[stellav1va]

Find Your Way Around <3

Tzuyuluvs -> stellav1va

Disclaimer - These works are only fiction. They are not real and do not represent the idol/character(s) I wrote about. This is purely what I think about them/their personalities and what fits my story the best.

❥ masterlists | wips | about me | dni | rules | tags | anons |

❥ I am 19, there will be no smut on this blog but I do have a separate one just for that.

I support Palestine. This is a fuck Israel blog.

<3

[the-darklings]

YOUR 'BETTER BOBBY' FIC WAS SO GOOD! if you ever felt inspired would LOVE to read more about them. maybe another entity attacks them and they get separated? and alone and lost, reader can't help but miss the real Bobby ahhh. anyway, love you, thank you for writing!

I'm so glad you're all loving this idea, because inspiration hit me so hard I wrote this in one sitting. Continuation to this. Def let me know if you wanna see more 👀 warnings: horror (finally got to write my true love), and some gore (nothing explicit/implied) series masterlist.

You've been here long enough that you've stopped counting the hallways.

That, in hindsight, should probably scare you the most. The fact that it doesn't scare you anymore.

The yellow used to make your skin crawl, that specific shade of institutional sick. Now it's just... the colour of home. Better Bobby's taught you that. Through sheer repetition of safety.

Every time he pulls you into a new room and checks the corners before letting you sit down. Every time he angles his body between you and a doorway without thinking about it. Or when he hands you something to eat. You've stopped asking where the food comes from. That's another question that goes in circles every time you try it. He watches you until you take a bite, satisfied, like feeding you is the only task on a list he takes very seriously.

You have a room now. Your room. He found it for you three (days? rotations? sleeps?) ago, deeper in Level 0 than you'd been before, tucked behind a series of turns that he walked so confidently you wondered if he'd planned the route in advance.

It's quieter than the others. The carpet is thicker, the hum lower, and there's a warm patch on the floor near the far wall where some buried pipe must be running. Better Bobby dragged every blanket he'd scavenged into a pile on that warm spot and when you'd looked at him he'd shrugged, one shoulder, earring catching the fluorescent light.

"What? You get cold."

Real Bobby used to steal the covers.

You try not to make the comparison. You try so hard. But Better Bobby makes it impossible because he's everything real Bobby was on your best days. Distilled and concentrated, with all the carelessness burned off.

He touches you constantly. Not sexually, just contact. His hand on the back of your neck when you walk. His chin on your shoulder when you're sitting together. His fingers finding yours in the dark when the lights flicker, which they do sometimes. And in those brief, stuttering seconds of blackness you can hear things moving in the walls and Better Bobby's grip tightens. He says I'm here like it's a fact of physics. Like his presence beside you is as fundamental and non-negotiable as gravity.

It's a Thursday, you think, or what you've decided is Thursday—you've started naming the days by feeling, which probably means you're losing it—when everything goes wrong.

You're walking. Better Bobby's slightly ahead of you, one hand trailing the wall, talking about something. He talks to you the way real Bobby used to, a constant low-level narration.

Except Better Bobby's commentary is about the architecture of this place, which hallways are safe, which ones echo differently than they should. The way the carpet changes texture near certain thresholds you should know about. You're half-listening, comfortable in the drone of his familiar voice, when he stops abruptly.

You almost walk into his back.

"Bobby?"

He doesn't answer. His head tilts slightly, the way a dog would listen toa distant sound. His whole body goes rigid in a way you've never seen before. Better Bobby doesn't tense up. Better Bobby is languid and easy and always, always calm.

"Bobby, what—"

"Don't move."

His voice is different. Stripped of the warmth, the lazy drawl, all the honeyed softness he pours over you. What's left is flat and hard. Something in your hindbrain fires that hasn't fired since you got here because Better Bobby has kept you so safe that you forgot what fear tasted like.

You taste it now. Bright and metallic at the back of your throat.

The lights flicker abovehead. Not the usual gentle stutter or dimming it does at random intervals. This is violent, a seizure of light, and in the strobe of it you spot something at the end of the hallway.

You can't process it. Your brain tries and slides off the shape the way water slides off wax. It's too tall, and wrong. So wrong. It takes up too much space for its size, like it's pressing against the dimensions of the hallway from the inside, and it's looking at you with something that isn't a face.

Better Bobby shoves you behind him. Both hands this time. Hard.

"Go."

"I'm not leaving you—"

"Go. Left, left, straight, third door. I'll find you." He looks over his shoulder at you and his eyes are dark and flat. Ancient in a way that makes your stomach drop because for just a second—just a flicker, shorter than the lights—the thing looking out from behind Bobby's face isn't Bobby, either. "Baby. Run."

You run.

Left, left, straight, except there's no third door. There's no door at all.

The hallway stretches and bends and the carpet under your feet changes from rough to damp to something that feels horribly organic so abruptly you almost skid. You're running and the fluorescent yellow is shifting with you, deepening in increments, and the walls are getting narrower.

The ceiling goes lower suddenly and you realise, with a lurch of animal terror, that you're not on Level 0 anymore.

You don't know when it changed. There was no door, no threshold, no moment. The hallways just... became somewhere else. Like you walked through an edit. A jump cut in reality.

You stagger to a stop. Your breathing is so loud it fills the quiet corridor.

It's dark here. Not quite pitch black, mercifully. There's light, but it's coming from somewhere wrong. Faintly blue, sourceless, the colour of television static.

The walls aren't yellow anymore. They're concrete instead. Industrial. Stained with something you refuse to look at closely. The ceiling is a mess of exposed pipes and dead wiring, and water (you hope desperately it's water) drips in a strange pattern that sets your teeth on edge

It's cold here. You're shaking, you realise a moment too late.

You press your back against the concrete wall and slide down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and try to make yourself small. Try to make yourself invisible. Because Better Bobby isn't here and without him you're nothing in this place.

Just soft, warm, alive thing in a place that is none of those things.

That's when you see it. From the corner of your eye.

It assembles itself in pieces in the dark, the way a photograph develops, the way something reveals itself to you only once it's already too close.

Teeth first.

A grin. Too wide and white, wrong, hanging in the blue-black dark about thirty feet down the corridor. Human teeth in a human smile except there are too many of them and the smile is too wide. It's not attached to anything you can see, either. Just the grin, suspended, luminous. The way a Cheshire cat would look if the Cheshire cat wanted to kill you.

It doesn't move. You don't breathe.

Then it's twenty feet away.

You didn't see it move. You didn't blink. Not once. It was thirty feet and now it's twenty and the grin hasn't changed, not even slightly. The same frozen rictus of delight, and you understand with a sick, cold certainty that it's not walking toward you. It's just... closer. Like the distance between you is a thing it can edit. A number it can change at will.

Fifteen feet. The grin widens. You didn't think it could widen.

You can see more of it now, or rather you can see the shape of more of it. The suggestion of a body behind the smile, darker than the dark around it, a silhouette that doesn't quite hold its edges. And the sound. There's a sound now, low and wet, like someone trying to laugh through a mouthful of something thick. A gurgling, hitching, delighted sound.

It's happy to see you. Whatever this thing is, it's so, so happy that you're here.

Ten feet. You can feel the cold coming off it. Not temperature, exactly, something else. An absence. A pulling. Like it's drawing the warmth out of the air between you one degree at a time and feeding the grin with it.

You open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out.

"Close your eyes."

The voice comes from directly behind you.

You didn't hear him arrive. You didn't hear footsteps or breathing or the rustle of fabric. He's just there, the way he's always just there. His hand closes over your eyes from behind, firm, warm, his palm flush against your face, fingers curving over your brow.

"Close them. Keep them closed. Don't open them until I tell you to."

Better Bobby's voice is calm. Completely, impossibly calm. The same tone he uses when he's telling you to go back to sleep after the lights flicker. But underneath it—deep underneath, in a register you feel more than hear—there's something else now. An edge that doesn't sound like Bobby at all.

His hand lifts off your eyes. You keep them shut. You squeeze them so tight you see colours behind your lids. Bright, bursting phosphenes, and you press your face into your knees and you hear him move away from you. Toward it.

Then the sounds start.

You can't categorise them. You won't.

There's a tearing sound. Not fabric, or paper; something denser, wetter, something with resistance. A sound like a dog shaking water from its fur except heavier and it ends in a crack that reverberates through the concrete floor and up through your spine.

The gurgling laughter changes pitch. Goes higher. Then higher still. Then it's not laughter anymore, it's something between a shriek and a frequency. A sound that vibrates in the roots of your teeth, and underneath all of it is a low rumbling that you realise is coming from Better Bobby. A sound no human throat should make, a sound like tectonic plates grinding in the dark.

There's a splash. Something hisses, like water on a hot pan. The shrieking cuts out—not fades, cuts, abruptly, like someone hit a switch—and then there's a long, wet, dragging sound that moves away from you down the corridor and fades into the pipes and the dark.

Silence.

There's a ringing in your ears. Your fingers feel numb, heavy. You're biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood in your mouth.

Footsteps. Normal ones. The soft pad of sneakers on concrete.

"Okay, baby. You can open your eyes now."

You do. Better Bobby is standing in front of you, looking down at you with that soft, tilted expression. Same white tee. Same denim shorts. Trusty camera over his shoulder. Not a drop of anything on him. Not a wrinkle. His hair isn't even mussed any more than usual. His earring catches the faint blue light and throws a tiny star onto the concrete wall and he's smiling at you, gently, like you just had a bad dream and he's here to tell you it's morning.

There's nothing in the hallway behind him. Nothing on the floor. No sign that anything was ever there at all, except a faint smell. Ozone, copper and deeper beneath that, an almost rotten stench. You try to examine it but it's already fading.

You don't ask. You can't ask.

Your body moves before your brain does. You launch yourself off the floor and into him so hard he actually rocks back a step. Better Bobby, who's never been moved by anything in your presence, who stands in front of horrors like a wall moves this time. Your arms lock around his neck and you bury your face in his chest.

You're shaking. So violently that it's almost convulsive, these full-body tremors that you can't control, and the sound coming out of you isn't crying exactly. It's more animal than that, a high keening thing that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any room left for embarrassment but you don't, you used it all up being terrified.

Better Bobby catches you. He doesn't stumble again. His arms come around you and they're solid and warm. He holds you so tight that the shaking has nowhere to go, like he's absorbing it into himself, and one hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your ear against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, steady, so steady, and how is he so steady, how is he always so steady—

"Shhh. I got you. I'm here. It's gone."

You can't stop. You're gripping his shirt in both fists, knuckles blanching, and you're gasping against his collarbone and he just...

He holds you. Doesn't rush it. Or tell you you're okay or that it wasn't that bad or any of the things real Bobby would say in later months to make you feel silly for being scared. He just holds on and rocks you, the smallest movement, his cheek resting on top of your head.

"You're safe, baby. Nothing touches you. I promise. Nothing ever touches you."

Your voice comes out cracked and ruined. "What—what was that, what did you— how did you—"

He hums gently. "Don't worry about it."

"Bobby, that thing, it was—its face, it was smiling, it was—"

"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you. Tips your chin up with his knuckle. That lazy smile, easy and warm and so perfectly Bobby it makes your chest splinter. "I know what it was. It's gone now. Don't worry about it."

"How did you get rid of it?" you rasp.

His thumb strokes your jawline. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

He looks at you. For a moment something flickers behind his eyes. Something vast and patient and very, very old. Then it's gone, and he's just Bobby again, warm-eyed and soft-mouthed, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"I told you, baby. Nothing gets past me." He kisses your forehead. Slow. Gentle. His lips are warm and the concrete corridor is freezing around you. You lean into him like he's the last source of heat in the world. "Come on. Let's go home."

He takes your hand.

You let him lead you.

He leads you back through the concrete and the pipes and the blue-dark, his thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles, and you don't look behind you.

Not even once. Because whatever he did in that corridor is something you have decided you don't need to see the aftermath of, and also because some part of you—the part that still thinks clearly, the part that Better Bobby hasn't quite reached yet—understands that there is no aftermath.

That whatever Better Bobby does to the things in the dark, he does it completely. He doesn't leave evidence. He doesn't leave remains. He unmakes them, and he does it wearing Bobby's crooked smile, Bobby's silver earring and Bobby's cut-off shorts like a costume. Like a skin, like a love letter written in someone else's handwriting.

The concrete gives way to carpet. Just as abruptly. The blue darkens to yellow again. The cold lifts. The hum returns, and for the first time ever you're grateful for it. The way you'd be grateful for the sound of traffic outside your apartment window because it means you're back in the world, or at least, back in the only world you have left.

Your room. The warm patch. The blankets.

Better Bobby guides you down, wrapping the blankets snug around you. He tucks himself behind you and you press back into his chest, his arm winding around your waist. You're still shaking faintly, these little aftershock tremors, and he absorbs every single one.

"Sleep, baby. I'm right here."

And you close your eyes and you think about real Bobby.

You think about the apartment in Santa Clara. The kitchen counter where he used to roll joints with the window open because you didn't like the smell building up inside. The way his camera equipment colonised every flat surface, cables and lenses and that one light diffuser he was so particular about. You used to complain it and he used to say babe, genius needs room to breathe and you'd throw a dish towel at his head while smothering a grin.

You think about the night you fell in love with him. Not the day you realised it (you'd known for a while by then) but the night it actually happened.

You sitting on the hood of his car in a parking lot off El Camino Real, sharing a joint, and he'd turned to you with the camera for once not in his hands and said, so disarmingly, you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and his face looked stripped of its usual cockiness. Bare. Scared. Young.

He was so young. You both were.

You wonder if he's sitting in that apartment right now with the TV on and the lights off, not really watching, just existing in the space you used to fill.

You wonder if he's looked at your toothbrush in the holder next to his. If he's opened the fridge and seen the leftovers you made two nights before you vanished (was it two nights? you're losing track of the real timeline, it's blurring at the edges, and that scares you more than the grin in the dark) and whether he ate them or whether they're still sitting there. Slowly going bad, a small decomposition that mirrors something larger in your life.

You wonder if he's picked up his pager. Scrolled to your name. Stared at it.

You wonder if his thumb hovered over the button the way it used to hover over the shutter release—that perfect hesitation, that half-second of do I or don't I—and whether he pressed it or whether he set the pager down and rolled over. Told himself he'd deal with it tomorrow the way he's been telling himself he'd deal with you tomorrow for months now.

You wonder if somewhere under the indifference and the exhaustion and the slow-growing cruelty there is still a version of Bobby who filmed you sleeping because the light was good. Who cut a Metallica shirt into a crop top with kitchen scissors and held it up like a trophy. Who said hold still, the light's doing something crazy on you and meant I love you, you're beautiful and couldn't say it any other way.

You wonder if that Bobby still misses you.

You wonder if he'd ever come looking.

Better Bobby pulls you closer. His mouth finds the spot behind your ear. The one real Bobby discovered during your second date together. The one that makes everything go quiet inside your skull.

"You're thinking again," he murmurs.

"I know."

"About him."

You don't answer. You don't have to.

Better Bobby is quiet for a long time. His breathing is slow and even against your back. The lights hum their tuneless hymn in your ears. Somewhere deep in the walls, something moves again, and you tense at the scraping sound.

Better Bobby's arm tightens around you. A reflex, instant, protective, the one thing about him that never feels performed.

"He's not coming, baby," he says softly. He doesn't say it meanly this time, either. Not triumphant. More so sad. Almost like he wishes it weren't true, for your sake. Because even this thing that wears Bobby's face and unmakes grinning horrors in the dark doesn't want to watch you grieve. "You know that."

You close your eyes.

You do know. Maybe you've known for a while now.

Maybe that's why you stay.

[stellav1va]

I JUST SAW TWICE LIVE

[mirai-lunar]

Objective: Survive.

★ A simple guide on how to survive the Invincible Variants. The stars range from one to five. One being the easiest to five being the most difficult. Fem! Reader.

Includes: Sinister Mark, Omni Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Goggles Mark, Veil Mark (Shiesty Mark), Masked Mark, Viltrum Mark

Warnings: Dark Content, Violence, Suggestive Themes, Yandere Behavior

Word Count: ~2.5k

Sinister Mark

★★★★★

-You’re fucked.

-If all the variants had a difficulty level, his would be extreme.

-One second he’s playing with your feelings. The next second he’s harshly biting into your neck.

