chapter 3 breakup chapter 27 marriage TRUST 🙏
InSevenHells: DELUSION IS ALL I HAVE LEFT
DrunkOnDornishRed: we used to be a COUNTRY
Raymun looked away from the monitor for a second.
Then back.
"...I'm coping too."
He reached for the rhinestoned mug.
Held it.
Didn't drink.
"...Not today."
The chat absolutely lost it.
TheStranger: HE DIDN'T SAY CLOCK IT
GoldenBoyFan: OH ITS OVER OVER
FreeMyManAerion: NO CLOCK IT?????
ChaosIsMyLiege: THE MUG HAS FALLEN
DrunkOnDornishRed: somebody check on the rhinestones 😭
InSevenHells: darkest timeline confirmed
BaelorsToe: inciders... hold me...
Aerion's phone buzzed as he pulled up to her apartment building.
He glanced at the screen. A message from Rhae.
Last one: is it true? did you really break up?
He stared at the message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He should explain. He should tell her it was complicated. He should—
He set the phone down and gripped the steering wheel.
The announcement was out. Everyone knew. The whole world was watching, and he was about to show up at her door with no plan, no apology, nothing but the desperate hope that she would listen.
He got out of the car and walked toward the entrance.
The lobby was quiet. The doorman recognized him and didn't stop him. The elevator ride was short, but it felt like an eternity.
He stepped out onto her floor. The corridor was silent. He walked to her door and stood there, his hand raised, his heart pounding.
He knocked.
The seconds stretched. He heard movement inside, slow, hesitant.
The door opened.
She stood in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She was wearing an oversized sweater, her hair loose and tangled. She looked like she hadn't slept.
She looked at him. Her expression was unreadable.
"Aerion," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
He stood there, rain still dripping from his jacket, his heart in his throat.
"We need to talk," he said.
She didn't close the door.
That was enough.
Notes:
BOOM SHACKA LACKA guys i apologies for any emotion distress this chapter may have caused 😞
also i edited this half asleep so forgive me for any typos
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (See part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here)
Summary: Aerion and Daeron, both dragon dreamers, have a vision of ravens and dragons. Aerion, obsessed with Targaryen legacy and envious of Bloodraven's supposed ability to change forms and wield magic, decides to wed a Blackwood himself, so his children will too possess powers.
Warnings: unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, breeding, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, Bloodraven has insane ideas, blood, pregnancy, childbirth.
a/n: Reader is a Blackwood but no physical descriptions are given.
Every night, without fail, Aerion bedded you with a desperate fervor.
"Give me a child," he whispered against your throat one night, his body moving over yours. "Please. I have done everything. I have given you everything. Now give me this."
You arched beneath him, your body responding even as your mind recoiled. Pleasure and guilt tangled together until you could not tell where one ended and the other began.
"I am trying," you said. It was not a lie. You no longer had moon tea to interfere with the process of conception.
"I know." He kissed you. "I know you are. It will happen. The gods have willed it."
You closed your eyes and let him take you. Afterward, when he slept with his arm draped across your waist and his breath warm against your shoulder, you stared at the ceiling and counted the days since your last bleeding.
Twenty-four. Your cycle was regular as the moon. Twenty-eight days, always, from one flux to the next.
In four more days, you would know.
You did not sleep that night.
Marta brought your evening tea at the usual hour next day. You stared at the cup in her hands, plain chamomile, you could smell it from across the room, and felt something twist in your chest.
"Thank you," you said.
"My lady." She curtsied and withdrew.
You lifted the cup and drank. The tea was bland and harmless, exactly what it appeared to be. No bitter aftertaste. No threat of prevention. Just herbs and hot water and the quiet ticking of the hours.
You missed the moon tea. You missed the illusion of control it had given you. Without it, you felt naked, exposed, a ship adrift on a current you could not steer.
If you were with child, if Aerion's seed had finally taken root...
You set the cup down. Your hand was trembling.
Imagine Aerion with a child, Brynden's voice whispered in your memory. Imagine him raising a son. Imagine that son inheriting not only his father's madness but his mother's gift.
But you had also imagined other things. A babe in your arms, small, warm and utterly dependent. A child who looked at you with your own eyes, who heard the trees as you did, who belonged to you in a way no one else ever had.
Was that not worth the risk? Was that not worth any risk?
You did not know. You had been asking yourself that question for months, and you still did not know.
In the other room, Aerion was humming. It was a tune you did not recognize, some Lysene melody, perhaps, carried back from his years in exile. His voice was pleasant, lilting, utterly at odds with the violence you knew he was capable of.
"My love," he called. "Come to bed. The hour grows late."
You rose from your chair and went to him.
Four days later, your moon blood came.
You stood in the bathchamber, staring at the evidence on the cloth, and felt a rush of emotion so complex you could not name it. Relief, disappointment, fear, hope. They tangled together until you were dizzy with them.
You were not with child. The gods had not willed it after all.
When you emerged, Aerion was waiting. He searched your face with that hungry, hopeful look he had worn every month since Ellyn's death.
"Well?" he asked.
"Nothing," you said. "I am sorry."
The hope drained from his face. For a moment, he looked almost defeated. Then he straightened, his jaw setting with that familiar, stubborn resolve.
"It will happen," he said. "These things take time. My own mother took years to conceive Daeron."
"Aerion..."
"We will keep trying." He crossed to you and took your hands in his. "We will try until it takes. However long that is. However many years it requires. I will not give up on you. I will never give up on you."
You looked at him, the man who had once threatened to ruin you, who had blackmailed you into marriage, who had bloodied his hands in your defense. He meant it. He truly meant it. Whatever else Aerion Targaryen was, he was not a liar. He would not set you aside. He would not take another wife. He would not abandon the dream of children born of your union.
You did not know whether that was a comfort or a curse.
"Thank you," you whispered.
He kissed you, deep and lingering. When he pulled back, there was fire in his eyes.
"Rest tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we will try again."
He led you to bed. You went willingly, and you did not think about Brynden or moon tea or the dreams of fire and shadow that haunted your sleep.
The child made its presence known in the smallest of ways at first.
Your moon blood did not come. A week passed, then two, and the absence settled into your body. Your breasts grew tender. The smell of roasted meat, which you had always enjoyed, began to turn your stomach. You woke each morning with a weariness that sleep could not touch, as though some unseen hand had wrapped itself around your bones and was slowly, gently, pulling you down toward the earth.
You said nothing to Aerion. You needed to be certain.
But he noticed on his own.
"You are different," he said one morning, watching you push your breakfast around your plate without eating. His eyes were assessing, the same look he wore when tracking prey through the Marcher hills. "What is it?"
"Nothing. I am only tired."
"You have been tired for a fortnight." He rose from his chair and crossed to where you sat, his hand settling on your shoulder. "You barely eat. You flinch when the servants bring meat to table. You..."
He stopped. His hand tightened on your shoulder.
"You are with child."
You looked up at the dawning wonder in his violet eyes.
"I do not know for certain," you said. "It is too early to..."
"I know." He dropped to his knees beside your chair, his hands catching yours, his face alight with a joy so fierce it was painful to behold. "I know. The gods have answered us at last. I dreamed it, do you understand? Three nights ago, I dreamed of a dragon whelp curled in the roots of a white tree, and when I woke I knew...I knew..."
"Aerion..."
"We will send for the maester. He will confirm it. And then we will announce it to the whole of Summerhall, to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms..." He broke off, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a tenderness that stole your breath. "My wife. My fierce, beautiful wife. You have given me the greatest gift a man can receive."
You had not given him anything. The child was an accident, the inevitable result of months of relentless coupling without the shield of moon tea to protect you. But looking at his face, at the naked emotion blazing there, you could not bring yourself to say so.
"I am glad," you said instead. "If it is true, I am glad."
The maester confirmed it that noon.
Aerion's joy was overflowing, a fire that swept through Summerhall and consumed everything in its path. Servants were given extra rations of ale. A feast was announced for the household. A raven was dispatched to King's Landing, bearing the news to the king himself.
Aerion himself transformed.
The tenderness you had seen flickering in him before now blazed into a constant, fierce devotion. He brought gifts for the child: a silver rattle, tiny embroidered slippers, a blanket woven from the softest wool. He insisted on accompanying you everywhere, his hand always at your elbow, his eyes always scanning for threats. He dismissed two kitchen servants because a dish arrived at table slightly too cold, fearing it had been tampered with. He had the entire household searched again, every corner and cupboard, every servant's belongings, looking for traces of the conspiracy he was certain still lurked in the shadows.
"They tried to poison you before," he said when you protested. "They tried to kill our child before it could even take root. I will not let them try again."
"Aerion, Ellyn acted alone..."
"We do not know that. We know nothing. Whoever sent her is still out there, waiting, watching." His jaw set in that stubborn line you had come to know so well. "I failed you once. I will not fail you again."
There was no reasoning with him. You learned that quickly. The moon tea had shattered the fragile trust that the walls of Summerhall could keep you safe. Now every shadow held a threat. Every stranger was a potential assassin. Every meal was a potential poison.
And you were the vessel carrying his most precious treasure.
"Do not walk in the gardens alone," he told you. "Do not eat anything the tasters have not tried first. Do not speak to anyone I have not approved. If you feel anything strange, any pain, any dizziness, any fear, you must tell me at once."
The dreams began in the third month.
At first, they were only fragments, snatches of images that dissolved the moment you opened your eyes. A white tree with red leaves, its trunk split open like a wound. A raven with three eyes, circling against a burning sky. A child's cry, distant and desperate, echoing through stone corridors you did not recognize.
You dismissed them as the ordinary phantoms of a restless mind. Pregnancy brought strange dreams; even the maester had said so. Your body was changing, your humors shifting, your mind adjusting to the new life growing within you. It was only natural that your sleep should be disturbed.
But the dreams did not fade. They grew more vivid, more insistent.
You dreamed of fire, a consuming inferno that swept across fields and forests, that turned rivers to steam and stone to ash. You dreamed of dragons, not the noble beasts of Targaryen legend, but twisted, screaming things with scales like rusted iron and eyes like pools of blood. You dreamed of a throne made of swords, and on it sat a figure with your face and Aerion's eyes, and in its hands it held a crown of weirwood branches, and the branches were weeping red sap that dripped like blood onto the stones below.
You woke screaming.
"Hush. Hush, my love. I am here."
Aerion was beside you in an instant, his arms around you, his voice a low, soothing murmur against your hair. Candles flared to life as servants rushed in, summoned by your cries. You clung to him, shaking, your nightgown soaked with sweat, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
"It was only a dream," he said, stroking your hair. "Only a dream. You are safe. The babe is safe. Nothing can harm you here."
"You do not understand." Your voice came out ragged, broken. "It was not only a dream. It was...I saw..."
"What did you see?"
You tried to tell him. The words came out in fragments, incoherent. Fire and blood and screaming. A child with your eyes. A tree that wept red tears. He listened, his brow furrowed, his hand never ceasing its gentle motion through your hair.
When you finished, he was silent for a long moment.
"These are not ordinary dreams," he said at last.
"No."
"Your powers. The greensight. You told me once that you heard the trees at Raventree Hall." His voice was careful, measured. "Could the child be…awakening something? Strengthening what was already there?"
You had not thought of that. The possibility settled into your mind like a key turning in a lock. The child. His child. His blood and yours, fire and weirwood, tangled together in your womb. If the greensight ran in your blood, and dragon dreams ran in his, what might their union produce?
What kind of creature were you carrying?
"I do not know," you whispered. "I do not know anything anymore."
The maester was summoned the next morning. He examined you, asked questions, hummed and nodded and stroked his grey beard with the ponderous self-importance of his order.
"Bad dreams are common in the later stages of pregnancy," he pronounced. "But at three moons? Unusual. Most unusual."
"What does it mean?" Aerion demanded.
"It may mean nothing, my prince. The female body is a mystery, and pregnancy only deepens its secrets. Rest, soothing draughts, avoidance of rich foods before sleep, these are the remedies I would prescribe."
"Remedies?" Aerion's voice sharpened. "You offer remedies for an ailment you do not understand?"
The maester flinched. "I offer what knowledge I possess, my prince. If you wish to seek a second opinion from the Citadel..."
"Leave us."
The maester left hastily. Aerion turned to you frustrated.
"Charlatans," he muttered. "All of them. They poke and prod and pronounce with absolute certainty, and when they encounter something beyond their understanding, they blame the woman's body as though it were a curse."
"He was only trying to help."
"He was useless." Aerion paced the length of the chamber, agitation visible in every line of his body. "Your dreams are not a feminine ailment. They are a gift...or a curse of your blood. The child has awakened something. I am certain of it."
"What do we do?"
He stopped pacing. For a long moment, he stood with his back to you, his shoulders rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he turned.
"There is one person who might understand."
You knew who he meant before he said the name.
"Aerion, you despise Bloodraven. You have told me a hundred times that you do not trust him."
"I do not." His jaw tightened. "But I trust even less the prospect of watching you waste away from sleeplessness and terror. Look at yourself. You barely eat. You barely leave this bed. The circles beneath your eyes are dark as bruises. I cannot bear it."
You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. He was right. You had not left the bedchamber in three days. The dreams had grown so relentless that you dreaded closing your eyes, and the exhaustion of avoiding sleep was a weight pressing down on every limb, every thought, every breath.
"Write to him," Aerion demanded. "Tell him to come. As soon as he is able."
"Aerion..."
"I will not lose you." His voice cracked, just slightly, and the sound of it silenced you. "I will not lose our child. If Bloodraven can help, then I will swallow my pride and my suspicions and every bitter memory of his interference, and I will welcome him into my home. For you."
You stared at him. This man who had once blackmailed you, mocked you, threatened you, he was begging you to summon the one person in the seven kingdoms he hated most. For you.
"Hand me the parchment," you said.
Brynden arrived on a grey morning three weeks later.
You watched his approach from the window of your solar, too exhausted to descend to the courtyard but too restless to remain in bed. He rode at the head of a small company, a dozen riders in the colors of the Hand's personal guard, the Raven's Teeth, their cloaks billowing in the damp wind. Even from a distance, he was unmistakable: tall and gaunt, his pale hair stirring around his shoulders, his posture rigid as a spear.
Aerion met him in the courtyard. You could not hear their words, but you saw the stiff formality of their greeting, the careful distance they kept from one another. Two men who would have gladly seen the other dead, united only by their concern for you.
It would have been almost funny, if you had possessed the strength to laugh.
The hours between his arrival and your meeting were excruciating. Aerion insisted on hosting a formal welcome, dinner in the great hall, with all the household in attendance, as protocol demanded. You sat at the high table, picking at your food, acutely aware of Brynden's presence at the far end of the table. He did not look at you directly, but you felt his attention like a weight, steady and patient.
Finally, mercifully, the meal ended. Aerion escorted you to your solar, his hand firm at your elbow, his expression grim.
"I will be in the adjoining chamber," he said, his voice low. "If he says anything, if he does anything..."
"He is my cousin. He is here to help."
"So he claims." Aerion's jaw tightened. "I will not interfere. But I will be listening."
You had expected as much. Aerion did not trust Brynden, and he did not trust you with Brynden. Whatever passed between you and your cousin tonight would be heard by ears other than your own.
"Very well," you said.
Aerion pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering. "I will be near."
He withdrew to the adjoining chamber, leaving the door slightly ajar. A reminder that this conversation was not private, that anything you said could and would be used.
You were too tired to care.
Brynden entered a few moments later, ducking slightly beneath the lintel. He had removed his traveling cloak, but his boots were still dusty from the road, and there was a weariness in his bearing that spoke of long days in the saddle.
"Little bird," he said softly.
The old nickname undid something in you. Your eyes burned, and you blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.
"You came."
