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Characters I Write 🪩 Request Rules 🪩 About Me
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Current Drafts: Bobby Franklin/The Director x m!async-researcher!reader (< will come out after GPOMR is finished), Aerion Targaryen x m!stark!reader (jealousy smut)
--- MASTERLISTS
MALE READER - - -
Marvel , Iron Lung , Backrooms , The Edge of Sleep , A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms , Killer Chat! , Addams Family , Uncharted , To Be Hero X , Big Bad Dogs
FEMALE READER - - -
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms , Killer Chat! , Marvel , Fresh , Big Bad Dogs
GENDER NEUTRAL READER - - -
Marvel , Shadow and Bone , To Be Hero X , The Long Walk , Uncharted
Pairing: Rafe Adler x gn!reader
Rating: T | Word Count: 2693
A = Affection (How affectionate is he?)
Affection is earned for Rafe. He is not the type to simply be kind right away, but once you've earned that affection, he gives it freely. He's considerate, paying attention to your needs and always willing to supply anything he sees you wanting or missing without being asked. When it comes to his wealth, it is at your disposal. He doesn't mind a thank you, but he doesn't require one either. Not if it's you.
B = Best friend (What is he like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
Rafe is the kind of person who has hundreds of friends, none of whom know him deeper than a surface level. It's what he calls social networking. He'll call anyone a friend, but a best friend, that's rare. That's special. That's reserved for those he trusts.
That friendship might start like any of his other friendships, through a friend of a friend or a party you both attend, but there's something there that pushes the friendship deeper. And then he's attentive, caring, and available at the drop of a hat.
C = Cuddles (Does he like to cuddle?)
Sometimes. Rafe has moods in which he wants to be pressed close and others where he is content to share space without touching. He works a lot, and that involves needing his hands free, but he's unbothered if you're hovering nearby. When he does want that closeness, he'll hold you, your back to his chest, breathing you in. Surrounding himself with your presence.
D = Domestic (Does he want to settle down? How is he at cooking and cleaning?)
Yes, once he's met you, he wants to settle down. You're the person he's been waiting for, and that means securing you as his. He's covetous by nature, and so a ring on your finger and his own is like a safety blanket to him. Something he needs to feel at ease.
However, he is no homemaker; he cannot cook, clean, or complete any basic household chores. Since he comes from a wealthy old-money family, he's never had to do any of these things. As far as Rafe is concerned, there's a person for every one of those tasks that's not him or you.
E = Ending (If he had to break up with you, how would he do it?)
He would be blunt and likely cruel; if he's leaving you, it's for a damn good reason. You've betrayed him and his trust, and so he'll waste no more time on what has disappointed him. Rafe does not believe in second chances.
F = Fiancé (How does he feel about commitment? How quick would he want to get married?)
Before you, Rafe didn't pay much mind to commitment; there were more important things to focus his time on. His family business, his search for pirate gold—all of that took precedence over dating or finding someone who really mattered. But when you came into his life, that changed. Commitment became something he strives for and wants for himself. Once he knows he loves you, Rafe is happy to get married as soon as he can talk you into it.
G = Gentle (How gentle is he, both physically and emotionally?)
Behind closed doors, out of view of others, Rafe is always softer around the edges. A gentleman, a soft touch on your back, opening a door for you so you don't need to do it. Washing your back in the shower. He's not always good with his feelings; he has a lot of walls, and sometimes you run into them. It's not that he doesn't want to let you in; it's the fact that he never learned how. It takes time for him to be emotionally open and gentle with you, but he does get there in the end.
H = Hugs (Does he like hugs? What are his hugs like?)
Rafe isn't much of a hugger. He's not the type to seek you out for a hug, but he's not against giving them to you if you come to him with your arms spread. When it comes to greeting you, he's more prone to giving you a kiss on the cheek in professional settings or on the mouth in others. When he does hug, it's always firm; you pressed close to him, held tight.
I = I love you (How fast does he say the L-word?)
He feels it long before he says it. Rafe struggles with the concept of love; raised by absent parents and nannies, he's never been close with anyone before you. The idea of loving someone and telling them has never really occurred to him. Rafe will buy you anything you want, know your every little interest, and have all your clothing sizes memorized before he ever says I love you and it's only because you brought it up first.
When he finds out that hearing that is important to you, he makes an effort to say it on occasion, but it will never be a phrase he reaches for on reflex. He'd rather his actions speak for him.
J = Jealousy (How jealous does he get?)
If you looked up the definition of jealousy Rafe's name would be listed in the examples. He's been jealous his entire life, and with you, the first person who is truly his, he's obnoxious. That jealousy doesn't tend to turn towards you; it's not why are you talking to that guy, it's why is the guy talking to you.
He gets testy if you spend a lot of time with others if that time could be allocated to him instead; after all, Rafe is an extremely busy man, so when he has the time, he finds himself jealously asking why he can't have that time with you. Why does someone else get it? He needs a lot of affirmation because of this, but he listens when you talk, even if sometimes he needs you to remind him that yes, he's your favorite person and yes, you're going home with him.
K = Kisses (What are his kisses like? Where does he like to kiss you? Where does he like to be kissed?)
Rafe kisses with vigor, with emphasis. His hands holding you to him, on your face, at the back of your neck, against your shoulders, or squeezing your sides or your hips. When he kisses, he clings. He loves to kiss the spot behind your ear, your chin, and the slope of your shoulder. These are the spots he finds himself subconsciously leaning toward the most.
He likes to be kissed on the jaw, on his fingers, and on his back. Rafe always finds himself grinning if you're casually kissing one of those spots, murmuring out a low, "Hey, darlin'," when you do.
L = Little ones (How is he around children?)
Most of his life has been spent in board room meetings, traveling the world and answering phone calls. Children are not something he has had much exposure to. He finds them unwieldy and messy. Rafe's confused how a child can eat something and get food all over the table, their chair, and the floor.
He's not adverse to having children of his own, by blood, adoption, or anything else. But he's more than happy to have hired help to do all the unpleasant bits.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with him?)
He's without a doubt a morning person, so you never have to worry about him being groggy or cranky. With his disciplined lifestyle and business sense Rafe is always up early. There are calls to make to other countries, meetings to attend, and paperwork that needs finishing. You usually find him already in his office, coffee brewed, breakfast long since scarfed in the kitchen before he came to his office to get a head start on the day.
N = Night (How are nights spent with him?)
Since Rafe often gets everything he needs finished throughout the day, he tries to spend time with you later in the evening. Those nights aren't always grandiose. Sometimes it's nothing more than going out to dinner, sitting at home watching a movie, or going over one of his or your hobby projects together. It's important to him to make time for you when he can; otherwise, he feels like he's slacking.
O = Open (When would he start revealing things about himself? Does he say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
When you first meet, Rafe would be as open as he is with anyone else. He'll tell you about his career, his personal accomplishments, and give you a short description of his bigger interests, and that would be it. Rafe isn't the kind of person who showcases weakness. It takes you time to unwrap that part of him.
Once he's gotten to that point, he'll be more open and receptive, answering questions without argument, but it will take a while before he offers up information unprompted. If you get him talking about something he's passionate about, he can go on long, verbose discussions for hours, not registering what he's done until he glances at his watch.
P = Patience (How easily angered is he?)
There are some people who are known for their patience; Rafe is not one of them. He's been quick to anger his entire life, and that's a trait well ingrained in him. He expects things to be done well and done quickly. He demands perfection from everything around him, and when those standards aren't met, he's quick to lash out.
His temper is something he tries not to subject you with. If he gets going, he tries to walk away, to at least turn his back before he reacts. Rafe doesn't always manage it, but when he does press that line, he's always willing to apologize and make it up to you. If he loses his temper near you, then you can likely expect a gift the next day.
Q = Quizzes (How much would he remember about you?)
Rafe has an excellent memory. He's used to juggling plenty in his head throughout his day, and when it comes to you, he has you down like a book he can read in twelve languages. He knows all of your favorite things, how you like your drinks, what temperature to set the shower, and small gifts he knows you'll love.
One of his most prolific ways of showcasing his affection is by knowing everything about you. Your passions, dreams, fears, and everything in between. He knows you better than anyone ever has.
R = Remember (What is his favorite moment in your relationship?)
The first expedition the two of you went on has a certain sentimental place in his mind. He always thinks on it fondly; the two of you covered in sweat and dirt, digging in the mud. The way you beamed at him when you found something—unimportant as it was. It's your joy that stands out to him the most and the way that the first person you thought to turn to with your discovery was him. That it was him you held it out to, him you kissed in celebration.
S = Security (How protective is he? How would he protect you? How would he like to be protected?)
Rafe is as protective as he is jealous. Many of his same feelings apply to protecting you. He takes this as his personal responsibility regardless of your gender. He'll teach you how to fight if you don't already know how and take pleasure in you beating or defending him because it proves your capability.
He loves a challenge and he adores being challenged by you. Rafe is capable of protecting you any way he needs to. He's well versed in hand to hand fighting, makes for a decent marksman, and his morality is flexible on the best of days. If someone comes for you, they'll never get the chance to do so again.
T = Try (How much effort does he put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, and everyday tasks?)
Rafe is all try. He's highly motivated by nature, and so he takes your relationship the same way as he would anything else in his life. Something to strive for, something to consider in his decisions. He's got a great memory and remembers dates with ease; gifts are abundant, and he's often planning new ways to make you smile.
A trip to another country, having your home chef make you breakfast, or whatever he can think of to make your day a little better than it otherwise would be. If he's away on business, Rafe makes it a point to at least send you a few texts, pictures of his food, him fresh out of the shower, or his outfit for the day.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of his?)
When it comes to morality, Rafe is flexible. He does what he wants regardless of whether it is technically right or wrong. He has no qualms with walking over the other guy to get where he wants to go, and if he needs to trim the fat, he does it without hesitation.
This callous behavior doesn't apply to you, but he does expect you to accept this part of him. Rafe has no plans of changing his mentality to be more considerate. He expects you to accept him for who he is, flaws and all, because he's offering you the world. To him it's only logical to take it.
V = Vanity (How concerned is he with his looks?)
As someone who spends a lot of time in the public eye, Rafe takes it as a point of pride to always look his best. He dresses well, stays properly groomed, and is always conscious of how he looks and how he is presenting himself to the world. Given you're often found at his side, he wants you to do the same and has no problem fronting the bill for whatever you would like and feel most confident in. He's aware he's attractive and enjoys when he notices you being aware of it too.
W = Whole (Would he feel incomplete without you?)
Before you, Rafe would have been certain there was no one who could make him feel incomplete, but you're the first person to step behind his tall walls. The first person to truly know him better than he might even know himself, so if you're not near, he notices it. He becomes aware of silences, of gaps where you would otherwise be. Spending time away from you becomes something he dislikes, something to be avoided, because of that absence that dogs him without you near.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for him.)
Rafe moved out of his family home as soon as he was old enough, instead having a country house in Texas. Not a mansion, but something only for him. Luxurious but private, sleek and modern. This is the first house the two of you lived in together, tucked away from his lineage when you could learn who he was without the shadow of his father looming over him.
Y = Yuck (What are some things he wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
Having lived with maids, cooks, and other household help, Rafe doesn't have much grace for messiness. He likes everything neat and orderly and grows irritated at the sight of crumbs or clutter. He doesn't have much patience for people, especially those close to him, that display laziness.
He doesn't care what motivates you as long as something motivates you. That kind of drive is critical to him, and he can't see himself being with someone who has no desire to find a goal or a purpose for themselves.
Z = Zzz (What are his sleep habits?)
He works odd hours because he's always reaching out to others in different time zones, so when he sleeps he sleeps hard. Hair a mess around his face, sprawled out across the mattress. If you try to wake him without his alarm, he tends to grumble and ignore you, sometimes rolling away even if your attempts are gentle.