-Your relationship in the beginning is going to be rough, if you can even call it a relationship.

-Reciprocating in any way is how you will survive.

-Bite him back. Claw at his face. Or just endure. None of these options do much, but it does amuse him. 

-One day, he returns to you, his mouth covered in blood. You mentally prepare for him to put you through hell again, but this time he just leans in close before resting his head in the crook of your neck.  

-Your body stiffens, but you don’t drop your guard just yet. 

- When he asks you what’s wrong, you frown before responding. 

- “It’s nothing. I just expected… the usual.” 

-He’d hum, his lips pressing against your skin. As he kissed your neck amorously, he’d speak swiftly.

- “You’d better get used to me. I’m not letting you leave.”

-Not a good thing to hear.

-But after that day, he’s… a bit softer with you. 

-Instead of speaking down to you, he now speaks to you. He asks some simple questions and my God, you had better respond.

-He’s possessive to the extreme. If someone just as much looks at you, then their head is coming clean off. You belong to him, and only him.

-Freedom? What freedom? You have no freedom. 

-Want to really knock him off guard? Be nice to him. Yes, this will be near impossible to do, but it will leave him trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with you.

-You can survive him, just barely if you can endure. If not then…

Omni Mark

★★✩✩✩

-You’ll be fine.

-When compared to other variants, he’s a safe option. 

-He’s calm. And that eases a lot of your worries.

-Just tell him that you trust him. Simple, right?

-Whenever he returns from his… outings, and you ask him how his day was, he’d smile and respond with a simple:

- “Uneventful.” 

-The blood on his outfit says otherwise.

-He could listen to you talk for hours. About the most mundane things too.

-Any issues you have, he will attempt to solve them. Sounds good, right?

-Well…

-If you mention a person you dislike, then he will kill them. So be careful who you mention.

-Freedom? Yes, you have freedom. He trusts you. 

-Don’t break that trust though. If you attempt to run away, he will find you. Expect a frown and some words from him once he does.

- “I expected more from you, Y/n.”

- Huge ‘I’m not mad at you, just disappointed’ energy.

-Most of the time he just hovers around in the sky as you run your errands. Unless you want him to accompany you. 

-Catches you off guard. A lot.

- “Hey.”

-You gasp when you hear his voice, your phone almost slipping from your hands. You turn around to face him.

-“Mark?” You said, your eyes wide with surprise. “You scared me. How long have you been floating there?”

- “A while,” he admitted. There was a bit of amusement in his voice. “...Reading fanfiction again?”

-The shock on your face says it all.

-Will consider your feelings if something he does bothers you, but will also remind you that he is far from good. 

-You survive because he pretty much takes care of you. Not too much to do on your part. 

Mohawk Mark

★★★★✩

-In for a dangerous ride with this one.

-He’s an emperor in his world, and he gets what he wants. If he likes you he’s just going to take you. Plain and simple. 

-This is another variant that thinks he owns you.

-Sure he’ll treat you well for the most part, but this heavily depends on how you act. 

-Most of the time he doesn’t mind your frowns when you’re upset, or your occasional sassy remarks. He thinks it's adorable. 

-But if your frowns turn into looks of pure hatred, and your sass is followed up with constant anger…if you become completely unbearable to him…he will kill you.

-(Main reason he’s at 4 stars)

-If none of this applies to you, then there’s no problem. He likes you a lot.

-He’s also horny a lot. Every night you don’t sleep with this gremlin he’s complaining about it. Good luck. 

-Freedom? Sure, you have freedom. You found a simple loophole. He leaves often, so just leave right after he leaves. 

-And be back before he gets back.

-If you’re not back when he calls for you then…

- “Where the fuck is she?!”

-Once he finds you… Privileges. Are. Gone. It only takes one screw up.

- “I wasn’t trying to run away,” you explained. “I was making my way back when you found me.” 

- “Sure you were. You can’t fucking fool me, Y/n.” 

-Whether what you were saying is true or not doesn’t matter to him.

- When he calls you by your actual name, and not some nickname, then you know he is not happy. 

-But if you apologize (and mean it) he’ll give you a few freedoms back. Definitely not all though. You’ll be at his side a lot more often now. 

-Just make sure he doesn’t find you if you plan on running away.

-Will you survive? Well, it depends on how you act. Just stroke that ego of his and you’ll be fine.

No Goggles Mark

★★★✩✩

-In for a wild ride with this one.

-This variant’s personality is chaotic, but lucky for you, he isn’t out to ruin your life. He just likes to have fun.

-If you can’t match his energy, let him know asap. This will save you a lot of emotional distress.

- “I’m not Invincible like you, Mark,” you calmly told him. “Could you be a bit… well a lot more careful with me?”

- “Okay! :)”

-He does care. So just talk to him whenever you’re scared. He will stop whatever he’s doing to respond. 

-Heck, he could be in the middle of destroying half a block of buildings, and come back to you for a split second to ask you how you’re doing. It’d be kinda sweet, if he wasn’t so destructive. 

-He’s a thrill seeker! So if your ideas are fun and/or challenging, then he’s on board. 

- “How fast can you fly to space and back?” You ask him. 

- “Just watch!” 

- Boom! Anddd he’s gone. 

-Freedom? Yes! You can do things! But you’re both doing those things together.

-You’ll almost always be around him, unless the situation is too dangerous for him to take you. 

-The best way to survive is to reciprocate his love for you. Tell him you love him too. Hug him. Rub his hair. 

-You could use his love for you to your advantage…

-For example, if you want to get away from him, just convince him to leave you somewhere you deem safe, and assure him you’ll be there when he gets back. 

-The second he leaves you race off.

-High risk though. If he finds you, you had better come up with a good excuse. If the excuse is good, then you’re fine. If not then…

-”You’re not trying to get away from me, are you Y/n?”

-That other side of him is terrifying. 

-If your personality is chaotic like his, you two will get along just fine. 

-”I always hated that place,” you grumbled, looking at the building you once worked at. He lit up.

“Want me to destroy it?” He asked you. You also lit up.

“Sure!”

-If you’re level-headed, you two would make for an interesting dynamic.

- “Let’s not jump off this building today Mark. I just finished eating,” you calmly told him.

- “Aww, well can we at least jump off a smaller building?” he asked. You sighed.

- “Well alright. As long as you hold on to me.”

-Your days will always be filled with chaos, but you’ll survive. 

Goggles Mark

★★★★✩

-Uh oh.

-This variant is manipulative and sadistic. You’re gonna have a bad time. 

- He won’t kill you, but he won’t hesitate to kill the people you love. 

-You could go on a long rant about how much of a monster he is and he’d just sigh. 

- “Well that was pointless Y/n,” he’d tell you. “You should consider thinking a bit more before responding so harshly to me.”

-He says this and he was the one that kidnapped you??

-The best thing to do in this situation is to try and get the fuck away.

-The next best thing is to remain calm, and try to reason with him.

-If you’re nice, then he’ll listen to what you have to say. That doesn’t mean he’s going to do what you say though, he’ll just listen. 

- You could trade affection for things you want. He actually likes this idea if you mention it. 

-Freedom? Haha… No. 

-You’re stuck with him. 

-If you somehow manage to get away from him, he’d actually be impressed. 

- “How long have you been planning that escape, Hm? A few days? Weeks?” He’d ask you.

-You’d remain quiet, refusing to reveal anything just in case you need to try it again. 

-After that though, the situation gets worse. You’ll have to literally beg him to let you do things. And if you get overwhelmed and burst into tears he’ll think you’re cute. 

-Will you survive? Yes. Will you have horrible trauma? Absolutely.

Veil Invincible (Shiesty Mark)

★★✩✩✩

-You’d be fine with him. 

-He’s arrogant, but not towards you. He’s the type that would get along with any personality. 

-If you're sassy? He thinks you’re funny.

-Shy? He’ll do the talking. 

-Confident? He’ll feed off your energy.

-Just don’t be a killjoy though! He’s not a fan of people who spoil the fun. 

-Freedom? Yes, you have freedom! Don’t go too far though. And yell if you need him!

-If you actually do end up yelling for help, he’ll be by your side in less than a second. You’ll have to stand behind him as he beats whomever was threatening you into a bloody mess. 

-If you try running away, he’ll also be by you in a second, lifting you off the ground in a playful, yet warning manner.

- “Anddd where do you think you’re going?” He'll ask you. You sheepishly rub the back of your head. 

- “Nowhere.” 

-He thinks you're the cutest thing ever. 

-Want to throw him off guard? Lift that veil of his ever so slightly and kiss him on his jaw. He loves it.

-If you’re kind then that’s a plus. Heck, you can even be mean to him sometimes. It isn’t too much of a problem. Just don’t make it a habit. 

-“There’s only so much a person can take for fuck’s sake.” 

-He wouldn’t hurt you. But he would revoke flight privileges. So if you’re mean often, you’ll have to walk often. 

- “My feet are killing me,” you grumbled, trudging on the ground. He’d respond from the sky above, laughing a little. 

- “Just apologize and I’ll fly you the rest of the way!” 

-You’ll survive. He can’t stay mad at you. 

Masked Mark

★✩✩✩✩

-You’re safe with him. 

-He cares about you a lot.

-If he’s ever worried about something, just hold his hands and tell him that everything is going to be alright. That always puts him at ease.

- You are his everything. He loves you so much. You could be glaring daggers at him and he still thinks you're precious.

-Freedom? Well, yes and no. 

-As long as it’s safe, then yes, you can go do some things. But he’s going with you. If it’s not safe? Then no, he’ll go for you instead. 

-And please, stay put while he’s gone. 

-If you don’t, then he will panic.

- “Y/n, I’ll take you where you want to go. You don’t have to run off,” he murmured. You frowned before responding. 

- “What if I don’t want to go with you?” 

- “You have to. It’s too dangerous.”

-He’s fine with you being mad at him, he kind of expects it.

-But if you actually like him, then the two of you would be inseparable. He’ll rest his head on your lap as you speak to him. 

- “You worry too much Mark. We’re here together, that’s all that matters.” 

- “...Yeah. Thanks Y/n.”

-He always treats you well, and will help you with any problems you face. Just ask, and he’ll be there. 

-You often forget that he’s dangerous because he’s so kind to you. He's a completely different person when you're not around.

-You’ll survive, regardless of how you act. He won’t let you die while he’s breathing. 

Viltrum Mark

★★★★✩

-Oh, you’ll survive. 

-Ironically, he’s probably the safest option.

-Mainly because he wouldn’t let anyone near you, let alone touch you.

-But you trade your freedom for safety.

- “All you have to do is listen and obey. Do I make myself clear?” He told you. 

-That cold look of his left you uneasy. 

-While he’s very direct, he does care for you. You’re left unaware of this little fact though.

-Freedom? Heavily depends on how you act. If you do what he says then he’ll let you do a few things. If not, then no. 

-You can be a bother to him, but if anyone else calls you that…

-“If you speak of her in that way again, I’ll rip off your head.”

-He doesn’t care who it is. Hell, it could be another viltrumite. Disrespecting you means disrespecting him. And he never tolerates disrespect. Sometimes, he doesn’t even bother to speak, he just immediately goes in for the kill.  

-To survive in the beginning, it’s best to just do what he says. After sometime maybe you could be a bit more rebellious. 

-You can also melt that icy exterior of his if you’re sweet. When you two are sitting alone, just rest your head against his arm. Or cuddle up to him. His body will stiffen at the warm affection. 

- “Thanks for sticking up for me,” you murmured. He remained quiet for a bit before responding. 

- “I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so bothersome.”

- “I know. Thanks a lot though.”

- “....”

-Overtime, he expresses his love for you. It may take a while though, depending on how you act. 

-You’ll survive, no problem. He’ll make sure of it. 

~

*Says I'm not writing about so many variants anymore.

*Proceeds to write about 8 of them. Smh.

[yasministration]

concussions and interruptions au m.list

ˋ°•*⁀➷ navigation, ꩜ smut, ❀ fluff, 𖤓 angsty/angry, 𖤐 funny, ♡ my fave!

synopsis: when you accidentally meet harry's parents for the first time, they quickly learn that you're a very sweet girl, but you have a very complicated family. slytherin!reader this list is arranged in chronological order, here are the fics in order of posting date

meet concussions and interruptions reader

✩ concussions and interruptions - You aren’t expecting to meet Harry’s parents for the first time while you share an intimate moment in the hospital wing after he sustains another quidditch injury (❀𖤐)

✩ who is she - your friends watch how affectionate you are with harry from across the courtyard, and briefly wonder if they've ever seen you so comfortable with a boyfriend before. (❀♡)

✩ after curfew - you and harry seem to forget his godfather is doing rounds when you sneak out after curfew (❀𖤐)

✩ my fault - harry feels as though you haven't been putting equal effort to get along with his friends, but the truth is that you're just sick and jealous of seeing him with hermione. (❀𖤓)

✩ nothing to say - even after all these years, there are still firsts for you to experience with your best friend. your best friend pansy, duh. (❀𖤐)

✩ tell me about him - daphne is the first of your friends to seriously ask you about your boyfriend, except you don't know where to start, and you also have a secret audience. (❀)

✩ stay the night - a small note with six words perhaps changes your entire relationship with harry overnight. (❀)

✩ it's a date - when harry and his parents see you in diagon alley, they are surprised to see the sudden change in behaviour you have at your parents' presence. but that won't stop harry from getting his kiss. (❀𖤓)

✩ heavy dresses, tight corsets - in the guise of having a sleepover with daphne, you go over to harry's house, where you can finally take this stupid dress off. (❀♡)

✩ the giant squid - harry and his friends find out you're afraid of the giant squid (❀𖤐)

✩ the glass room - you bring harry and his friends to meet your friend group in the glass room, hidden in the depths of the slytherin common room. (❀𖤐)

✩ people are watching - it seems that you begin to care less and less who gets to see the true side of your parents. and apparently, so do they. (❀𖤓)

✩ forgotten dance -  harry doesn’t care what you drag him to do at his first slytherin party as long as he’s with you. (❀♡)

✩ the talk - when james potter catches you and his son making out in his bedroom, he excitedly goes to tell his wife. but he isn't expecting her to call you both down for a talk no one can take seriously. (❀𖤐)

✩ in his arms - harry had been right when he told you not to go back home after graduation. but how could you not when your entire history laid there? (❀𖤓)

✩ my girl - after you failed to show up to dinner with the notts, your parents give a poor excuse as to why you aren’t there. but theo spreads the message to your friends, and they all become a little suspicious of what may have truly happened. (❀)

✩ hands full - sex with harry potter makes you lose your ability to think, even when his mother is speaking to him on the other side of the locked door. (❀꩜)

✩ pass the wrench - when james enters his living room and can't find harry to help him fix something, he decides you're fit to help with the job. after all, you're practically already his daughter in law. (❀𖤐♡)

✩ be my baby - another night at the potter household reveals that you love one of harry's least favourite songs, a.k.a his dad's all time favourite. (❀)

✩ baby fever - there are too many cute babies in diagon alley, and their innocent smiles and babbling voices make it difficult for you to focus on Lily Potter's story (❀)

✩ after noon - sirius and james are left at the potter household while lily, remus and harry are at hogsmeade. when you wake up from your peaceful slumber, they suggest a fun way to spend the day, but there’s one flaw to their plan: you can’t ride a bike. (❀)

✩ shopping spree - harry insists to see what you bought from your little shopping spree, even if it means getting a little worked up before dinner (❀)

✩ fitting room - fortunately for your shopping addiction (and unfortunately for your bank account), harry only seems to enable you whenever you go shopping. maybe a little too much. (❀)

other:

✩ introducing the friend groups

✩ how the friend groups react to the relationship

[stellav1va]

had my first manager shift today it went very well 👍

[pittsick]

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐋: sam & dean winchester ft. eater!reader.

© 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 : 2026.

summary: Little town in Ohio, multiple bodies have been found; skin eaten and ribs cracked. Sam and Dean expect another monster. A werewolf, a ghoul, a wendigo. But when they get there, nothing is what they have seen before... In the end, the monster is just another human.

cw: +18. 10.2k words. fem!reader. graphic gore (torn flesh, exposed organs, blood). cannibalism. murder and implied past murders. predatory behavior. body horror. blasphemous / distorted religious symbolism and imagery. guilt. self-harm ideation (starvation, biting self to resist urges). psychological distress. shame and self-loathing. fear and panic. implied sexual activity (non-explicit). threat of gun violence. dark themes of faith, God, damnation. reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!