"Of course I came." He crossed the room and took the chair beside yours, his one red eye studying your face. "You look terrible."
A laugh escaped you, ragged and humorless. "So I am told."
He stood and closed the door to the adjoining chamber where Aerion lingered unceremoniously.
"Tell me everything."
You told him. The dreams, the visions, the sleepless nights. The way the child seemed to amplify everything: your senses, your fears, your connection to the old magic that ran in your blood. The way you had not left your bed in nearly a month except to use the chamber pot and attend the necessary formalities of Aerion's household.
Brynden listened without interruption, his expression unreadable. When you finished, he was silent for a long moment.
"Three moons," he said at last.
"Yes."
"And you are certain you wish to carry this child to term."
There was a weight to his words, a careful neutrality that hinted at something unsaid.
"I am certain." Your voice was steadier than you felt.
"Even if that blood carries madness? Even if the child you bear becomes the monster my visions have shown me?"
"You said yourself your visions were not certain. That you could not see clearly." You met his eye. "Have you seen something new? Something you did not tell me before?"
He hesitated. It was a small hesitation, barely a flicker, but you caught it.
"Brynden."
"No," he admitted. "I have seen nothing new. The visions remain...fragmented. Unclear. I know only that the child will be powerful, more powerful than either of us. But whether that power will be used for good or ill…" He shook his head. "That, I cannot say."
"Then I will not act on uncertainty. I will not destroy my child on the chance that it might become something terrible."
His expression softened. "I did not expect you to. You are too much your father's daughter for that." He paused. "And too much mine."
"You are not my father."
"No. But I have watched over you since you were small. I have taught you. Protected you. Loved you, in my own inadequate way." He reached out and took your hand, his fingers cool and dry against your skin. "I am sorry, little bird. I am sorry I could not protect you from this. I am sorry I could not give you what I promised, a child of our blood, a legacy free of dragon madness. I am sorry you are forced to carry his child in your womb and suffer its growing pains alone."
"You did what you could."
"Did I? I sent a spy to poison your tea. I kept secrets from you. I offered you a path I knew you could not take and then left you to walk the harder road alone." His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand. "Some guardian I have been."
"You are here now."
"Yes." He lifted his gaze to meet yours. "I am here now. And I will help you, if you will let me."
"How?"
"By teaching you what I should have taught you long ago. How to control the dreams. How to build walls in your mind that the visions cannot breach. How to sleep without drowning in fire and blood."
You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest. "You can do that?"
"I can try. The child has awakened your gift, but it has not changed it. The greensight was yours long before Aerion's seed took root in your belly. You simply never learned to master it." He squeezed your hand gently. "I taught you once, do you remember? A long time ago, at Raventree Hall."
You smiled. "I remember."
The memory was clear in your mind even though you were six years old then. It was summer, the air thick with the scent of wildflowers and the distant murmur of the wood. Your brothers were off riding with your father, leaving you behind because you were too soft, too slow, too much a girl to keep up with their adventures.
You had gone to the godswood alone, as you often did when the world was too loud and your mother's criticisms too sharp. You had pressed your palm to the pale bark of the oldest weirwood, the one your father called the Heart Tree, its trunk so wide that three men could not link arms around it, and you had listened.
And the tree had answered.
It was only a whisper, a rustle of leaves that sounded almost like words. But you had heard it. You had heard it, and you had been so startled that you had stumbled backward and landed hard on the roots, scraping your palms and tearing your dress.
"Clumsy little bird."
The voice came from behind you. You twisted around to find a man standing at the edge of the clearing, tall and pale, with hair the color of moonlight and a face marked by a strange, unsettling birthmark that spread across his cheek like spilled wine.
You knew who he was. Everyone knew. He was your cousin Brynden, the king's bastard, the man they called Bloodraven. Your mother had forbidden you to speak to him.
"You frightened me," you said, with the unearned indignation of a child.
"You frightened yourself." He stepped closer, his boots making no sound on the soft earth. "You heard the tree, and it startled you. There is no shame in that. The first time is always startling."
"The first time?"
"Of hearing. Of listening properly." He crouched beside you, bringing his strange eyes level with yours. "You have a gift, little bird. Do you know that?"
You shook your head, mute.
"Most people cannot hear the trees. They walk past them every day and hear nothing but wind and leaves. But you..." He reached out and tapped your forehead lightly with one long finger. "You are different. You carry the old blood. The true blood. The blood of the First Men, who carved the faces in the weirwoods and bound their spirits to the roots."
"My mother says the old gods are dead."
"Your mother is an Andal." There was no malice in his voice, only a flat, matter-of-fact certainty. "She worships the Seven and fears what she cannot understand. You are not your mother. You are a Blackwood. And Blackwoods remember."
That summer, he came to Raventree Hall three times. Your mother never welcomed him, she made excuses to be elsewhere when he visited, her lips pressed thin with disapproval, but your father tolerated his presence with the grudging respect due a kinsman who also held influence at court. You were too young to sit at the high table for formal dinners, so you saw him only in stolen moments, in the intervals between lessons and meals and the endless demands of a noble childhood.
But whenever he came, he found you in the godswood. And whenever he found you, he taught you.
"Close your eyes," he would say, settling on the roots beside you, his back against the white bark. "Put your hand on the tree. Not like that. Palm flat, fingers spread. Feel the texture of the wood. Feel the life moving beneath it."
"It only feels like bark."
"That is because you are not listening properly. Stop trying to hear with your ears. Hear with your mind. With your blood. The tree is speaking. It is always speaking. You must learn its language."
You tried. For days, for weeks, you tried. You sat with your palm pressed to the trunk until your arm ached and your fingers went numb, and still the tree was only a tree, silent, ancient and indifferent.
"I cannot do it," you said, near tears with frustration. "I am not like you. I am not a...a greenseer, or whatever you call it. I am only a girl."
"You are not only anything." Brynden's voice was patient, as it always was. "You are a Blackwood. You are my blood. And you can do this. You simply need to stop trying so hard."
"How can I do something without trying?"
He laughed, a rare sound, rusty with disuse. "A fair question. Here. Let me show you another way."
He lifted you then, his hands catching you beneath the arms and hoisting you into the air as though you weighed nothing at all. You shrieked with startled laughter, your legs kicking, your skirts billowing around you.
"What are you doing?"
"Teaching you to fly." He spun you in a slow circle, and the world blurred around you: green leaves, white branches, the pale sky wheeling overhead. "Birds do not try to fly. They simply do it. They trust their wings. They trust the air. You must learn to trust the magic the same way."
"I do not have wings!"
"Neither do I, yet I have learnt to fly." He set you down gently on a low-hanging branch, steadying you with one hand when you wobbled. "Now close your eyes. Do not think about the tree. Do not think about the magic. Think about something that makes you happy. Something that makes you feel safe."
You closed your eyes. You thought about your father's laugh, your brothers' rough affection, the way the sun felt on your face when you lay in the meadow beyond the walls. You thought about the taste of honey cakes and the sound of rain on the roof of the nursery and the way your pony nuzzled your hand when you brought her apples.
And there, beneath all of it, you heard something else.
A whisper. Faint as a breath, soft as a feather falling. Words you could almost understand, in a language you had never learned but somehow knew.
Your eyes flew open. "I heard it!"
"Good." He lifted you down from the branch and set you on your feet. "Very good. Now tell me everything you heard, every word, every whisper. Leave nothing out."
You told him. You told him about the voice that was not a voice, the language that was not a language, the strange, ancient welcome that had settled into your bones like warmth from a fire. He listened with an intensity that would have been unnerving from anyone else, but from him, it felt like validation. Like you had done something remarkable.
"I knew it," he said when you finished. "I knew you had the gift. Your mother will not be pleased."
"My mother is never pleased."
He laughed again, and this time you laughed with him. Then he hoisted you onto his shoulders and carried you back, ducking beneath branches and stepping over roots with an ease that seemed magical.
"Will you come back?" you asked, your small fists clutching his hair for balance. "Will you teach me more?"
"If your father permits it. If you wish it."
"I wish it."
"Then I will come." He tilted his head back to look up at you, and his red eyes were bright with something that might have been affection. "I will always come when you call, little bird. Remember that."
You remembered.
You remembered the lessons that followed, scattered across the years like seeds on a field. How to close your mind against the whispers when they grew too loud. How to open it again when you needed guidance. How to tell the difference between a true vision and the ordinary phantoms of a dreaming mind.
But you had been a child then, and the gift had been a child's gift: small, manageable, contained. The pregnancy had changed everything. The pregnancy had torn down the walls you had built and left you defenseless against a tide of images that crashed over you every time you closed your eyes.
You needed new walls. Stronger walls. Walls that could hold against the combined weight of your gift and Aerion's blood and the strange, powerful creature growing in your womb.
"Come," Brynden said, drawing you back to the present. "We will begin now."
He moved to sit on the floor, his back against the stone wall, his long legs folded beneath him. He gestured for you to join him, and you obeyed, sinking down onto the cushions he had arranged.
"We will start with breathing," he said. "Close your eyes. Breathe in slowly, count to four. Hold, count to four. Release, count to four. Again."
You breathed. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. The rhythm was soothing, familiar, a technique he had taught you years ago when the whispers first began to trouble your sleep.
"Good. Now picture a wall. Any wall. Stone or wood or iron, it does not matter. Picture it in your mind, strong and high and impenetrable. Place it between yourself and the dreams. Build it brick by brick, stone by stone, until there is no gap, no crack, no weakness."
You built. You pictured the walls of Summerhall, pale stone, weathered by wind and sun, solid and enduring. You placed them around your mind, shutting out the fire and the screaming and the weeping weirwood branches.
"The dreams will still come," Brynden said. "They will beat against the walls like waves against a cliff. But they will not break through. Not unless you let them. The wall is yours. It will hold as long as you believe it will hold."
"I am tired," you whispered. "I am so tired, Brynden."
"I know." His hand found yours again. "But you are stronger than you know. You have always been stronger than you know. Now breathe. Build."
For the first time in weeks, the chaos in your mind began to quiet.
How long you sat there, you did not know. Time lost its meaning in the space between breaths, between heartbeats. Brynden's voice guided you, patient and unwavering, drawing you back from the edge of exhaustion and into state of peace.
"Better?" he asked, when you finally opened your eyes.
"Better," you admitted. The dreams had not vanished, you could still feel them, pressing against the edges of your mind like water against a dam, but they were distant now. Contained. Manageable.
"The wall will need reinforcement. Practice every night before you sleep. Practice every morning when you wake. The stronger the wall, the quieter the dreams."
"And the child? The visions?"
"They will come regardless. The child is part of you now, and its power is bound to yours. But you can learn to control what you see, to choose when and how the visions appear. That will take time and practice, but I will help you."
"Aerion will not let you stay."
"Aerion does not have to let me do anything." A ghost of a smile flickered across his thin lips. "I will leave tonight, as protocol demands. But I will return. And if you need me before then, you have only to send word."
He rose. You rose with him, steadier now than you had been in weeks.
"Thank you," you said. "For coming. For teaching me. For…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "For being here."
"I will always be here, little bird." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your brow, the same gesture he had made a hundred times since your childhood. "I will not abandon you."
He straightened, his expression settling back into its usual guarded neutrality. "I will take my leave now. The prince is doubtless eager for my departure."
"Brynden..."
But he was already moving toward the door, his cloak swirling behind him.
Aerion entered moments later, as you had known he would. He crossed to you at once, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours.
"You look better," he said, and there was relief in his voice. "The color is returning to your cheeks."
"I feel better."
He drew you into his arms and held you, his hand cradling the back of your head, his breath warm against your hair. You closed your eyes and leaned into him.
The ninth moon brought revelations. Your belly was swollen now. Moving from bed to chair required assistance. Sleeping required a fortress of pillows. Your back ached with a deep, grinding pain that no amount of rubbing or repositioning could ease.
The maester, a new one, older and more experienced than his predecessor, summoned from the Citadel at Aerion's insistence, examined you with careful, probing hands. His face, already lined with age, furrowed further as he pressed his palms to your distended belly.
"Two," he said at last. "There are two heartbeats. Two sets of limbs. My princess, you are carrying twins."
Aerion, standing vigil by the window as he always did during your examinations, went very still.
"Twins," he repeated.
"Without question, my prince. The size alone would suggest it, but I can feel them distinctly, two heads, two sets of feet. You are doubly blessed."
Doubly blessed. The words echoed in your mind as you stared down at your enormous belly. Two children. Two souls, tangled together in your womb. Two legacies of fire and weirwood, waiting to be born.
Aerion crossed the room and knelt beside your chair, his hands covering yours where they rested on your stomach. His eyes were bright, feverish, and his voice when he spoke was thick with emotion.
"Twins," he said again, softer this time, as though speaking the word too loudly might break the spell. "The gods have outdone themselves. Two sons..."
"Or daughters," you interjected, more out of habit than conviction.
"Sons," he repeated, with the unshakeable certainty of a man who had seen it in his dreams. "Two sons, born of our union. Two dragons to carry our blood into the future." He pressed his lips to your belly, and you felt the children stir in response, a flutter of movement beneath his kiss. "You have given me everything," he murmured against your skin. "Everything I ever dared to hope for."
You stroked his silver hair and said nothing. What was there to say? The children were coming whether you were ready or not. Two of them. Two souls bound to yours by blood and bone and the ancient magic that ran through your veins.
You hoped, with a desperation that bordered on prayer, that they would be healthy. That they would be whole. That whatever strange alchemy had occurred in your womb would produce something beautiful rather than something monstrous.
The gods, as ever, kept their own counsel.
The pains began on a stormy night.
Thunder rolled across the hills like the growl of some vast, invisible beast. Rain lashed the windows of Summerhall, and the wind howled through the courtyards. You woke from a restless sleep to find the sheets beneath you soaked with the clear, warm fluid of your waters breaking.
"Aerion."
He was awake in an instant, his hand finding yours in the darkness. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"The baby...the babies...they are coming."
Chaos erupted.
Servants ran for the maester. Midwives were summoned from their beds. Hot water was brought, and clean linens, and a dozen other items whose purposes you could not begin to guess. You were moved to the birthing chamber, a room you had never entered before, kept sealed and ready for this very purpose, and settled onto the great bed with its blood-red canopy and its three-headed dragon carved into the headboard.
Aerion refused to leave.
"My place is here," he said, when the midwives tried to usher him out. His voice was iron, brooking no argument. "I will not abandon my wife."
"Men are not permitted in the birthing chamber, my prince..."
"I am not men. I am her husband. And I will remain."
They glanced at each other, at the maester, at you. You were in no state to arbitrate disputes. The first true contraction had seized your body, a wave of agony that started in your lower back and radiated outward until every nerve was screaming. You gripped Aerion's hand so hard you felt his bones grind together, and he did not flinch.
"Stay," you gasped, when the contraction released you. "Please. Stay."
He stayed.
The hours that followed were the longest of your life.
Pain. There was only pain. Pain that came in waves, building and building until it crested in an agony that blotted out thought, reason, identity itself.
You screamed. You could not help it. The screams tore from your throat unbidden, raw and animal, and between screams you cursed everyone and everything you could name.
"The Seven take you!" you snarled at the midwives who urged you to push. "The Seven take this bed and this room and every man who ever thought this was a woman's duty!"
"Yes, my lady, very good," the midwife said, utterly unperturbed. "Now push again."
You pushed. You pushed until your vision went white and your lungs burned and your voice cracked into something barely human.
"Get out!" you croaked at the children who were tearing you apart. "Get out of me, you little..."
Another contraction. Another scream. Aerion's hand was still in yours, solid and steady, his voice a low murmur of encouragement that you could barely hear over the roaring in your ears.
"The head!" the maester called. "I can see the head! Push again, my princess, one more push..."