Wow, congratulations to your husband and keep having fun!!!
If you already have a request for the next part of the fanfiction about Aerion Targaryen x m!Stark!reader!, then you don’t need any more ideas?? At least not for this part. Maybe I can give you an idea for another part of this fanfiction?
By the way, are you planning to write about someone else from “AKOTSK”?? Maybe it’s somehow related to the fanfic about Aerion x Stark reader, although I’m not sure yet who exactly it’s about. Since Valler has a partner, I’d probably like to do something with him. Honestly, I’d still like to think about it, because this idea has been swirling around in my head for a long time, but I just can’t come up with the right plot. So maybe you could come up with something for this!
I'm always accepting new ideas for Aerion x m!stark!reader so if you have any you're welcome to toss them into my asks. I like writing them a lot!
I accept AKOTSK requests for Aerion, Valarr, Maekar, and sometimes Lyonel so if you have any ideas feel free to share. :) It doesn't have to be in the same verse as Aerion and Stark, it can be whatever you think up!
Hey, hi, how are you? I wanted to say that I really like how you write!!! It’s excellent, and I enjoy reading every fanfic of yours. And I have a question — what are you planning to write next, or more precisely, who will be the subject of the next work?
I'm doing well, it's my husband's birthday so we're hanging out!
Currently I've got several drafts going but I think probably the next three to come out will be an alphabet fic for Rafe Adler, the last part of Grainy Photos of My Ribcage, and a requested fic for Aerion Targaryen x m!stark!reader!
My requests are also open so people are welcome to toss more ideas my way!
Pairing: Collie Parker x gn!reader
Rating: T | Requested By: Anon
Collie's hair is of great significance to him, so it's personal when he lets you wash it in the shower, brush or braid it for fun. He finds it a relaxing and intimate gesture. Sometimes when he's had a rough day he'll come to you with comb in hand and offer it wordlessly to you before sitting between your legs.
He's the type of guy to always lend you his jacket when it's cold, even if he ends up freezing because of it. Collie isn't about to accept his jacket back until you get somewhere warm.
"Nah, I don't need that shit. Looks better on you anyway." Collie mumbles, despite the fact that you can see him actively shivering. When you try and pull it off he throws an arm around your shoulders to stop you, sending you one of his looks. "Said keep it."
When you first started dating Collie was a little closed lip about his heritage. He shrugged it off, pretended it wasn't a big deal and it took time to convince him to share that side with you and when he did, you learned so much.
The two of you would stay up talking for hours about the stories he's been told, the lessons passed from generation to generation. The more you listened and cared, the more he talked. You figured out eventually that he's not quiet about it because he doesn't care, but because he doesn't trust people to take it seriously.
Growing up dirt poor in Sioux Falls means most of the gifts you receive from him are sentimental and homemade. Like the bracelet he wove and beaded for you with the help of his grandmother. You can imagine him sitting with her at the table, face scrunched in concentration as he tries to make everything perfectly even.
Years helping others in his community and learning from other neighbors Collie has a knack for mechanics and works in a mechanics shop to pay the bills. He always smells a little bit like machine oil, no matter how much he tries to wash the scent out of his hair and clothes. But now whenever you smell such things you think of him.
Just because he isn't traditionally romantic doesn't mean Collie doesn't care. He's not going to go out and buy you a box of chocolates, but he will make sure that if you fall asleep on the couch you wake up with a blanket, or that when he prepares game he does it in a way you prefer it.
When you tell him something he hears it the first time. And he'll remind others of it too, mentioning to a friend at a cookout how you like your meals, telling someone which color you're most fond of and doing it all like it's not a big deal. In fact, he doesn't want anyone to make a big deal of it.
Collie is opinionated and that gets him in trouble sometimes, but he also knows when to hold his lip. He'll be loud mouthed indoors away from those who shouldn't overhear, but if he could get himself or more importantly to him, his family, in trouble he grits his teeth and bears it.
He's not afraid to throw a punch, especially in defense of someone he cares about. No one is going to lay a hand on you, not while he is around.
"Listen here, fuckwad, you mind your business or you're going to find out what the concrete in the parking lot tastes like. Do yourself a favor and walk away." Collie snarls, shifting in front of you, arms loose and ready at his sides. You press a hand against his spine. He doesn't back up, doesn't so much as flinch and that's enough to get the other man to back down.
Like borrowing his jacket Collie likes when you end up in his clothes. His shirts, jewelry and anything else you feel like grabbing is always yours to take without argument. Even if he does pretend to tease you about it, you know from the smirk pressing to the side of his mouth that he doesn't mean a word of it.
It took time before Collie brought you home to meet his family, but when he did they took to you right away, because you were the first person he ever brought back. Food covered the table, stories were shared, drinks were had and now his family asks after you every time he calls or visits without you by his side.
The home you share is full of color. You may not live luxurious lives but Collie has made sure that it feels like a home and that means bright paint, patterned blankets, and candles burning to make it something that distinctly belongs to the two of you.
Collie isn't much for words of affirmation but he's tactile. When you walk his hand is in yours or on your back, over your shoulders. It doesn't matter as long as the two of you are close together. He's always rubbing his thumb against your shirt, squeezing your arm, pressing his nose against the side of your head.
One of the main affirmations he uses is calling you sweetheart in his native tongue. You love the way it sounds when he says it, the rolling way it comes from his lips and the soft look he'll give you when he says it. There's something comforting about it, something that feels special. Something that belongs to you.
Hey, hi! You write damn cool stuff. I came across your work with Aerion Targaryen x Stark reader, part 1, and then went to your profile to read parts 2–3. It’s fucking perfect, I really love their playful love duo, and in part 3 I was laughing my ass off at the end — it was damn funny and hot. These two are my favorites right now and I need more than two of them, and how they tease each other mmmmm, are you going to write more about them, do you have any ideas or sketches, maybe I could give you something from my thoughts? I admit this is the first time I've written requests to anyone, you're the first, and I'm writing through a translator, English is not my native language)) I hope you'll understand me.
Thank you so much for your kind words, I'm so glad you've been enjoying my fics. I understand your ask. 💛
I am very willing to write more about them, but don't have any ideas right now. So you're welcome to give me any of your ideas or requests in my asks.
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x m!stark!reader
Rating: E
Word Count: 3109
Requested By: Anon
Synopsis: You thought you were going on vacation with Aerion, turns out it'll be more than just the two of you.
Verse: Once I've Got You Masterlist ; Part 3 ; can be read standalone, may miss some context
Content Tags: male reader, reader is a first born Stark, alternative verse - modern setting, modern Westeros, soulmates bond, red string of fate, aristocratic roles, fluff, vacations, accidental voyeurism, overheard dirty talk, reader capable of lifting Aerion
You walk up the metal stairs onto the private Targaryen jet with nothing but the suit you showed up to Summerhall in. News spread of your soulmate bond before the party was over, and by the time you were ushered out the back door into a tinted-window SUV, there were twice the amount of reporters hovering around as when the party started.
You have not even gotten the chance to officially meet Aerion's parents with this new information in mind. King Baelor called Maekar and told him to keep you and Aerion out of sight until things die down. Your father apparently is in agreement because he's had one of the Stark owned hot springs cleared out for your private use.
You're not entirely against this idea; a few weeks alone in a hot spring with Aerion doesn't exactly sound like your idea of a bad time, but when you look around the jet, you are met with five faces looking back at you. So much for a solo vacation.
Aerion hovers at your shoulder and lets out a high tuned whine at the sight of them. Apparently he was of the same mind as you, "What the fuck!"
Valarr snickers, Kiera at his side. Daeron lifts his drink, apparently already imbibing in the jet's liquor collection, and Aegon flips him off beside another man you don't know. Jesus, he's fucking huge. The recliner he's in looks dwarfed by comparison.
You've met Valarr, of course, but you've never really been introduced to Daeron or Aegon before. Nerves you don't want to acknowledge crawl down your spine. It's not like you're an introvert; you've been sitting in board meetings and helping with the Wall for years, but this is different. This is your soulmate's family, and Aerion is a part of your life you plan fully to keep.
You want them to like you and you're not used to needing people to like you. Normally people at least pretend to like you on principle. You're the heir of the Stark family; everyone has to at least pretend to respect you, but not these people. This is the royal family. You're outmatched. No longer the most important man in the room.
"I'm uh ... " You mumble your name awkwardly before you force yourself to straighten back up. You may not be royalty, but it's not like you're some nobody plucked off the street. You are the future Lord Stark, Warden of the North, and caretaker of Winterfell and the Wall.
Aerion shifts up against your side, looking at you. Mischief coats him. He smells blood on the leaves. "You're turning red."
You narrow your eyes at him. The reason you had to leave in a hurry is because he made the choice to sit on your lap and inform the whole damn room about the red string between the two of you. You were supposed to have more time to prepare for all of this. Announce it with more poise.
"You're a pain in the ass," You reply.
Daeron lifts his cup again. "Here, here."
Aerion continues his smirking. "You've met my cousin and his." He waves his hand toward Kiera, "Other half or whatever. This is Daeron. Buy him a few drinks, and he'll think you're best friends."
Daeron lifts his glass again. Now you're pretty sure he's just looking for reasons to take a large gulp from it. At least that makes him predictable to handle.
"You want to sit?" Aerion asks, gesturing towards two of the free chairs, completely at ease in a private jet, whereas you're still getting your bearings.
Your eyes flit from Aerion to Aegon. "Do you want to introduce me to your other brother?" You hiss to him.
"No," Aerion replies and drops into the seat across from Kiera.
You give one more awkward look between Aerion and his younger brother before walking toward Aegon without your soulmate's help. You reintroduce yourself, even though you're fairly certain he heard, and hold out your hand to shake. He's old enough for it, maybe around fifteen.
Aegon shakes your hand, all professionalism. You avoid asking why he decided bald was the look at his age.
"Egg." He greets, "And this is my best friend, Duncan."
"Dunk," The large man greets.
"Nice to meet you, Duncan." You shake his hand too. His grip is more uncertain, larger hand making yours look small in comparison.
"You have horrible taste in men, Lord Stark," Egg says cheerfully.
You chuckle, hearing Aerion scoff from behind you. "It's your job as a little brother to feel that way." You reply and retreat to your seat to prep for takeoff. Normally you fly first class, but this is the first time you've ever taken the trip in a private jet.
Probably going to be the way you travel now more times than not. You're not about to complain. You click your seatbelt, eyeing Aerion. He's still got that smirk on his face, knowing damn well there's nothing you can do about it. Brat. All you can manage in the line of sight of three other Targaryens is to squeeze his thigh hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.
Your family owns a lot of hot spring resorts around the North, but this is the one your family most often rents out for its own use. You've been coming here since you were a kid. There's a skeleton crew left to make sure you have everything you might need, but mostly the place is quiet. That's how you're used to seeing it at least, so it feels nostalgic to walk down these halls.
Everyone is given their own rooms. But outside of Daeron, you all end up doubling up. Valarr and Kiera vanish into their room as soon as you get there. Egg and Dunk head for the restaurant where one of the Targaryen private chefs waits. Daeron and his bottle of wine seem to be bound for one of the springs.
You end up taking Aerion to your room, the same one you've used since you were a boy. The bed is plush, all dark woods, and stone floor. It's got that old North feel you're fond of and an attached private spring. Each of the luxury rooms has its own private spring with stonemasonry around it for privacy.
Aerion inspects the space, judging it in that way he does everything, before shrugging.
"Is it good enough, your grace?" You drawl with enough sarcasm to choke on. It's not cheap. Everything is kept to Stark standards.
He looks over his shoulder at you. "Could be bigger."