The town didn’t have a name that mattered.

It was one of those places folded into the flat spine of rural Ohio, stitched together by cornfields and faith. A single main street with a feed store, a diner that closed at three, and a church that stood taller than anything else, white paint peeling like old sunburned skin. The kind of town where porch lights hum all night and everyone knows when a stranger’s car rolls in.

The sidewalks were cracked like old knuckles, weeds pushing through as if even the earth was trying to escape. Screen doors slapped shut in the evenings while radios murmured gospel through open windows, and the air always carried the faint smell of fertilizer and something metallic beneath it—something that clung to the back of the throat if you breathed too deeply. The cemetery rested on a slight hill behind the church, headstones leaning at tired angles, as though even the dead were weary of standing upright in a place that refused to change.

On Sundays, the congregation filled the pews with stiff collars and bowed heads, singing hymns that echoed too loudly in the hollow space.

The preacher spoke of sin like it was weather; inevitable, seasonal, rolling in whether you invited it or not. People here believed in hell with the same certainty they believed in harvests. They believed evil had claws and horns and glowing eyes. They never imagined it might look like a girl buying coffee at the diner, nodding politely, hands folded as if in prayer.

That’s why you don’t stay long in places like this, and that’s why it surprises you when you do.

They call it animal attacks at first.

Livestock torn apart in the early hours before dawn. Then a drifter found near the railroad tracks, ribcage opened like a hymnal, meat missing with surgical neatness but no knife wounds to explain it. No paw prints, no tire tracks, just blood soaked deep into the dirt and bones shining pale in the moonlight.

The papers say ritualistic, the sheriff says sick individual and the preacher says the devil walks among us.

Two days later, a waitress from the diner disappears on her way home.

After that, the word no one wants to say begins to creep through town like rot under floorboards: cannibal. It isn’t spoken aloud at first—it’s breathed behind cupped hands in grocery aisles, muttered over rotary phones late at night, written off as hysteria the moment it leaves someone’s mouth. But the evidence refuses to soften itself into something easier. The bodies, when they’re found at all, are wrong in a way that no animal could manage; flesh removed with deliberation, organs taken clean, bones left like pale offerings under open sky. Whatever is doing this isn’t wild. It isn’t mindless… It is choosing.

Men begin walking their wives to their cars after late shifts. Porch lights that once flickered lazily now burn until dawn, as if illumination alone could ward off something so intimate. Parents call their children inside before sunset, voices tight and brittle. The town shortens its hours; the diner closes earlier, the feed store installs a lock it hasn’t needed in twenty years. Every stranger becomes suspect. Every quiet neighbor suddenly looks different under scrutiny. The fear is not loud—it is constant, low, thrumming beneath conversations like a second heartbeat.

Sunday sermons swell in volume and urgency. The preacher speaks of Sodom, of wolves in sheep’s clothing, of flesh and consequence. He dabs sweat from his brow while the congregation nods, clutching Bibles like shields. They want it to be something supernatural, something with horns and fire and a name that can be cast out in prayer. What terrifies them more than the gore, more than the empty bedrooms and unanswered calls, is the possibility that the thing devouring their own might kneel beside them in the pews. That it might look like them, speak like them, bleed like them.

That’s when the black car pulls into town.

The engine of the Impala growls low and familiar as it rolls past the church and toward the sheriff’s office. Inside, Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes scanning the sleepy storefronts with a predator’s ease.

They hadn’t meant to pick up the case at all. It started as a blip in a police scanner thread, then a local news clipping buried three pages deep online: Rural Authorities Baffled by Livestock Mutilations. Sam had noticed the phrasing first; not attacks, not maulings but mutilations. He’d dug deeper from a library computer in Indiana while Dean refueled the car, pulling archived coroner summaries and sheriff’s statements that didn’t make it into print. 

No claw marks, no sulfur, no EMF spikes reported by any curious amateur ghost hunters in the area. Just flesh missing in specific patterns and a rising body count that felt purposeful. By the time Sam called Dean over to the screen, his voice had that edge it only gets when something is wrong in a way he can’t categorize.

“Ohio,” he mutters while driving, eyes on the never ending road. “Why is it always Ohio?” Beside him, Sam flips another page in the thin stack of printed articles of John’s journal on his lap. His brow is furrowed in that deep, thoughtful way that means something isn’t fitting right. “It’s not an animal,” Sam says quietly.

“No kidding.”

“There are no defensive wounds. No tearing. It’s… deliberate.” He swallows slightly. “I’m talking organs removed, muscle tissue consumed but not randomly.”

Dean glances over for a second, almost scoffing. “You saying we’ve got a gourmet werewolf?”

“I’m saying it doesn’t match anything I’ve read.”

Dean smirks. “Great, love when you say that.”

They’d thrown theories at it on the drive east. Wendigo—but there were no signs of prolonged isolation or cannibalistic frenzy, no half-eaten remains dragged into the woods. Ghoul—but ghouls preferred the dead, grave dirt under their nails and carrion on their breath. Werewolf—too surgical, and wrong moon cycle. Demon—no sulfur, no possession symptoms in town reports. 

Dean even suggested some backwoods cult, but the lack of ritual markings and the precision of the missing tissue dismantled that fast. Every option ended the same way: a dead end. Which meant either something new had crawled out of the dark or something old had never been given a name.

They don’t know you yet but you’ve been here your whole life.

This town isn’t a stop along the way; it’s the place that raised you, baptized you, watched you grow tall and quiet beneath its steeple shadow. You know every cracked sidewalk and sagging porch, you know which houses keep their lights on past midnight and which fields flood first in spring, you learned to ride a bike on these roads. 

Learned your Bible verses in that white church with the leaning cross, learned how to bow your head and pretend you were normal while something inside you stirred.

Your childhood bedroom still faces the cornfields—the wallpaper peeled when you were seventeen, curling at the corners like dried skin, and your father never fixed it. He doesn’t fix much anymore. The house smells like old coffee, of your mom’s perfume, sawdust and the faint copper tang you swear no one else can detect. You still sleep there some nights, staring at the ceiling while the porch light hums outside and trucks groan down the highway in the distance. You tell yourself that staying means you aren’t running, that staying means you’re braver than whatever lives inside your ribs.

The hunger has been worse lately.

Not wild, not rabid, oh no. That would almost be easier. No, it’s steady—reverent. Like a hymn sung too low to interrupt but too constant to ignore. It hums under your skin during Sunday service while the preacher speaks of flesh and sin. It coils tighter when hands join in prayer, when warmth presses shoulder to shoulder in the pew. You feel it most when the congregation says body and blood in unison, when communion wafers dissolve on tongues and the word sacrifice hangs heavy in the air. The irony does not escape you.

Three nights ago, it all became unbearable.

You told yourself you would drive: just drive until the feeling thinned. But you didn’t make it past the railroad tracks and he was already there—a drifter with a backpack and hollow eyes, someone no one in town would claim. The hunger isn’t violent at first; it’s intimate, it moves through you like a prayer answered wrong. When it finally took control, it was not frenzy but inevitability. It was flesh parted beneath your hands, warmth spilled over your skin, the smell of iron filled your lungs like incense. You didn’t stop until the ache quieted and the world fell silent again.

You never enjoy it. There is no thrill, no ecstasy, only relief so profound it feels holy. Like kneeling at an altar and finally being absolved. The gore doesn’t shock you anymore—the slick weight of muscle, the fragile crack of bone, the way the human body opens with terrible simplicity. What devastates you is the aftermath: the knowledge that you have taken something God once breathed into.

Afterward, you went to the creek like you did when you were a teenager, when it first started and you didn’t understand why your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You knelt in the mud and scrubbed at your skin until it burned, watching pink water swirl downstream, you whispered apologies into the dark—to Him, to your parents sleeping down the road, to the town that taught you about heaven and hell in equal measure. You asked for forgiveness the way other girls asked for love.

You don’t see yourself as a monster, because monsters are loud, obvious, they snarl and bare their teeth.

You are quiet, you bow your head in church, you say ma’am and sir, you hold doors open, you sit in the third pew from the front and sing hymns with a voice that never trembles.

You are not evil, just wrong.

The Winchester brothers roll into town just after noon, the Impala’s black frame cutting through the quiet like a bad omen. The church bell is ringing when they pass it—slow, heavy tolls that seem to press down on the air itself. Dean notices the way curtains shift in windows as they drive by, the way conversations on the sidewalk stall. Small towns always react like that: suspicion first and hospitality second.

By the time they park outside the sheriff’s office, Sam has already read every article twice.

Inside, the office smells like burnt coffee and old paper, a mounted deer head stares blankly from one wall. Sheriff Grady is thick-necked, red-faced, and exhausted in a way that suggests he hasn’t slept properly in days. Dean flashes a badge—federal, polished, convincing—and starts talking livestock patterns and possible animal migration. Sam fills in the blanks, calm and methodical, asking for autopsy photos, timelines, witness statements. The sheriff hesitates before handing over the file.

“You boys ever seen anything like this?” he asks, voice low.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ve seen strange.”

The sheriff studies them like he’s weighing how much to believe, then finally mutters, “You’re just in time, we found another one this morning.”

The crime scene sits just beyond the cemetery fence, tall grass bending in the wind like it’s trying to look away. A coroner’s van idles nearby and flies swarm thick and greedy in the humid air. Sam and Dean step under the yellow tape, gloves snapping tight over their hands.

The smell hits immediately: copper-heavy blood baked under the sun, layered with the sweet-sick rot of exposed viscera. It clings to the back of the throat, almost making them gag. Dean exhales through his nose. “Okay, that’s new.”

The body lies on its back, head tilted unnaturally toward the church steeple as if in accusation. The ribcage has been opened with disturbing neatness; not hacked, not torn, but parted. The sternum split clean, flesh stripped from the ribs in long, deliberate sections, muscles missing in symmetrical patterns along the thighs and abdomen. The cavity gapes open, empty where organs should rest and the heart is gone… so are portions of the liver.

No ragged edges, no scattered chunks, but just absence: long and heavy.

Flies crawl along exposed bone, dipping into dark hollows where warmth once lived. Blood has pooled beneath the spine and dried in thick, almost black sheets beneath him. “No sulfur,” Dean notes quietly, scanning with an EMF meter more out of habit than hope. “No claw marks,” Sam replies, crouching lower. He studies the edges of the wounds, fingertips hovering but not touching. “No tearing at connective tissue. It’s clean.”

Dean circles the body, boots flattening grass sticky with blood. “You ever see a wolf do this?” he mutters. “Because I haven’t.”

Sam doesn’t answer immediately but his jaw tightens slightly as he observes the way muscle has been separated from bone—not in frenzy, but with intention. The way joints were dislocated efficiently or the way nothing was wasted in certain areas.

Dean crouches beside him, lowering his voice. “Wendigo?”

Sam shakes his head faintly. “Wendigos tear, they hoard and they drag remains back to a nest. There’s no feeding pattern like that here.” Dean studies the open chest cavity again, grimacing. “Werewolf without the whole moonlight aesthetic?”

“No bite marks, no saliva traces.” Sam swallows, eyes tracing the precision again. “It’s almost… surgical.”

Dean straightens slowly, gaze drifting toward the church looming nearby, white paint glowing harsh against blue sky.

“Almost like it knew exactly what it wanted,” he mutters back at his brother. Sam stands too, staring out at the cornfields stretching endless and silent beyond the cemetery. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, he doesn’t say the cuts don’t look animal. He doesn’t say the removal patterns resemble something disturbingly deliberate, he doesn’t say that whatever did this wasn’t frenzied—it was controlled.

Instead, murmurs, “Whatever it is… it’s not sloppy.”

Dean glances at him. “You’re holding back.”

Sam’s expression shutters slightly. “I’m thinking.”

Dean studies the body one more time, jaw set hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me too.”

The bell above the diner door jingles sometime after the lunch rush has thinned, and you barely look up at first. The place smells like burnt coffee, fryer grease, and lemon disinfectant; familiar, comforting in a way that almost makes you forget the tension coiled beneath your ribs. You’re tucked into your usual booth by the window, cardigan sleeves pushed over your hands, a plate of untouched pie softening in front of you. You come here more out of habit than hunger, real hunger is something else entirely.

When you finally glance toward the door, you notice them immediately: they don’t fit in.

One of them moves like he owns whatever space he steps into. Broad-shouldered, leather jacket despite the heat, boots that look worn in rather than decorative. The other is taller, quieter, his hair falling into his eyes as he scans the room with something sharper than curiosity. They aren’t dressed like locals, they aren’t passing through on farm business, there’s a weight to them, like they carry more than duffel bags in the trunk of their car.

You think city, you think temporary, you think they won’t stay long.

They slide into a booth near the counter. The older one—the louder one—flashes the waitress an easy grin and orders pie before he’s even fully seated. The taller one asks for coffee and thanks her in a voice low and careful.

You find yourself watching them without meaning to.

It’s not attraction exactly, not yet… It’s curiosity; the same kind you feel when a storm rolls in unexpectedly, something different in the air, something alive.

Your hunger stirs faintly at the edges, confused more than awakened. Not because of them specifically, but because newness has a scent all its own. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and focus on your coffee instead, breathing slow.

At their booth, Dean leans back and stretches his arms along the vinyl seat, surveying the diner like it’s just another stop on a long, endless road. “Small town charm,” he mutters, glancing at a faded photo of the high school football team from 1998 framed crooked on the wall. “You can practically taste the cholesterol.”

Sam doesn’t smile because he’s already scanning faces subtly; farmers in seed caps, an elderly couple sharing fries, a teenage girl refilling napkin dispensers. He isn’t looking for anyone specific yet but just patterns and tells.

“Let’s eat first,” Dean says, lowering his voice once the waitress walks away. “Then we ask about the drifter. See who gets twitchy.” Sam nods, fingers tapping lightly against his mug. “Sheriff said he used to hang around here, someone might’ve noticed something.”

Dean shrugs. “Or someone’s lying.”

Their food arrives, and for a moment they look like exactly what they’re pretending to be: two road-weary men passing through, arguing lightly over who gets the last fry. Dean makes a show of enjoying the pie and Sam drinks his coffee black and watches the room over the rim of his cup.

His gaze passes over you once; not lingering, not even suspicious, simply cataloging everyone around.

You drop your eyes quickly anyway, heat creeping up your neck for reasons you don’t examine too closely. You’re used to being invisible here, so used to blending into wood-paneled walls and soft country radio playing overhead. But something about them makes the diner feel smaller.

Dean wipes his mouth with a napkin and nods subtly toward the counter. “After this, we’ll ask if anyone’s seen strangers around the railroad tracks.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Keep it casual.”

“Hey! I always do.”

Neither of them are looking at you now: you’re just another quiet girl in a cardigan, nursing cold coffee and staring out at cornfields through streaked glass.

You finish your drink and slide out of the booth, leaving a few crumpled bills beneath the plate. As you walk toward the door, you pass their table close enough to catch the scent of leather and gun oil beneath cheap motel soap. Dean glances up automatically, offering a brief, easy smile—reflexive charm. You give a small nod in return, smile on your face, the kind of acknowledgment small towns are built on.

The bell jingles again as you step back into the afternoon heat. Inside, Sam watches the door swing shut, then looks back down at his coffee. Outside, you stand for a moment on the sidewalk, sunlight pressing warm against your skin. The hunger is quiet for now, just a distant hum, vibrating under your skin and bones.

That night, you dream of teeth.

Not just your own—rows and rows of them, white and endless, lining the pews of the church like a congregation. They chatter softly in place of prayer, clicking together in rhythm with the tolling bell overhead. The sound is deafening. You’re standing barefoot in the aisle, dress hem soaked dark and heavy, and when you look down, blood is spreading from beneath your feet in slow, deliberate rivers. It creeps between the wooden boards, thick and warm, carrying the copper scent of communion turned rancid.

The altar is wrong: the cross above it drips steadily, red tracing the carved ribs of Christ’s body as if they’ve been split open fresh. His painted chest gapes, ribs pried apart like shutters, muscle exposed in glistening strands. You can see the cavity inside Him—empty, simply hollow. The organ meant to rest there gone. The congregation doesn’t scream but they kneel and they bow their heads as if this is expected, as if sacrifice has simply changed shape.