You pushed. You pushed with the last shred of strength in your body, with every curse and prayer and desperate animal urge that remained to you. And the child came, sliding free in a rush of blood and fluid and tangled limbs.
Silence.
Not the silence of relief. No sound of a healthy babe drawing its first breath and letting out its first indignant wail. A different silence. A wrong silence. A silence that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up even through the haze of exhaustion and pain.
The midwife holding the child had gone white as milk. Her hands, steady through all the hours of your labor, were trembling. The other women in the room had frozen where they stood.
"What?" you gasped. "What is it? Give me my child...give me..."
But they did not give you your child. They stood frozen, staring at the silent bundle in the midwife's arms, and no one moved, no one spoke, and the babe did not cry.
Aerion moved.
He crossed the room and snatched the child from the midwife's nerveless hands. You saw his face as he looked down at the infant, his son, his firstborn, the child he had dreamed of for so long, and you saw his expression shift from confusion to shock to something else entirely.
Wonder. His eyes lit up. His mouth curved into a beatific smile. He cradled the silent babe against his chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world, he turned to you, his voice thick with awe.
"A dragon," he said. "You have given me a dragon."
"Let me see him." Your voice was a rasp, barely audible. "Aerion, let me see my son."
He brought the child to you. When he placed the infant in your arms, you looked down at your firstborn son, and you understood.
He was large for a newborn, too large, as though he had spent an extra moon in the womb. His limbs were all in place: two arms, two legs, ten fingers, ten toes. His face, when you could see it beneath the blood and the birthing fluids, was shaped like any other infant's face, small and scrunched and somehow ancient.
But his skin.
His skin was not skin.
In places, on the backs of his arms, across his chest, in patches along his spine, his flesh was covered in scales. Tiny scales, gleaming faintly in the candlelight with a sheen that shifted between silver and gold. They were not sores, not a rash, not any malformation the maesters might have named. They were scales. Dragon scales. As though some part of the ancient blood had surfaced in his flesh and made itself manifest.
Your son. Your dragon-scaled son. He was not breathing.
"Breathe," you whispered, your cracked voice barely more than a breath itself. "Please. Please breathe."
He did not breathe. His eyes were closed, his small chest still, his skin, scales and all, beginning to take on a bluish tinge that made your heart clench with terror.
"He needs warmth," Aerion said. He was still smiling, still radiant with that terrible, beautiful joy. "Dragons need warmth. The eggs on Dragonstone would not hatch until they were placed in the cradle with the babes. He is the same. He needs fire. He needs..."
"Aerion..."
"He is perfect. Do you not see? He is perfect. A dragon born of our union, just as I foresaw. He only needs time. He only needs warmth. Give him to me..."
"No." You clutched the child to your chest. "No, he is mine. He is mine, and he needs to breathe..."
And then, as if your desperate prayer had been heard by some god, the child drew breath.
It was a small sound, a hiccup, a gasp, the first tentative inhale of a creature new to the world. But it was followed by another, and another, and then his tiny face scrunched up and his mouth opened wide and he let out a wail that filled the chamber from floor to ceiling.
"He lives," you sobbed. "Aerion, he lives."
"Of course he lives." Aerion leaned over you, his hand cupping the back of the infant's head with impossible gentleness. "He is a dragon. Dragons are not so easily extinguished."
The room was beginning to recover from its shock. The maester, his face still pale but his composure returning, cleared his throat.
"The second child, my princess. We must deliver the second child."
The contractions had not stopped. You had been so consumed by the first birth, by the terror and the wonder of your scaled son, that you had almost forgotten. But there was another child still inside you, another soul waiting to enter the world.
"Take him," you said to Aerion, and the words cost you more than any scream. "Keep him warm. Keep him safe. I must..."
You did not finish the sentence. Another contraction seized you, and this time the pain was almost welcome, something to focus on, something to do, a purpose that did not require you to think about scales and the strange, feverish joy in your husband's eyes.
The second child came faster.
Perhaps your body had learned what to do. Perhaps the second babe was simply smaller, easier to deliver. Whatever the reason, the pushing was briefer, the pain less all-consuming, and when the midwife lifted the second infant into the candlelight, the sound that filled the chamber was the sound every mother longs to hear.
A cry. A strong, lusty, ordinary cry.
"A boy," the maester announced. "Another boy, my princess. Healthy and whole."
The relief in the room was palpable. The midwives, who had been so frightened by the first child, clustered around the second with smiles and coos and exclamations of delight. They cleaned him with gentle hands, wrapped him in soft linen, and when they placed him in your arms, you understood their joy.
He was beautiful.
Perfect, unblemished skin, soft as rose petals. A thatch of silver-gold hair, fine as silk, already visible on the crown of his head. His limbs were straight and strong, his cry was demanding, and there was not a scale on him.
A Targaryen prince. Every inch of him.
"He is beautiful," you whispered, tears streaming down your face. "Aerion, look at him. He is so beautiful."
Aerion looked. He was still holding the first child, had refused all attempts by the servants to take the infant from him, insisting that the babe needed warmth, needed his father's heat to thrive. But he looked at his second son and his expression softened.
"Two sons," he said. "Two strong sons. One with the mark of the dragon, and one with the face of a prince." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your sweat-soaked brow. "You have outdone yourself, my love."
You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry. You wanted to sleep for a thousand years and wake to find yourself whole again, your body your own, your children grown and strong and unburdened by the weight of their strange inheritance.
But you were too tired for any of it. So you simply lay there, your second son cradled in one arm and your husband and firstborn beside you.
The midwives cleaned you. The maester examined both infants. The servants changed the bloodied linens and opened the windows to let out the smell of sweat and birth and effort. Through it all, Aerion did not relinquish his hold on the first child. He held the scaled infant against his chest, wrapped in his own cloak, his hand cupped over the small head as though shielding it from a world that might not understand.
The naming ceremony was held a fortnight after the birth, when you had recovered enough strength to stand and walk and hold your sons without trembling. Summerhall's great hall was packed with lords and ladies of the Marches, with household knights and servants and anyone of sufficient rank to wrangle an invitation. They came to see the twins, the dragon-scaled prince and his perfect brother, and they came with whispers already forming on their lips.
Aerion stood before the assembly with a son cradled in each arm. He had refused to let the wet nurses carry them. He had refused to let anyone but you so much as touch them. Now he faced the crowd with his head high and his eyes blazing, a man who had waited his whole life for this moment.
"My firstborn son," he declared, lifting the scaled infant for all to see. The crowd leaned forward, breaths catching, eyes widening. In the daylight streaming through the high windows, Maegor's scales gleamed like scattered coins, silver and gold and a faint, iridescent blue that shifted with every movement. "I name him Maegor. A dragon's name. A conqueror's name. Let any man who questions his fitness look upon him and know that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in his veins."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Maegor. The name of the Cruel. The name of the king who had died on the Iron Throne. It was a name heavy with history, with blood and terror.
And Aerion had chosen it for his firstborn. For his scaled son. For the child he believed was a dragon made flesh.
"My second son," Aerion continued, lifting the other infant: smaller, softer, perfect in every conventional way. "I name him Aeryn. A name of our house, a name of our blood. He shall be his brother's shadow and his brother's shield, as true knights are sworn to protect the realm."
More murmurs. Aeryn was a gentler name, unfamiliar but pleasing to the ear. The lords and ladies nodded in approval. This child, at least, looked as a prince ought to look. Silver hair, violet eyes, skin as smooth as cream. They could understand this child. They could accept him.
But their eyes kept drifting back to Maegor. To the scales. To the strange, unblinking gaze of an infant who seemed to see more than any infant should.
Now, six moons later, the names had settled into the household. Maegor and Aeryn. The scaled prince and the silver prince. Aerion's twin miracles.
Aerion's devotion to them, to Maegor especially, had only grown.
"He is watching me," Aerion said one morning, leaning over the cradle where Maegor lay kicking his small, scale-dusted legs. "Look at his eyes. He follows my movements. He understands."
"He is six moons old," you said from your chair by the window, Aeryn nursing contentedly at your breast. "He understands milk and warmth and the sound of your voice. Nothing more."
"You underestimate him." Aerion reached into the cradle and lifted Maegor with careful, reverent hands. The infant gurgled, his tiny fingers curling around Aerion's thumb. The scales on the backs of his hands caught the morning light, glinting faintly. "He is special. I have known it since before he was born. The dreams..."
"You and your dreams."
"They have never led me astray." He cradled Maegor against his chest, his hand cupping the back of the infant's head. "I dreamed of dragons, and you gave me Maegor. I dreamed of fire and weirwoods, and you gave me Aeryn. The gods speak to me, wife. It is not my fault that you refuse to listen."
You did not argue. You had learned, over the months of your marriage, when argument was futile. Aerion's convictions were not things to be reasoned with; they were forces of nature, like storms or floods or the wild dragons of old. You could build walls against them, but you could not turn them aside.
The door opened, and the maester entered, the old man who had been summoned from the Citadel and who had remained at Summerhall ever since, ostensibly to oversee the princes' health. He was a careful man, precise in his speech, and he had spent the past six moons examining Maegor.
"My prince," he said, bowing. "My princess. I have completed my latest observations."
"And?" Aerion did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Maegor.
"The prince continues to thrive. His growth exceeds expectations for an infant of his age. His strength is remarkable, he can already hold his head up without assistance, and I believe he will sit unaided within the moon." Lymond paused. "However, I have been corresponding with colleagues at the Citadel regarding the matter of his…unique integument."
"His what?"
"His scales, my prince."
Aerion's head lifted. His eyes, which had been soft with paternal adoration, sharpened to something harder. "What of them?"
"There are precedents, my prince. Infants born with unusual growths, with excess tissue, with malformations of the skin. In many cases, these can be addressed surgically once the child has grown sufficiently to withstand the procedure. A skilled maester could, in theory, excise the scales and graft healthy skin in their place. The scarring would be minimal, and the prince could grow to manhood with no visible..."
"No."
The word was flat. Final. Aerion had gone very still, the way a cat goes still before it strikes.
"My prince, if you would only consider..."
"I said no." Aerion turned to face the maester fully, Maegor still cradled in his arms. His voice was low, a pleasant cadence, but there was something beneath it that made the hairs on your arms stand up. "You are suggesting that I allow a man with a knife to cut into my son's flesh. To carve away the mark of his dragon blood as though it were a tumor. To mutilate a prince of the realm."
"Mutilation is a strong word, my prince. The procedure would be entirely therapeutic..."
"The procedure would be treason." Aerion's voice rose, cracking like a whip. "My son is a dragon. The scales are proof of it, proof that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in him, proof that the gods have blessed our union with something extraordinary. And you would have me cut that proof away? You would have me render him ordinary, unmarked, unremarkable?"
"My prince, I only wished to present..."
"Get out."
He hesitated, eyes darting to you as if seeking support. You gave him nothing. You had learned, too, when intervention would only make things worse.
"My prince..."
"Get out of my sight before I have you removed from my household entirely." Aerion's voice had dropped again, soft and deadly. "And if I hear that you have raised this matter again, with anyone, in any context, I will consider it a direct attack on my heir. Do you understand?"
He bowed and retreated from the room with more haste than dignity.
Aerion stood motionless, his breath coming hard and fast through his nostrils. Maegor, oblivious to the storm that had nearly broken over his cradle, gurgled happily and grabbed a fistful of his father's silver hair.
"They will try again," Aerion said quietly. "The maesters, the lords, the whisperers at court. They will look at him and see a monster, and they will try to make him ordinary. They will try to cut away what makes him special."
"He is your son," you said. "No knife can change that."
"No." Aerion looked down at Maegor. "No knife can change that. But knives can wound. Knives can scar." He pressed a kiss to Maegor's brow. "I will not let them touch you. I will not let anyone touch you. You are my miracle, my dragon, my Maegor. And I will protect you from the world until you are strong enough to burn it."
You felt the familiar twist of love and fear and resignation that had come to define your marriage. Aerion's devotion was absolute, consuming, terrifying. He loved his sons the way he loved everything, with a ferocity that bordered on madness.
And Maegor, his strange and scaly firstborn, was the focus of that ferocity. The child of his dreams. The living proof of everything he believed about himself and his blood.
"Come," Aerion said, his mood shifting with the suddenness that still caught you off guard. "Let us take them to the gardens. The sun is bright, and Maegor likes the warmth on his scales."
You rose, settling Aeryn against your shoulder, and followed your husband into the light.
Prince Maekar arrived at Summerhall three days later.
His visits were never announced far in advance, he preferred to travel with a small retinue, moving faster than the lumbering royal processions that accompanied his brother the king. He rode through the gates at midday, dusty from the road, his hard face creased with the beginning of a smile when he saw his grandchildren arrayed in the courtyard to greet him.
"Let me see them," he said, dismounting without waiting for assistance. "Let me see my grandsons."
Aerion stepped forward, Maegor in his arms. The infant was awake, his pale violet eyes tracking the movement around him with an alertness that was unusual for a child his age. The scales on his forearms, visible where his sleeves had ridden up, gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Maekar looked at the child. Looked at the scales. Looked at Aerion.
"A fine boy," he said. "Strong. He has your eyes."
Aerion's smile was sharp with triumph. "And his skin, Father? Do you see his skin?"
"I have eyes." Maekar reached out and took Maegor from Aerion's arms with the practiced ease of a man who had fathered six children of his own. He held the infant up, turning him this way and that, examining him with the same assessing gaze he might have turned on a new sword or a promising warhorse. Maegor grabbed for his grandsire's nose.
"The Citadel has been sending ravens," Maekar said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Maesters, physicians, scholars of unusual births. They want to examine him. Study him. Write papers about him."
"And?"
"I told them to go hang themselves." Maekar settled Maegor comfortably in the crook of his arm. "He is my grandson. A prince. Not a specimen for their dissection tables."
Relief flickered across Aerion's face. "Then you do not think..."
"I think everyone is overreacting." Maekar's voice was flat, unimpressed. "The boy has a birthmark. An unusual birthmark, yes, but a birthmark nonetheless. Some children are born with port-wine stains. Some are born with extra fingers. My grandson was born with scales. It is no stranger than any of those things, and a great deal more interesting." He poked Maegor's belly, and the infant laughed, a bright, bubbling sound. "What matters is that he is healthy. He is strong. He shows no signs of feeble-mindedness or stunted growth. Your maester tells me he is ahead of his peers in every measure of development."
"He is," Aerion said. "He held his head up within the first moon. He..."
"Then there is nothing to discuss." Maekar handed Maegor back to Aerion and turned to you. "The other one. Let me see him."
You stepped forward and placed Aeryn in Maekar's arms. The second-born was smaller than his brother, had always been smaller, as though Maegor had claimed the greater share of nourishment in the womb, but he was thriving in his own right. His silver hair was thick and soft, his skin unblemished, his features already showing the delicate beauty that would one day make him a mirror of his father.
"Aerion's image," Maekar said, and there was something softer in his voice now. "You have done well, daughter. Two healthy sons. Two princes to carry on the line."
"Thank you, my prince."
"Maekar." He looked at you, and his expression was almost kind. "You are family now. You may call me Maekar."
You inclined your head. "Maekar."
He handed Aeryn back to you and turned to Aerion. "I will hear no more talk of surgery or mutilation. If any maester raises the subject again, send them to me. I will explain to them, in terms they cannot misunderstand, that princes are not to be carved up like festival hogs."
"Thank you, Father."
"Do not thank me." Maekar's voice was gruff. "I am not doing it for you. I am doing it for the boy. He deserves a chance to grow up without being treated like a curiosity." He paused. "Though you would do well to prepare yourself. The court will talk. The lords will whisper. They will call him a monster, a deformity, a sign of Targaryen degeneracy. They said the same things about Aegon's bastards, and they will say worse about your son."
"Let them whisper." Aerion's jaw was set, his eyes blazing.