That's it. You reach for your suit jacket, shucking it off to toss toward where the luggage has been set. The tie is next to go, abandoned to the stone tile. When you get to him, you've unbuttoned the top two buttons of your shirt.
Your hand comes out to the back of his neck, his overwarm skin blazing against your palm. Your grip tightens, twisting him to look at you.
Aerion stills beneath your grip, like a kitten pulled by the scruff. Docile, waiting, eyes bright with anticipation. He's been tugging you around for months, showing off, playing, waiting for a response. He's going to get one now.
More than he fucking bargained for.
"You think I haven't noticed?" You lift an eyebrow in challenge, tightening your grip. In reply, his lips part, hips ghosting forward to press against yours. "The posts, the aggrandizing. New piercings, new tattoo. Showing off like some single bill stripper."
Aerion doesn't speak; he's too busy looking at your mouth, feeling your grip. Trying to creep closer. You bring your other hand up and flick him hard beneath the chin. "Unbutton. Let me see. I better be the first person who has."
He doesn't hesitate, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. He's not even teasing, just methodically unbuttoning one after another. The shirt parts, caught up in his waistband, a pretty v of pale muscled skin. You pull the shirt to the side to look at one of the collar piercings. Satisfied, you press your thumb against it.
His teeth snap together with an audible clack. "Awh, does that hurt, your grace?"
Aerion's chin lifts, ever present pride. "No."
You could break him of that if you wanted to. Teach him the art of begging for what he wants, admitting weakness, admitting hunger. You do it again, harder this time. He hisses. You smirk. "Right."
"Get fucked." He spits back, still not trying to escape from where you hold him by the back of the neck. The old texts do say dragons were once a bit like massive, fire breathing cats. Submissive to a single rider.
"Oh, I'm going to," You hum and pull the shirt back on the opposite side. Another piercing, identical to the other, and below it, a tattoo.
You stare, losing some of your bite. Instead of a snarling wolf, you are brought down to a simpering dog given sight of a gift. It's a direwolf. Your initials in neat font along the spine of it.
No wonder he wasn't revealing the full thing to all his lemming followers. It's older than the piercings. You run your fingers over it, feeling the smooth, healed skin.
"You know, most of the time I don't know if I want to kiss you, hold you, or fuck you until you can't stand it anymore." You murmur. "This," You tap the tattoo, "I don't know what to say about this."
It's been easy to get caught up in the adventure of it all. The extravagance, the flirting, the possession. Sometimes you forget the bigger picture, that you have found your soulmate. Not a hot new fling, not some sugar baby with a tongue out for expensive gifts. Your match, your equal in every way.
Someone you think about all the time. He dominates your thoughts; when you make a decision now, you consider how it might affect Aerion as well. He's a part of everything. A playlist you have that you listen to when you drive, a phone call you're eager to answer. A boyish desperation for skin on skin contact. He's in your dreams when you lie down to sleep.
When he's in the room, you come alive. Aerion stilled when you grabbed him by the back of the neck, because it was you doing it, not because it is in his nature.
"You could say thank you." Aerion replies haughtily, all bravado.
"Thank you," You choke and mean it, mean it more than there are words. Because he is choosing you and it feels like being wanted for the first time. You are more than a Stark when he sees you.
Aerion flounders, not expecting your sentimentality before his hands come to your sides. "I want something." Aerion says, "This doesn't come free. I want a tattoo, a brand, a necklace you can't take off. I don't give a shit what it is, then we can call it even."
You nod. Feeling like a sap. He's got you wrapped around his pale finger. "Okay."
He reaches up to curl his hand around your wrist and eases it away from his neck. The charge of the moment has changed, shifted into something else. Aerion redirects, looking at the glass wall of windows and the door that will lead you out to the hot springs.
You can see the steam drifting up into the cold air. There's still some snow sticking to the rocks and ground in certain spots. The sight of it calms you.
Aerion strips as you try to pull yourself back together, but you find the more he takes off the more distracted you become from your maudlin thoughts. Each layer reveals more skin, and the more skin you see, the more you stare.
By the time he's down to nothing, you're tracing your tongue along the bottom of your lip. You almost stop him as he walks toward the door and drag him to bed. The dark ink from his dragon tattoo covers his entire back, with wings tracing down to his elbows on his arms and the tail trailing over his ass down to the ditch of his knee.
Fuck, looking at him is like letting cinnamon whiskey sit in your mouth. You don't move as he opens the door and steps out into the cold. An unconscious shiver overtakes him, and you chuckle. It's cold this time of year, but to you it mostly feels normal.
Aerion doesn't hesitate to step into the hot spring, wading until he's at the deepest point up to his ribs and turns to meet your eye, waving his fingers in a come hither motion. You swallow the whiskey and strip to follow him. The air doesn't make you shiver the way it does him as you follow in his footsteps.
He's already sunk down to his collar, soaking in the hot water, looking altogether contented. You pause at the edge of the stone, bare skinned and relaxed. Aerion has no qualms in observing you, eyes caught below the belt.
You feel your body begin to reply to his lilac eyes, blood rushing from your head. Unashamed, you follow into the water. The heat is familiar; you, unlike more people, have had access to such things your entire life. It's something you are at home with and pleased to share with him.
"The springs in Winterfell run hotter than this." You remark as you sink down on one of the stone carved benches in the pool. The sound of water rushing surrounds you, the steam helping to clear your head. You breathe deeply, letting it fill your lungs; on the exhale, the knot of nervousness from behind here with so many of his family members wanes.
"I shall have to be the judge of that," Aerion remarks. "I can't believe you still live in a castle."
Unlike most families, with a few exceptions, namely the Starks, Baratheons, Swanns, and the King's Landing Targaryens, most families retired their castles for villas, estates, and more easily maintainable architecture.
You've always wanted to see Dragonstone, one of the most untouched pieces of history left anywhere near Westeros, but you suppose there are plenty of people who might say the same about Winterfell.
It's been ancient for a damn long time and well maintained on top of that. Only one tower has been lost. Some of it has been upgraded in places and modernized, but the brunt of it is the same as it has always been. Luxurious, comfortable, but old.
You've been told by several people they find Winterfell to feel oppressive. Some say it feels haunted. It's not a sentiment you share with any of them; Winterfell feels like tradition, and you are a man of traditions.
"There are many places within it I will take you to see." You remark, letting your muscles relax as Aerion settles near your side.
"Where?" He asks as you spread your arm to receive him. Aerion wastes no time to curl into your side, his shoulder to your ribs.
"The springs, of course, our godswood, my room, the library, and ... the crypts. I'll show you the alcove where I'll be placed someday. They've yet to carve my face; there's only a thick block of stone there now."
You find a great deal of peace in the idea of it. Being one of many Stark lords laid to rest among them. Though you're not certain if he will feel the same. "You burn your dead, I know." You press your mouth into his fair hair. "But there is a spot beside me if you wish, or I could have an urn carved into my statue for your ashes."
Aerion shifts against your side. You appreciate the way he gives it genuine thought. No disgust, no dismissal. "The urn could have a dragon carved into it?"
"Yes," You nod, "But I would still need my direwolf at my feet."
He nods, the motion causing his hair to rub against your mouth. "That then, I will be with you."
That would suit you both well. You hum in approval, tightening your arm around him. It is a comfort to know that he will be with you even after all of this has passed. That you are made whole in the presence of each other.
You contemplate a compliment, a thank you, or simply your lips to his in reply when the sounds start. Water splashing, moaning, the slap of wet skin on skin.
"Oh fuck! Ugh - there, there, there. Ah. Like that." The voice cuts through your peaceful conversation. Followed by a high drawn out vibrating keen.
Your chest shakes with laughter as you look toward the source of the noise behind you, on the other side of the stone wall between the two springs.
"Valarr, Valarr, please. Just like that." Kiera gasps, loud enough to be heard clearly. You're glad they put Aegon in the suites on the other side of the spa closer to the kitchens.
You and Aerion share an amused look. With the way her moans come out staccato, he's clearly rocking her shit. Good for them.
"Models," You mumble, playfully rolling your eyes. Though in truth you don't really mind. It's more funny than it is anything else.
"Oh Gods, Gods yes." She keeps going.
Aerion cups his hands around his mouth. "Fuck yes, Val, give her all four inches!"
Your laugh bursts out of you, and that only makes Aerion look prouder of himself. A moment later the extravagant moaning comes to an end when you hear Kiera laughing too.
"Fuck off!" Valarr hollers over the wall.
"Oh, fuck her!" You shout back.
It doesn't take him long to take that as a challenge because then Kiera is even louder. Maybe because he's just that good, but you think more likely, she's getting off on being heard. You consider it, bending Aerion against the cooled stone, ass in the air.
Seeing if he can get as loud as Kiera with your hand in his hair and his spine bent back. A heady thought, especially when your paramour drags himself into your lap. You feel him hard against your stomach, eyes expectant.
He wants to perform.
"No." You grunt, lifting him up out of the water. His legs tighten around your waist to hold on as you walk back toward the room. Water drips to the stone patio and then to the floor of your suite as you toss him onto the bed. "I'm not in the sharing stage just yet."
Pairing: Lane Fostman x ftm!reader
Rating: M
Word Count: 3872
Requested By: Anon
Synopsis: Coming to grips with being trans is hard, to your surprise Lane makes it easier. Lane makes it worth doing.
Content Tags: ftm transgender reader, pre-canon, pre-transition reader, internalized transphobia, misgendering, outdated/offensive terminology, outdated/offensive views, misogyny, body dysphoria, hurt and comfort, soft Lane, reader pov, Lane pov
You can't sleep. The thoughts spin in your head on repeat. Over and over again. The woman that came into Mad Dog the last hour of your shift a few days ago—how happy she looked. Speaking with her, seeing the way she looked at you like she could see something inside you that you didn't know how to see.
The way she gave you her number and invited you to a house party last night. Going to that party, sitting with all those people, seven of them in total. More than you thought could be in this shit town. More than you thought could be in the whole world, really. The only transsexuals you've ever seen were on Jerry Springer.
Men that thought themselves women: homewreckers, prostitutes, and mentally ill nutcases. Men with dicks flopping beneath skirts. That's all you really knew about transsexuals until last night, until you sat in a room with them and listened to their stories.
Understood what they were saying when they told you something wasn't right inside them that only metamorphosis could fix. Everyone in that room outside of you was born a man. You barely know how to wrap your mind around the fact that you could be like them. The opposite, but the same.
You put into words for the first time that secret, confusing wish that lives inside you. A man, I am a man, your mind whispers. Like poison, like hope.
You wish you could go back to before you met her, before you realized this was an option. So you could keep burying your head in the sand, keep rolling your eyes at every sloppy, poor-taste joke Lane makes about your body.
Sleep seems far away. The birds are chirping; the sun is getting high in the sky. It's the weekend at least, but you don't know if you're going to be able to fall asleep. Not now that you're living with this new terrible diagnosis.
You're a tranny.
Fuck.
You roll onto your side, glaring at the window. At the happy birds, at the cheerful sunshine. They mock your unease. You groan, giving up entirely, and sit up. There's no point in lying there. No point in dwelling on all of this.
So you stand, dawdle into your bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, and accept that you're going to be pulling an all-nighter.
Hoping to distract yourself, you collapse onto your couch. TV does little to pull your mind from everything swirling in it. Fueled by desperation, you get up and do the dishes, something you normally have to talk yourself into. That only gives you more time to think, but at least the dishes are done.
You listen to music. Doesn't work. You try a movie; nope. You attempt to sleep on your couch—not happening.
Giving up, you surrender to the last option. The most dangerous option: Lane Fostman.
You shouldn't text your coworker in what is basically the middle of the night for you two. You shouldn't text. Lane at all; it's only asking for trouble. But you've exhausted all other options; it's not like you have friends. No one else to call. Amelia's door is closed to you.