Then the floor shifts beneath you: bones push up through the wood like roots; femurs and vertebrae twisting together into something cathedral-like and obscene. Rot clings to them, sweet and suffocating, clotted pieces of muscle still attached in stringy ribbons. Hands reach up from the blood at your ankles, not to drag you down, but to hold you in place. Their fingers are slick, their palms warm against your skin. The faces attached to them are familiar: the drifter by the tracks, the stranger near the cornfield, shadows of others you never let yourself name. They don’t look angry, they look disappointed.

Church bells keep ringing, louder, louder and louder. Until the sound becomes a heartbeat—your heartbeat—pounding so hard you can taste it. The hunger pulses with it, a living thing inside your chest, pressing outward as if it wants to split you open the same way. You feel your own ribs part in the dream, feel fingers hook beneath bone and pull. Not to kill you but to look inside, to see what’s wrong.

You wake before dawn with the hunger clawing at your ribs.

Your sheets are damp with sweat; the room smells faintly metallic, though you know that’s in your head. Your jaw aches from clenching and for a split second, you swear you can still feel warmth coating your hands, something sticky beneath your nails.

It’s too soon.

You press your palm to your mouth and breathe through it, inhaling slowly, exhaling slower, like the preacher taught during long sermons when panic tried to creep in. The sky outside your window is still ink-dark, the world holding its breath before morning.

Not again, not yet.

Please.

You lie awake staring at the ceiling while the porch light hums outside your bedroom window and the house settles around you in tired creaks. Your parent’s door is closed down the hall. The clock on your nightstand blinks 3:17 a.m. in dull red numbers. The hunger has been building, low and patient, like something sharpening its teeth in the dark.

You try to pray.

You press your hands together, tug on the silver cross at your neck, bow your head, whisper words you’ve known since childhood—deliver us from evil, forgive us our trespasses—but the phrases feel thin tonight. Paper shields against something ancient and gnawing. The hunger doesn’t rage, it doesn’t scream, but God, it beckons.

By 3:43, you are sitting up.

By 3:51, you are pulling on some jeans and your boots.

You don’t turn on any lights as you move through the house, you don’t look at the family photos lining the hallway, you don’t let yourself hesitate at the door. The screen creaks softly when you push it open, and the night air wraps around you thick and damp, heavy with the smell of soil and corn and distant fertilizer.

The fields are endless in the dark, silvered by moonlight and whispering prayers. You walk toward them like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Because you have.

The gravel crunches beneath your boots, crickets pause and resume their chorus. Somewhere far off, a dog barks once and then falls silent. Your pulse is steady, but your mouth floods with that familiar metallic tang; your gums ache, your fingers flex at your sides as if remembering something they were made to do.

You don’t know how long you walk before you hear him.

A laugh—sloppy, off-balance. Followed by the crunch of someone stumbling through the outer edge of the cornfield. You pause, body going still as prey. He emerges from between the stalks, swaying. Mid-thirties maybe, a shirt half untucked and a bottle dangling loose from his fingers. He smells like cheap beer and sweat and something sour beneath it.

He doesn’t see you at first. When he does, he squints. “Jesus,” he slurs. “You scared the hell outta me.” You say nothing but recognize him as one of the regulars of the diner. The hunger tightens, sharp now and the warmth of him hits you like a wave. Alive… So alive. “You lost?” he asks, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, it’s late.”

The irony almost makes you laugh.

He steps closer again, close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, close enough that you can hear his heart under the slur of his breathing. You feel something inside you give way.

You move before you consciously decide to. One second there’s space between you; the next your hands are in his shirt, fingers fisted tight. He yelps in surprise, bottle dropping and shattering at your feet. For half a heartbeat, there’s confusion on his face. Then your teeth sink in. Hot.  That’s what you always forget.

How hot blood is when it spills fresh: it floods your mouth in a rush, copper-rich and thick, coating your tongue, sliding down your throat before you can even swallow properly. He screams—a wet, choking sound—and tries to push you away, but you’re stronger now. Stronger than you look, stronger than you ever want to be.

You pull him down into the grass.

The corn stalks sway above you like witnesses turning their backs.

Your hands work without hesitation, without doubt. You know where to press, where to tear: skin parts beneath your fingers with a resistance that gives way in sudden, awful bursts, muscle stretches and snaps in fibrous strands and warmth pours over your wrists, slick and alive. His movements grow weaker quickly—shock, blood loss, the body surrendering to something it cannot understand.

You don’t look at his face. You focus on the hunger because it guides you. It makes you forget about anything else.

Ribs crack beneath your grip with a muffled, splintering sound, the cavity opens under your hands, steam rising faintly in the cool night air, the smell is overwhelming; iron and salt and something almost sweet beneath it. You reach inside and feel the frantic flutter of a heart still trying. For a moment, just one, your hands hesitate.

When it’s over, the field is quiet again. Crickets resume their song and the moon watches without judgment.

You kneel back on your heels, chest heaving, blood soaking into your levi's jeans, sticky and cooling against your skin. Your mouth is stained red, your hands tremble as the hunger recedes, as the roaring in your ears fades to a low hum. But as always, there’s tears running down your cheeks, mixing with the wet blood.

Relief settles over you like a heavy blanket.

You sit there longer than you should, staring at what remains. Pale bone catching moonlight, torn muscle exposed to open air, skin shredded apart. The earth is drinking what it’s been given. Your stomach twists—not with nausea, but with something far worse. Guilt. It crashes in once the silence returns, once the hunger is sated and you are left alone with yourself again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the dark. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.” You don’t know who you’re apologizing to. The man in pieces at your knees? The God hanging in the church down the road? Your parents asleep in his bed, unaware that their daughter has slipped out into the night again?

You wipe your hands on the grass, but the blood doesn’t really leave.

By the time you walk back toward the house, dawn is just beginning to bruise the horizon. The porch light is still humming and you step inside quietly, boots left by the door, and move down the hallway like a ghost returning to her grave. In your bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at your hands until the shaking stops.

The hunger is quiet now, but just for a little while.

Morning in town arrives pale and merciless.

By seven, the rumor had already outrun the sun: a farmer found him, half-hidden in the corn like something the earth tried to swallow and couldn’t finish. The sheriff calls it in with a voice stretched thin, and word travels fast—faster than it should in a place this small. Another body, worse than the others.

Dean’s phone vibrates while he’s still nursing motel coffee that tastes like burnt pennies. He answers on the second ring, jaw tightening as he listens.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “We’re on our way.”

Sam is already grabbing his jacket.

The field looks different in daylight. Cruel, blood-soaked, poison from the divine.

Yellow tape cuts across the green like a wound that won’t close, police cruisers idle along the dirt road and a small cluster of townspeople gathers at a distance despite orders to stay back—drawn by horror the same way people are drawn to open flame.

The smell carries farther this time. It’s all thick, metallic and sweet in a way that makes the stomach revolt. Dean ducks under the tape first, flashing the same federal badge as before. Sam follows, eyes already scanning the ground, the stalks bent and broken where struggle turned into collapse.

The body lies on its side this time, twisted into the grass.

Or what remains of it does.

The throat is ruined—torn open, not ragged but decisively breached. Dried blood cakes the collar of his clothes in dark, stiff layers. His abdomen has been opened wider than the previous victim, ribs forced apart at unnatural angles, cartilage snapped clean. Portions of muscle are missing from the thighs and shoulders, removed in long, deliberate strips. The cavity of his chest gapes toward the sky, organs absent in select, intentional places.

Flies swarm thick over exposed bone again. Dean swears under his breath. “Jesus.”

Sam crouches slowly, taking it in piece by piece; the soil beneath the body is blackened with blood that soaked deep overnight, there are no animal tracks circling the perimeter, no dragging marks leading away. Just impressions from a struggle that ended quickly. “He was alive when it started,” Sam murmurs, mostly to himself.

Dean glances at him. “Yeah?”

“Defensive abrasions on his forearms, bruises, like he tried to push it off.” Sam swallows slightly, eyes tracing the precision again. Dean straightens, scanning the edge of the field. Behind them, the murmur of townspeople grows louder.

That’s when Sam sees you. You didn’t mean to come, you told yourself you wouldn’t but guilt has a gravity of its own.

You stand at the edge of the crowd, cardigan pulled tight around you despite the rising heat. Your face is horrified—and your eyes are fixed on the yellow tape as if you can see through it. Gone is the smile, the bright eyes and the politeness everyone knows of you.

You can’t stop picturing it: the way his breath hitched, the sound of ribs giving way, the warmth on your hands. Your stomach twists violently, not with hunger this time but with shame. The relief from last night is gone, replaced by a hollow ache that spreads through your chest like frost.

You don’t notice Sam watching you, not at first.

He remembers you from the diner: the quiet girl with the cardigan and the tired eyes, the one who left without finishing her coffee. You don’t look like someone who belongs at a crime scene. But you’re here. He nudges Dean lightly. “I’ll be back.”

Dean arches a brow but doesn’t argue.

Sam slips back under the tape and makes his way through the onlookers, flashing his badge when necessary. You feel him before you see him, there’s a shift in the air, a presence stepping into your orbit. “Ma’am,” he says gently. You turn to face him. Up close, he looks taller than you remembered, broader and his expression isn’t accusatory— it’s careful. Concerned, almost.

“Agent Elsher,” he starts, offering the fake last name smoothly. “I saw you yesterday at the diner, right? Can I ask what you’re doing out here?” Your throat feels dry, your muscles aching inside your body.

“I live here,” you manage to voice back at him. “Everyone does.”

He nods once. “You know the victim?” You shake your head quickly. Too quickly. “I’ve seen him around.” Your eyes flick past him, toward the field, you can smell it even from here; the blood drying in the heat, the faint sweetness of opened flesh, the rot just beginning to whisper at the edges.

Your pulse stutters and the hunger stirs once more. It shouldn’t—you fed.

But it does, not because of the body, but because of him.

Sam watches the way your pupils shift, the way your breathing changes almost imperceptibly. Something in his gut tightens, not in suspicion yet, but in awareness. “You okay?” he asks quietly and you nod at him. Lie. Being this close to him feels wrong… It feels different. Your hunger has always been drawn to vulnerability—drifters, loners, men already slipping. Sam is none of those things; he is steady and strong. 

Your body reacts anyway as heat creeps up your spine, your gums ache faintly. You clench your jaw, forcing your teeth together. You don’t want to look at his throat but God, you do. “Did you hear anything last night?” he continued, voice calm. “Any shouting? Cars?”

You swallow, the memory flashes vivid and brutal—the scream cut short, the crack of bone under your hands. “No, I didn’t hear anything,” you whisper. Sam studies you for a moment longer than is comfortable.

Behind him, Dean calls out something to the sheriff, frustration lacing his tone. Your gaze flickers to the field again. The man’s ribcage is visible even from this distance—pale arcs through broken grass. A smear of darkened blood marks the earth like a signature.

Your stomach churns. “I’m sorry,” you murmur suddenly.

Sam blinks at those words. “For what?” You realize what you’ve said and shake your head quickly. “For… what’s happening. It’s—” Your voice falters. “It’s awful.” He watches you carefully. Up close, he notices the faint tremor in your hands, the exhaustion carved into your features and the way you look not frightened anymore but burdened.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says softly. “You shouldn’t.”

Your eyes meet his and for one dangerous second, the world narrows. The hunger hums louder—not violent, not overwhelming, but curious, intrigued. It presses toward him like a compass needle seeking north. You take a step back instinctively, scared of yourself.

“I should go,” you whisper. Sam nods slowly. “If you remember anything, anything at all, come by the sheriff’s office.” You nod again.

You turn away before the pull becomes unbearable.

Sam watches you retreat through the thinning crowd, cardigan swaying around your waist, shoulders drawn tight as if you’re holding yourself together by force alone. Dean approaches him moments later. “Friend of yours?” Dean asks lightly, joking in his tone. Sam shakes his head, still watching the spot where you disappeared. “No.” But something about the way you stood there—too close, too still—lingers in his mind.

Back in the field, the body lies open to the sky, bones gleaming under harsh morning sun. And somewhere in your house, you press your back against your bedroom door and slide down to the floor, shaking.

The hunger isn’t gone at all.

Two days pass in a blur of church bells and sirens.

The town tries to fold the horror into itself the way it always does; with casseroles and whispered prayers and the steady hum of gossip behind drawn curtains. The body found by the cornfield is spoken about in lowered voices now. No one says what the coroner actually saw: the precision of torn muscle, the absence of certain organs, the way the ribs had been split like a butcher’s offering.

You know what he saw, you know because your teeth still damn ache.

You don’t sleep much or when you do, it’s shallow and fevered. You see bone under moonlight, you feel warm blood running over your wrists again. You wake with the phantom taste of iron coating your tongue and the echo of tearing flesh in your ears, nightmares and dreams mixing together.

And beneath the guilt, the crushing, nauseating guilt, there is still the hunger you know so well. It is quieter now, sated for the moment, but it hums like something coiled.

Waiting.

Sam can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t say it like that, doesn’t even let it sound personal but Dean notices the way his brother circles back to the same detail in conversation. “The coroner said the tissue removal was… deliberate,” Sam mutters from the passenger seat of the Impala, case file open on his lap. “Not random scavenging.”

Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “You think we’re dealing with a ghoul?”

“Maybe.” Sam hesitates. “Or something pretending to be one.”

“And the girl from the diner?” Dean asks lightly, but there’s a thread of curiosity under it. Sam stares out the window at the passing fields. “I don’t know, she was at the scene the next morning. She looked—” He searches for the word. “Not shocked. Just… wrecked.”

“People get wrecked seeing a body split open like that,” Dean says. “Doesn’t make them monsters.”

“I know.”

But Sam doesn’t sound convinced.

You don’t want to go back to the diner, it feels like stepping into a confession booth.

But routine is safety, routine is invisibility. So you pull on your soft cardigan, smooth your long dress, and walk through town like you always do. The bell above the diner door chimes as you step inside. The smell hits you first; it’s grease, coffee, sugar. And underneath it all—salt, sweat, warmth.

You see them immediately.

They’re seated in the same booth as before. The older one—Dean, you overheard the waitress call him—leans back with easy confidence, jacket slung over the vinyl seat. The taller one sits straighter, hands folded loosely around a mug like he’s trying to ground himself. Sam. The hunger reacts before you do, it lifts its head inside your chest like a scenting animal.

Not because they are weak but because they are strong. Because something in them feels different, denser, almost bright. It makes your mouth flood, it makes your pulse stutter. You nearly turn around and run out, trying to escape the feeling inside your chest.

But Dean sees you first, he flashes you that same easy smile. “Hey. Corner booth, right?”

You swallow, smile back at him and try to be as polite as you normally is. “Yeah, that’s me.” Your voice sounds normal, well, you think. Sam’s eyes are on you again, but not accusatory. Dean gestures to the empty seat at their table. “We were just talking about how small towns always have the best pie. You’re local, right? Any recommendations?”

It’s harmless, casual conversation between two people. You sit before you can stop yourself. The vinyl seat sticks faintly to your thighs. You fold your hands in your lap to hide how they tremble. “Cherry,” you say. “They make it from scratch. Might be the best pie I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“See?” Dean grins at Sam. “Told you.” But Sam doesn’t smile, he studies your face, and it makes something inside you twist. “We didn’t catch your name,” he says gently.

You give it, syllables rolling onto your tongue. He repeats it like he’s testing the shape of it. “You’ve lived here long?” Dean then asks you, hands crossing on the old diner table.

“Yes, all my life.” Is all you can reply to the question, because there’s nothing else to say.  “You knew the man who died?” Sam questions you again. The words land like a stone dropped into a well. You picture him again—sprawled in the dirt, breath sour with alcohol, pulse fluttering weakly in his throat before your teeth found it. You remember the sound his ribs made when you pulled them apart. The way his blood soaked into the soil.

You keep your face soft. “I’ve seen him around,” you say. “He drank a lot.”

Dean nods. “Sheriff says animal attack. You buy that?” Your hunger shifts under your ribs at the sound of his voice, uneasy. You shrug. “There are coyotes sometimes.” Sam’s gaze sharpens just slightly. “Coyotes don’t usually remove organs that cleanly.”

Your heart slams once, hard enough you think they must hear it. “I wouldn’t know,” you reply. “I’ve never seen something like that before.”