Maekar gave his son a long, unreadable look. Then he shook his head and turned toward the keep.
"You are your mother's son," he said, and it was not entirely a compliment.
The months passed. Maegor and Aeryn grew.
Aeryn was an easy child: placid, sweet-tempered, quick to smile and slow to cry. He took to nursing without difficulty, slept through the night earlier than any child the wet nurses had ever seen, and regarded the world with a calm, curious gaze that reminded you of your own father. The servants adored him. The household guards would pause in their duties to make faces at him, and he would laugh and reach for their swords with chubby, grasping fingers.
Maegor was different.
Not difficult, exactly. He was not a colicky infant, nor a sickly one. But there was an intensity to him that set him apart from his brother. He watched everything. He studied faces, tracked movements, followed conversations with his eyes as though he understood every word. When he cried, which was rare, it was not the helpless wailing of an ordinary infant but a fierce, demanding shriek.
Everywhere Aerion went, Maegor went with him.
"He needs to be with me," Aerion said, when you suggested that perhaps the infant might be better served by a regular schedule of naps and feedings. "He is a dragon. Dragons do not thrive in nurseries. They need their sire's presence."
"You cannot carry him everywhere. You have duties. Meetings. Audiences with your father's bannermen."
"Then he will attend them with me." Aerion settled Maegor more firmly against his shoulder. The infant's scales, which had grown more pronounced as he aged, caught the light and scattered it like tiny mirrors. "Let the bannermen see him. Let them know what kind of prince they will one day serve."
And so Maegor attended council meetings, sitting on Aerion's lap while the lords of the Stormlands and the Dornish Marches discussed taxes and borders and trade disputes. He attended training sessions in the yard, watching with unnerving focus as his father and grandfather sparred with blunted swords. He attended evening meals in the great hall, propped up in a specially made chair beside Aerion's place at the high table, his strange, beautiful eyes tracking every face, every gesture, every whispered conversation.
"Does he ever blink?" one of the household knights muttered, not quite quietly enough.
Aerion overheard. The knight was reassigned to night patrol duty for the next month.
"I am not being unreasonable," Aerion said later, when you confronted him about it. "The man insulted my son. My heir. Would you have me let such slights pass unchallenged?"
"He did not insult Maegor. He made a jest about his staring."
"His staring is a sign of his intelligence. His awareness. A lesser child would gaze blankly at the ceiling and drool. My son watches. My son learns." Aerion's hand moved to cover Maegor's small head, a gesture of protection that had become almost unconscious. "He will need that awareness. The world will not be kind to him. He must be ready."
You looked at Maegor, who was watching you both from his cradle with those pale, knowing eyes. He was eight moons old now, and already he seemed larger than his brother not just in size, but in presence. There was something about him that drew the eye and held it, something that made people uneasy without knowing why.
"Maegor is a strong name," Aerion continued, his voice softening. "A warrior's name. He will need it. But he will also need guidance. Protection. Love." He looked at you, and his expression was almost pleading. "You do love him, do you not? Despite his strangeness?"
The question caught you off guard. "Of course I love him. He is my son."
"And Aeryn?"
"Aeryn is my son as well. I love them both equally."
Aerion nodded, but you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. He did not believe you. Or perhaps he could not believe you, could not conceive of a love that was not obsessive, all-consuming, weighted with favoritism and fire.
"You love Maegor more," you murmured. It was not an accusation, only an observation.
Aerion did not deny it. "I love them both," he said. "But Maegor…Maegor is the dream made flesh. The prophecy fulfilled. When I hold him, I feel as though I am holding the future itself." He looked down at the infant in the cradle, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you know what I see when I look at him?"
"Tell me."
"I see wings." His hand traced the air above Maegor's back, above the place where scales clustered thickest along his spine. "I see fire. I see the doom of our enemies and the triumph of our blood. I see everything I have ever wanted, everything I have ever dreamed, sleeping in that cradle with scales on his skin and my name in his heart."
"They are only children," you said. "They are not prophecies. They are not symbols. They are only children, and they need their father to love them for who they are, not for what he hopes they will become."
"They will become what they were born to become." Aerion's voice was certain. "I will make sure of it."
That night, you dreamt a vision. Beneath a weirwood tree sat two figures. One was tall and silver-haired, his skin glittering with scales like scattered coins. The other was smaller, darker, his face turned away from you so you could not see his features. Between them, in the cradle of the weirwood's roots, something was growing, something with leaves of red and scales of gold, something that sang in a voice like rustling branches and crackling flame.
You woke with the sound of Aeryn's crying in your ears.
"Shh," you murmured, lifting him from his cradle and bringing him to your breast. "Shh, sweetling. Mother is here."
He latched on greedily, his small hands kneading your skin, his cries subsiding into contented snuffles. In the other cradle, Maegor slept on, undisturbed. He rarely woke at night. He seemed to need less sleep than his brother, as though his strange body ran on some other fuel than ordinary infant rest.
You looked at your sons, one nursing peacefully, one sleeping silently, and thought of Aerion's words.
I see the doom of our enemies and the triumph of our blood.
What enemies? The Blackfyres, across the narrow sea? The lords who whispered about Targaryen madness and Targaryen degeneracy? The maesters who wanted to study Maegor like a specimen in a jar?
Or something else? Something older and stranger, something that stirred in the roots of weirwoods and the embers of dragon eggs, something that had been waiting for centuries for the right combination of blood, fire and magic?
You did not know. You were not sure you wanted to know. But as you held Aeryn in the darkness, as you listened to Maegor's quiet breathing and the distant hoot of an owl in the gardens below, you made a silent promise to whatever gods were listening.
You would protect your sons. Both of them. From the world, from their father, from the prophecies and the dreams and the terrible weight of expectation that Aerion was already piling on their small shoulders.
a/n: Ok this was a long one. What do we think?
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𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑹𝑼𝑻 A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.
alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 5,2k
warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)
author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!
The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.
From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.
His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.
Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But Bucky had.
His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.
Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.
In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.
You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.
Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.
The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.
He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.
Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.
You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.
“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.
You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.
He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.
And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.
Until tonight.
Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.
The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.
“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”
The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.
On the other side, Bucky broke.
He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.
He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.
But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.
Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.
“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”
You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.
He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.
“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”
You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”
He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.
He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.
With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.
“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”
He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”
The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.
“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”
He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”
The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”
You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”
His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.
“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”
“Yes- yes- harder!”
He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.
“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”
You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.
He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.
He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”
You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.
And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:
“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”
You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.
The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.
His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.
He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”
You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.
“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”
His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.
“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”
The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.
“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.
“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”
His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”
You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.
“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.
“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”
He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”
You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.
“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”
He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.
You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.
Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.
“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”
The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.
“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.
You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”
He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”
You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.
He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.
“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”
He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.
He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.
No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”
Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.
He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.
“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.
“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”
His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.
“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”
He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.
“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.
“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”
You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.
He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.
“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”
It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.
Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.
“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”
He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”
His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”
He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.
“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.
You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”
You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”
The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.
“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.
You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.
“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”
His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.
“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”
The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.
He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.
“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”
𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑻 You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension you’ve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.
alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 17,9k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss
author’s note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? that’s actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all… since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic 😩😩
Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Bucky’s truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.
There’s one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your “enormous” weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.
Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.
A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.
Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.
They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how you’d catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.
They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and you’d stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.
Now you’re both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.
Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone else’s lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.
This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.
Bucky 9:56am
Hey. I’ll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?
Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.
You didn’t tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.
The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.
Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.
Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. It’s sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.
The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying “don’t-” you’re already leaning halfway out the passenger window.
Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like you’re flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and it’s just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.
“Jesus Christ!” Bucky’s voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like you’re about to tumble onto the road. “You’re gonna fall out! Get back in here!”
You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. “Buck, it’s fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!”
He can’t stop looking.
Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.
“Fuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,” he stutters, voice pitching like he’s sixteen again. “You’re- Jesus, you’re killing me here.”
You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.
“What? It’s hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, “when you were eighteen and flat as a board.” He swallows hard. “Now you’re… you’re not.”
You blink at him, teasing edge softening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.
You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.
“Buck?” Soft, teasing but gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just- road’s bumpy.” He clears his throat twice. “Don’t do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.”
You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.
He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.
Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.
The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.
You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driver’s seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.
He tells himself it’s nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.
But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.
That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.
You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesn’t feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesn’t catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.
Pretending he doesn’t already know what’s coming.
Because he does.
He’s felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. He’s ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.
But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.
And something inside him is finally starting to crack.
The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.
You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last night’s humidity.
Bucky’s side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldn’t sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache that’s been building since the truck ride yesterday.
You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Bucky’s scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.
Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Bucky’s mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.
Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Bucky’s sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.
“It’s already pushing ninety out there,” Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her mom’s swat. “Lake time before lunch? Come on, we can’t waste this weather!”
Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. “I’m in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.”
Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Bucky’s dad claps his hands together. “Alright troops, suits on, towels ready. Let’s make it happen.”
You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. It’s silly, you’ve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe it’s college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering “night” like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.
The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summer’s clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.
You’ve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.
The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.
Bucky’s already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like it’s the most important task in the world. He’s in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.
He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.
“Uh… looks good,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. “I mean- the suit. It’s… new?”
You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. “Not new. Just haven’t worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.”
He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing. Doesn’t meet your eyes fully. “Right. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.”
The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Bucky’s dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.
It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. “Oh, it’s on now!”
You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.
At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.
You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. “Truce?” you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.
“Never,” he says but he’s grinning, that real, boyish smile you haven’t seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, it’s just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.
But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. “Come on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?”
Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.
Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.
You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didn’t notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush that’s not just from the sun blooming across your chest. What’s his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. It’s just a swimsuit. Just me.
He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. “Sorry,” he calls over, voice strained. “Thought I saw a fish or something. Big one.”
You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. “Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.”
The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. “Come on, you two! Food’s ready!”
You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.
Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, he’s shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, that’s what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.
You don’t think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.
Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. You’re on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Bucky’s stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.
That’s when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.
Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.
Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, he’d snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.
He shouldn’t do this.
He knows he shouldn’t.
He’s done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.
But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and there’s that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude that’s been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.
With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “Fuck, I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry.”
The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.
He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. “I’m so fucked up,” he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. “You’re right there… my best friend… and I’m doing this… smelling you like some creep. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”
His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.
When it’s over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like it’s evidence. She’s outside reading, trusting me, and I’m… this.
He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.
The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyone’s clothes from the day. No one’s around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.
But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesn’t fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.
And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesn’t care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.
Something that just wants more. And it’s only the first full day at the cabin.
The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.
Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.
The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like it’s protesting the climb.
Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.
You tell yourself it’s just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. You’ve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.
You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones you’ve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.
The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.
You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Bucky’s scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. It’ll be gone in the morning.
Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.
He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.
It’s not the full force of heat yet, but it’s close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.
His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.
Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend you’re drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like they’re not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step he’s known since he was ten. To the attic door.
He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers you’re trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.
He opens the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. You’re curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.
You don’t look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. “Buck?” Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.” He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. “Couldn’t sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.”
A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. “Liar.”
He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize it’s him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.
“I can smell it,” he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. “Your heat. It’s… starting.”
You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. They’re dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. “I know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But it’s not going away. It’s getting worse.”
He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. “Mine too.”
Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. “You’re-?”
“First rut.” He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. “Figures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.
You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. “It hurts,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Not bad yet, just… constant. Like I’m burning from the inside out. Empty. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.
“I… I can help,” he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. “With the scent thing. If you want. It… calms it down. A little.”
You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.
“Yeah, uh… like, close contact. Nuzzling, or… licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less… frantic.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without… without going all the way. Said it’s safer, especially for first times.”
The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Becca’s door last summer, frozen when he heard his mom’s voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. “Just scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.” Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.
You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. “Oh. I… didn’t know that was a thing.” Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. “Does it really help?”
He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. “From what I’ve heard. Yeah. But only if you’re comfortable. I can… I can go back downstairs if-”
“No.” The word slips out fast, desperate. “Stay. Please. I trust you.”
He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like you’re something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.
You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. “That… that feels better already.”
He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. “Tell me if it’s too much. Or if I should stop.”
It isn’t too much. It’s exactly what you need.
He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.
He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.
You don’t pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.
His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.
But it’s not one-sided.
Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.
His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what he’s doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. It’s clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.
You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. “Is… is that okay? I just- I thought… maybe it works both ways? Like… fairness?”
He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.”
You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.
“Feels… weird,” you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. “Good weird. But I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither,” he admits, voice cracking. “Never done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.”
You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.
He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.
Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.
“Buck…” you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.
“Mmm?” He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. “You okay? Still good?”
“Feels… so good…” Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.
He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.
You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alpha’s presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.
Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.
He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.
“Oh fuck,” he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.
He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.
Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that he’s this close, this immersed in your scent.
“Baby…” he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. “Need more. Just a little more. Please…”
No answer. Of course not.
He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.
His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.
“Just gonna touch,” he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. “Won’t wake you. Promise. I’m sorry- I’m so sorry…”
Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“So wet for me,” he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. “Even when you’re dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, don’t you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if you’re asleep-”
He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.
The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. She’s asleep. She trusts you. You’re disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way he’s always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. She’s your best friend. What kind of monster are you?
But his body doesn’t listen. The rut doesn’t care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.
He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows it’s him and wants more.
He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his chest.
Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what he’s done.
You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.
He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where he’s been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.
“Love you,” he whispers, voice cracked and raw. “So fucking much. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right. Somehow.”
He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.
You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way he’ll allow himself tonight.
Bucky’s chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.
It’s not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasn’t pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.
He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.
Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.
But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that you’re his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin who’s never even kissed anyone properly, the one who’s been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.
Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way he’d excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.
Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and he’d saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?
His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where you’re even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.
The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.
He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like he’s afraid to taste but can’t stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.
A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesn’t stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. “F-Fuck- fuck, you taste like… like honey… so sweet… so good… how are you this perfect? Even asleep, you’re dripping for me… like… like you were made for this…”
His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesn’t know what he’s doing (because he doesn’t).
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. “I’m a monster,” he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. “Tasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now… saw me like this… you’d hate me…”
He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.
“S-See that? Even dreaming, you’re gripping me… pulling me in… like you know it’s me… like your body wants me to… to…” He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.
“Been perving on you for years… that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved… showed everything… jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you… tasting you then… stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat… came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name… and now- now I’m here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I can’t control myself… because I can’t… I’m disgusting, baby… so sorry- love you-hate myself- can’t stop- been holding back forever, but the rut… it’s breaking me…”
Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and he’d held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and he’d kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. “You think I’m the good guy,” he chokes out around his fingers. “The best friend who protects you. But I’m not. I’m this. Always have been.”
His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.
Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like it’s his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. “You’d hate me. Wake up and see the creep I’ve always been, the way I’ve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much it’s killing me. That’s why, that’s why I’m like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.”
He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.
Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like he’s breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.
When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rut’s haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.
“Oh god,” he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like it’s a lifeline. “What did I do? What the fuck did I just do? I’m sorry- I’m so sorry- how do I fix this?”
Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.
“I’m gonna tell you,” he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way I’ve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldn’t. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, I’ll take it. I can’t keep this secret anymore. Can’t keep hurting you like this, pretending I’m just your friend when I’m… this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please… please don’t hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.”
He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.
The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. He’d even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now he’s awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.
His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.
He still feels like a monster.
But the rut doesn’t care about guilt. It only cares about claim.
His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You don’t stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly who’s touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until they’re bunched at your thighs.
He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. He’s shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry… I can’t stop… can’t-”
He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like he’s never done this before (because he hasn’t). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesn’t know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.