There's that biker guy that has come in a few times, but you don't even have his number, so you're not sure why you're even thinking of him. You could go for a walk, but you tend to avoid that unless you have to.
So you text Lane.
You let a movie play in the background, your phone resting in your hand as you half watch it. After a few minutes you give up on the idea that he's awake when your phone dings.
You don't know why you bother to text him. It's all dick jokes; you're not about to find any comfort from him. No sage advice. And yet, you text back.
This time he replies almost immediately.
You've been to Lane's apartment a few times. Always to pick up the store key; you've never made it further than the entrance, staring into the mess of his living room. This time there's no deadline, no shift waiting. It's just morning, and you're standing in what counts as his foyer.
When you knocked, he shouted to come in, and now you're standing there, awkwardly uncertain what to do. He's on his couch, a pair of headphones on, barking into them. Call of Duty from the looks of it. You might have played something like that if you could afford the console to play it on, but things are tight. They're always tight.
You take a step further into the space, closing the door behind you. The apartment has a smell that's distinctly Lane. AXE body spray, sweat, and a trash can you can see from the attached kitchen that needs to be taken out.
There's no bedroom that you can see, so it's a studio. He sleeps on his couch; of course he sleeps on his couch. You take another step, avoiding a small pile of clothes abandoned on the floor. Lane doesn't greet you, too preoccupied with whatever he's doing.
You don't pretend to know how his mind works. For a minute you hover behind the couch to see if he'll pause after this match, but then he rolls right into another one, and a pang of rejection vices through you.
What did you expect? It's Lane. Why would he stop what he's doing? He probably assumes you're here for the key again.
As if he's read your mind, he says without looking up, "Store key is on the counter."
You chew on your already mauled lip, considering just saying okay, pretending to grab it, and retreating back to your apartment where you can be miserable in private. But you walked all the way here.
It's a long walk back. So instead you croak out, "Can I have something to drink?"
Lane nods. "Knock yourself out."
You wander into his kitchen and open the fridge. It's pretty desolate in there. One takeout container, some sauce packets, a sad looking apple, and a mostly full bulk pack of Red Bull. You shrug and take one.
It's not like you're planning to sleep today. With your drink in hand, you head for the couch, cutting in front of him.
Lane groans, leaning to look around you. "Move, woman, you're gonna get me KOed."
Woman.
Isn't that the crux of all your problems? You settle onto the couch, keeping as much space between the two of you as you can on a two person couch, and pull your knees up to your chest. You made sure to take your shoes off at the door.
Lane glances at you, and it's like he's realizing you're there, really there, for the first time. In his apartment, in your socks, sitting on his couch, sipping one of his Red Bulls. He blinks slowly, and a kill cam flashes across the screen as he dies in game.
You watch it all come together in his mind as he respawns, still not looking toward the screen. "You don't work today." He says.
You're kind of surprised he knows that. "Nope."
"So you don't need the key." He says again, hands still on his controller. Someone is shouting loud enough you can faintly hear it through his headphones.
"Nope," You repeat. Amusement is bubbling in you; he really does look stunned.
Lane finally remembers he's in a match and turns back to the TV. He speaks into the microphone without looking at you. "I gotta dip, fellas. My woman's here for a slice of Lane cake, you catch my drift."
He disconnects, sets the controller down, and stares at you. "So you ... " His smile is widening by the second. "Came all the way over here just to see little old me?"
Lane presses a hand to his pink, white boy of the year t-shirt. You roll your eyes, but now that he's actually acknowledging your existence, you feel a little better about walking all this way.
You sip from your can to avoid answering.
"And steal my shit."
"I asked you if I could have a drink."
"Didn't think you'd take the good stuff." He rebuttals.
"What, you wanted me to drink the ketchup packets?"
That gets a laugh out of him, "Maybe. Damn, you're high maintenance."
You roll your eyes but find yourself relaxing on his couch.
The last thing you expected was to feel as comfortable as you do here, but there's something about being in an apartment that isn't your own. That isn't empty. The fatigue from your shift catches up to you all at once.
You set the Red Bull down on the coffee table. "Can I just hang here for a bit? My apartment ... had a mandatory evacuation."
It's a terrible excuse. Something beneath all of Lane's normal bullshit softens a degree. His eyes droop, and the smile gets goofier. "Sounds serious." He reaches for his controller. "Guess you'll have to stay awhile."
"Guess so." You mumble and sink down against his couch, cheek against the armrest. It's too small of a couch not to be in his space; without really thinking about it, your feet end up against his leg. He scoots over so you have as much space to spread out as possible.
You expect him to complain, to say you're hogging the couch, but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything but turn his game back on. All you hear before you fall asleep is him speaking into his mic, "I'ma be on mute; my girl's giving me head."
He's imagined this before. You coming over without some work reason. Calling him when the two of you should be sleeping. He's gotten off on a dozen scenarios, each more embarrassing than the last. Imagining those stupid scenes where a woman shows up in a trench coat and lingerie.
This isn't that; he's not fucking stupid. You're fast asleep on his couch, legs draped over his lap. You moved them in your sleep, and he is not about to correct that. He's got his dinosaur blanket laid over you and his pillow beneath your head because your neck looked like it was at a funny angle.
You're dead asleep, almost snoring but not quite. He's never seen you like this before, completely unguarded. No scowl from his bad jokes, no weariness. Your face looks softer in your sleep, more relaxed. Lips pouted.
His rank is taking a hit because he keeps glancing at you. Making sure you're asleep, that you don't need anything. It's pathetic, and yet, this is probably the best morning he's had in years. Because that's trust, isn't it? You're willing to sleep in his presence.
Sure you give him shit all the time, but you're defenseless in your sleep. Normally he thinks you're beautiful. Obviously. Lane and every other fucking guy who walks into Mad Dog knows that. Smoking hot. Out of his league. And yet, there you are asleep on his couch.
Lane's pretty sure he's freaking out. He's not moving; he's sitting there listening to COD 2's menu music, staring at you, but he's freaking out. Because you're here and that's his pillow and that's his blanket. And he can't recall the last time he wanted to kiss someone for the hell of it.
Can't remember the last time he worried about if his apartment was too nasty or if his pillow was too lumpy.
Lane should get up and take the trash out, but what if you wake up? What if this moment ends and he never gets another one like it? So he doesn't move. Doesn't so much as twitch.
He doesn't mean to fall asleep.
You wake in a room you are not familiar with. It takes a moment to place where you are. You walked to Lane's place. He laid a blanket over you and put a pillow beneath your head. All much more considerate things than you would have expected.
But that's why Lane gets under your skin, because he's got jokes. He's lazy; he's an asshole sometimes, but he's still the same guy that's threatened to beat customers with a bat for harassing you. He's still the guy that answers when you call, even if it's with a smart ass comment.
When you're with him, you don't feel alone. Even if he always has something sharp to say, even if he hurts your feelings sometimes. There's a sort of energy to Lane you've never found in anyone else. You look over toward the other side of the couch and realize your ankles are spread over the top of his legs.
Lane is asleep, sitting up, head fallen back, mouth open in a quiet snore. His game menu is still on in the background.
You fell asleep with your phone in your pocket. You check the time. It's a little past two. Late enough to get up. Besides, your muscles ache from being all scrunched up.
Trying not to stir him, you pull your legs free and stand, stretching. You lift your arm over your head, rising up onto your toes in a long stretch.
"Damn, I thought I was dreaming, but if I were, you'd be naked. " Lane's voice is rough from sleep.
You twist to glare at him, but don't stop your stretching. His eyes stay stuck on you, travelling in that way he usually does.
You think of something you heard one of the girls say last night.
Sometimes it feels like there are bees beneath my skin when people look at me.
You feel that now with his eyes tracing curves you have always been impartial to and are now starting to realize you do not want to have at all. You let your eyes drift away, turning your back to him.
Lane doesn't apologize; he hasn't learned that skill, but he keeps the conversation moving. "You hungry?"
You reach for your abandoned drink mostly for something to do with your hands as you stand in his living room. "Ain't got money to give you for it."
Lane lets out a beleaguered sigh. "See how it is, come to my house, take my blanket, and now you're making me buy you dinner."
"You don't - "
"Pizza?"
Your smile is small but genuine all the same. "Sure."
A few minutes later he's placed the order on the phone, and you're back to sitting on his couch. You feel better rested than you expected for being shoved on a too-small couch with your coworker, who you absolutely don't have feelings for.
"So gas leak, fire, serial robbery?" He asks with a grin.
He just had to bring up your lie about the mandatory evacuation, even though you both know it's bullshit. You could stick to your story, come up with a lame excuse he might tease you for, or take it at face value. Or you could tell him the truth.
You take the risk. "Emotional crisis, actually."
There's a brief pause, a registering of vulnerability, before he keeps on, "Holy shit, the whole building? Every tenant goin' through a crisis all at once. You should start a support group."
You take a drink from your can as you glare at him. "Yep. Just like that."
"Glad that didn't hit my complex. It's not contagious, is it?
"Not unless I hit you really hard first." You smile against the tin metal.
"Cool, cool. Then I should be safe."
"Are you, though?"
Lane gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "You just slept in my bed, and now you're going to hit me. Talk about ungrateful!"
"This is a couch."
"And my bed; one is not mutually exclusive to the other." He snarks.
"Oh, apologies, it's a wonderful bed."
"Thank you, I jerk off on it every night." Lane says with a smirk, "Thinking about you."
You can't help it; you laugh, covering your face with your hands. "That's disgusting."
"No, no, my thoughts are tasteful, promise." He never knows when to stop. "Very, uh, sophisticated."
You laugh again, shaking your head. "No!"
"Yes!" He laughs with you; such delight in it you can't help but feel warm all over. It's nice like this, outside of work, where you don't have to worry about having something to do. It doesn't matter if Lane is lazy here because this is his apartment. His territory. There's less pressure.
It's good to have company. To not be stuck in your head alone. You know without needing to turn it over in your mind that this is a can of worms. You've found comfort here, and because of that, like a dog given food, you will be back.
The laughter ebbs. Lane kicks his feet out, resting them on the messy coffee table. "So, what, everyone started stressing about their bills at once?"
You weren't sure if he would push, but you need him too. If he doesn't push, you're not going to give voice to this dangerous thing. It needs to be said. It needs to be given life.
You pull your legs close, twisting the blanket in your lap between your fingers. Squishing the body of a dinosaur before stretching it out. "We're ... friends, right?"
He doesn't make a joke. You brace for the flirtation. For him to turn your innocence into something dirty.
"Yeah." Lane doesn't look at you. That's a good thing; that's how you know he means it.
It's nice to have a friend. "You ever seen one of those Jerry Springer episodes with the men that think they're women?"
Lane's head cocks in thought as he chews at his cheek and his answer. "The cross dressers?"
"Yeah, the, um, transsexuals."
"So what, like Rocky Horror, Frank N Furter, dick pouch in a thong?" He asks. It's obvious he doesn't see where this is going. How could he? You barely understand how you're feeling, let alone someone else seeing it.
Especially someone who sees you by your cup size. You know Lane; he's made it very clear what he likes. What he thinks of you.
"Yeah, I guess. Did you know that there can be women who think they're men?" You ask, stretching the dinosaur some more. Better that than meeting his eyes.
"No shit, what a shame. You meet some hot chick trying to be a dude? You got a new neighbor or something?"
You stare at the blanket. Stretch the dinosaur, squish the dinosaur.
"So they're like freaks, right?" You whisper; you can barely make out the color of his blanket. You think it might be green.
He considers this for a moment. "It's weird, I guess. I sure as shit ain't a girl. Deprive the world of Lane Jr? I couldn't deny this city's chick population like that."
You roll your eyes.
So he thinks they're freaks. You are a freak.