It’s the truth, you’ve never seen yourself from the outside. Never met anyone like you before. Never saw the stain of blood, the color of mud on skin when fighting, the hunger in someone else's eyes. Dean leans back, studying you now too. He’s attentive, hazel eyes on your pretty face. “You were at the scene the other morning.”

You freeze. “I—” You lick your lips; they taste like salt and fear. “Everyone was.”

“Yeah,” Dean says easily. “You just looked like it hit you hard.”

Because it did. Because you tore into a human body under the moon like a starving animal and now the memory won’t leave your hands. “I don’t like blood,” you say quietly. The lie sits between you and Sam watches your throat when you swallow.

And then it happens; the hunger flares again. It’s so sudden, making you gasp under your breath. The feeling is violent like a thunderstorm, calling at your name and tearing at your stomach. It looks at Sam first—at the strong line of his neck, the steady pulse beneath the skin. It imagines breaking that skin, it imagines warmth flooding your mouth.

Then it turns to Dean—smaller, louder, confidence like spice on his skin. You imagine sinking your teeth into his shoulder, hearing him gasp in surprise before pain overtakes it. You flinch at the ideas and images.

“Hey,” Sam says softly. “You okay?” You realize your expression passed from neutral to horrified, probably. “I just—” You push back from the table too quickly. “I need air.”

Dean stands halfway, instinctively. “You want us to—”

“No.” You steady yourself. “I’m fine.” But you’re not. Because for the first time, the hunger doesn’t feel satisfied by memory. It feels curious, it feels interested to those two men. It feels like it wants to know what hunters taste like; though you don’t know that word, don’t know what they are, only that something about them is dangerous and bright and unbearably tempting.

Sam doesn’t reach for you, but he looks like he wants to. And that look, that concern in his eyes, it’s worse than suspicion. As you step out into the afternoon light, heart hammering, you don’t know what frightens you more:

That Sam suspects you or that your hunger is starting to crave them both.

But the guilt has teeth.

It does not sit quietly in you like remorse should; no, it gnaws, it scrapes its way up your spine and settles behind your eyes so that even when you blink, you see red. You try to drown it in routine—washing dishes twice, folding laundry with trembling precision, standing in the shower until the water runs cold and your skin turns hot and raw but the smell never fully leaves you. It’s like iron, soil and something sweetly rotten beneath it.

You kneel at the foot of your bed and press your forehead to your clasped hands that night. “Please,” you whisper to a God you have never felt but have always feared. “Please don’t let me do it again.”

The room is dark except for the sliver of moonlight spilling across the floorboards like pale milk. The house creaks around you, settling. Outside, the town hums in its sleep with porch lights buzzing faintly, a dog barking once and then going quiet, wind moving through the cornfields in a slow, sighing hush. You try to pray properly and you try to imagine forgiveness descending like white light through stained glass. An angel caressing your forehead, promising a room for you to Heaven.

Instead, you imagine Sam.

You see him as clearly as if he’s standing at the edge of your bed, all tall with shoulders slightly hunched as though bracing against a cold no one else feels. You remember the way he said your name at the diner, gentle, careful, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. You imagine that same mouth parting in shock, you imagine blood there. The thought makes your stomach twist so violently you gag.

“No,” you murmur to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no—”

Then Dean intrudes into your mind, that leather jacket creaking as he leans back in the booth, grin crooked and easy. There is something solid about him, something loud and alive. You imagine your hands fisting in that jacket, dragging him closer, you imagine the resistance in his muscles when you press him down.

The hunger responds to the thoughts like a struck match, it flares bright and hot, licking at the inside of your ribs. You double over on the floor, palms digging into the wood. Your pulse hammers in your ears like church bells ringing the hour. You tell yourself to stay, you try to crawl back into bed. But the hunger has already made its decision.

It rises through you like a tide, pulling your limbs with it. Your body moves before your mind consents. You don’t remember unlocking the door. You only remember the night air hitting your face—cool, damp, carrying the scent of soil and growing things and distant human breath.

You walk barefoot into the dark.

The Impala has been idling half a mile down the road for over an hour. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel, jaw tight. “You saw her face, Sammy. That wasn’t normal. She knows something about this.” Sam’s gaze is fixed on your house in the distance, lights out, curtains still. He doesn’t reply for a moment, letting the silence eat everything around. “I know.”

“You think she’s our monster?” Dean asks, turning his head toward his brother, trying to see his expression. There’s something serious about the taller one, right now. Something that looks like concern. “I don’t know what she is,” Sam admits quietly. “But something’s wrong.”

Dean exhales sharply. “So we watch.” Sam simply nods at that.

So they watch, for minutes, for hours, until they see the front door open and they see you step out. Sam straightens immediately. “That’s her.” You move like someone sleepwalking—slow, deliberate, head slightly bowed. You don’t look left or right, you don’t see the car parked down the road with its lights off.

“Where’s she going?” Dean mutters, eyes squinting as he tries to follow the movements of your body. Sam’s voice is low. “Into the fields.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, pushing the door of the driver seat of Baby. “Let’s go.”

The corn swallows you whole, stalks brush your shoulders and whisper secrets against your ears. The moon hangs low and swollen above you, pale and watchful. Your breath comes in shallow pulls, every sense sharpens until the world feels unbearably loud; the rustle of fabric, the crunch of dirt underfoot, the distant murmur of voices. Voices. You stop in your steps.

There, ahead and deeper in the field, a soft laugh. A girl’s voice, breathless and bright and then, a boy answering her in a low murmur. You close your eyes, you could turn back, you should go home. But the hunger presses forward, relentless, begging to be fed like an animal. So you step toward the sound.

Through a break in the stalks and near the clearing, you see them: a couple tangled together on a blanket, limbs almost all bare in the moonlight. The boy is leaning over her, kissing her neck, she giggles and pushes at his shoulders playfully. They are so alive it hurts through the bones of your ribs. Your mouth floods, your nails dig crescents into your palms. “Don’t,” you whisper to yourself, but you are already moving.

The first scream is cut short; you hit him with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, the girl tumbles sideways, shrieking, scrambling backward through the dirt. “What the hell—?!” the boy gasps, trying to shove you off. Your hands are in his hair and your teeth find his throat too fast for him to do anything about it. It’s over before he can even think about it. 

Skin splits with a sickening ease, hot blood surges into your mouth, thick and metallic, and the sound he makes—that choked, bubbling cry—vibrates against your jaw. You press him down harder, knees digging into his ribs as he thrashes. The girl is screaming now, scrambling to her feet. “Get off him! Get off—!” You tear, you rip apart, you shred.

Your fingers hook beneath his shirt, dragging fabric and skin aside. You feel the delicate give of muscle under your nails, the slick slide of it when you pull. There is a crack; sharp and obscene as one of his ribs gives way beneath the pressure of your grip. He is still alive when you bite deeper because you feel the flutter of his pulse weaken against your tongue.

The girl runs away, her scream rips through the cornfield, high and hysterical.

“Dean—” Sam’s voice is tight through the darkness of the night. “Did you hear that?” They are already moving, pushing through the stalks toward the sound. Another scream, it’s closer now, more panicked. Dean draws his gun as they break into a clearing.

The flickering headlights from the road spill faintly through the gaps in the corn, illuminating you in flashes of white. Sam stops dead when he sees you, his brain not understanding the vision he has, for a second. It can’t be true, it can’t be that. “Jesus Christ.” He mutters quietly; you are kneeling over what used to be a boy, his chest is open.

Bones gleams wetly in the moonlight, jagged and wrong. Blood soaks into the earth beneath him, dark and spreading. Your hands are buried inside him, slick to the wrists, with your mouth red, chin dripping, eyes wide and glass-bright in the light. Your white nightdress is soaked with crimson blood, the smell of iron and copper sticking to the fabric. For a moment, you don’t even see them, you are too busy breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, as if you’ve just surfaced from deep water.

Dean’s voice cuts through the night, sharp and electrifying. “Hey!” You flinch immediately, your head snaps toward the sound like a deer caught in headlights, pupils blown out. Sam steps forward despite himself. “It’s her,” he breathes, horror and something heartbreakingly like recognition mixing in his tone. You stare at them, blood drips from your fingers back into the ruin of the boy’s chest. Your expression shifts—confusion, then shame, then something feral and starving that makes Dean’s grip tighten on his gun.

“Drop him,” Dean orders, voice rough. You look down at what you’re holding; at the torn flesh in your hands, at the open cavity where a heart used to beat. Your lips part, trembling, voice quiet. “I tried,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you’re speaking to them or to God. “I tried not to.”

Sam’s gaze locks with yours and for one terrible, suspended second, the hunger inside you turns toward him again. It recognizes him, it wants, it longs for the heart beating inside his chest. Dean sees the change in your eyes, the slightest of shifts. “Sam,” he warns softly.

You rise slowly from the body, blood sliding down your arms like dark sleeves and crimson ribbons. The girl’s screams are fading in the distance, forgotten for a moment. The cornfield is suddenly too small to contain what you are and Sam, standing there in the moonlight, realizes with a sickening certainty—they didn’t find the monster but the monster found them. 

For a long moment after the screaming stops, the world feels carved out of silence.

You are standing in the middle of it; in the trampled clearing, in the metallic fog of fresh blood, in the wreckage of a boy whose name you never learned. Your breath comes in ragged pulls. The night air is thick and damp, clinging to your skin where it isn’t already lacquered in red, it dries in stiffening streaks along your forearms, dark and almost black under the moon.

Dean’s gun is still pointed at you but it looks small compared to what you’ve done.

Sam steps closer despite it, boots sinking slightly into the churned dirt. His gaze moves over the scene with dawning horror—the torn sternum, the exposed cavity, the slick gleam of organs interrupted and handled and bitten. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, but he doesn’t look away from you for long. “What are you?” he asks again, but this time it’s clear bewilderment.

You don’t know how to answer without sounding insane.

Your teeth chatter once: not from cold, but from the comedown. The hunger that had roared through you minutes ago is quieter now, coiled and sated, licking its chops in the dark recesses of your ribs. It is pleased. It hums low and satisfied, like a choir after the final hymn. “I don’t have an official name for it,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’ve tried to find one, though.”

Dean’s eyes flick to the body and back to you. “You eat people,” he says flatly.

“Yes. I am an eater.” There is no point in softening it, no point of denying it anymore. The word lands heavy between you; it feels like kneeling in a confessional and admitting the worst thing you’ve ever done—except there is no absolution waiting behind a screen, only the cold mouth of a gun.

“I don’t hunt during the day,” you continue, because if you stop speaking you might collapse. “I don’t stalk children, I don’t break into houses, I wait until the hunger is so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. And then I go somewhere empty, somewhere I think no one will notice.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. “Someone always notices.”

You nod, tears cutting tracks through the blood on your cheeks. “I know.”

The wind moves faintly through the corn again, making the stalks whisper around you. It sounds almost like prayer, like a congregation murmuring in the dark. “I tried to starve it out once,” you say quietly. “Locked myself in my room for five days, I thought if I prayed hard enough, if I didn’t move, if I made myself small enough, God would see me and fix it.”

Sam’s expression changes at that, something in it cracks, like he can understand a point of your story. “What happened?” he asks. You give a broken laugh. “I nearly tore my own arm open.” The confession hangs in the air.

“It’s not a taste,” you try to explain, pressing a shaking hand to your chest. “It’s pressure. It builds here, like something pushing out from the inside and it makes my bones feel hollow, my teeth ache, my skin feels too tight. And when I see someone—when I smell them—it’s like the bell rings.”

“Bell,” Dean repeats.

“Like church bells calling the faithful,” you whisper. “Only I’m not walking toward salvation, I’m walking directly toward slaughter.” Dean lowers the gun an inch without realizing he’s done it.

Sam looks at the dead boy again, at the violence of it; the split ribs like broken cathedral arches, the blood soaking into the roots of the corn. He has seen monsters before, all sorts. Ghouls, vampires, wendigos, spirits or things that delight in carnage. You do not look delighted, no, you look ruined. “You were at the diner,” Sam says slowly. “You felt it then.”

Your breath stutters. “Yes.”

“With us.” You can’t meet his eyes.

“It was louder,” you admit. “Stronger… I don’t know why, but it scared me.”

Dean lets out a humorless huff. “That’s comforting.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you say quickly, desperate. “That’s why I left. That’s why I went into the fields instead of staying in town.” Instead. The word is a knife. Dean drags a hand down his face. “So what, we’re supposed to give you points for picking random over personal?”

“No,” you whisper. “I’m not asking for points. I’m asking you to understand that I hate this.”

The night presses closer around you, heavy and intimate, blood continues to drip from your fingertips in slow, rhythmic taps. Sam studies you the way he studies lore: searching for pattern, for origin, for some line in some book that might explain you. “You were born like this?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“No bite, no ritual, no deal?”

“No.” You voice back at him, at them. Dean finally lowers the gun fully, though he keeps it in his hand. “Great,” he mutters. “A homegrown nightmare.” You flinch at the word nightmare, because that’s what it feels like; like you’ve been trapped in one since childhood, since the first time you stared too long at the pulse in someone’s throat and felt your mouth fill with saliva.

“Then maybe you should kill me,” you say, and your voice is steadier now than you expect. “Before it happens again.” The hunger reacts instantly, thrashing against the cage of your ribs, furious at the suggestion. Your knees weaken under the force of it and you sway. Sam moves forward without thinking but Dean’s hand shoots out to block him. “Careful.”

“I’m not going to attack him,” you say faintly. “If I was going to, I would have.” Dean doesn’t answer, he looks at the body, at you and finally, at Sam. They’ve made these decisions before in graveyards and barns and abandoned warehouses. Usually it’s clear. Usually the monster lunges, or laughs, or bares its teeth.

You just stand there, shaking, covered in evidence.

“She’s not possessed,” Sam says quietly. “She’s not turned, she’s not feeding for fun.”

“She’s still feeding,” Dean replies.

“And if we shoot her,” Sam continues, “we still don’t know what she is… or if there are more like her.” Dean’s mouth presses into a thin line.

You suddenly feel very small.

The town lies just beyond the fields: houses dark, porch lights humming, unaware that something ancient and wrong has been kneeling in its crops for years. The thought of staying makes your stomach churn.

“I can’t stay here,” you whisper. “The girl ran away… They’ll find this, they’ll start asking questions, and put me in jail. I’m not able to hide anymore.” Dean glances toward the road, toward the faint glint of the Impala through the stalks.

“You’re right about one thing,” he says. “You can’t stay.” You look up at him, startled. Sam’s eyes flick to his brother’s. “Dean.”

“We don’t know what she is, no idea if she’s truly human,” Dean repeats. “Which means we don’t know how to kill her or if we can—and I’m not big on shooting first and Googling later.” Despite everything, a hysterical sound escapes you. Dean meets your gaze fully for the first time since the gun went up; there’s no softness there, but there isn’t cruelty either.

“You’re coming with us,” he says. The words don’t make sense at first. “What?”

“You want to not kill people?” he continues. “Then you don’t get to sit in this town and wait for the next bell to ring. We figure out what you are, we figure out if there’s a cure or a leash.” Sam exhales slowly, tension easing just a fraction. “We can research, cross-reference. There has to be something.”

“And if there isn’t?” you ask, still not realizing that Dean isn’t going to kill you on the spot. Dean’s jaw tightens. “Then we’ll deal with that when we get there.”

It’s a stay of execution.

Your legs finally give out, you sink to your knees in the blood-soaked dirt, not in surrender but in exhaustion. The hunger is quiet now, full and drowsy but the guilt is louder, howling in the hollow space it left behind. It always is after you finish eating. It’s like a loud ringing in your ears.

Sam steps closer again, slower this time, giving you room to flinch away. “You need to clean up,” he says gently. You look down at yourself—at the red coating your skin, at the evidence of what you are.

You nod without replying.

They don’t let you wash in the boy’s bloodied clearing, they guide you back toward the road, keeping distance but not abandoning you. Dean walks slightly behind, watchful and Sam stays to your side, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. It makes the hunger stir faintly but you shove it down.

At the edge of the field, Dean shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it toward you. “Put that on.” It’s absurdly tender, the gesture. You slip your arms into it despite the blood, leather sticking to your skin.

The Impala waits like something patient and black beneath the moon. You hesitate before climbing in and behind you, the town sleeps on—unaware that one of its quiet daughters is leaving in the dead of night, stained red, riding shotgun with two hunters who haven’t decided whether she’s a case study or a future grave. Your parents are sleeping in the house, with the porch light flickering, moths attracted to it like flies to rot.