“F-Fuck- baby, you’re so… so tight…” he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. “I’m sorry… I’m trying to be gentle… I don’t wanna hurt you… you’re so warm… so fucking warm… feels like coming home… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t be doing this… shouldn’t be taking you while you sleep…”
He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.
“C’mon, sweet girl… it’s just me… you know me, baby… it’s Bucky… just Bucky… open up for me, honey… please… let me in… I’ll be so gentle… promise… you’re so tight… so perfect… like you were waiting for me…”
He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like it’s a shy thing he’s trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.
“There you go… good girl… that’s it… just like that… you know me… you trust me… let Bucky in, baby… please…”
Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.
“So good… so sweet… like honey… fuck, you’re letting me in… you’re so tight… so warm… feels like home… I’m sorry… I love you… love you so much…”
He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. You’re molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.
Then he moves.
Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. He’s whining, high, pathetic little sounds he can’t swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like he’s worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.
“Can’t stop,” he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. “Can’t- fuck- can’t stop. You feel too good. Too right. I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry… been wanting this for years… watching you, stealing pieces of you… hoodie, swimsuit, now this… I’m disgusting… pervy little creep… but you’re mine… feel like mine…”
He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.
“See that?” he mumbles, voice cracking. “Even dreaming you’re pulling me in… like you want it… want me… fuck, I’m gonna knot you… gonna lock inside… fill you up… mark you as mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I need- need it so bad…”
The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. He’s whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he can’t swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.
“Gonna knot you,” he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. “Gonna lock inside… fill you up… make you mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I can’t stop… love you… love you so much it hurts… need you to be mine…”
One last deep, clumsy thrust.
The knot catches.
Swells.
Locks.
Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where you’re stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.
And that’s when your eyes flutter open.
A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way he’s clinging to you.
Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.
“Bucky…?”
He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. “I’m so fucking sorry- I couldn’t- I shouldn’t have- please don’t hate me- please- I’m disgusting- I know I’m disgusting-”
Your breath hitches, but it’s not fear, it’s need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.
You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.
“Shhh,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. “It’s okay… feels so good… so full… Buck…”
He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.
You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.
“More…” you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. “Bucky… please… more… feels so warm… so right… don’t stop…”
He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.
“Love you,” he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. “Love you… love you… thank you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.
“More… Buck… please… feels so full… so good… keep going…”
He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.
Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.
The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.
Inside, there’s only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.
Bucky’s face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like he’s afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasn’t let go.
Not even an inch.
His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. He’s trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side he’s never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though he’s trying so hard to stay still.
You’re both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what he’s done and the overwhelming relief that you haven’t pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. You’re still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and it’s making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.
You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.
“F-Fuck- baby, don’t-” His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. “Don’t do that unless you want me to… to lose it again… I’m already- god, I’m barely holding on… I’ve never… never felt anything like this…”
You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. “Maybe I do.”
He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. “You’re gonna kill me. Swear to god, you’re gonna kill me and I’ll die happy… I’ve never… never even kissed anyone properly before tonight… and now… now I’m inside you… knotted… bonded… I don’t even know what I’m doing…”
Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like he’s mapping territory he’s only dreamed of touching. He’s clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like he’s scared he’ll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.
“Do you remember… the summer we were seventeen?” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. “You had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.”
You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where you’re joined. “I remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.”
“You were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didn’t say much. Just… let you lean on me.” His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.”
Your breath catches. “You never told me.”
“Couldn’t.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your shoulder. “Every summer after that… every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college… I’d go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasn’t crazy. I’d come so hard I’d see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, you’d never look at me the same.”
Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. “Buck…”
“I was terrified,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. “Terrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldn’t lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didn’t know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.”
He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like he’s apologizing to it too. “I’m still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you… with your slick on my tongue… with the bond humming between us. Scared you’ll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep I’ve been. That you’ll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways I’ve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared you’ll leave. And I wouldn’t even blame you.”
You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. “I’m here,” you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. “I’m not leaving. I’ve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But I’m here. I want this. I want you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like he’s trying to remember them. He’s clumsy and hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might ruin the moment.
“Can I…?” His voice cracks, barely audible. “Can I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know it’s forever. If you’ll let me.”
Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.
You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.
“Yes.”
He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like he’s terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.
“I love you,” he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. “Always have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.”
He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. “Is… is it gonna hurt?” you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. “The bite…?”
He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. “I… I dunno, baby,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’ve never… never done this before. I don’t wanna hurt you. You’ll tell me if it does, okay? Promise you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. I swear.”
You nod, trusting, sweet. “Okay. I trust you.”
He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.
Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful it’s almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock that’s always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.
You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.
He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. He’s whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.
“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.
You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.
“Yours,” you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.
He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.
The attic is quiet again.
But the silence feels different now.
It feels like home.
The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. It’s slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where he’s still half-buried inside you.
You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like he’s afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now there’s a goofy lightness in it. “I’ve got you. Just… breathe, okay?”
He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.
You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.
“Shit,” you whisper, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they’re glowing.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. “Shit. That’s… that’s a lot. Like… wow. Did we… did we do that?”
Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like he’s trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because he’s laughing too hard under his breath.
“Sorry if it’s- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or… everything,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. “I’m trying to be… gentlemanly? I think?”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. “It’s fine. You’re being very… thorough. Like a little nurse.”
He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. “Just- don’t want you uncomfortable. You’re probably sore. I was… enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.”
You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. “That’s one word for it. You were… very thorough there too.”
He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.
You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Bucky’s eyes flick to it, then away, but this time there’s no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.
You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”
He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. “I did that,” he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. “I… I marked you. And you let me.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “And I wanted it.”
He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. “You did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying ‘yes, Bucky... please’ like… like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.”
You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. “You didn’t drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.”
Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Becca’s laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.
Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.
“They’re gonna smell it,” you whisper, but there’s no panic, just giddy excitement. “The whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. They’ll know. Oh god, they’ll know.”
Bucky’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They will. And I’m weirdly okay with it? Like… I want them to know you’re mine now. Officially. No more hiding.”
He looks toward the stairs like they’re an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. “They don’t get to make this weird. Not today. Not when we’re this happy. You’re mine now. Officially. And I’m not letting anyone act like it’s something to tease about… unless it’s cute teasing. Then maybe.”
Before you can respond, he’s moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
“Buck- what-”
“Shh.” He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. “I’m carrying you down. No arguments. You’re sore. And… I don’t want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just… really like carrying you. It’s fun.”
The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.
He’s careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way he’s still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.
“This is so embarrassing,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide it hurts.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. “And I’m allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also I’ve wanted to do this forever and now I can and it’s awesome.”
You snort against his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.
Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Bucky’s dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.
The room goes dead silent.
Becca’s mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your mom’s spatula hovers over the pan. Bucky’s dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.
No one says a word.
They don’t have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows you’re mated now.
But no one speaks. No teasing. No “so… how was it?” No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.
They just… look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Bucky’s dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.
It’s a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. We’re not ruining this.
Bucky’s grip tightens on you, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because he’s too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.
He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.
He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.
The possessive fire dims. What’s left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still can’t quite believe you’re letting him stay but now he’s glowing, eyes shining, smile so big it’s almost painful.
“I need to say it properly,” he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. “Not in whispers in the dark. Not while I’m inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if I’m lying… or if I’m just a giant dork who can’t stop smiling.”
You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but you’re smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.
“You already-”
“No.” He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. “I need you to hear it. I’m sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I should’ve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I don’t deserve this- don’t deserve you- but I’m begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or don’t. But know I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. I’ll be better. I’ll be honest. I’ll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.”
Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but he’s still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. He’s shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing he’s ever done, even after last night, but he’s also so happy he can barely sit still.
You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.
“I’ve wanted you too,” you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. “For years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didn’t feel it back. Scared I’d ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That I’d touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.”
You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each other’s mouths.
He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, he’s smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.
“Mine?” he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.
“Yours,” you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. “Dork.”
He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).
Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesn’t look, doesn’t speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Becca’s boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Bucky’s dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.
No one ruins the moment.
It’s yours.
And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.
“Think we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?”
You elbow him lightly, grinning. “Behave. Or I’ll make you do dishes.”
He groans dramatically. “Cruel. You’re cruel to your mate.”
You laugh and lean into him.
The morning continues.
Normal.
Except it’s not.
It’s better.
It’s yours.
And you’re both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.
One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.
But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.
You’re officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like it’s brand new, like he’s reminding himself you chose this, chose him.
You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.
He’s changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.
The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body… god. He’s beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. He’s not just your Bucky anymore. He’s a man. Your man. And you’re completely obsessed.
This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.
No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long “walks” that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.
They’ve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about “finally,” Becca teases you mercilessly about “locking him down before he could escape,” and Bucky’s dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says “good man” like it’s the highest praise.
The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. You’re in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Bucky’s eyes don’t dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like he’s allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.
You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, he’s already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.
“Race you to the buoy?” you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.
He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.
You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.
“Cheater,” you breathe, laughing against his mouth.
“Winner,” he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way he’s perfected over the last year, like he’s reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, “Missed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.”
You nip his bottom lip, grinning. “You’re allowed now.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Good thing we’re underwater.”
He kisses you again, harder this time until you’re both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because they’ve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now it’s edged with something darker, hungrier.
You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. “This hair is getting ridiculous,” you tease, voice breathy. “You look like a sexy pirate. And this beard…” You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. “God, I love it. It’s so scratchy. I’m gonna have beard burn everywhere and I’m not even mad.”
He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. “Fuck- keep doing that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me, honey.”
“I am,” you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. “Makes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. I’m obsessed. You’re so hot it’s unfair.”
His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. “Careful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and we’re not making it back to the cabin.”
That night, the attic room feels different too.
No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.
You’re already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still can’t believe this is real after a whole year.
You crook a finger, smiling. “Come here, baby.”
He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace he’s learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.
“Missed this room,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “Missed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.”
You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. “No fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.”
He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.
“On your knees, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. “Wanna see you like this.”
You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Fuck… look at you. So pretty for me.”
He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.
One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.
He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. “Been holding back for years, baby. Now I don’t have to. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you like I’ve always wanted to.”
Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. You’re dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.
“God- yes- right there,” you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Harder, Bucky… please…”
He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.
“Fuck- you take me so good,” he rasps. “So tight… so wet… all mine.”
You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.
After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.
He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.
You laugh softly, sleepy. “What are you doing?”
“Reclaiming every inch,” he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Gonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.
“God, I really love this beard,” you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.
He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. “Keep scratching like that and we’re not sleeping tonight.”
You grin, wicked. “Good. Because I want you again. And again. And again.”
He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.
“I love you,” he says softly.
“I love you too Buck,” you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.
The attic is quiet again.
But this time, it’s full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.
The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.
Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.
You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like you’ve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier he’s gotten. He looks like a man who’s been well-loved and is very pleased about it. You’re in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.
The second you step through the doorway, the room doesn’t exactly go silent, it just… pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.
Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.
Bucky’s dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Bucky’s arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. “Took you long enough.”
Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. “Okay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.”
Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.
Your face flames instantly. Bucky’s ears go bright red, but he doesn’t let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like he’s trying to calm you both down at once.
Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. “I mean, we were all sitting there like ‘should we turn the volume up?’ and then it was just… ‘oh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-’” She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.
“Becca!” you squeak, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.
He’s laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he can’t help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like he’s shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). “We… uh… got carried away,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, “Sorry, honey. Guess we weren’t quiet. At all.”
You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but you’re giggling too. “You were the loud one,” you whisper back, poking his chest. “All those growly noises. And the… the spanking. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. “You liked it,” he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Don’t lie.”
“I did,” you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.
Becca makes a gagging noise. “Gross. You’re both gross. And loud. And gross. But also… kinda cute? In a disgusting way.”
Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. “So… when can we expect grandpups? I’m not getting any younger, you know. And after last night’s… enthusiastic performance… I’m thinking it won’t be long.”
Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.
“Mom!”
Bucky’s dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. “She’s right. Cabin’s been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of ‘em, judging by all that racket.”
Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. You’re basically built for it now. Dad material.”
She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. “I just want a little niece so bad. I’d braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? I’d be the best aunt.”
Bucky’s ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but there’s a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re… uh… we’re working on it,” he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. “Eventually. When we’re ready.”
Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. “Take your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Becca’s right- she’d be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:
“We’ll get there, honey. When we’re ready.”
You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “When we’re ready.”
Becca fake-gags again. “You two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also… hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.”
Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.
The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.
The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.
You’re sprawled across Bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.
He’s got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt you’re wearing.
You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.
Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Um… what if… what if we started trying? Like… tonight?”
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.
“Tonight?” he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. “You mean… pups? With me?”
You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you don’t look away. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About… us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyes…” You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. “I just… I want that with you. If you do.”
He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion. “You have no idea how much I want that. How long I’ve wanted it.”
You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.
The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.
You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. “You know… if it happens, my body’s gonna change. A lot.” Your voice drops lower, teasing now. “These are gonna get so full. Heavy. And… leaky.”
Bucky’s breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.
“Jesus,” he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.
You press on, voice turning huskier. “Imagine it… me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while you’re still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.”
His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. “Fuck baby- you can’t just-” He swallows hard, voice cracking again. “You start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?”
You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard he’s gotten. “Can’t help it. Thinking about you breeding me… getting me all swollen and full… it makes me so wet.”
He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like he’s trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?”
You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.
“Baby-” His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.
You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.
Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like you’re ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.
“You think you can say all that,” he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, “get me this desperate… then just roll over like you’re going to sleep?”
You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.
His palm spreads over your stomach, like he’s already picturing it round with his child. “Not happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.”
He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. You’re soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.
“Bucky-”
He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. “Gonna fill you up tonight,” he rasps against your ear. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until you’re carrying my kid.”
The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.
He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.
“Tell me you want it,” he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me to breed you, baby.”
You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. “I want it,” you whisper, voice shaking with need. “Want you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until I’m full. Please, Bucky.”
That’s all it takes.
He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until he’s seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.
“Gonna keep you like this all night,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Gonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.”
The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.
He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
“Come for me,” he growls low. “Come on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.”
The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he can’t stop.
He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.
“Gonna stay like this a while,” he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. “Gonna make sure it takes.”
You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”
The attic is quiet again.
But now it’s full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's. Chapter summary: The wedding.
The wedding was held in the Red Keep on a morning so bright and clear it seemed the very sky had bent itself to the occasion.
You had not slept the night before. From the nerves, from the strange, suspended awareness that everything was about to change, that the life you had known within these walls was ending and something entirely new was about to begin. You had lain awake in your chambers, watching the moonlight creep across the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of servants making final preparations, and waiting for the dawn.
The wedding dress was beautiful. You had known it would be: you had sat through enough fittings, stood still for enough pinpricks, nodded along to enough seamstresses' questions, but seeing it laid out across your bed in the morning light was something else entirely. Cream silk, heavy and lustrous, embroidered with gold thread that caught the light in shifting patterns. Stags and dragons intertwined along the hem. The bodice was fitted, the sleeves long and flowing, the train modest but elegant.
You were laced you into it, your handmaidens settled the fabric over your shoulders and smoothed the skirts, you looked at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. You looked like a princess.
Lyonel had commissioned a circlet.
That had been a battle in itself, your uncle and Maekar going back and forth for days over whether a crown of antlers, however delicate, constituted a political statement. Lyonel had argued that it was merely an ornament, a nod to your house, a gift from an uncle to his beloved niece on her wedding day. Maekar had argued that it looked too much like a crown, that placing it on your head at a royal wedding would be seen as a challenge, a subtle declaration of Baratheon independence.
"Subtle?" Lyonel had roared, genuinely affronted. "If I wanted to make a statement, I would make a statement!"
In the end, a compromise had been reached. The circlet was fashioned to hold your veil. Worn with the veil cascading from it, it looked less like a crown and more like an adornment.