"But no, don't know anyone like that, but when it comes down to it, ain't my business. Boobs or balls. Fag or straight. We're all just trying to make it out. Trying to feel something."
He's not wrong in his way. The wording leaves some things to be desired, but everyone in this town, the town over, and the city in the next state all want the same thing.
Home, belonging, purpose, peace, fulfillment.
"You ever want something you can't have?"
Lane looks at you, something boyish in his eyes. A secret in the blue, "Yeah. Ain't telling you what, though; that's between me and my pillow."
"How do you live with it?" You ask, because you need to live with it. You need to find a way to swallow this new discovery down as deep as you can so it doesn't swallow you whole instead.
This time he doesn't give you a smart ass answer. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. "What gave you the idea I got my shit together enough to answer that?"
Lane is as bad off as you are. Dead end job, empty cluttered apartment. Trying to find things to fill the time so nothing else fills his head. Just like you. Burying his problems in random girls, no doubt. Running his mouth to anyone who'll listen.
You shrug, abusing another dinosaur. "What gave you the idea I had anyone else to ask?"
That shuts him up. His face goes pink. You get a whole five seconds of silence before he ruins it, "That's so pathetic, babe."
"You know what, fuck you." Irritated, you shove the blanket off your lap and stand. You'd have better luck writing to a random penpal across the world than trying to get him to actually listen to you.
You make it a few steps past him when he snags your wrist. "C'mon, I was kidding. I kid, it's what I do."
"Lane ... I ... " You trail off, because are there words for this? Are you setting yourself up for him to make fun of you for months about something you think is breaking you?
Your eyes well with tears. He's right, this is pathetic.
"I'm an asshole." He says, like he always says. Like admitting what he is discredits all the shit things he says.
You wish you didn't care so much about him, wish that you didn't see all the parts of him that are good. If he were only the annoying, loudmouth, playboy that he pretends to be, you could dismiss him outright. Unfortunately, you're good at seeing layers. Contradiction.
And beneath your fear of what you might be, you love him. You really don't want to love him, but ignoring it never seems to get you anywhere but back in situations where you can get hurt.
"You are an asshole." You agree.
Lane's hand is still curled around your wrist. You don't try and yank free. Neither of you says anything. His palm is hot on your skin. The tears are building; your eyes are starting to burn.
"I think I'm one of them," You whisper.
"An asshole?" He asks, brow furrowing in confusion. He doesn't get it. How could he get it?
"A transsexual."
"You want to be a ... dude?" He still doesn't let go on your wrist. You don't know if that's a good sign or not.
Do you? Do you want to be a man?
Yes.
Yes, god, yes.
"Yes," You say.
The tears slip down your cheeks. It's the first time he's ever seen you cry. It seems to take him aback. His eyes go wide before he stands. Baggy shirt, sweat pants, mussed hair, and yet you're certain you've never seen him look so honest.
You brace, as you always brace when showing Lane something real. Here comes the laughter, the joke.
He lets go of your wrist.
Lane wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing your face into his chest. You hug him back without thinking about it, letting out a wet sob into his shirt.
"Whatever you say, mister coworker." He teases.
That's all it takes; you wail into his shirt like a baby. And he holds you steady and firm, despite it.
Pairing: Dave Torres x m!reader
Rating: M
Word Count: 2157
Requested By: ✨ Anon
Synopsis: You thought you understood Dave's dreams, but you didn't truly understand how dangerous they could be.
Content Tags: cis male reader, pre-canon, established relationship, nightmares, sleepwalking, blood, unintentional self harm, reader experiences unintentional harm, crying, hurt and comfort
Dave told you about his condition on your third date. You weren't blind; you noticed the bags under his eyes on the first and the second dates, but you also knew he was on night shift and figured his sleep schedule was out of whack. After that third date, explaining to you that he has chronic night terrors, sleepwalks, and talks, you understood a bit better that those bags under his eyes are a permanent fixture on his face.
In the beginning, you didn't think much of it, to be honest. It's not like sleepwalking and nightmares are particularly unheard of. Lots of people have nightmares, and some people sleepwalk. No big deal; certainly not a deal breaker.
You live in a fairly small valley town, the kind of place where what men you do meet are only looking to stick it and stay gone. There are no gay bars and no easy places to meet guys outside of dating apps and carefully curated meeting spots, so Dave's sleepwalking is an easy thing to accept.
He's cute, awkward, but loyal. There's not much in the way of family baggage or internalized shame. His mother accepted him when she was alive; his father wasn't in the picture. Dave's only friends are cool with it, so you slide right into his small bubble and find yourself remarkably at home.
When you move into his place, he makes room for you. The decorations you like, half the closet space, a toothbrush next to his, and snacks in the kitchen. It doesn't feel like just Dave's apartment; it feels like your apartment. The thing is with Dave, he never slept over. The first time you slept in the same bed was once you were moved into his place.
An insurance policy if you know him at all to encourage you not to be too weirded out by the dream shit. It took some adjustments; at times Dave would start talking in his sleep, mumbling out strange phrases. Sometimes they were silly things like elephants don't eat cheese or I parked the car in the gymnasium.
Sometimes, you'll admit he'd scare the shit out of you with his sleep talking. He'd roll over and say something like it's in the room or don't take my face. But you knew they were nightmares, and so you didn't think too much of it.
His sleepwalking was the same. Dave had security alarms in place; if he tried to go out a window or the front door, the alarm would sound, and you would go fetch him. Normally he never got through the three locks, but you did find him once standing in his boxers in the apartment hallway.
Other times you'd wake up to find him hovering in the kitchen, sitting on the couch, even standing in the shower. You got adept at coaxing him back to bed without waking him up. All of this you could manage. The days when he would wake up in a panic were harder, more jarring for both of you.
Not because it was hard to deal with; more so, it was hard to see him like that. Eyes wide and tear filled, panicked breath, sweat soaked and apologizing. He never talks about those dreams, the ones that put him on the floor in the corner of the room, making himself as small as possible.
You don't ask; you sit with him. Stay. That's the best thing you can do.
Sometimes when he looks at you, snot on his face and desperation in his eyes, you wish there was more you could do than just stay. But he's tried everything there is to try. Doctors, pills, therapy. But that's not going to stop you.
You love him more than his nightmares.
There's weight on your hips, a warm pressure that rouses you from the depth of sleep. You're on your back, arms tossed over your head. The fan rumbles in the corner. The presence along your hips is just familiar enough that you start to fall asleep again when something warm drips onto your chest.
You start to pull back from sleep, registering the next droplet. Hot, wet.
Water.
Roof leak.
Son of a bitch.
Your eyes snap open, and instead of being met with a bowing ceiling like you fear, Dave hovers above you. His eyes are open, but they're open in that way that tells you he's asleep. A sort of blankness you've learned how to identify.
It's dark; you can barely make out his expression. The moonlight from the window is the only reason you can make out his shape and the whites of his eyes. He's straddling you, arms at either side of your ribs.
Another droplet of water hits your chest. Did he take a shower? Once or twice he's managed to get the water on, but usually he shocks himself awake when he does that.
The water is starting to pool along your chest. You're tired enough that you're fine with it. Water dries.
If he's in bed, then he's not making a break for it, and you can leave him to it. Eventually his arms will tire, and he'll lie down beside you or on top of you.
"I'm here, Dave," You mumble, letting yourself relax again.
"He told me not to trust them," Dave murmurs.
You ask more out of curiosity than anything, "Who told you?"
"The whale."
You hum. The whale is a common character in his dreams. Usually, from what you can tell, one of the more harmless figures. Dave likes whales. He's got them all over the house. Little figurines, a painting, socks, a shirt. He's told you they make him feel safe.
"You can't trust them." Dave's hand comes to your chest as you feel another drip add to the rest. "You can't trust them. I'll protect you."
"My hero," You say, voice laced with humor and fatigue. "Protect me in the morning, alright."
Pain rips through you, sharp and immediate. Your eyes snap open in time to see the headlights of a passing car illuminate the room. Dave is above you, a shard of glass held in his hand.
He didn't take a shower. Blood pools against your chests, his and now yours. Your hand curls around Dave's wrist so he can't drag the glass further into your skin.
"Dave." You try not to sound panicked, even though every part of you is in fight or flight. Everything in you wants to shove him off you, but you force yourself not to move. Your chest stings. He's dragged a cut across your pectoral, deep enough to well with blood. "Honey. Davey."
You're holding his wrist too tight, but you need that glass removed from his grip. He's never done this before, never hurt himself like this. A few accidental bruises have been the worst of it.
"The elephant is here." He says, unblinking.
You use your free hand to pull the tab on the lamp. His chest is leaking blood, dripping it down onto you, soaking into the sheets. He might need stitches. You might need stitches.
"I need you to wake up, Dave." You carefully lift his wrist. He doesn't fight you as you wrestle the glass from his bloody fingers. With the danger gone, you shift on the mattress, bucking against him to get yourself into a sitting position.
He's curled in your lap, blood damp, and still sleeping. You let his arms go loose at his sides to look at the damage to his chest. At a closer look, it's not deep enough to need stitches, but you should get it cleaned up.
Trying to rouse him, you touch his face, stroking his cheekbone with your thumb. He wakes slowly. First a blink, then a drowsy breath. Around that point, you think the pain sets in because he hisses and looks down. That's when he sees the blood, the way it coats both of you.
The terror in his eyes goes straight to your lungs and squeezes. "Oh fuck." His chokes, voice strung high. "Oh fuck."
"It's okay." You try to assuage him, to be the calm one. He's coming out of a nightmare, and you know he's going to be on edge. Are you freaked out? Sure, but not as badly as he's about to be. You'll be the rock in the storm.
"No, no, it's not." He throws himself backward, nearly tripping. He slams his back into the dresser, and you wince for him. That'll bruise.
"Dave." You scramble to follow. Blood drips to the floor. His eyes don't move from your chest, realizing that the blood is not just his own.
"I cut you." Your body locks up at the way he says it, numb and hollow. Some deeper, older trauma coming to the surface. "I hurt you."
Your hands come to his face again even as he tries to retreat, walking backward toward the bathroom. "It will heal."
"Today." The brown in his eyes is eaten away by his fear, pupils wide and dark. "Tomorrow, maybe I slit your throat."
You smile, refusing to believe that. "Bullshit."
Dave stares at your chest. "I can't."
"You won't."
"No," He shakes his head, taking another step back. "I can't let that happen."
"It's not gonna happen, Davey." You gesture at your chest, "It's a scratch."
It feels like a bit more than a scratch, but you'll be damned if you'll tell him that with how freaked out he is already.
His eyes are turning red, and there's a shake to his breath. You reach for him, but he pulls further back, putting space between you. "No, no, don't! I cut you."
"And I'm not mad. It was an accident." You reach, and he retreats. Dave ends up in the bathroom. He shuts the door in your face. You don't like this, the space between you. The door locked. A barrier set in place. There shouldn't be any barriers in your relationship.
"You don't understand," Dave shouts through the door.
"Let me in and explain it to me then." You reply, jiggling the knob, but it's still locked tight. Blood is beginning to gather in your waistband.
"No."
"Open the door, Dave."
Silence comes from the other side. Worry gnaws at you. He's bleeding; hell, you're bleeding. Now is not the time to be in two different rooms.
"Open the door, or I'm opening it," You warn, walking toward the desk in the corner of the room. You pull one of the cabinet drawers open, grabbing the metal ruler you've had since grade school.
Dave still doesn't speak, and you're not about to waste time. He's shaken up. You slide the ruler between the door and frame, and it's only a couple seconds before you get it open. Dave is standing in front of the broken mirror. Guess that's where he got the glass. His hands are tight on the sink's edge.