Sam gets into the back seat with you instead of the front as Dean starts the engine. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the road out of town.

As the fields fall away behind you and the small Ohio houses shrink into nothing, you press your forehead to the cool glass and close your eyes. You don’t know if this is salvation, you don’t know if it’s a longer road to the gallows. But for the first time in your life, you are not alone with the bell ringing inside your ribs.

And somewhere between the fading cornfields and the open highway, the hunger goes quiet.

For now.

taglist: @userhotd @angeldoll1e @stargral @nekkiotine @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @ravensficrecs @elenacarey @alexxavicry @prismozo @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @domingodeaan @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @pervyangelz @cxlt-lamb1 @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @avasarchve @harleymuses @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @snoopysnote @blessorte @blushhbambi @flwer555 @qardasngan @aerangi @if4tmn @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @agustd202204 ( to be added )

notes: once again... i went a bit insane with this fic #lmfao. but i just wanted to make dean, sam and eater!reader meet. also, this is not canon to eater!reader story with dean and sam, but just something i had in mind! meaning: this probably won't have happened with you request this reader for sam or dean (unless you want to)... if that makes sense? + i feel like this end is too rushed but uh 10.2k words… so yeah, sorry!

[i-smoke-chapstick]

saw that you're in your got era so perhaps jealousy headcanons for the got or hotd characters? 👀 literally anyone from these characters - robb, jaime, margaery, oberyn, theon, cersei or ramsay, I'd love to see your interpretation on any of them ! ( or aemond, alicent, aegon, gwayne, OTTO !!, larys, daemon or mysaria for hotd, again whichever era you feel like it !!) and just for future reference, do you write for asoiaf characters or mainly the shows?

'LOVE CAN KILL, [jealousy! hcs]

-GOT / HOTD CHARACTERS X READER-

⋆ Characters ↬ Robb, Jaime, Margaery, Oberyn, Cersei, Joffrey, Ramsay, Tyrion, The Hound, Aemond, Aegon, Alicent, Gwayne, Daemon

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; jealousy, and how some characters deal with it ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. GOT and HOTD!characters x female reader. SFW! But naturally, some of these characters get a bit suggestive! Possessive behavior, canon typical violence, etc. Please send in more GOT/HOTD requests! Apologies this took so long, this is more characters in a post than I've ever done lol. Unfortunately I'm not super familiar with Otto, Larys, Theon, or Mysaria, so I decided to pick some characters I'm more familiar with! (Joffrey is my #1 favorite of all time, my sincerest apologies.) Whew, 14 characters ! For right now I'm only writing for the TV shows! (i've only read book 1, lol)

𝑅𝛰𝐵𝐵 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐾

♫ “I wasn't thinking when I told you to stay.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

With Robb, it's all about the body language. And boy, he's horrible at hiding it.

He can have a hard time placing the feeling as jealousy. He was raised to be honorable. But feelings of...neglect run deep with him. Oldest child syndrome, if you will.

Which is why his jealousy most likely manifests in subdued, quiet behavior. Part of him will recognize he's being ridiculous, while another part of him is silently fuming. Fists clenched, he'll send you an intense stare as he watches you converse with another lord.

His emotions leak through his expressions. When he catches you staring back, his gaze will flit down, and he'll wait patiently for you're time. Or...in most cases...he'll march right up, placing himself between you and the man. Maybe a small, "I'll take it from here." If the lord is offering to help you with something.

A subtle touch on the small of your back. It's a small claim, a subtle "back-off."

A lot of his jealousy also transforms into protectiveness more than anything. He'll offer to accompany reader to places he wouldn't normally be concerned about. He's close by, and he's reminding her wordlessly, he's watching over her and any threat.

Finally, when you two are alone, will he drop down that guard of his. Covering up that burning pit inside him with casual humor, you can sense the underlaying seriousness of his voice in his light teases.

"You’re quite popular these days. Should I be worried that I’m not your only admirer?"

He certainly beds you, having something to prove. And only afterwards when you are in his arms, sweaty and warm from the candlelight, wrapped in furs...will he calm down.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you… It’s them I don’t trust. Some men don’t know how to keep their place." He'll whisper, holding onto you firmly.

𝐽𝐴𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “You don't know that you're in over your head.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Jaime's jealousy is burning. It's simply the way he was raised. And gods, you are his.

Numerous sarcastic remarks flow between the two of you and the man who he believes has essentially stolen your affections. His taunts are offhand, dry remarks, often directed towards his "opponent" or even you, if he's feeling bitter enough.

"I didn’t realize he was such a comedian. Maybe I should ask him for pointers." He'll say, with that sarcastic drawl. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me jealous. Not that it would work, of course." He chuckles, but his gaze is sharp.

Depending on the offense, Jaime's reactions differ. If you simply have an admirer, a few...well chosen words are directed towards them. His confidence allows him to not be too bothered. Maybe standing closer, clearly showing off to whatever poor soul thought they had a shot with you.

It's a different story if you are friends with the person involved, or entertain their advances even mildly or jokingly.

That's when the uncharacteristic tension comes out, full of small twitches in his jaw and curt, smug responses. His visible annoyance is uncontrolled.

We saw how he was with Loras when it came to Cersei. If he feels truly threatened, whether it's by another pretty boy, or just someone he feels could...hypothetically...have the upper hand...He'll corner them when you're off somewhere else. And give a small warning, from the Kingslayer himself.

"You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with, so let me remind you." He leans in just close enough for his words to sink in. "Whatever you think you might be to her… you’re not. Let’s keep it that way, hm? I'd hate to see you make any...lasting mistakes."

𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “It was just too hard to push you away.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Margaery is smart with her feelings. She knows how to play the game, and play it well. Instead of showing her jealousy openly, she's a touch more composed than most characters on this list.

She recognizes just how precious you are, and admires that. She doesn't necessarily blame others when they become...attached to you.

When jealousy arises, she views it more as a small problem in need of being handled. And she knows how to handle things.

She embraces the graceful competition, subtly outshining anyone who seems to get in the way of her goals. Her goal being you're affection, of course. You're already hers, and she sees no problem in working to keep it that way.

This appears in gestures of strategic sweetness to keep you close, perhaps wearing your favorite gowns on her, and offering that charming smirk. She doesn't shy away from manipulating you, just a teeny bit.

"They’re certainly captivated by you. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention." She teases, "Besides, who could ever compare to us?"

Her words carry a playful undertone, but she makes her point clear. Laughing charmingly, threading her arm through yours.

Very rarely does she think she's in any serious danger. She prides herself on being yours and knowing how to keep you on a tight leash. Though...if she feels genuinely worried, she expresses her feelings quite clearly but still gently. She reminds her lover of their shared goals, and all that they've built together.

"My, you do attract admirers easily, don’t you? I’ll have to start guarding you more closely." She gives you a playful look, though her touch on your arm will linger just a bit longer than usual.

𝛰𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑁 𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “Let me go, but you won't let me go.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oberyn doesn't feel insecure. How could he? He knows, deep down, that you're his. Jealousy isn't something he confines himself too, he views it as an ugly emotion, capable of getting rid of the true wonders love has to offer.

That being said...he is only a man. And he is fiercely protective. If anyone were to flirt with you and you were clearly uninterested, it would be a swift death, or at the very least, he'd make his point clear with a blow or two and a cutting edge remark. Especially if they are a Lannister. He enjoys you being admired, but only to a certain extent.

"Your efforts are wasted, they’re far too captivating for someone like you. I’d suggest you find someone more... suited to your charms." He begins, hand itching for his spear, "Consider this your first and last warning."

Yeah, he means business.

Most of the time, he spins the situation to show-off. Showcase his own passion and devotion to you. If it's simply a friend of yours, he may even offer them to join in. If not, he'll spend the entire night practically worshipping you, promising that he's the only one who could ever make you feel like this.

Similarly to Margaery, he teases you lightly.

"You have a lovely laugh. But I must admit, it’s much better when it’s for me alone."

Oberyn doesn't shy away from PDA either. It's that assertive reclaiming he seems to favor, pulling you close, whispering something that affirms your affections for each other. He'll revel when he watches the other mans face fall in dismay.

He might get cocky, and push it a bit far. By the time he's done, the 'competition' will be utterly humiliated and embarrassed. He'll be smirking at his own quips.

"I assure you, my friend, my lover favors...more substantial things." He motions to the poor mans crotch.

You're gonna have to give him a slap on the arm.

𝐶𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸𝐼 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “Consequence of loving me can be cruel.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Cersei's jealousy is intense and multifaceted, to say the least. It manifests in a mix of cold fury and harsh threats, channeling that anger into much more controlling behavior.

Deep down, she is terribly insecure. Once another man or woman as your attention, and she catches on, she's coolly lashing out. And she catches on quickly.

At first she may appear indifferent, but if you look close enough, you can see the subtly giveaways. The way her lip curls, her nostrils flare, and her knuckles go white gripping her wine chalice.

If you're the first one to confront her, and attempt to reassure her, you'll save yourself some trouble down the line. Guaranteed, she'll deny it, but still make a passive-aggressive remark here and there. But eventually she'll calm down, edges softening.

That rare moment of vulnerability that you're not sure is manipulation or not. She'll look towards the ground, running her thumb over you're hand on her cheek. She'll sit on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched.

Now, it's a whole different story if you don't catch on to the early signs. If you don't manage to reassure or call her out in time, that jealousy implodes.

She may confront you first, anger bleeding through her. She runs on it. She may even threaten you, oblivious to the potential consequences her words might have.

“You think you can charm your way into my affections by paying attention to that little fool?" She's standing up, loathing distorting her features. Her voice raises. "Perhaps I should throw a feast in her honor. Let’s see how charming she is when surrounded by my people."

It's threats and threats and more and more threats...which can be especially worrying if the person she's jealous of is a friend of yours.

Almost every scenario ends with you having to comfort her, treading carefully with the words you say.

Now, when it comes to confronting the competition, she makes it very clear. Though, these threats are often much more impulsive. A swig of wine, and she gracefully moves towards them when you're out of sight.

A faux compliment or two, before she whispers, close.

“You’ll find that my guards are quite loyal to me. A simple command, and they’ll ensure you never breathe the same air as her again.”

It only makes her feel a bit better. But, regardless, she's smiling smugly, feeling proud of herself when the offenders face turns white.

𝐽𝛰𝐹𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑌 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝛰𝑁

♫ “Too much love can kill.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh, Joffrey. I'm obsessed with him.

Yeah. He has the worst jealousy issues out of everyone on this list. It's baaaaad. It's a cocktail of insecurity, possessiveness, and entitlement. As someone who has been raised to believe he is above others, and has been coddled his entire life...it infuriates him.

It's the same feeling you get as a child, when someone steals one of your toys. You belong to him. He never grew out of that mentality, or that feeling.

Be prepared for plentiful outbursts of anger. He's a tantrum personified, especially if he feels disrespected. Insecurity grips him tight and refuses to let up until he's either been heavily reassured...or the other person is... taken care of.

And even then, after reassuring him for hours, it may not be enough. You know how he hired a knight to take out Tyrion in the Battle of Blackwater? Yeah. That person will be paid a little 'visit.'

When reassuring him, similar to Cersei, you really have to be careful what you say, or it might make the situation even worse. At that point, he's seeing red.

"I’m the king! You should be grateful for my attention, not chasing after scraps!" He's huffing, pointing to himself as his breathing increases. He'll look at you with an ice cold glare, nose wrinkled in distaste.

He might even force his hand around your face, harshly grabbing you. He looks dead into your eyes, voice clear and low. "You're mine. You belong to me." He's seething.

If he notices you simply looking at anyone else too long, he'll feel beyond threatened in both his masculinity and position as king. Especially if you laugh at another mans jokes, or simply attempt to be friendly with a commoner or lord.

"What’s so amusing? You’d think you’d find better entertainment than that fool." He mutters under his breath harshly, bad habit of picking at his fingers. He'll shuffle uncomfortably. He'll look to you expecting agreeance. It's 100% that mentality of 'Friends? You don't need friends. You have me.'

Yeah, he keeps the very blunt insults coming. Petulant name calling is not above him. Includes, but is not limited too, "Degenerates, Idiots, Commoners, Peasants, or Cretins" which he may describe as being "Stupid, Disgusting, Repellent, Sickening, or Revolting." He's got a LOT of those angry remarks in the bank.

While he may not directly confront the offender, (he doesn't have time for idle threats.) He has his own ways of dealing with them. And that is a public humiliation ritual, making a mockery of any rival. And if they disobey ANY whim of his, they're gone. That one scene with Tyrion at his wedding? That "Kneel!"? He's commanding the same of any man unlucky enough to have threatened his claim on you. Oh, and they're going to be his cupbearer.

Even if they do as he asks, by now his anger will have transformed into that renewed sense of cruelty. "You're fingers or your tongue?...Or I could just cut your throat."

𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑆𝐴𝑌 𝐵𝛰𝐿𝑇𝛰𝑁

♫ “You're gonna suffer now, whatever you do.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

His jealousy may not be as overtly intense as Joffrey's, but it certainly is the scariest.

In his own words, he prefers being an only child. That same kind of mentality certainly carries over to his relationship with you. He prefers to be the only one you see that way.

He loves a good game, and that's what this is. If anything, it's quite exhilarating for him. Though, he is a huge hypocrite. For a man who thinks jealousy is boring coming from you, he feels it quite freely.

Sees it as a means of asserting dominance, whether that be through intimidation or overt manipulation. He doesn't deny it like most characters on this list. When he's feeling jealous, he says it. It's a small warning for you not to go any farther, lest worse things occur for you or the perceived threat.

He'll go up to whoever you are talking too, saccharine and honorable smile on his face. He'll casually interrupt, introducing himself as Lord Bolton's successor. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a tightness in his face, and a wicked look in his eyes, that only you can recognize. It will make you shiver.

If the rival persists, he'll find it all too amusing.

"You're bold, I'll give you that." He says with a boisterous laugh, and you already know the mans fate is sealed.

Looks like his hounds will be having another meal tonight. He'll have his men go out looking for the man, and he'll question him more...privately, when you aren't there to witness his tortuous taunts.

But for now, his focus is on you, and your loyalty to him. When he excuses the both of you, his hand is gripping yours painfully tight.

By the time you're in his chamber, he's on you, ripping your clothes off with a harsh intensity and pushing you to the wall. His nose is twitching in barely kept anger, forcing you to look at him.

We all saw that scene between him and Myranda when she threatens to marry someone else, and it was not pretty. His eyes are borderline bloodshot, and he can't keep his hands off you or your throat.

"You're mine." He leans forward, through gritted teeth. It's better you don't put up a fight, because he'll be having you and your attention one way or another.

Que the numerous kisses and bite marks soon to follow. And he is not gentle when he's inside you.

You'll never hear from the flirtatious lord again...and if you do, it's only in the prayers of his grieving family.

𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐼𝛰𝑁 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “My love, you are not safe with me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Now, Tyrion's jealousy is more subdued and introspective versus some characters on this list. He has a good sense of self-awareness, and he's intelligent to figure out what he's feeling quite quickly.

At first he'll dismiss it as nothing more than an annoying feeling of insecurity he attempts to cover up. But...it doesn't last long. Especially when someone else makes you laugh. Or when Bronn makes a taunt with a half smirk, that some other fancy lord has taken a keen interest in his lady. (Bronn, you instigator!)

As such, Tyrion resorts to his usual humor to deflect any unpleasant feelings he may have when he's jealous. Similar to his brother, these witty remarks are are subtle intimidation technique, meant to dryly convey his displeasure.

"Ah, the sound of laughter. How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to earn your amusement." He forces a smile, masking his discomfort. "I didn’t realize I was competing for the title of Court Jester."

These feelings of inadequacy manifest in more self-deprecating ways for Tyrion, given his anger is more controlled. He might opt to drown his sorrows, so don't be surprised if you catch him drunkenly waving his chalice around, doing poor impressions of the so-called-lord that had your attention.

This doesn't mean he won't confront the rival, though. Quite the opposite. While he won't seek the man out, (For his sake, he isn't privy to seeing the tall handsome lord in person. He's not a masochist.) If he happens to come across him flirting with you first hand, or sees him during a feast, he'll make sure to throw one or two gibes out there.