You loved it. You loved it because it was yours, because it was Baratheon, because your uncle had argued for days to give you something that spoke of home on a day when you were binding yourself to a house of dragons.
"Let them see it," Aerion had said when you told him about the argument. "Let them see you are not ashamed of where you come from."
He did not care about subtlety. He never had.
He was waiting for you at the altar in crimson and gold.
The colors of his house, but also the colors of himself, the Brightflame, they called him, and he looked it. His doublet was crimson silk embroidered with gold thread in patterns of fire, his cloak the deep red of dragon's blood, his eyes vivid violet against the warm tones of his dress.
The ceremony passed in a blur of words, lights and the weight of a hundred eyes upon you. You remembered speaking your vows, your voice steady even when your hands trembled. You remembered the brush of Aerion's fingers against yours, the way his eyes never left your face. You remembered the septon's voice, sonorous and slow, and the moment of silence that followed the final blessing, as though the whole sept was holding its breath.
Then Aerion kissed you, a deep, long kiss instead of the chaste, ceremonial kiss that protocol demanded, enough to make the assembled lords and ladies murmur and chuckle and, in your uncle's case, let out a bark of approving laughter.
When he pulled back, his mouth curved into that familiar, insufferable smile, and he murmured against your lips, "Wife."
"Husband," you replied, and the word felt strange and new but not unwelcome.
The feast came after.
But first, there was the gift.
He presented it to outside, in full view overlooking the Blackwater, in front of the assembled guests, with the sort of theatrical flourish that was entirely characteristic of him. A ship, he announced, newly built and newly blessed, waiting in the harbor to carry you wherever you wished to go.
"Her name is the Storm's Eye," he said, and his voice was quieter now, meant only for you despite the crowd. "Do you know why?"
You shook your head.
"Because it is always calm in the eye of the storm." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that still surprised you. "You carry the storm in your blood. I have seen it. But you deserve a place of calm as well. A place where the winds do not touch you."
You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. "You named a ship after a metaphor."
"I named a ship after my wife." He said it simply, as though it were obvious. "The metaphor was incidental."
The ship was beautiful, from what you could see of her in the harbor below, sleek and well-made, with a crew already aboard and sails the deep gold of a sunset. The Storm's Eye. Your ship. Yours and his, to take you across the Narrow Sea and beyond, to the Summer Isles and wherever else you wished to go.
You did not know what to say. So you kissed him instead, right there in the courtyard, and the crowd cheered.
The feast began at dusk.
The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed, the long tables draped in cloth of gold, the torches burning bright in their sconces, the air thick with the smell of roasted meats and spiced wine and fresh flowers. Musicians played, their melodies weaving through the noise of conversation and laughter. You sat at the high table between Aerion and your uncle, and for the first hour you barely had a moment to catch your breath: toast after toast, well-wisher after well-wisher, lords and ladies approaching to offer their congratulations and their carefully worded flatteries.
Aerion drank with them all. He was in high spirits, his laughter coming easily, his hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing whenever a particular lord droned on too long. You ate what you could, smiled until your cheeks ached, and tried to memorize the feeling of it all: the warmth, the noise, the strange suspended joy of the day.
Then the dancing began.
Aerion claimed the first dance, as was his right. Then the second. Then the third.
"You will wear yourself out," you told him, half-laughing as he spun you through the steps of a lively reel.
"I am inexhaustible," he replied, entirely serious. "And I intend to dance with my wife as much as I please."
He was a good dancer, which should not have surprised you. He moved with the same careless grace he brought to everything else, leading you through the steps with a confidence that made it easy to follow. When the music slowed, he pulled you closer than was strictly proper, his hand resting low on your back, his breath warm against your temple.
"You are staring at me," you murmured.
"I am admiring you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
"Staring is vulgar. Admiration is a husband's duty." He tilted his head, his eyes tracing over your face with an attention that made your skin heat. "I am merely fulfilling my obligations."
You laughed, he grinned, and for a moment you forgot the crowd, the noise, the weight of the day. There was only the music and his hand in yours and the strange, unfolding realization that this was your life now: this man, this dance, this improbable, inexplicable joy.
The toasts and shouts mellowed as the evening wore on. The older lords retreated to their wine, the younger ones to their flirtations, and the dancing continued in a more subdued fashion. The musicians shifted to slower tunes, melodies that spoke of love and longing and the bittersweet passage of time.
You were standing at the edge of the hall, catching your breath after a particularly energetic dance with your uncle, when Valarr approached.
He was dressed simply, in the red and black of his house, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression composed. He looked tired, you thought. Or perhaps that was only your imagination, projecting onto him the weariness you yourself had been carrying beneath the joy of the day.
"May I have this dance?" he asked gently.
You glanced at Aerion, who was deep in conversation with Daella and Rhae at the high table. He did not see you. Or if he did, he gave no sign.
"Yes," you said. "You may."
Valarr led you to the floor just as the musicians began a new song. It was achingly slow. His hand settled at your waist with the lightest of touches. Your hand rested on his shoulder. You began to move.
Neither of you spoke. This was familiar. This was a thing you had done a hundred times before, in this very hall, to songs not so different from this one. Valarr had always danced with you at feasts, even when you were young and clumsy and likely to step on his feet. He had never complained. He had only smiled, that quiet smile that was meant just for you, and guided you through the steps with a patience that had made you feel safe.
You remembered the first time.
You had been twelve years old, awkward in your first proper gown, terrified of making a fool of yourself in front of the court. He had found you hiding behind a pillar, trying to make yourself small, and he had taken your hand without a word and led you onto the floor.
"Follow me," he had said. "I will not let you fall."
You had followed, and he had not let you fall.
You remembered the time he had taught you the steps. You had practiced together in the library after lessons, moving between the bookshelves, counting the beats under your breath while he hummed the melody. When you had finally mastered it, he had bowed to you with exaggerated formality and declared you the finest dancer in the Seven Kingdoms.
"The finest dancer in the library, at least," you had corrected.
"The finest dancer anywhere," he had insisted, and his eyes had been bright with laughter.
You remembered the feast to celebrate his sixteenth nameday, when he had been expected to dance with every noble daughter in attendance and had instead spent half the evening dancing with you. The lords had grumbled. The ladies had whispered. He had not seemed to notice, or care.
"You are neglecting your duties," you had said, glancing at the line of disappointed partners waiting at the edge of the floor.
"I am dancing with my friend," he had replied. "That is not neglect."
That had been the last gesture of rebellion against his duties. The last floundering against the weight of the Crown.
You remembered the winter feast, the one where the fires had burned low and the hall had grown cold, and he had given you his cloak without a second thought and insisted he was not cold at all, even though his hands had been shaking when he took yours for the next dance.
"You are a terrible liar," you had told him.
"I am an excellent liar," he had corrected. "You are simply too perceptive."
You remembered a thousand small moments, a thousand kindnesses, a thousand times when his presence had been the only thing that made the Red Keep feel like home. The books he had shared with you. The speeches he had rehearsed in front of you. The way he had leaned into you when his mother died, silent, shaking, trusting you to hold him steady.
You remembered the kiss. The only one. The one he had given you to satisfy your curiosity and soothe your fears. You remembered the bracelet on his wrist, the one you had woven with your own hands and he still wore even now, even as he danced with you on your wedding day.
The music swelled, something mournful and sweet, and Valarr's hand tightened on yours.
"You dance well," he said quietly. "You always have."
"You taught me well," you replied.
He shook his head. "You never needed teaching. You only needed someone to remind you that you already knew."
You moved together through the steps, and it was effortless. You did not stumble. You did not miss a beat. You had learned this dance long ago, the two of you, and your bodies remembered it even now, even after everything.
"I am glad," he said after a moment, and his voice was very soft, very careful. "That you will see the world. The Summer Isles. Essos. All the places you used to read about in those books I brought you."
"You brought me far too many books," you said, and your voice nearly broke on the words.
"There is no such thing as too many books." He smiled, but it was fragile, easily shattered. "I want you to see it all. The markets of Lys. The temples of Volantis. The beaches of the Summer Isles, where the sand is white and the water is clear as glass. You used to talk about it, do you remember? You would sit by the window and point at the ships in the harbor and say, 'One day I will sail away on one of those.'"
"And you would say, 'Then I will wave to you from the shore.'"
"Yes." He swallowed. "That is what I would say."
The music was winding down. You could feel it in the slowing rhythm, the way the melody curled in on itself like a flower closing its petals at dusk. You did not want it to end. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, suspended between past and future, between what could have been and what was.
"You will be happy," Valarr decided.
"I will try," you promised.
"No." He stopped moving, and the music continued around you, and the other dancers swirled past in a blur of color and light. His hand was still at your waist. His eyes were dark. "You will be happy. You will be happy because you are strong, because you are brave, and because you have a heart that does not know how to give less than everything. And he..." He glanced toward the high table, where Aerion was watching you now with an unreadable expression. "He will give you the world. I know he will. He would be a fool not to."
"Valarr…"
"I am saying farewell," he murmured to you. "For now. Not forever. I could not bear forever. But for now." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, so brief and light you almost did not feel it. "Go. Live. See the world. And when you return, I will be here. As I have always been. As your friend."
Your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, not here, not now, not in front of the whole court.
"Thank you," you whispered. "For all of it. For looking out for me. For being the best friend I could've asked for. I would not have survived this place without you."
"You would have," he said. "You are a Baratheon. Surviving is what you do." He released your hand, stepping back. "But I am glad I was there."
The music ended. The other dancers began to drift back toward the tables, their laughter and conversation filling the silence that the melody had left behind. Valarr bowed to you, a formal bow, the bow of a prince to a princess, correct and proper and utterly, devastatingly wrong.
"Until we meet again," he said.
"Until then," you replied.
He walked away.
You stood alone on the dance floor for a moment, the echoes of the music still ringing in your ears. Your chest ached with a grief that felt both old and new, a wound that had been healing and reopening in cycles for as long as you could remember. You had loved him. You would always love him, in some small way. But that love was no longer the center of your world. It was a memory now. A beautiful, painful, precious memory.
You turned.
Aerion was watching you from the high table. His expression was curious, awaiting.
You walked back to him. You climbed the steps to the high table and took your seat beside your husband. His hand found yours beneath the table. You held on tight.
"You danced with him," Aerion said.
"Yes."
"Are you all right?"
You considered the question. Were you all right? You had married a man you had not expected to marry. You had said farewell to the man you had once thought you would spend your life with. You were leaving behind everything you had known and stepping into a future that was vast and uncertain and full of possibilities you could not yet imagine.
"I think," you said slowly, "that I will be."
Aerion nodded, as though that were exactly the answer he had expected.
"Good," he said. "Because I did not buy you a ship only for you to spend the voyage weeping into your pillow."
You laughed. A startled, genuine laugh that surprised you both. "That is remarkably unsympathetic."
"I am a remarkably unsympathetic man." He leaned closer, his mouth brushing your ear. "But I am also a patient one. And I will be here. When you are ready. When the grief has faded and the memories have softened and you are able to look at me without seeing him."
You pulled back, studying his face. He was serious now, the playfulness gone, his violet eyes steady on yours.
"I do not see him," you shook your head. "When I look at you. I only see you."
Surprise flickered on his face, or perhaps relief, or something deeper that he would never put into words. Then he smiled, that slow, insufferable smile that you had come to know so well.
"In that case," he said, rising and offering you his hand, "I believe we have a wedding night to attend to. And I have been very patient."
You took his hand. You let him lead you from the hall, past the cheering guests and the raised goblets and your uncle's booming laughter, past the musicians who struck up a final, triumphant chord, past the doors that closed behind you and shut out the noise of the celebration.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
Author’s note : here it is !! It is not the most exciting chapter but necessary for the next one!! We are close to ashford events too I can’t wait! I hope you guys liked this chapter anyway!!
- this work contains : SMUT Post marriage life? Mentions of pregnancy, reader has anger issues, they are basically traumatizing the staff, she gives Aerion a blow job in the library, freak freak freak, aerion is down bad for his wife, mentions of public sex, etc..
Part 1 Part 2
The wedding had followed swiftly and had been celebrated with all the splendor expected of a match between a prince and a lady.
Your lord father could scarcely have been more pleased. His favorite child had not only won the favor of a prince of the blood but had become a princess. Lord Lannister had lavished gold upon the occasion, ensuring that no lord or lady in attendance could fail to remark upon the wealth of their house.
The match had pleased the king as well. Though the Targaryens still ruled the Seven Kingdoms, the realm knew that Lannister gold flowed deeper than the royal treasury. With this union, the wealth of the west became tied more closely to the Iron Throne.
At His Grace’s suggestion, you and Aerion had departed soon after for Summerhall, removed from the endless intrigues and obligations of court.
The peace suited you both.
Though peace, regrettably for the servants, did not always mean quiet.
More than one unfortunate household servant had learned that the prince and his bride possessed little talent for remaining apart for long. One poor maid had even stumbled upon the two of you fucking in a stairwell several days prior and had fled red-faced before either of you could so much as acknowledge her presence.
Yet when you and your husband were not occupied with one another, you found Summerhall pleasant enough.
Its libraries proved especially delightful.
This morning, Aerion had risen with the dawn to train in the yard alongside the master-at-arms and a handful of squires. You had little interest in watching boys batter one another into the dust and had instead retreated to one of Summerhall’s libraries.
Hidden amongst towering shelves and long-forgotten tomes, you had discovered an old volume concerning the lost Freehold of Valyria. Though age had yellowed its pages and cracked its leather binding, its contents proved far more captivating than the clash of wooden swords echoing from the yard below.
So engrossed had you become that the passing hours slipped by unnoticed.
Only the sound of your husband’s voice finally drew you back to the present.
“You may all leave.”
The servants scattered at once, abandoning the library with almost comical haste. None of them seemed eager to linger where their prince’s temper might soon awaken.
You spared him only the briefest glance before returning your attention to your book.
How dare you?
Moments later, the weight vanished from your hands.
Aerion stood beside your chair, the stolen volume already in his grasp. His deep eyes sweeping over the worn cover before he decided to snapped it shut with deliberate finality.
Only then did you properly look at him.
He had plainly come from the baths. Damp strands of silver-gold hair clung carelessly about his brow, and the scent of clean linen, cedar soap, and faint summer herbs still lingered upon him. Freshly dressed in dark riding clothes, he looked every inch the prince, though the slight crease between his brows betrayed his mood.
“Wife.”
He spoke the word as though it were both greeting and complaint.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“Husband?” you answered lightly, amusement already dancing in your eyes.
“What troubles you?” His faint scowl only deepened. You found it rather endearing, though you doubted he would appreciate hearing as much.
“You have ignored me the entire day.”
The accusation hung between you. You blinked genuinely surprised by the accusation.
“I did not. I merely—”
A sharp hiss silenced you before you could finish.
“You did.”
There was no mistaking the hurt beneath his irritation. It was almost childish, in truth. You had expected annoyance, perhaps even one of his usual barbed remarks, but not wounded pride.
Unable to suppress your smile any longer, you rose from your chair and stepped toward him. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, you lowered yourself until you knelt between his legs.
Tilting your head, you looked up at him through lowered lashes.
“Am I in trouble, Your Grace?” you asked with feigned innocence as your fingertips came to rest lightly upon his thigh, lingering there without moving higher.
Aerion’s gaze followed the gesture at once before returning to your face.
“You shall be,” he replied, each word measured, “if you do not finish what you attempted to start.”
Though his tone was remaining stern, you could see the warmth gathering behind his violet eyes that was betraying him far more readily than he realized.
A quiet laugh escaped you.
You had expected as much.
Then, you reached for the fastening of his breeches and loosened them.
His cock was already hard, flushed an angry shade of red and visibly throbbing, as though waiting for your attention.