He's white-knuckling the ceramic; his whole body is trembling top to bottom. You soften at the sight, stepping closer to touch his back. "Hey, hey, Dave. It's alright, honey. I got you."
The tears fall silent on his face as he looks at his distorted reflection. "When I was - when I was a kid, there was an accident."
You rub his back and don't push him to rush his story. Whatever he has to say clearly bothers him. You're not going to push too hard. Rock in the storm. Be the rock in the storm.
"It was an experimental sleep trial; they put me in this - in this tube. I was like five. I think. I don't remember." The trembling gets a little worse. You really need to clean his chest up; there's blood all over him.
"They put ... I don't know why, but they put pens and pencils in there with me." Dave keeps staring at his reflection. "I stabbed the doctor in the neck, and he died."
A cold flush of horror rushes through you. The idea of Dave being that young, terrified, and asleep. The way that must have stuck with him. The trauma that would have caused.
You step closer, rubbing his back more. "I'm not afraid." You promise him. "We're going to figure this out. We'll get a different mirror. Put sharp things in a lock box at night if it'll make you feel better. Hell, they got those, uh, things, mittens. You could wear mittens to sleep."
Dave lets out a wet, weary laugh. "I'm dangerous."
"I'm in love with you."
It's the only rebuttal that matters. It's true, and it's why you're not going anywhere.
"And if I do something worse than this?" He asks, gesturing down at his chest.
"Then we handle it."
Dave shakes his head. "You make it sound so fucking simple."
"It is simple." You cup his cheek, forehead to forehead. "It's me and you. Nightmares and all."
Pairing: Entity Bobby Franklin x ftm!reader
Rating: T
Word Count: 1918
AO3 Version: HERE / Part Directory: HERE
Synopsis: When your boyfriend goes missing you'll do anything to find him. Even if that means entering into a maze full of monsters.
Content Tags: ftm trans reader, A-Sync, document, mentions of violence and death, backrooms entity
SUPPLEMENTARY ENTITY DOSSIER
This report is authorized to be viewed by LEVEL 2 clearance under section 602. All information pertaining to this form is considered CONFIDENTIAL and cannot be shared without written consent from a LEVEL 4 supervisor. Your cooperation is required under PENALTY 6 (immediate surrender of equipment, loss of employment, and possible legal action).
Form Completed by Employee Number: 507822 | Employee Name: George Levy
Date of First Contact: 10/16/1990 | Entity Number: 12271999 | Entity Designation: The Director
Were there a/any deaths correlated with first contact with this entity?
[X] No [ ] Yes
If yes, fill out the EMPLOYEE LOSS OF LIFE form for each individual applicable.
ENTITY PHYSICAL INFORMATION
How was this entity witnessed?
[X] Human vision [X] Video feed [ ] Photograph [ ] Other
If other, specify: N/A
If HUMANOID, fill out BELOW SECTION:
Height: 5'6" | Eye Color: Blue | Skin Color: Caucasian | Weight: 165 lbs | Teeth: Human, off white | Nails: Human
Clothing (if applicable): White cropped t-shirt, black pinstripe knee length shorts, white ankle socks, black converse sneakers, black belt with silver buckle, thin silver necklace chain, collar length silver necklace with plain silver pendant
Physical Entity Markers: None
Was this entity previously a wanderer:
[ ] No [X] Yes
If YES fill out SECTION BELOW:
Name: Robert Franklin | Aliases: Bobby, Robby
Does the wanderer appear physically different from its entity form?
[X] No [ ] Yes
Last Known Location of Wanderer: [REDACTED]
Cause of Death: Blood Loss & Crush Injury
Body Recovered:
[ ] No [X] Yes
Location Found: Inside 2 ft by 2ft cupboard
Body Status: Incinerated
Reason: Body deemed too damaged for study
Was an entity responsible:
[ ] No [X] Yes
If YES:
Entity Number: 07172000 | Entity Designation: The Pirate
CONTACT & COMMUNICATION
Is the entity capable of coherent communication:
[ ] No [ ] Yes [X] Unknown
Does the entity speak a human language:
[ ] No [X] Yes [ ] Unknown
If yes include all known dialogue of the entity outside of direct FIRST CONTACT:
Entity speaking to an unblemished wall on Level 0, while touching the wall with both humanoid hands: Open, open, you fucking piece of shit, I know you open. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. There was a door here. I need to go back. Please, I need to get back.
Entity speaking into a darkened corridor: Who's there?
(No other entities of wanders were witnessed, but we cannot confirm for certain there was no other presence.)
Entity speaking to same unblemished wall on Level 0, while beating at the wall with a closed humanoid fist: [REDACTED], [REDACTED]. Can you hear me? I can hear you. [REDACTED], please. I'm here. I'm right here.
Entity speaking to same unblemished wall on Level 0, creating a sound reminiscent of human crying: Please. Please. I want to go home.
Notes ascertained from this dialogue:
Entity appears to be exhibiting behaviors similar to a wanderer. The purpose of this behavior is unknown. We cannot confirm if it is genuinely attempting to flee the Backrooms or if it is mimicking what it has seen. This could also be a baiting behavior as seen with other entities that camouflage as wanderers to draw in prey.
It speaks in clear speech patterns, but vocals become distorted when recorded. All agents in the field stated Entity 12271999 did not have distortion when heard by the human ear.
Entity may be aware of other entities not visible to the human eye or recording devices. There is no concrete proof of this theory.
It is capable of mimicking human emotions such as desperation, anger, sadness, and fear. There is no official evidence if these are felt or mimicked.
Entity makes mention of [REDACTED], see file on [REDACTED] for further information (clearance level 5 required).
FIRST CONTACT REPORT
Written by: George Levy
Entity 12271999 was encountered for the first time by Delta Research Team of three, one head researcher, one cameraman, and one rifleman, as was standard practice at the time. The entity before this encounter had not been officially registered. Video of 12271999 was still being processed during the time of recon.
My team encountered 12271999, designated the Director, doing standard room measurements in newly discovered Level [REDACTED], Endless Film Sets; it did not vocally reach out to us at first. I was heading point, using one of the measuring meters, when our rifleman, Thomas Jones, ordered us to halt. It was at that moment, upon looking around, we noticed a stationary figure standing inside a set designed to look like a 1970s home.
It was standing inhumanly still in front of one of the doors, giving away that it was not a wanderer, though at first glance it appeared completely ordinary. The entity was not breathing or blinking. It gave no signs that it had seen us at first. Our rifleman pointed his weapon in its direction, and we began evacuation procedure. We did not attempt communication.
The set seemed ordinary at first glance, but I recall an orange hiking backpack with a firearm leaned against the wall. I might have thought that this was simply a frightened wanderer if it were not for my gut instincts. I have written before that all entities can be detected with a feeling low in the gut. I stand by this observation. It is a primal instinct. I felt in that moment like prey.
Evacuation began with proper procedure, but as soon as we began to back up from the entity, it began to move. The entity spoke in clear, concise English, "Get out."
Following 12271999's speech, I lost all control over my limbs. I was aware that I was myself, but my ability to move seemed entirely dependent on the will of someone or something else. The entity walked with us, unblinking and unbreathing. Its movements were stiff, lacking the relaxed normalcy of human motion, and seemed metronomic.
I felt it was puppeting us toward the exit. I was unable to make any motion or speak, though I attempted to do both of these things. Our rifleman dropped his weapon on the ground, and it melted into the concrete and vanished from sight. No other equipment had melted into the floor prior to coming into contact with 12271999.
There was no pain, only an awareness that I was not in control. I found it difficult to breathe. Besides me, Roger Sampson, our cameraman, was crying, though his expression did not change; tears could be seen on his face. He has since asked to take a sabbatical and has stated he is not comfortable returning to Level [REDACTED], Endless Film Sets.
The entity brought us to the door in which we had entered without physical harm. Once we were through the doorway, the entity, standing approximately three feet from us, closed the door.
We were then able to move again. My skin felt raw and itchy. My hands and feet had pins and needles like they had fallen asleep, but the feeling returned after a few minutes.
Roger Sampson began sobbing with expression. He had to be escorted back without our help as he felt unable to move his legs. This has been medically determined to be a trauma response and not caused by the entity.
12271999 did not follow us to another level. We did not hear or see it at any point during evacuation.
This is only observation, but I got the feeling it was showing territorial and defensive behavior. We got too close to something it did not want us to see. Though we were unharmed, it felt hostile. If we had tried to reenter Endless Film Sets, I believe there would have been casualties.
CURRENT PROCEDURE
After first contact, Entity 12271999 has been categorized as UNCONFIRMED HOSTILE & DANGEROUS. Entity 12271999 should be avoided by personnel for the time being until more information can be gained about its patterns.
Research for Level [REDACTED], Endless Movie Sets, should be done only with automated equipment. Do not enter the movie set where the entity was last seen. Do not attempt to communicate with the entity. Do not attempt to communicate, assist, or rescue any wanderers found on Level [REDACTED], Endless Movie Sets.
WANDERER FILE
This report is authorized to be viewed by LEVEL 5 clearance, under section 602. All information pertaining to this form is considered CONFIDENTIAL and cannot be shared without written consent from a LEVEL 6 supervisor. Your cooperation is required under PENALTY 6 (immediate surrender of equipment, loss of employment, and possible legal action).
Last Known Location of Wanderer: Level [REDACTED], Endless Movie Sets
Status: Alive
Has wanderer been seen near an entity:
[ ] No [X] Yes
If YES:
Entity Number: 12271999 | Entity Designation: The Director
Nature of Interaction: Non-Hostile
Footage Transcription:
Entity 12271999 and the wanderer were seen travelling through Level Fun, the Play Rooms. They appeared to be travelling together. The entity was carrying the wanderer's orange bag. The camera footage that caught this interaction had no audio, but it appeared that the English language was being shared between them.
The wanderer was calm, not showing any outward signs of alarm or coercion. They were seen travelling between play equipment. The wanderer was shown to be smiling and laughing. Entity 12271999 was mimicking the same human emotions as the wanderer.
They embraced for thirty-seven seconds. No harm came to the wanderer after this, and then they continued to walk out of sight of the camera.
Expert Opinion:
Written By: Gloria Mestia
After reviewing all footage showcasing Entity 12271999, it is clear to me that this entity is displaying uncommon characteristics. We have seen entities in the past show neutrality toward wanderers.
But this is the first entity that we have seen communicate directly with a wanderer using what can be inferred to be human language and behaviors. It also referenced the wanderer when the wanderer was not present. This opens up questions in several untapped areas of study regarding entities, especially entities that arrived in the Backrooms as wanderers. Do they maintain their memories? Interests? Connections?
Entity 12271999 has made a point to appear human to this wanderer. It is my assumption that the wanderer is unaware that 12271999 is an entity. This could be an elaborate and complex hunting pattern that we have yet to see, but given the entity is territorial of Endless Movie Sets and the same orange bag was seen on the set the research team was approaching, it can be inferred that it has the wanderer on that level.
Level [REDACTED], Endless Movie Sets, can be inferred to be connected to Entity 12271999. This is not the first time we have seen a new entity and a level appear simultaneously. Research into Robert Franklin shows he was attending San Jose State University for a Digital Cinematography Bachelors Degree.
Robert Franklin was reported missing with a camcorder. Testimonials taken from people who knew Franklin state he had a passion for film and photography, an outgoing personality, and a deep love for David Lynch films. The last recorded message from Franklin reads: Doing some filming for Clark, he's gonna pay OT. We can go to that Cantonese place you like when I get home. Love you!
12271999 having a level themed with movie sets seems in line with Franklin's human interests. So far the entity has not shown any direct hostility. We have not seen it attack other entities, wanderers, or our own teams. I think we should consider Entity 12271999 of high interest for study.