"Desperation looks unflattering on you, my friend. Perhaps you should tone it down a notch." He speaks carefully, nodding to Bronn as a subtle warning. "Or at least the best you can manage..?"

If the rival flirts with you blatantly and in front of him, I can 100% imagine him putting them down. After a flirtatious remark directed towards you, he'll make a dry comment, "Flattery is wasted on me, but do go on; I’m always entertained by those who think they can win my affection." As if it was directed towards him. Probably shuts the man up for a moment.

When the two of you are alone, he'd be very grateful if you could just hold him. Give him that reassurance he craves when his carefree facade breaks. That moment of vulnerability means the world to him.

𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝛰𝑅 "𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑁𝐷" 𝐶𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐸

♫ “I need you to go, don't fight me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Listen up, Sandor doesn't take shit.

Jealousy isn't an emotion Sandor is particularly used too. In fact, he didn't think he'd find anyone to love in his lifetime, so the feeling is foreign and unpleasant. And, like a mean dog, Sandor's first reaction is to growl.

He doesn't like it. Says it's constricting, and it pisses him off. Not just the pretty boy lord flirting with you, but the whole situation in general. Makes him feel vulnerable, and weak.

Naturally, his first reaction is to distance himself. He may avoid you, grumbling, spitting out vile and vulgar comments to get you to run with your tail between your legs. It's better for the both of you that way.

"You think they’re worth your time? Just a pretty smile to distract you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You could do better. But then again, you always choose to suffer." He motions at himself, and it's a glimpse of that self-depreciation he buries.

But you love him for a reason, and you know that won't end well. Best way to handle him when he's jealous is to be gentle, and to listen.

He doesn't want empty reassurances. He's complicated that way, even if they are genuine. He isn't one for flowery words or overt displays of emotion, so the best way to comfort him would be to give him some space, but continue to take care of him.

It will still frustrate him, but eventually he'll cave. He'll rejoin you, silently, eventually. Won't offer any apologies, but maybe a gruff nod, and you two will commence whatever it is you two have.

In future instances, he becomes much more brutally honest with how he feels. Doesn't sugarcoat it. If he doesn't like someone, even if they are a friend, he expects them gone- or he'll take care of them regardless. That kind of possessive behavior is just something you'll have to work through.

I can imagine him silently brooding if he witnesses someone flirting with you first hand. Typically his size and reputation is enough to scare whoever away. He's looming over them, eyes dark, and ready to defend what's his.

When you take your leave, he'll confront the person with a very explicit threat or two.

"If you don’t back off, I’ll find a nice dark corner to stuff you in- preferably with a pile of shit." Or, "Get any closer, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."

𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “Get swallowed by the weight.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aemond has the most...complex jealousy out of everyone on this list. It's layered, and the outcome may be unpredictable. It's an emotional and volatile nature that's been building up for years since he was a child.

He often had feelings of jealousy for his brother, his nephews, etc. That trauma is deeply rooted in him, and it's hard to let go of old habits, given it's been present all his life.

You'll watch his head bow in distaste when you make small conversation with other lords. How his eye will gaze at you, almost warningly. His jaw will be clenched tight, and he'll avoid eye contact, looking off to the side in anger. He doesn't want to watch.

If it's a friend of yours, he can be a bit mean, questioning your loyalty a bit harshly.

"Friendship? Is that what you call it?" He speaks, angrily. A thinly veiled threat is directed to you, "It seems more like a prelude to betrayal."

He'll brood in the corner, silently waiting. That is, unless, he deems the man goes too far.

In the scene where he gets his eye put out by Lucerys, the conversation that starts before it happens pretty much sums his jealousy up. He's firm with his claim to Vaghar, and the same goes for you.

When Rhaena states that Vaghar was hers to claim, Aemond responds in kind, "Then you should've claimed her." And puts up a hell of a fight to prove his point. That same possessiveness carries over to his relationship with you. He doesn't back down. You're his.

He has no problems getting in between you and the man he feels threatened of. He offers a blunt threat.

"I could have you torn apart, limb by limb, and I’d sleep soundly at night. Be certain of that."

Guaranteed, mixed feelings of insecurity will rise to the surface. When you two are alone, he'll continue to brood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and body language tight.

Please do reassure him. He needs it. His eye will soften, and he'll place his hand over yours, leaning into your touch. With a soft huff of an air, a final warning slips past his lips.

"Don’t make me remind you why I’m the only one worthy of you."

𝐴𝐸𝐺𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “I wanna hold on tightly.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aegon handles jealousy poorly, much like he seems to handle everything else.

It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Once that feeling in his chest flares up, it's shown through erratic behavior, sarcasm, and attempts to assert his claim in juvenile, insecure ways. Unlike his brother, he lacks the restraint to simply brood.

No, be prepared for plenty of mocking comments directed towards the man he's threatened of, and showy displays to prove he's the better choice.

Everyone knows he is unpredictable and reckless, and possessiveness drives him to act out. He certainly overindulges to cope with his insecurity, (getting shitfaced) and will gladly push your boundaries to get your attention back on him.

Not to mention the belittling comments he'll make.

"Oh, is that who you’ve chosen to entertain now? I didn’t realize your taste had grown so dull."

Prone to acting overtly clingy, almost like a restless cat. He will attempt to slide over into the conversation, resting an arm around you, or even pulling you away. He doesn't care if it's 'improper.' He probably brings up his status, his bloodline, acting over-the-top.

He's also no stranger to outbursts. His temper may make him lash out impulsively, whether that be towards you or the man whose got your attention. If he's in a particular mood, be ready to deal with a screaming Aegon, threatening to slaughter and burn said rival. His fist will come down hard on the council table.

He also doesn't care if he's making a show of it in front of the council members. Que Alicent or Otto attempting to placate him. He needs to have a cooler head if he's going to be ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and this type of behavior isn't very becoming.

He definitely thinks he's owed some make-up sex, if only to quell the insecure storm raging inside him.

"You think they could satisfy you? Truly?" He says, firmly, as he steps closer. Anger is burning in his words, volume raising. "They wouldn’t even know where to begin."

And he plans to show you that he's right.

𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “I'm afraid I'll pull you over the edge.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Alicent experiences jealousy complexly, just like Aemond. It gnaws on her until she's at her breaking point. Rather than overt displays or confrontations, she attempts to employ more strategic distance...but it always ends up resorting in icy politeness.

She's making her displeasure known through restrained, pointed remarks. Out of duty and pride, she'll attempt to avoid direct confrontation, but she wears her jealousy on her sleeve.

I imagine her withdrawing from the situation at first, if not for anything but her own sake. Her gut reaction, out of insecurity, is to escape the situation. It honestly makes her feel sick.

Unless she's forced to stay...then she'll begrudgingly offer a tight smile. Her responses are carefully measured, and she slips into that role of "queen" rather than a lover.

A part of it stems from passive aggressiveness, and another part of it is purely subconscious.

Speaking of passive aggressiveness, she'll make some pretty cutting remarks, either questioning your loyalty or purposely feigning ignorance to the situation.

"Perhaps I’m mistaken. But I know loyalty when I see it. Or when I don’t."

It's an all bark, no bite threat towards you. But it serves as an aggressive reminder of your connection with her, and that you are now apart of her duties.

If she does interfere beforehand, she'll make indirect remarks about the person causing her jealousy, but will most likely frame it as merely her own curiosity.

Maybe just a touch of self-depreciation, unintentional manipulation. Years of Otto's techniques have rubbed off on her.

"It’s of little consequence, truly. I simply thought I was the one you preferred to spend your time with. I may have misjudged."

𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑁𝐸 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “Hurts to say it over, over again.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

In contrast to Alicent, Gwayne has no problem when he feels threatened to step in. He's a member of a powerful house, and a knight no less. Those two things have taught him to be prideful and honorable.

He will defend your honor whenever he deems in necessary, and there are no exceptions. He certainly has a flash of a temper, but he believes he's much more restrained than others, given his training.

If he thinks someone is crossing a line, he'll interfere. He'll position himself quite closely to you, making his presence known.

He offers the man a silent warning, offering a cool, assessing look. It would be enough to communicate his disapproval.

And if the man persists...well...they'll end up with the end of a sword pointed at them.

Similar to Robb, Gwayne's jealousy appears more in his heightened protectiveness. He insists on staying close for your safety.

"Do they need to be reminded that you’re already spoken for?"

Obviously, his noble pride carries on. If he gets pushed, his jealousy will show more openly, taking the man aside, and telling them that he is more worthy of her time and attention. Might throw in a comment about his noble standing.

He'll take you aside when everything is said and done, reminding her his intentions are honorable. Everyone else is just...unworthy.

"You may not see it, but I know men like him. If he truly respected you, he wouldn’t need to linger around someone else’s beloved."

𝐷𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ "No matter how you feel." Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh boy, you'll have to keep this man on a tight leash when his jealousy flares up. It's as intense as he is, and he shows it openly.

He'll deny it, or embrace it, depending on the severity of the perceived offense. It's closely tied to that desire for power within him he can't seem to shake. Any affront to your loyalty is an affront to his own standing.

He switches from possessive protectiveness to outright hostility. There's really no in between. It's a raw and unfiltered fury that makes his hand shake and his eye twitch.

He doesn't tolerate rivals, and he's very upfront that he's the only one fit to be by your side. This comes through when he has you all to himself on his bed...

He'll confront the person whether you want him to or not.

"If they value their limbs, they’d remember you’re mine." He mutters casually, pacing around the room.

He carries that hard glint in his eyes. He may even mildly appreciate the sheer balls of the man stupid enough to attempt to flirt with you, but he'll shut it down quicker than anyone on this list.

"You’ve got a bold tongue. I wonder if I should cut it out..?" He'll look to you for permission. It's up to you if you wanna let the dragon loose!

[stellav1va]

feeling devious

[toomanydrafts]

𝜗𝜚 To Bleed 𝜗𝜚

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader

You brought a dagger to your wedding night

Warnings: cursing, possessiveness, toxic relationship dynamic, oral f!recieving, unprotected piv, loss of virginity (reader’s), breeding, knife play (aerion has a dagger to his throat basically the whole time), kissing, biting, blood, slight choking, dubcon, power imbalance, slight praise, canon typical, Aerion Targaryen

It was your fate to be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.

It was a fact as simple, as unchangeable, as the sky was blue since you were a child.

You had not much understood what it would mean to be Aerion’s wife when you were first told of it. You saw only a pretty dress, and the court calling you “princess,” standing besides your strong Targaryen husband, and all your beautiful Valyrian children. Those were the delusions of a child — a sheltered girl, who did not know better. It did not take long for you to learn.

Aerion was clever, but he was cruel. Aerion was beautiful, but he was brutal. You grew to know him well, and you did not like what you knew. The Brightflame, the Monsterous, the man whom you would someday wed.

You made no effort to hide your resentments. He made no effort to hide how very much it amused him. You defied him at every turn. He would laugh at your defiance. You busied yourself keeping as far away from him as possible. He would weasel his way by your side with a taunt ready on his tongue. He was impossible, you decided. He was the only thing possible for you, he decided.

He proved himself right.

Your fate proved itself inescapable.

On a day deemed auspicious by the Faith, the two of you were wed. The black and red cloak of House Targaryen was draped over your shoulders. You exchanged vows you did not truly mean. In the eyes of the Gods, of the Realm, and of Aerion most of all, you became his.

His, in every sense of the word.

The wedding feast was suffered through without so much as a glance his way.

It did not keep him from taunting you. His hand still found your thigh beneath the table. You were still forced to put on a false smile as you stood beside him and cut the pigeon pie. You were still made to take him up in a dance, a show of your happy marriage to all the world.

The revelry grew boisterous as the night bore on. The men were deep in their cups, dancing and groping the serving girls, spilling drinks wherever they went. The pair of you seemed to be forgot for a moment, and it was a relief. A relief, until Aerion stood up beside you abruptly, holding out his arm with the expectation you would accept.

“Let us retire, wife.” He said.

You’d half a mind to refuse, but should you stay, you would certainly be made to endure the bedding ceremony. You had thought he might want for one, if only to humiliate you, but perhaps he was all too possessive for that. Perhaps he did not enjoy the thought of every drunk lord of the Seven Kingdoms groping his newly wedded wife.

“Very well.” You took his arm stiffly, though that did not upset him in the slightest. In his mind, you were his, and he had won.

He did not bother with words once your chambers were reached. He was upon you the second the doors fell shut. You had seen the dogs in the yard, seen a stallion mount a mare, your maids told you scandalous stories they heard of one another — you were not a fool. The ladies of Westeros were sheltered, and though you remained a maid for the sake of it, you knew what Aerion’s intentions were. The thought of it sent something hot and uncomfortable running down your spine.

He did not kiss you, no, he simply grabbed hold of your elbow and pulled you towards him. For a moment, you went stiff. His hands found your cloak, unfastening it with little ceremony, letting it fall behind you with a satisfied grunt. Then his hands were upon your gown; one held your waist, firm, refusing to let you slip away.

“Aerion — ” you hissed when his other hand found the laces of your bodice, when he threatened to tug them loose, you swatted his hand away. “Let go of me.”

“No.” He answered, blunt, not letting you move an inch when you made to jerk away from him. You felt your stomach twist with fear, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. He should not have been so strong. He did not deserve his strength. His hand reached up for your laces let again.

“Let go.” You repeated.

“No.” He repeated, mocking, fingers toying with the strings, watching how you might react.

You’d a very beautiful wedding dress; Myrish lace was carefully worked over the bodice, it was encrusted with blood red rubies and black diamonds, with flowing silk skirts. It had long, billowing sleeves, too, the sort which were good for keeping things tucked away. You were not a fool, you knew Aerion. He was an overgrown babe at arms, afflicted with delusions of grandeur, who believed that all in the world were beneath him, that all the world belonged to him — yourself included.

So, in your wisdom, you had tucked a dagger into your sleeves. It was a simple thing, not the elaborate creations of Valyrian steel with decorated hilts that Aerion might enjoy. It was sharp, however, and that is all that mattered. He would see it, and he would release you. You knew that he would. He would, would he not? He had to.

You let the dagger slip from your sleeves, taking a deep breath, steading yourself, steadying your resolve. You did not give him the opportunity to realise what you were doing. You were quick, you had to be quick.

The blade presses against his throat.

Aerion stills.

His eyes flicker down towards the blade. There is something detached about the way he studied it, as he might idly observe any number of the mundane happenings of life.

“Will you do it, then?” He asks, with a callous disregard, entirely unperturbed.

It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for his life. It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for you. For the threat you might pose to his life. He seems every inch a dragon, a haughty and prideful monster, not in the least affronted by a little bird, beating her wings against the cage of his claws.

It sets you off balance — you had expected he would balk. You had expected that he would seethe and rage, every inch the indignant, arrogant, spoiled child that all the world had made him out to be. That you had expected him to be. You had not considered that he might be quite so sure, so deluded, that even with a blade pressed up against his throat, he had not the slightest worry that he might be denied.

“Well?” Aerion drawls, something too close to a cold, ugly amusement playing across his face as he observes your turmoil. “You’ve drawn the blade. Do not tell me you do not mean to follow through.”

“Aerion.” You warn.

“Wife.” He hums, the word a taunt, a reminder.

You press the blade closer. It is an effort to keep your hand steady. He leans in, towards it, until the edge kisses the line of his throat. Too deep a breath, and the dagger would draw his blood. It was infuriating that it made your breath catch in your throat, fear spiking up your spine.

You were no fool, you knew better than to murder a Targaryen prince. He knew you did. Or, perhaps he did not. Perhaps he simply did not care if you would murder him. Perhaps he wished to toy with you a moment further, to poke your flank and see if you might bite. Never-mind if you do.

“No?” Aerion sighs, bored too quickly, the brief excitement of the moment soured by your hesitance.

“Let me go.” You hiss, but he has stolen the conviction from your words, he has stolen the threat from your hands.

“Ah, would that I could...” He shakes his head, as though your suggestion is entirely implausible. To a princeling like him, it must seem as much.

His hand, the one not toying with the strings of your bodice, trails up your side, to skim across your neck. His fingers are cold. His touch burns. He observes a moment, as he writes secrets across your flesh with his fingertips. His hands frighten you more without a blade, than yours, with a blade, had frightened him.

“But you are my wife.” He continues, words simple. “We are married before the Gods.”