The sight alone drew a small whimper from your lips.
Your husband possessed a beautiful cock.
The pulsing vein along its length, the way it reacted to your touch, all of it stirred something within you.
It had surprised you at first. the first time you sucked him off.
You still remembered the lessons your septa had given you as a girl, teaching you about a man’s anatomy and the duties of marriage. Back then, you had thought male parts ugly things.
Now, you knew better.
Your gaze never left Aerion’s as you slowly pressed a kiss to the tip, teasing him with light touches and fleeting affection.
Each small gesture drew a sharp hiss from the dragon prince.
You alternated between kisses and careful caresses, delighting in every reaction you earned from him.
And then, at last, to Aerion’s obvious satisfaction, you finally gave him what he wanted, lavishing your full attention upon him as though he were something worthy of worship.
You took him into your mouth and began moving slowly, forward and back, teasing the sensitive vein near the tip.
Aerion’s hand found your hair, his fingers tangling in the golden strands as he guided you closer.
When he finally released, he held you there for a moment, waiting patiently until you had swallowed everything he had given you.
Only then did he let go.
You pulled back, catching your breath as he calmly adjusted his clothing once more.
“You’re forgiven,” The declaration carried all the solemnity of a king delivering judgment, rather than that of an impossibly spoiled husband who had spent the better part of the afternoon pouting because his wife had chosen a dusty history of Valyria over his company.
You could not help the smile that tugged at your lips.
your husband was definintely the most insufferably pampered man in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Your weekly routine had settled into an easy rhythm.
You and Aerion still coupled with all the impatience of newlyweds—at dawn, at midday, and long after the castle had fallen silent.
Then everything changed when you got sick.
You found yourself waking each morning with a churning stomach, and your temper was growing shorter by the day. At first, you dismissed it as nothing more than a chill. Because a few days earlier, you and Aerion had ridden through the woods surrounding Summerhall.
The walk had ended as so many of your outings did—with the two of you hidden beneath the trees, you could still remember the crude words that had left his mouth when he mentioned that this place was very similar to where he had taken you for the first time, in your gardens back at your home—you were so distracted by one another that neither had cared when the rain began to fall before Aerion had quite finished with you.
You had blamed your health on the weather.
But Yet the sickness did not pass.
Instead, your appetite abandoned you entirely. The delicious meals you had once favored now turned your stomach. At supper you would barely touch your trencher before pushing it away with a frown and a huff.
And of course Aerion had noticed.
He said little at first.
Then, one evening after worshipping every inch of your body as though you were some goddess of Old Valyria, returned to earth, his hands lingered upon you. And he spoke.
“You have changed,” he had murmured as his lips were wandering along your collarbone.
“What nonsense..?” You had frowned at his words not liking where the conversation was going but still you encouraged him to keep going.
“You have been ill for days. You cannot stomach your meals. And…” His gaze lingered upon your breasts. “…they have swollen.”
The realization dawned upon him before it did upon you.
“You may be with child.” The words shattered the warmth that had filled the chamber only moments before.
“Ridiculous. I am not withchild.” You had recoiled from him at once, the tenderness between you dissolving into irritation.
Aerion hadn’t got time to blink, already confuse by your reaction.
“What is wrong with—”
“Aerion.” The way his name had left your lips like the crack of a whip was enough to show that you didn’t plan on allowing the conversation to grow further.
“You will cease speaking of this immediately. The matter is settled, and I have no wish to discuss it further.”
You climbed from the bed before he could answer, snatched up your robe, and swept from the chamber, leaving him alone.
Deep within yourself, you feared he might be right. That frightened you more than you wished to admit.
For the next two days, Aerion was smart enough to keep his distance from you.
Not because he wished to, but because he understoond that pressing you further would only worsen your temper.
Instead, he questioned your maids quietly whenever they crossed his path. He would ask if you had eaten? If the sickness had lessened? And if you managed to sleep? Something he had been finding trouble without your presence by his side.
The answers pleased him little.
You continued to retch each morning.
You scarcely touched your food.
At last, deciding certainty was kinder than an endless guessing, Aerion had summoned the maester.
If he proved mistaken, then medicines would soon have you restored to health.
And If he proved right…
Then the crown would gain its first heir. As he could recall that his cousin valarr, seemed to fail on giving an heir to the crown.
Surely, once the uncertainty ended, so would your fears.
Or so he believed.
The answer came before sunset.
Aerion was in the solar, reading through one of his father’s letters, something about how they would need to shorten their journey because, of a tourney happening in ashford in a few moons requiring their presence, when the door burst open without warning.
He did not even look up. Already letting the threat slip from his mouth.
“You better possess an excellent reason for disturbing me unannounced,” he said coldly, “or I shall see that—”
“Your Grace!” The frightened maid’s voice finally stopped him and made him look up.
“It is the princess! You must come!"
His chair scraped sharply across the floor as he rose.
“What is it?”
The girl was struggling to catch her breath as she hurried ahead of him through the corridors, her skirts gathered clumsily in her trembling hands. Her face had drained of all color, tears glistening in wide, frightened eyes as she looked over her shoulder at the prince. "My prince… the lady… she will not allow anyone inside. We fear she may have harmed herself. She has locked the door and—”
“Enough.” Aerion’s voice sliced cleanly through her panicked babbling. A deep frown settled upon his brow, his eyes narrowing with a growing impatience. His jaw tightened, the muscles feathering beneath pale skin, and an irritated hiss escaped through clenched teeth. He had never possessed much patience for hysterics.
“You are giving me a headache.” The maid had immediately lowered her gaze, shrinking beneath the prince’s glare as fresh panic flashed across her face. She bit her lip hard enough to whiten it, struggling to steady her breathing before hurrying on in silence, terrified she had already said too much.
By the time they reached your chambers, half your household had gathered outside the door.
Maids.
Guards.
Everyone stood frozen, exchanging anxious glances yet daring neither to enter nor abandon their posts.
Behind the heavy oak door, the sounds continued without pause.
Sobbing.
Glass shattering.
The violent crash of furniture striking stone.
One of the younger maids could be seen flinching with every new noise coming from your door, her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles had turned white since a while, Another silently wept, while an older servant whispered frantic prayers to the seven beneath her breath.
Even the guards keeping your door looked uncertain.
Aerion’s expression was hardening with every step he was taking.
The irritation that had accompanied him through the corridor had vanished, now long replaced by something colder. His jaw was set so tightly it could be seen aching, and a dangerous stillness settled over him. The prince’s violet eyes swept over the assembled servants, finding only fear reflected in each face.
Without another word, Aerion had crossed the remaining distance and shoved the heavy door open.
The room fell silent.
Even the servants lingering behind him seemed to stop breathing.
For the briefest heartbeat, the dragon prince himself stood motionless.
Your chambers looked as though a storm had torn through them.
Your vanity lay overturned.
Mirrors and crystal bottles glittered across the floor in countless jagged shards.
A chair had been smashed clean in half.
The bed curtains hung in ragged strips where someone—you—had torn them from their fastenings.
His gaze swept the destruction only once before searching frantically for you, every splintered piece of furniture making his expression grow darker still.
Then you turned.
Your cheeks were wet with tears.
One trembling hand still clutched a flower vase, raised high enough that you might have thrown it at whoever dared enter.
Until you saw him.
The vase slipped from your fingers, striking the floor with a dull crack.
Aerion had crossed the room without hesitation, scarcely seeming to notice the shattered glass crunching beneath his boots.
The devastation around him no longer mattered.
Only you did.
“My heart,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it scarcely sounded like his own.
Never before had you heard such tenderness from him. You were so familiar with the mocking tone he used when he spoke about his siblings or the attitude he had towards the servants.
The same prince whose temper made grown men tremble now looked upon you as though you were the most fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.
“What has happened?”
His brow was drawn with worry, the familiar arrogance absent from his features. Even his violet eyes, so often sharp and mocking, were searching your face with a naked concern, as though he feared what he might find.
You tried to answer but no words came.
Before you could force any out, he had already closed the distance between you.
His arms came around you without hesitation, drawing you firmly against his chest. One hand settled protectively at the small of your back, while the other cradled the back of your head with surprising care, his fingers threading gently through your hair as though you might shatter if he held you any tighter.
The scent of clean linen, worn leather, and the faint trace of smoke clinging to him surrounded you at once.
You felt safe.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, your trembling began to ease.
For reasons you could not explain, it was steadying your breathing.
“This…” Your voice was caught in your throat, "This is your fault.” You had whispered, still aware of the servants presence and refusing to give them a show of your weakness.
Aerion had merely hummed. Not in disagreement nor in anger, he was encouraging you to continue.
“The maester confirmed it.” You lifted tear-filled eyes to meet his. Your eyes were red and glossy from all the crying when you finally announce it.
“I… I am with child.”
The words broke something inside you.
Your voice, your body, everything was shattering, you were trembling like a doe realizing she would not escape the arrow.
“I am afraid.” Your whispering had awoken something inside him.
Aerion had seen many things.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with violence.
He had watched men die.
But still he had never felt so utterly helpless than at the view of your tears.
“Shh,” he had murmured, as he was pressing kisses into your hair.
“I know my love.”
His hand was moving slowly along your back, rocking you with the same patient rhythm a mother might use to soothe a frightened child. Like your mother used to do when you were still a girl.
No one else spoke.
The servants lingering at the doorway stared in stunned silence.
None had imagined their prince capable of such tenderness.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed you.
Your body, worn down by sickness, fear, and sleepless nights, simply surrendered.
You fell asleep in his arms.
Aerion did not move until he had carried you gently back to bed.
You awoke before sunrise to the quiet stillness of your chambers. For a long moment, you simply lay there, watching your husband sleep beside you. In slumber, the hard lines that so often marked his face had softened. Deprived of his perpetual frown and cutting remarks, Aerion almost looked gentle. Peaceful, even. One arm remained draped possessively around your waist, holding you close as though some part of him feared you might disappear the moment he loosened his grip.
Your gaze slowly drifted downward until your hand came to rest instinctively upon your still-flat stomach.
The babe was there.
Half him. Half you.
The thought no longer filled you with the same fear that had consumed you only the day before. Instead, your mind wandered toward a future you had been too frightened to imagine before now. You pictured a small child racing through the gardens of the Red Keep, silver-gold hair catching the morning light, tiny hands forever reaching for both mother and father.
Perhaps it would not be so terrible after all.
Beside you, Aerion had stirred. He had always been a light sleeper, and it seemed he had sensed the subtle change in your breathing before he was fully awake. His violet eyes opened slowly, settling upon you almost at once. For several quiet moments, neither of you spoke. Then, softly enough that it was nearly swallowed by the silence of the room, he spoke your name.
Not wife. Not my love. Not my heart or any petnames he had given you since your marriage.
Simply your name.
Somehow, it felt more intimate than either.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss against your forehead. “The sun has yet to rise.”
With obvious reluctance, he slipped from the warmth of the bed to prepare for the morning’s training, moving quietly so as not to disturb you further. You watched him only until he disappeared behind the dressing screen before nestling deeper beneath the blankets.
And this time, when you closed your eyes, sleep came easily.
Thank you so much for reading!! I’m not satisfied with how this came out but well :/ I really wanted to give you guys something ! I might have forgotten some people for the taglist and I apologize 😞😞🫶🏻
NEEEED the aerion x reader modern academic rivals au so bad, you’re sooo right that he could probably be an academic powerhouse if he tried (thinking abt how he’s quite an accomplished fighter) and i love how that creates a sense of dramatic irony when he comes up w transparent reasons to hang around and be intimate w reader. like oh you “forgot” to bring your notebook? aerion “obsessive academic weapon who cultivates a grudge like a botanical garden” targaryen happened to forget something that forces him to lean over reader so she can smell his cologne? hmmm
Perfect Grades
Aerion Targaryen x f!Reader
Summary: An academic rivalry causes Aerion to spiral into obsession with you; good thing you think the weird guy who sits behind you in class is kinda cute.
AN: Ask and you shall receive :) This started silly but may actually be my most intense smut yet (not sure if that's what you were asking for but I got a little carried away). I get that Aerion would probably be a business major or some sort of evil degree like that but for the sake of my sanity I’m picking something else. Also, of course feel free to picture the dark academia library of your dreams, but I wrote this with the image of the extremely weird-vibed, fourth floor of the LSU library in mind lol anyway thank you so much for the suggestion I hope you enjoy <3
Warnings: rough sex, semi-public sex, obsession, Aerion should be his own warning
3.9k Words
“Come on guys, this will be on the exam.”
Aerion leaned back in his chair, shuffling through his notes. He was certain somewhere amongst the scribbling pages, he had written down how to answer the problem. He had to find it, had to, because if not, someone else might answer before him. He was not in the business of being second place. Finally, he landed on a crude diagram and description of the topic.
The someone in question’s hand shot up, one row ahead, three seats down, in a sweater he would have sworn was new (not that he was checking). Aerion grimaced when he saw your notebook closed. You hadn't even needed to check the answer. Instantly, the blond man’s hand raised.
Professor Baratheon- “call me Lyonel”- pointed at you, and Aerion let out a grumble. He sunk a little farther into his seat as he watched each head turn to listen to your answer.
For a semester now- no that wasn't true. For four years, this had been happening. At first, he’d brushed it off as a coincidence. The first class you’d been in together had been a thousand person gen-ed, a packed lecture hall. Lots of people raised their hands to answer questions, it wasn’t like you were trying to beat him out on purpose. Your answers were always clear, concise, correct, never the drawn-out musings of a “devil’s advocate.” Aerion had noticed you quickly, picking you out from the crowd from your pretty voice and prettier face. He figured once the semester was over, he could take you out, dazzle you with his academic (and sexual) prowess, and be on the hunt for another girl as you faded from his mind.
But then you kept taking classes together.
And you kept answering before him.
Aerion told himself that he’d signed up for this class because he owed it to himself to best you. He deserved to rub a perfect grade in your face, to show you you weren't as smart as you thought you were. Really, he hadn’t even known if you’d be enrolled in it, but he’d been watching you long enough to know you favored Professor Baratheon (Aerion couldn’t stand to call him his first name), and how good would it feel to beat you in a class whose professor you revered so much?
“I think it would be a nucleophilic substitution.” Your voice cut out through the silent room.
“No.”
Aerion watched you whip your head around to stare him down, mouth agape at his interruption. The class was silent, and a grin grew on his lips when the attention fell on him. He casually leaned his head back in his hands, languidly crossing a foot over his knee as he paused. He could see the irritation building in your brow, the furrow deepening as he made you wait for a response.
“It's an electrophilic substitution, actually. We covered it in the lab.”
You turned back towards the board, toward Lyonel, who at that moment, had his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed over his broad chest, biting his lip to fight a smile.
“I’d suggest you go over your lab work again, Mr. Targaryen, before the test. The reaction is nucleophilic, which we went over already.”
Aerion could feel the angry heat creep up his neck as your classmates all cut eyes back to him. As Lyonel continued on with the lecture, you slowly turned, smug smirk on your face as you met his lavender gaze. He grimaced at you, a dragonlike snarl meant to startle, but you only rolled your eyes and focused back on the board, pen in hand.
Aerion watched the rain dribble down the window of the coffee shop as he waited for you to arrive. You weren’t one to usually be late. He’d noticed you’d never shown up to class less than ten minutes early, unless you’d had another class before. Not that he’d memorized your schedule or anything, you just spoke loudly with your classmates, that was it. Easily chatting with members of group projects and making friends with the people who sat around you.
No one sat around Aerion, and he’d yet to find the ease of connecting with those he was assigned to talk to.
How angry he’d been, when you stopped him on the way out of class, your hand gripping his bicep. He’d spun, eyes widening when he saw that it was you.