I suggest sending a research team to attempt communication with Entity 12271999 and the wanderer in its company.
love your work, you write beautifully and I love reading everything you write!! Today I read your work on Aerion x Stark and I fucking love them, I love hot guys and hot work on them 😌 will you write more about them?? these boys have captured my heart and I fucking need them, do you have any ideas for them????
I do have a request for Aerion x stark!reader in the works, but I adore them a bunch so if anyone has any ideas for them feel free to toss them into my asks.
I've been having a blast writing their dynamic, they're so quippy and well matched.
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x f!obsessive!reader x Valarr Targaryen Rating: M
Word Count: 2524
AO3 Version: HERE / Part Directory: HERE
Synopsis: When a passing peddler sells you a wishing willow branch, you wish for Aerion and Valarr to love you as much as you love them. To your delight your wish comes true but it's a bit bloodier than you expected.
Content Tags: cis female reader, reader is from House Cafferen, no physical descriptions used, reader has living parents with siblings left ambiguous, obsession, yandere reader, polyamory, love at first sight, sexual thoughts, blood, mentions of violence
Neither Valarr nor Aerion argues against your marriage to Lord Buckler. In fact, Aerion leaves that same day. Without a word to you, without any further interaction more than the few sentences you shared with him before your parents came to sit at the table.
No words of support, no mention of the dream that brought them both here. As if at the slightest inconvenience they were ready to turn tail and head back to King's Landing until the next prophetic dream came along.
Valarr stays, but he too keeps his distance. He rides out to neighboring lords and villages to endear himself to the people. And you are left despondent in your room. Your father says you are being petulant, but you know you are heartbroken.
Truly and utterly heartbroken.
You held the world in the palm of your hand and watched it shatter the moment you knew it to be beautiful. Gone before you could experience any of the joy. Despondence does not describe the lethargy you find yourself in. You do not even go to the godswood, too busy lying in your bed with the curtains drawn. All light has left the world; all that is good is ruined.
Everyone you know leaves you to your suffering until your handmaiden comes to tell you that you must attend dinner. Today is the last supper Valarr will have in your keep, and so you must come down and make yourself presentable.
You do not want to; you want to refuse. But this will likely be the last time you see him, and you don't truly want to waste the opportunity to set your eyes upon him. So you rise despite your malaise and wash your skin, tame your hair, and dress in a gown of green and white.
There's nothing you can do about the bags under your eyes or your seemingly permanent frown, but at least now you are presentable. Miserable, but presentable. Your parents and Valarr are already sitting when you arrive; you give him a shallow bow and a half-spoken apology for your tardiness before you sit beside your father.
There are no delusions of sitting at the other side of the table this time. Without Aerion here, Valarr has taken up the chair in his absence, father at one head of the table, Valarr alone on the other. He looks more royal like that, sitting alone in his fine clothing. Solitary, as if on a throne.
Your heart aches looking at him, so you turn your eyes toward your plate instead. Polite conversation takes place around you, over your head. A back and forth with no true substance. You thought you'd have it in you to look at Valarr, to soak in what little you can before it is gone, but all you can do is stare at your plate.
"Are you feeling well, Lady Cafferen?" Valarr's voice is tinged in genuine concern. It is unexpected, welcomed, and unwanted at the same time. The wish was supposed to make him love you, but he leaves you behind so readily. It was a false wish. A curse.
You look over at him and give a shallow nod. "I am well, your grace, thank you for your concern."
You are not well. You will never be well again. Your future has been stolen from you all to appease Lord Buckler so he continues his trading. There are few farms in the Stormlands, and Buckler has most of the ones in your region. Without him you starve. Perhaps you will let yourself starve now and save yourself the experience of the old man's rod.
"You are not eating." His concern grows. "I'm sure the kitchen would be happy to make you something else if this does not please you."
Your father is giving you a long stare, the kind that says straighten up. Do not embarrass the family. You've never made him feel so ashamed of you before; up until the princes came, your father was proud of you. Now he seems eager to ship you off to Buckler as soon as he can. Rid himself of a useless daughter.
You shake your head, making it a point to take a bite of your food. You barely taste it. "I am simply feeling fatigued today."
Valarr is not convinced of this, his mismatched eyes narrow as he contemplates his answer. Clearly considering arguing the point until there are footsteps in the hall. The door opens; there is a pause. Aerion walks in.
He's in his armor, sleek black metal, spikes along his shoulders. His hair is mussed from riding. He's carrying a sack with him, turned viscous near the bottom. You are no knight, but still, like all women, you know the smell of blood.
It wafts from him as he enters, metal clacking, and sets the sack down on top of your father's plate. It's a casual gesture, relaxed as he drifts to the spot beside Valarr. The chair scrapes as he pulls it back, wood against stone and the clatter of armor as he drops into it.
Everyone is looking at the sack. How it rests lumpy over your father's food, the wrong motion, and it will knock his wine glass over.
Father hesitates. He parts the bag to look inside, and his face drains of color. You cannot see what is inside the sack, but whatever it is has changed something for him. His eyes are darting toward the exits, toward your mother.
Danger. Danger. You can read it in the shape of his body, poised for motion.
Aerion pulls his dagger free, stabs a piece of meat on Valarr's plate, and chews it. You don't know what to do. What is in the bag?
Valarr straightens, smoothing a hand along his hair. The white streak catches in the light coming through the hall windows. As elegant as ever. Though now, he seems to you untouchable. Like two great dragons, you do not know the words to control rest in the room. Dominating the space.
"I've come for your daughter's hand," Valarr repeats. It has less magnanimity in it this time. He is a dragon with fire crackling in his throat.
Aerion smiles, dagger still held close to his mouth. "Unless she's promised to another?"
Your father carefully folds the sack closed. "It would be my honor to offer her to House Targaryen."
You let out a startled noise, cloying hope rising up inside you. "But what about Lord Buckler?"
Your father gives you the queerest look then. Like he's mourning you, like he's about to send you off as a pig to slaughter. That will never happen with your princes; they're going to take care of you. You will be bedecked in jewels and loved well. If only you are given that chance.
"Lord Buckler is dead." Father says, reaching to touch your mother's wrist.
Aerion twists the dagger and buries it into the thick wood of your dining table. "Someone cut off his head. Shame, I'm sure the two of you would have been exceptionally happy together."
You realize what is in the bag. You meet Aerion's gaze with wide eyes.
He did not abandon you without word; he set out and created a solution. Saved you from being one of many in a list of dead wives. His sudden retreat had nothing to do with abandonment. He was protecting you. Now any children you have will be Targaryen dragons.
"Thank you," You say.
Your father says your name so harshly you flinch. "He has brought the head of one of my oldest friends and set it on my table, and you thank him."
Why wouldn't you? Aerion looks terribly pleased to be thanked. Terribly pleased in general, he's lazed in his chair like he owns the whole damn castle. You realize that if he wanted to, it could become his castle.
"You were sending me off for grains." You say the rebuttal comes easy when you know you are now promised to Valarr. What can he do to you really? They've made it clear that denial will not be tolerated. Your dragons love you as much as you love them. Nothing will come between you. "To die in a birthing bed for a man who already has four sons. He rode each of his wives to death."
Your father is turning red-faced, but you know your mother well enough to see the relief hiding there among the fear. Your words are not lies; it was a death sentence. And now her daughter will go off to become a princess and later a queen instead of a plain wife to a bitter man.
"That will not be your fate." Valarr assures, "I know this is a difficult adjustment for you, Lord Cafferen, but I assure it is in your house's favor to agree to our marriage. We will take good care of her."
"You mean to ... share her between you?" Father chokes.
To him this is savagery; to you it is easy to imagine. Your body pressed flush to Valarr's chest, his lips to your throat. His hardness against your stomach. Aerion thrusting into you from behind, rocking you against Valarr. You can think of nothing better than being shared between them.
Any child you have will be Targaryen regardless. You wonder how many children you might be able to grant them, how many times they will stuff you full until you are round with child. Your face reddens at the thought.
You've heard many whispers from other girls, fresh wives, and serving girls. Beddings are a topic of many conversations, and you want to know what all the fuss is about. You've no doubt they will show you with word and action alike.
"She will doubly be taken care of." Aerion replies, tapping the hilt of the blade embedded in the table until it wiggles in place.
"It's alright, father," You smile at him, trying to assuage his disgust. "This is what I want."
"To be passed between two men like a whore?" Father's tone has a bite to it that feels like a hard smack to your cheek. There's anger in his eyes. This is several disrespects all stacked one on top of the other. Arriving with little word, killing his friend, demanding his child, and making it clear that it will not be a marriage of the Faith but instead a marriage of Valyrian custom.
You know his pride has been wounded, but his words feel like blades all the same. Is it so shameful to want to be loved so completely? There are far worse things. After all, you will be the queen consort someday.
"Careful." Aerion drawls, pulling the blade from the wood. His hand is comfortable around the handle, the dagger catching the candlelight from the chandelier above. "I might take offense."
You would not see him use it if it can be avoided. Hoping to turn the conversation before anger spreads further, you ask, "We leave on the morrow?"
Valarr nods, "We brought with us a carriage; the travel will be comfortable."
A Targaryen carriage will no doubt be plush and luxurious in comparison to the one you have always known. You imagine red velvet and drapery. If you ask nicely, perhaps you might convince one or both of them to ride with you for company.
Your father stands, reaching for the sack; blood has started to seep over the plate onto the wood below. "Best you leave tonight. No doubt King's Landing will be eager to receive you."
Both princes look at your father in unison. Aerion smiles with his dragon's maw. "We'll leave on the morrow, Lord Cafferen, and you will continue to be honored to have received us."
This you know to be a threat. It's in the way he says it, matter of fact, a shine to his eyes. Like he wants your father to disagree, like he wants to add his head to the bag on the table. You love your parents; you'd not see them harmed because of your father's stubbornness.
And yet, you find yourself saying nothing. The quiet stretches.
Father nods, and that is that. The tension breaks.
Aerion turns to you, dismissing everyone else at the table in its entirety. "I do think we have some light left to view your gardens."
It seems like a good idea to separate everyone, especially Aerion. So you stand, having eaten little, and hold your hand out in the air, waiting. Valarr shifts first, meeting your hand with his elbow as Aerion walks on your other side.
You take them from the room, no words said upon your exit, just the quiet whisper of your mother's voice once you are gone. Comforting father perhaps, or counseling him not to act. Or the opposite, seeking comfort and asking for action. Time will tell; for now you focus on what matters most.
Valarr and Aerion. Your time together, the start to your future.
There is no one in the Godswood when you enter. It's silent except for the fountain and the rustle of wind through the trees. You wind down the same path your feet have touched your entire life. They follow willingly, to your pleasure, bothering to take in the sight of it even though you are certain to them it is plain.
Valarr feels right beneath your hand, sturdy, reliable, perfect. And Aerion, some divine beast, smoke drifting from his nostrils as he keeps you in the corner of his eye. Everything is just right.
"What is ... am I ... Aerion?" Valarr has paused, confusion curling across his mouth. He looks at you, at your hand, at Aerion.
Aerion tilts his head, lifting a pale brow. "Alright, cousin?"
Valarr blinks. "Of course." He smiles, sweet as summer wine, and keeps walking.
You stare at him not so convinced. "Are you sure?"
Valarr reaches to pat your hand. "Certainly, I am with you."
That perks you right up as you head for under the red maple tree. There is a well loved bench beneath it, placed there so you would stop sitting in the dirt and grass when you were younger. You settle on it now, the three of you barely fitting against the stone.
With so little space you are squeezed up between them, much to your delight. Thighs pressed to theirs, shoulders to their arms. You're warm, comfortably surrounded.
"It is a lovely garden." Valarr says.
You smile at the lie. "Thank you, my prince."
Aerion lifts an arm and plucks free one of the red leaves, turning it in his fingers. It suits him somehow, the red of it. The casual gesture.
"I'm so glad you both came."
Aerion flicks the leaf away and brings his fingers instead to your chin. "If you are so glad, then you should greet me as such."
Your body thrums with the touch. The look in his eyes. Valarr's hand is on your leg. You feel him lean in, princely lips to your cheek as Aerion's find your mouth.
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x m!stark!reader
Rating: M
Word Count: 2379
Requested By: Anon
Synopsis: You haven't seen Aerion since you found out you were soulmates, but that hasn't stopped him from teasing you constantly.
Verse: Once I've Got You Masterlist ; Part 2 ; can be read standalone
A/N: Thank you for this request anon, I had a blast writing this and doing the texts. I just love their back and forth.
Content Tags: male reader, reader is a first born Stark, alternative verse - modern setting, modern Westeros, soulmates bond, red string of fate, aristocratic roles, flirting, inferred intimacy, sexual thoughts, long distance relationship, jealousy
Your phone dings. Fishing it out of your pocket, you tap the notification, staring down at it. Another one.
Aerion is doing this on purpose. You rub your thumb along the side of your phone case, lost in thought. The few days spent together when he found you were spent overwhelmingly preoccupied.
Distracted by the shape of his waist and the feel of warmth beneath your hands. The red string around your wrist and nothing else between you. Just that red, ever-present line between your wrist and his, while his hands clung white-knuckled to the sheets.
There was some talking. Late night conversations, sharing of interests, whispered hopes, and when he left to drive home, a steady understanding between you. A not yet, but soon. A shared secret, a secret wish.
Your phone with a folder full of photos of him, some in particularly intimate poses. Flushed cheeks, sticky chest, reaching hands. Others with takeout between you, or his sleeping face smushed against a hotel pillow.
Texts sent back and forth usually at night, not always. Calls that come in when everyone else is asleep. It feels half like a game and half like torture. These moments that can never be more than words and pictures, whispered voices through speakers. Now you'll see him again. Play the role of Lord Stark and entertain men twice your age.
Your father is past such things now. You're old enough, and so he is pleased not to bother himself with the pursuits of peacekeeping and respecting the royal line. Considering the last time you were in a room with a member of the royal line, you had him on his knees with drool on his chin and tears in his eyes; you're not sure you're doing the whole respecting royalty thing right.
Still, you have to admit you're eager to see him even if he's been doing this thing the last few months that makes you want to throttle him before dragging him into a closet. Leave him flushed red and panting, back bruised, with finger-shaped marks along his ass.
He's doing this by design. Teasing. There's no other word for it.
You made a point to follow his socials, just like he did yours. But yours, unlike his, is full of things like the hunting trip you went on, drinks at a bar, dinner with a few friends, and the hot springs. Aerion, however, has taken a different angle. Shirtless selfies, shots from the gym, low-riding swim trunks. Pics of his dragon back tattoo.
All out there for the world to see. All out there for you to see.
You know he's doing it on purpose. All the while he's got this new accessory in every shot, a black leather cufflet with a wolf's head molded on it, covering up the red string around his wrist.
You've made it a point not to read the comments, lest you find yourself on a plane early. You're not blind; you know he's fucking perfect, but you don't need anyone else to tell you that. So instead you avoid the comments and instead focus on the cuff. Your sigil, your mark. Yours.
You stuff the phone back into your pocket and sigh. There's glass between you and the hired driver at least, but still, you're eager to arrive. Not that you'll be able to greet him.
Most of the important people in Westeros are going to be sipping flutes of champagne in Summerhall tonight. You are one of those people, and you've made a point to dress the part. There's no doubt that you are one of them, high society mingling with the rest of high society.
Though you know you're now quite like them. You never have been. Too serious, too stuck in your old ways, or so they all say. Traditional. Wasting your time under some ancient faced tree. Clinging to rules most of the country has put to rest. Someday your body will go in the catacombs of Winterfell, just like all that came before you.
They say you're strange. You say they can kiss your ass.
The car comes to a stop, and you don't waste long to slip out onto the cobbled drive in front of Summerhall. There are other people arriving. Some are leaving their cars with well dressed bellboys or loitering as they wait for others.
You've come alone so you don't bother. That and you can't help but want to see him. That pull is drawing you further into the building. You will the string not to guide you. To not give you away, hidden as it is beneath your sleeve. Aerion will be here; you can find him on your own.
Gossip moves too quickly to risk it. But your mind is stuck on that last post. A bathroom mirror shot, drink glass in hand, button up undone all the way to his waist. A barely visible start to a new tattoo you have not seen on his chest and still swollen collarbone piercings.
You want to grab him by the hair and tell him to stop posing like a whore. You also want to rip his fucking clothes off and see what else he has done in your absence.
Underneath all of it, the sweltering, ever-present pulse of missing him lingers among all the rest. Missing the drawl of his voice, the arrogant speeches, the bratty complaining, the way he sprawls in his sleep, and the high-pitched sound he makes when you do something just right.
"Stark." A voice comes from your left, and your head turns, following the sound to the person. Valarr hovers to the side, leaning beside one of Summerhall's many stained glass windows. Out of all the Targaryens before you found out about Aerion, Valarr was the only one you really knew at all beyond passing introductions.
The two of you spoke often enough in university. Were in the same fencing club. Went to many of the same parties. He's a nice enough guy, intelligent, driven, desperate to please his father. Women crawl over themselves in the hopes he knocks them up.
From what you can tell he's pretty loyal to his new girl. Red string to red string. And you don't blame him; she is gorgeous. You can see her across the room, pink flowing hair, and tawny skin. Sparkly dress, legs for days. Red string around her wrist on display.
"Valarr." You walk over to him, falling into that familiar handshake, back slap greeting every Ivy League asshole knows.
"You the only Stark?" He asks, snagging a passing glass of champagne to hand to you.
"That's right." You glance around the room, looking for the suit you saw in the post. Red and black like always. A golden dragon stitched to the upper sleeve. You spot Daeron, wine glass in hand, but no Aerion.
"Have you met Kiera?" He asks.
You grin; leave it to Valarr to immediately make an attempt to show off his new fiancée the first opportunity he gets. "I have not, but I'm sure you're about to change that."
"Yes, I am." He lifts a hand and waves the woman over. She seems eager enough to come, sliding up arm to arm with Valarr. She's gorgeous in person, you admit that much, though your eye is stuck searching for a particular person with silver hair, not pink.
You introduce yourself, and she does in turn. You cordially shake her hand, compliment her dress, pat Valarr's arm, and make your excuses before he can drag you into a twenty minute conversation about one thing or another.
Normally you'd be pleased enough to hide out with him; he's good company, but you can't stop looking around. Searching. Silver hair, silver hair. There. You turn and meet eyes with Maekar Targaryen.
Your gaze immediately pulls away, hoping he didn't see the askance in your eyes. Fuck. He's walking toward you.
Maekar asks the same thing Valarr did in different words, "Your father with you?"
"Afraid not, your grace. I've come in his stead. It's always a delight to see Summerhall." You reply, giving another fast look around the room. No Aerion. Where the fuck is he?
"Which of my troubles are you searching for?" Maekar asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. When you stare at him in surprise, he grunts, "Oh, don't look so fucking shocked; it wasn't my silver you were looking for. Aerion or Aegon?"
You have no idea how to answer that without giving yourself away. No one knows about you and Aerion yet. Neither of you knew how to address those words out loud, knowing all it might change. But here Maekar is waiting for your answer.
"Darling!"
Maekar turns without thought, and to your great relief, Dyanna Dayne arrives quickly. Her heeled feet moving right up to her husband, hand to his chest. "I've just discovered the table with the stuffed figs; you spoil me!"
You watch the prince, known for his severity, go lax around the edges. His hand finds her waist, pleasure lifting the corner of his mouth. It's sweet. Somehow, dangerously, you now relate. "Did you find the honey and lemon ones?"
She leans in conspiratorially. "I did, you perfect bastard."
Maekar snorts, and you use that as an opportunity to make a quick getaway. You don't find Aerion anywhere. Not by the food tables, the bar, or any of the varied seating. Irritation claws at you as you drain your glass and go to the bar to get something stronger.
You fly across Westeros, and yet he's off somewhere in Summerhall you cannot easily go. You find a spot against the wall, pulling out your phone. Drink in one hand, phone in the other, you smash out a text.
The reply doesn't come right away. You sip your drink, chewing at your cheek before you feel the vibration.
Your eyes narrow at the text. You know damn well he's not at the Red Keep. Some arrogant part of you is certain he would not miss the chance to see you again. Still, he's being a fucking brat. You take another sip of your drink as you consider your answer.
Fine. You're not too proud to play this game.
You glance around the room, taking stock of who is in attendance. Plenty of your father's friends, familiar crowds. Old money wives and sweet barely eighteens looking for men like you to latch on to. The amount of marriage proposals you've turned down is bordering on ridiculous at this point.
Still, there are a few around your age.
Your phone buzzes. You ignore it, pushing off the wall. It buzzes again. You smirk, walking toward a group of men you knew in college. No one of importance, no one memorable. But enough to catch Aerion's attention.
Another buzz.
You give it a quick glance before you reach them.
"Hey." You greet, with a wave, shoving your phone in your pocket.
Greetings go up between you, small talk, and easy conversation. You know you made the right choice, though, because there's Steffon Fossoway, always reaching too far for what he can't have. It must be exhausting always trying to climb the ladder.
He's got you in his sights, which is what you wanted, because somehow he and his buddy have switched places. Steffon is next to you now on the couch you've settled on. His knees face yours, eagerness barely contained as he regales you about some competition he won recently. You didn't actually bother to hear what type it was, too preoccupied.
You're waiting for your phone to buzz.
Steffon throws his arm along the back of the chaise, shifting further into your space. You don't lean in, but you don't need to. Your phone buzzes and you smile. This to Steffon is a success. He thinks he's made you smile. Not so.
You fish your phone out of your pocket, tilting your screen to keep it out of sight as you read the message.
"That's impressive," You say without much thought. Steffon preens like a bird.
You shove your phone back in your pocket. That must be what does it, because you spot a fast moving streak of silver coming toward you. About time.
"Aerion!" Steffon greets, eager to kiss a prince's ass too. "Join us."
Your dragon looks every part of it, crisp suit jacket, button-up, pressed trousers, not a hair out of place. You've missed him far more than you want to admit.
Your lips part to greet him, but what comes out instead is, "I thought you were in King's Landing."
The chaise you're sitting on isn't big enough for three people. There's barely half a foot to the armrest. Aerion deposits himself into that minuscule space. You grunt in surprise before your body immediately betrays you and your arm curls around him so he doesn't fall over the arm. Aerion drapes himself into your side, like a cat, like a dragon.
Your chest feels warm and tight at the same time. You think of the lighter in your pocket, the wolf cuff on his wrist, and the way he smells.
Without thought, your head tilts, nose brushing through silver hair to take a slow breath. Soaking in the smell of hearth fire, cedar, and smoke. Everyone around you gets the idea without much fuss.
You feel Steffon shift away, face ruddy with embarrassment. Several people are whispering to each other, taking note of the new relationship. Aerion has certainly said fuck subtlety. Jealous brat.
Maekar is staring at you. Great. That's great. You're about to be grilled by the guy that runs the entire Westerosi army.
And yet your arm has not left its spot pressed into his side. Your face is still partially hidden in his hair. You can't bring yourself to mind. Not with his arm looping over your shoulders; you are claimed in the eyes of all that see you.
Rating system follows the same format as Archive of our Own.
🪩 LANE FOSTMAN
[Rating: M] An Ocean of Guilt and Pride ~ ftm!reader
Coming to grips with being trans is hard, to your surprise Lane makes it easier. Lane makes it worth doing.