“You know,” You’d said, coyly, “This next test is worth a big chunk of our grade. You could have just asked if you needed help; I’d be willing to study with you if you’d like.”
He’d been furious. How dare you insinuate that he needed your help? Aerion had gotten a ninety-five on the last test, thank you very much.
You’d gotten a ninety-eight.
It's not that you’d told him, he certainly didn’t ask, but you’d had it out on your desk after Professor Baratheon had passed it back out, and the red numbers had glared up at him from a row back. You looked so pleased, a lovely little grin on your face when you saw it.
He finally had given you a terse nod to your offer as you looked at him expectantly. As irritating as you were, you probably could help him boost his exam scores.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
Aerion turned back to the table, the condensation from your coffee mirroring the rain on the glass. The coffee he’d gotten for you when he first arrived- early, he might add. Why did he know your coffee order? You sometimes had one in class, obnoxiously perched on your desk. It's not that he went out of his way to read the tiny scribble on the side of the cup, but you’d just had so many classes together, and it was right there, and he;d watch you reach your manicured hand out to wrap around it one too many times for it to be normal.
The bell rang over the door, and there you were. Soaked, hair dripping, but a grin on your face as you slid your rain jacket off your shoulders and hung it on the rack.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. It started storming and I had to run back and get my rain jacket.” You said, plopping down into the seat across from him. He pretended not to notice how your top was dampened, the fabric pulling across your breasts and your bra faintly visible.
“Its pretty unprofessional for a tutor to show up fifteen minutes late, you know.”
You looked up from your bag, pausing as you pulled out your notebook.
“Tutors get paid, I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart, Aerion.”
Your words were sweet, but the smirk on his face told him you were teasing. He rolled his eyes and gestured to the coffee.
“Oh! Thank you.” You sounded genuine this time, tentatively taking a sip as his lavender eyes bore into you.
“This is perfect, really thanks.”
You gave him an unreadable look as you tasted the drink, and he chose not to understand it as your confusion at him knowing your order. Aerion reached for his own bookbag, unzipping it and reaching in.
He couldn’t explain why he did what he did next.
“Fuck, my notes aren’t in here.”
You gave him a look.
“Now who’s the unprofessional one?”
Aerion quickly closed his bag, setting it on the ground and looking at you with what he hoped was a nonchalant look. You waited a beat before speaking again:
“I guess we can both look through mine then. Your handwriting is horrible, anyway.”
You stood, rounding the table and pulling the chair along with you. He scooted over, barely, giving you a little room to sit beside him. As you sat, he was momentarily overwhelmed by the smell of you. Soft perfume, rain, the shampoo Aerion had not figured out the brand of from sitting behind you in class so long. He slung his arm around the back of your chair, leaning closer to look at your neat handwriting and clever diagrams. He could have sworn you shivered, but it could have been from the cold dampness that clung to you.
“Well, shall we get started then?” Your voice was softer than usual, not quite breathy but so near he could barely stand it. You began talking about the questions brought up in class, molecules and reactions, pointing at your drawings.
He scarcely heard a single word of it.
Aerion was staring, he knew, but couldn’t find it in himself to stop. You’d never been this close before, the curve of your lip less than a foot from his own, your hair tucked behind an ear to expose your neck, the glint in your eye as you spoke so fervently. It was extremely annoying, how he couldn’t pull his eyes from your face. How was he supposed to master the content, discover your tricks to success, and finally beat you, if he could barely look at your notes? Slowly, he shifted his hips, attempting to subtly adjust himself and ease the ache growing in his jeans.
“So what do you think?”
The blond opened his mouth, and closed it again. What had you been talking about? A quick glance down at the papers in front of you only told him of the subject matter, but he’d no idea why you were asking.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Aerion, have you been listening at all?”
Anger crept into your voice as you spoke. Good, Aerion knew how to respond to that.
“Yes, obviously. What you’re saying just makes no sense.”
You turned to face him fully, shifting in your seat until your knees knocked with his. He tried very hard to pay it no mind.
“Makes no sense? You’re the one who needs help in this class, not me.”
He leaned forward.
“Maybe I wouldn’t need so much help if you weren't talking so much in class.”
“You mean correctly answering Lyonel’s questions?” You shot back, "That's what you’re supposed to do in class, idiot.”
The two of you were inches apart now, breath mingling between your lips. Briefly, he imagined how easy it would be to kiss you, to take your throat in his hand and claim your mouth, but the dragonfire was building in his chest at the mention of your professor.
“Calling him by his first name won’t make him like you more. I bet you're on your knees for him, to get those pretty grades of yours.”
A sharp smack rang out through the small coffee shop as you slapped him. You stood quickly, grabbing your bag and raincoat, and turned before he could get another word out. Pulling the jacket haphazardly around you, you stepped out into the rain without a glance back.
Aerion rubbed his cheek, no doubt a red mark already rising on his pale skin.
You’d left your notebook.
Aerion found you in the library.
He hadn’t really been looking for you, but every woman he saw with your hair color made him do a double-take, a whiff of your perfume had him all but salivating. You hadn’t spared him a glance since your run-in at the coffee shop. You’d sat at your desk, facing forward even when Aerion answered questions. He had your notebook tucked into his bookbag, but as class ended you’d make a beeline for the door, rushing away before he could return it.
He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to give it back, certainly it could help him get a leg up on you, but he was strangely determined to deliver it. It wasn’t an apology, per se, but he felt he owed it to you at least.
Maybe he just wanted to hold it over your head.
You were on the fourth floor on a Friday night, the desks mostly empty and a haunting silence settled over the shelves. Aerion spotted you deep within the books, and followed you down the narrow corridor of volumes.
“Hey.”
The sound cut through the air, and startled you enough to make you drop your book. Instantly, a glare found your face.
“Shut up, Aerion, you’re not supposed to make noise here. Go away.”
He bent down before you could do it yourself, picking up the text and handing it back. You tentatively took it.
“Oh relax, no one's around. I have something for you.”
Aerion tugged his bag open, pulling out the notebook you’d torn your room apart looking for. A surprised look graced your face, eyes wide and mouth falling open.
“Oh! I’ve been- thanks.” You slowly reached out, taking the worn papers in your hands and tucking them safely into your own bag.
The two of you stood, facing one another, as you both tried to think of what to say. Aerion’s head was in overdrive; you were right there, soft and lovely, thighs on display in your short skirt and decolletage drawing his eye to your chest. Your scent overwhelmed him, mingling with the papery smell of old books and what he hoped was your arousal. He was well aware of the crazed look that surely took over his face, breath hot, nostrils flared, lavender eyes boring into you. Finally, he choked words out.
“How do you do it?”
You tilted your head in confusion.
“Do what?”
“Fucking beat me all the time.”
The confession was said in a sharp whisper, low enough that it rattled through you. Your face softened a fraction.
“I work hard, Aerion.”
“So do I, you still get me.”
You crossed your arms, a smirk beginning to pull at your lips as you whispered back.
“Maybe if you spent less time staring at me, you’d pick up more of the material.”
“I do not stare.” He spat, “Why would I- you’re just right there in front of me.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I’m just smarter than you, then.”
Aerion’s face was flushed, his eyes narrowed. You raised an eyebrow incredulously, and it was the slight movement in your face that had him surging forward.
In a moment, he was on you. Hands gripping your cheeks as his lips crashed against yours. You let out a startled yelp as he pushed your back against the cool metal of the shelf, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
“What are you-” You managed to get out against his lips, before his tongue swiped against the opening of your mouth. The muscle bullied inside, slinking against the roof of your mouth and licking behind your teeth. One of his hands slid from your jaw down to the nape of your neck, gripping your hair in his fist to angle your mouth up to his. The other came down your throat, squeezing hard enough to hold you still against him.
You whimpered, and Aerion smirked at the wanton sound.
“Careful. Wouldn't want anyone to hear, would you?” He mumbled against your cheek, licking the swell before pressing hot kisses along your jaw and down your neck. Your nails dug into his taut biceps as you desperately tried to stay standing. Aerion noticed your struggle as he noticed everything, and reluctantly pulled away from your throat. He tilted your head up, your pupils blown wide and your breathing ragged. A thumb came up to rub against your chin, and he tightened the fist in your hair.
“Open.”
You obeyed, slowly parting your lips for him. It earned you a reptilian grin, and he licked over his teeth before leaning closer to spit down onto your tongue. You made to close your mouth, but he held your jaw to watch the bubbly glob slide down your throat.
“Always mouthing off, but you just want to be my good girl, don’t you?”
You nodded, as much as you could as he held you steady, and he rewarded you a nip at your bottom lip.
Somehow, Aerion continued his unbroken eye contact with you as he slid his hand down from your chin to paw at your breasts through your top. He’d imagined it before, watching them shift slightly as you walked. How the soft flesh would fill his palm, would you yelp if he squeezed hard enough? He soon found out when he gripped your tit, silencing you with his lips.
“Shhh, can’t have someone finding us, huh?”
His tone was condescending; years of your teasing and sly smiles coming back to you. Momentarily, he looked around, making sure the two of you really were alone, but it seemed like the rest of the school had far better things to do on a Friday night than skulk around the silent section of the library.
Aerion grabbed the collar of your top, already low, and tugged it down to expose your bra. He grinned at the pretty lace, and imagined you’d picked it out just for him. He bit down on the swell of your breast, before sliding a hand into each cup and exposing the flesh to the cool air. Instantly, your nipples hardened, taut peaks the exact color he’d imagined they’d be.
“Aerion, someone will-”
“Shhh, no one here but us, baby.”
You didn’t fight him, only watched intently as he gripped your breast in his hand and firmly sucked on the nipple. A choked sound came from deep in your chest, and he smiled against your skin. So distracted by his lips and teeth and tongue, you didn’t notice his hand come down your stomach until it was tugging up your skirt and sliding down into your panties.
A startled shout left you as his cold fingers prodded your dripping heat. You slapped a hand over your mouth, other hand grabbing the back of his head as he rubbed up and down your slit. Aerion rose back to his full height, looking down at you struggling and pressing his forehead against yours.
“Come on, baby, spread those pretty thighs for me. I can feel how much you want it.” He whispered, the heat of his breath fanning against your lips. Your eyes widened when he found your clit, pressing down firmly in languid circles. A startled moan was muffled only by your hand over your own mouth.
“Wish I could hear you cry, but I can’t have anyone see these pretty titties bounce, yeah?” He slid a digit back down to your opening, slowly piercing into you, “See you all fucked out on just my fingers? Can’t have them thinking you're some kinda slut.”
His arrogant tone would normally have had you rolling your eyes, but presently you could do nothing but hold him as your pussy clenched around his finger. He added a second at an agonizingly slow pace, before curling them together as deep as he could reach and thrusting with a pace that had you biting down on your hand. When your eyes shut tightly, he paused.
“C’mon, don’t hide from me now.”
With his fingers into the last knuckle, he rubbed his fingertips over the spongy roughness found deep. You writhed against his chest, and he pressed further against you.
Aerion watched with unbridled smugness when your eyes shot open, before he decided it was time for a change of pace. He pulled his fingers from your cunt, the squelching noise at his removal matched the musky juices dripping over his hand. His eyes never left yours as he slid those same fingers into his mouth, even as he moaned at the sweet taste.
“Fuck, baby. You’ve been holding out on me.” He whispered, pulling your hand from your mouth and kissing you firmly. He wanted you to taste yourself on him, to know that this would forever be his claim on you. You kissed him back with the same fervor, taking his face in your hands and biting the soft fat of his lip.
“Aerion, please- need you-”
“Shhh,” he pressed a strangely tender kiss to your cheek before pressing his lips to your ear, “I’m going to make you mine right now baby, gonna make you come on my cock. You want that?”
You nodded furiously, breath escaping you in short huffs.
Aerion’s hands found your hips, flipping you until your bare breasts pressed against the cool metal of the bookshelves. He stepped closer, iron rod of his cock firm against the small of your back. You wiggled your hips back, trying to hitch yourself up against him. He laughed, a patronizing sound. He reached down and grabbed your thigh, hiking your knee up onto a shelf and flipping up your skirt. Your back arched, thrusting your bottom back. A hard smack rang out down the aisle as he spanked your tender flesh, mesmerized by the jiggling flesh. He bit his lip between his teeth as he frantically undone his belt, releasing his achy cock and tapping it against your ass.
“You want this, baby? Want my cock?”
You whimpered and nodded. The side of Aerion’s mouth quirked up, and he tucked the angry, pulsing head of his cock into the gusset of your panties. He groaned as the heat of his rod met the heat of your pussy. A few quick thrusts against your folds had you gripping the shelf as his tip nudged your clit.
“Aerion, come on-”
“If you want it, beg for it. Beg for me.” He mumbled against your hair, eyes shut tight as he tried desperately to control himself. He was trying to keep the advantage, and giving in would give you the upper hand.
“Please, please, Aerion. I need your cock.” Your voice was so soft, a broken whisper that had nothing to do with your location. Who was he to hold back?
Aerion gripped the base of his cock, angling it to push into your slick cunt in one firm thrust. He slapped his hand over your mouth, barely catching the strangled cry you let out at his intrusion.
“I’ve got you, my girl, huh? All mine.”
His nose found your neck as he began to piston into you, sharply snapping his hips against your bottom. He said a quick prayer that there was no one on the library floor right now, as they would surely hear your whimpering- and his grunts.
“Fuck, fuck. Mine, you are- fuck- all mine.” Aerion mumbled against your shoulder, quickly losing resolve. He reached around your body, gripping one of your breasts and giving your nipple a pinch before sliding down to your stomach. The soft flesh bulged where his manhood punched against your cervix.
“Beautiful girl, do you know what you do to me? Getting me worked up in class, using that smart mouth to mock me. When you should be wrapping those pretty lips around my dick.”
Aerion was rambling now, exposing himself as he hammered against you. He felt himself get closer to the end, far faster than he had the dignity for, and slipped his fingers down to dance against your clit. His hand over your lips wasn’t enough to block out the moan, your thighs beginning to shake as the stimulation of him, all around you, took over. Your walls clenched, gripping his length like a vice as you rode out your high against him. Tears dripped down against his hand on your face.
“Fucking hell, I’m gonna fill you up, pretty baby. My good girl.”
His hips stuttered and his balls tightened as he unloaded himself into your spasming cunt. Aerion bit down on the juncture between neck and shoulder to keep from screaming your name, surely leaving a mark. Good, let people see who you belonged to. Thick, hot ropes of come splattered inside you. You were whimpering now, shaking in his arms as he held you against him. He slowed, arms coming down around your waist to keep you standing. He tucked his head against your neck, gently lapping at where he’d bitten you, and all but purred when your hand came up to bet his silvery hair.
“Aerion, that was…”
“Yeah.”
“Can we-”
“Definanlty.”
You nodded, and Aerion knew you were smiling softly. He pulled his cock out with a groan, tugging your panties over your opening to try and stop the dribble of liquid leaking from you.
“Ugh, you’ve gone and made a mess, pervert.” You teased, voice hoarse, but let out a little yelp when he gave your pussy a firm pat.
“Good, people need to know you’re mine.”
“I have to walk home after this, you know.”
He pulled you away from the shelves and back against his chest, using one hand to keep your wobbly legs steady, and the other to pull your top back into place.
“I’ll give you a ride, and you can reward me with a ride when we get back to your place.” Aerion whispered against the shell of your ear. You rolled your eyes, but threaded your fingers through his. The two of you breathed together for a few moments, before he turned you in his arms and kissed your temple.
“You’re still gonna help me study, yeah baby?”
You pretended to think about it.
“Hmmm, depends. What kind of reward do I get for helping you?”
Aerion smirked.
“Maybe we study somewhere private next time.”
AN: I do not condone making any noise whatsoever in libraries I love libraries and do NOT like when people speak or get fingered in them lol
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
2087
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