“You have no respect for the Gods.” You interject, breathing too fast, too shallow as his hand slips around your throat, tightening a moment, then easing the next.

“It makes no matter how it has been done, but you have been made mine. From this day, till your last, you are mine.” His words have conviction. There is not a question in his mind about what he says; to him they are more than vows and laws and traditions, they are the truth, and the only truth that matters.

When his eyes rise back to yours, you are caught between stiffening and shuddering.

“Put away your arms, wife.” His words soften around the command, as though he has any desire to ease the humiliation that eats up at your pride. When your only response is to set your jaw with defiance, he huffs, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Keep it, then.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes pinned upon your face, as his fingers once more tug at the laces of your bodice. They come undone with a practised ease, and you tense, your hold on the blade tightening. He pays it no mind.

“Take it off.” He orders, hands falling away from you to gesture broadly at your undone dress. He takes a measured step backwards, away from the blade, though you’re sure it is only to give you the room to obey.

“If I refuse?” Your protest feels futile, but you’ve enough pride to protest him still.

“I will not repeat myself.” He snorts. “I’ve let you keep up your dagger, have I not? The least you could do is obey like a proper wife.”

Your jaw works a moment as you regard him. You should refuse. You should do anything but obey. Yet — and yet, with the dagger still in hand, you find yourself pulling your arms from your sleeves, and tugging down your bodice and your skirts, till they lay in a pile of Myrish lace and silk and jewel encrustations at your feet.

“Good.” Aerion nods. “Now the rest.”

You listen again, trying to keep your breathing even, trying to fight the flushed feeling that rushes up your neck as you loosen your chemise and unfasten your small-clothes, letting them join the pile, too. It is only when your stockings have been peeled off and your slippers kicked away that Aerion is satisfied.

The air of the room bites; despite the heat from the hearth and the braziers, gooseflesh runs up your arms and legs. Yet, nothing bites quite like his gaze.

He is entirely unabashed in the way his eyes rove over your body, taking note of every little detail. You feel raw, as though more than your clothes have been peeled away, as though your insides have been turned out for him to see. You supposed, soon enough, he’d be well acquainted with your insides. The desire to heave up your wedding feast at the thought is unbearably strong.

When he steps forward, onto the fortune that is your wedding dress without a care, your dagger rises to his throat once more. He is still unbothered by its presence. To you, it is all you have to feel some semblance of control. To him, it is little more than an inconvenience, an afterthought, an amusement. A small smirk pulls on his lips when you press it firm against his throat as his hands settle upon your waist.

“Your arm will grow tired, wife.” He remarks, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin. His hands belong there, in his mind, for you belong to him. You must seem the grandest fool for trying to fight it.

He guides you back against the bed, not so much so as flinching when the dagger digs into his throat as he moves.

“Worry not.” He murmurs, pressing your back against the sheets. “I’ll take care of you, wife. Haven’t a choice, now have I?” He nods towards the blade, his jaw nudging against it.

You despise that he does not care about the weapon, that him obliging to the threat it poses is nothing more than a favour, a small token to appease your pride. Yet, you do not stop him as he settles over you, as he pushes apart your thighs. Your spine goes rigid, your chest feels tight. There are a dozen things you should like to say, but you say none.

He spends a moment examining you, appraising his latest possession. When he is satisfied, he gives a low hum of approval. You had almost expected him to say something cruel, to mock you, but perhaps he has enough sense to know you’d certainly bleed him — if only a little — should he.

“I shall taste you, wife.” He declares, unceremoniously. “You may resume threatening my life once I am done.”

You open your mouth to protest, but even if you had the chance to speak, he would not have cared. He pulls away from the blade, dragging his nose down the length of your stomach, breathing in the scent of you, till he’s settled between your legs. He looks up at you, those pale lilac eyes hazy with desire. You’re not stupid enough to believe it is a desire for love, even for bedding you, or for any other reason than to possess you completely, to claim what is his.

“Do not look away.” He breathes, hot against you. “I will know if you look away.”

You nod, sharp, and inhale, sharper. You refuse to be affected by that smallest of sensations. Your resolve is instantly challenged when he presses closer, his tongue skimming between your folds, with teasing intentions. It seems, though, his resolve is as weak as yours; when his tongue laps out again, giving your cunt a proper lick, all the way up to your clit, he groans, and all teasing intentions are forgotten.

Your hips buck into his face of their own volition as his mouth moves against you, kissing, sucking, licking you from your entrance to your clit, letting his teeth graze against you just to see how you might squirm. Though you’re certain it feeds his behemoth pride that you do, his hands find purchase on your hips, holding them down so that he may give you pleasure only as he sees fit.

He works with a skill that belies experience. You had not thought Aerion the type to worry about a woman’s pleasure, but perhaps it feeds his vanity to see your defiance give way to your desire, perhaps it is simply the threat of being cut that motivates him to make it tolerable enough for you.

This more than tolerable. Pleasure builds low in your stomach faster than you had thought. Your fingers were never so quick to pleasure you, you’d never the recklessness to let someone else. You do your best to keep your eyes on him, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other white-knuckled around the dagger. You’re gasping, moaning, to your shame, after but moments spent with his mouth sucking on your clit. You feel your muscles tighten, already brought to the edge, shifting beneath his grasp to further the friction, seeking relief with a desperation you despise.

He lets you for a moment, loosening his grip just enough to have you grinding against his face. Then he pulls away, leaving you raw and pathetic with your need to finish.

“Aerion.” You hiss, breathing fast.

“Wife.” His smirk broadens, his face messy with the slick of your arousal. “Do you want to come?”

Your pride tells you to say no.

“Yes.” You swallow down your pride and answer from your clit, throbbing with need, and your cunt, clenching around absolutely nothing.

“Then ask politely.” He says, as though it should be the easiest thing in the world.

“Please.” The word is dry, foreign on your tongue, and entirely debasing. It is not enough to satisfy him — it does not meet the parameters of his demands, and so with a sigh, you find yourself nearly begging. “Please, Aerion, let me come?”

“Good.” He says. “You will learn to do better, but I will not deny you, lest you cut off my cock.”

It is a tempting thought, but before you can contemplate it, Aerion’s mouth has found its way between your legs again. He makes quick work of your release; he licks a stripe up your cunt before his mouth latches onto your clit once more. Your climax comes fast, sudden, your back arching up as the tension spikes and then melts. Aerion does not cease, not until every last shudder has been wrought from you, until you’re on the verge of begging him to stop.

He pulls away with a groan, licking up the slick of you from his mouth. He’s risen up from between your legs and his mouth finds your own before you’ve the chance to put the dagger to his throat again. You taste your release on his lips. It is anything but a kiss. It is a claim; rough and demanding, his teeth bite into your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and then he’s soothing the wound with an obscene sucking.

It is only when his tongue pushes into your mouth that you find the sense to press the dagger against his throat again, pushing his mouth away from yours with the bite of the steel.

He laughs, and it settles into a sigh, caught between something strangely bemused and something mocking as he looks down upon you.

“You’ll do well.” He muses, leaning back and away from you, only to make quick work of his own clothes, speaking on as he does. His words bear no affection, no true praise, only that same possession that is in all he says and does. “Carrying the blood of the dragon. You’ve enough fire in you. You will give me many little dragons, wife. No matter if you hold a dagger to my throat when I fuck them into you.”

His words make you bristle. It is a wonder, that is tongue can be so skilled at bringing you to your peak in one breath, and humiliating you in the next. Though, when you consider it, there is little difference between the two. Not to you, and surely not to Aerion.

His cock is hard when it is free of its confines. Your breath catches when you see it, all too much to Aerion’s amusement. You wonder how long he has wanted to shame you like this, fuck into you and make you come, over and over, till you’re round with his children. You’re sure he has thought of it ceaselessly, since he was old enough to have such thoughts.

He settles himself over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other one running up your side, finding purchase on your chest. He squeezes your breast beneath his hand, watching you tense a moment. You know not whether it is from fear or anticipation, and you refuse to entertain any other reason besides the two.

You press your dagger against his throat, but he does not seem to notice. He busies himself lining the head of his cock up with your entrance, and you exhale, breath trembling, when he grinds the tip of it against you.

He is not rough when he sinks in, but nor is he slow. He pushes himself in with one thrust. The stretch of it burns, more than you had thought it would, and you squeeze your eyes shut with the pain of it. Aerion does not stop until he has buried himself to the hilt, but he gives you a moment to adjust. It is a small mercy, one you did not think him capable of.

“Open your eyes.” He demands, and it is only when you do that he slowly begin to rock his hips, back and forth. Testing at first. Not for long. He groans, low in his throat, wasting no further time in setting a steady rhythm, even as you stiffen beneath him, biting back the pain. “Your body will adjust. It will not if you fight it. Let go, wife.”

It is difficult to listen. Each movement of his hips stretches you out further, and it burns, sears your walls. Yet, you force the stiffness from your spine, let your head fall back against the bed. The slick from your first release helps, and so does the blood — you’re more than certain you’ve bled, your maidenhead smeared across his cock, across the sheets. Your spare hand weaves around to grip on his back, and Aerion only groans when he feels your nails dig in.

He keeps his pace steady a while, not slow, but not nearly as fast as he should like. You’ve no choice but to ignore the burn, to focus on the good that might be found in it. It is no easy task, but only at first. You observe Aerion’s face, the way his sharp lines have softened, the soft grunts he makes, and there is a begrudging satisfaction that you are capable of pleasuring him — he may never have pretended otherwise, but to see him so unguarded whilst buried in your cunt is perversely fulfilling.

The pain does not go, but the pleasure builds, becomes easier to focus on.

It does not take long for a little whine to escape you at the feeling of his cock pushing into you, and that only goads him further, moving a little quicker. You’ve kept the dagger pressed against his throat the entire time. There are times where you fear that he might slice himself upon the edge of the blade as he thrusts into you.

“Do you think it scares me?” He grunts, his hips picking up, his movements rougher, quicker. “The dagger. Wife, do you think I do not know what it is to bleed?”

“Aerion,” you gasp, nails digging deeper into the flesh of his back. It is an effort to keep the blade steady in your hand. Every thrust into you has the blade jerking upwards, threatening to bite into his neck as you tremble, as the pleasure builds up. He still does not care.

“To bleed to keep what is mine... for what is mine — ” His words cut off with a groan, his breath shuddering, chest rising and falling quicker. He doesn’t relent his pace, even as it becomes an obvious effort to keep his thrusts even. “Seven hells, look at you. Taking me so well. Your body betrays you, wife. Fuck, good, let it.”

His hand leaves your chest, trailing down until it’s between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit and circling. His movements are insistent. The pleasure is unfair; the sensation coiling low in your stomach is unfair. It has your back arching against him, your hips pushing upwards to meet him, cunt clenching around his cock as that sensation tightens. It spurs him on, he circles his thumb faster, his cock presses in deeper, faster still.

“Come.” His order is firm, but there’s a breathlessness to his voice, it’s gone higher, needier in a way you never imagined he would be. He does not make you beg this time, he simply works harder.

You obey him; that sensation peaks, then comes down in rolls of pleasure. Each one racking through you has your nails scratching harder against his back, your head tipping back, another pathetic moan escaping your mouth. He keeps steady enough through it, watching with intent focus as you ride through your release, keeping his thumb pressed firm against your clit even when the last of the waves bleed away, leaving you a melted, boneless mess beneath him. He relishes in the sight of it, that much is obvious even to your murky mind.

He does not fight the way your walls clench around his cock, practically milking the seed from him as the pleasure of coming gives way to overstimulation. His pace becomes less controlled, less purposeful, chasing after his own release with a single-minded focus. He makes no effort to hide the way his groans become whines. When he does come, when he spills himself inside of you, it’s with your name on his lips. His head tips forward, just enough for the dagger to bite into his throat, leaving a little knick of red against his skin.

He does not pull out, does not move at all — neither of you do. Both your breaths are ragged, heavy, regaining sense of the world for a moment as the haze of fucking slowly fades.

You, at last, pull the dagger away. Your fingers unfurl their iron-clad grasp around it’s hilt, letting it tumble from the bed and clatter upon the floor. As soon as it is gone, Aerion sighs, letting his head drop to the crook of your neck, his mouth pressing there in something almost tender enough to be a kiss.

He moves then; he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him till your back is flush with his chest, but he does not leave his cock out of you for long, pushing his seed back in with it.

“My wife.” He murmurs, and there is a softness to his voice that should make you stiffen, but you are too spent to fight it. “My good wife.”

His arms are gentle when they wind around your waist, but the way he tightens them is nothing but possessive. His hands skim over your abdomen, as though you might already be with his child. That thought must please him incessantly.

“You are mine.” He declares.

You are too spent to fight that, too. Perhaps you will be his. Perhaps you already are. Perhaps there are worse fates than to bleed for Aerion Targaryen, and perhaps there are worse fates than Aerion Targaryen bleeding for you. Then again, perhaps there are not. It makes no matter. There is no other fate for you.

𝜗𝜚 xoxo 𝜗𝜚

[valarrswhitestreak]

masterlist

a starved man is no laughing matter:

a starved man is no laughing matter pt1

a starved man is no laughing matter pt2

a starved man is no laughing matter pt3

a starved man is no laughing matter pt 4 (out now!)

onlyfans!creator series:

modern!aerion as an onlyfans creator with his pretty filming partner…

onlyfans!aerion praising his filming partner

a knight of the seven kingdoms men as onlyfans creators!

the dragon twins - jace and aerion:

introduction: the dragon twins

modern atotsk!:

snippets of modernprince!valarr

snippets:

dark!baelor niece-wife verse!

dark!baelor and his niece-wife

(for more of baelor and his niece-wife, look up #baelors niece wife for all the asks!)

daeron and his wife - the sunshine of summerhall!

snippets of daeron and his wife! (new!)

the two times dunk met the sunshine of summerhall (new!)

ask: daeron's wife is the sunshine of summerhall!

(for more of daeron and his wife, look up #sunshine of summerhall for all the asks!)

other snippets!

daeron targaryen II a dragon's dream

[valarrswhitestreak]

snippets of modernprince!valarr pt1

with a snippet of dark modernprince!valarr at the end!

Valarr is the grandson of the King of Westeros, the third in line to the throne, and he’s constantly dealing with the expectations put on him, not only by his family but by the nation.

He attends King’s Landing University, the country's most prestigious institution, where he studies business and politics, per the King's request.

Valarr is the darling of the media, never causing a scandal or getting into any trouble. The worst thing he's ever done is stumble a little after a night out, the camera's catching him righting himself and going along his merry way.

By all accounts, he's a dream of a future King. No one is worried about the future of Westeros with him in charge.

He has social media, but all very proper. Pictures of charity galas, polo matches, and an occasional run around the lake at their summer home.

His social media is where the young (and sometimes old) women of Westeros thirst over him. He's pretty, with his tousled hair and mismatched eyes, and considering the frenzy that Baelor caused as a young man, people are expectant. He’s always touted to be the number one bachelor in Westeros, and the daughters of noble families are lining up for a chance with Valarr.

In one of his university classes, Valarr meets the woman who he determines will be his future wife - a kind girl who treats him normally (he'd so like that, much more than he lets on), joking with him and sharing her notes with him after he missed class due to a royal event. They have the same group of friends, and soon the pair spend more and more time together. They are able to discover their feelings for each other freely, as the King arranged for no paparazzi on campus, and soon, their relationship is somewhat of an open secret at the school. They still do their best to be subtle about it.

She meets his family quickly, easily getting along with Baelor and Matarys, though his cousins are less pleasant. Baelor likes her, thinking her sensible and good for his son. He won't make any judgments about her capacity to be a royal, as she and Valarr are still young, but he doesn't discourage his son from the relationship.

And so, the pair keep their relationship lowkey, spending their summer at the palace and their days at university cuddled up in Valarr's dorm, watching silly tv shows and eating greasy Chinese food.

All is going well, until...

One day, a video is leaked showing Valarr and his girlfriend at a party, the one they had attended on campus only a few days ago, with her sitting on his lap, the pair kissing slowly and deeply. They were sitting by themselves in a small, secluded corner, and yet someone had zoomed in on them as they got lost in each other. Valarr's hands were gripping her waist and thigh, holding her close to him, while she had her hands tangled in his hair and holding his shoulder, dragging up and down his arms. It's clear to viewers that the pair aren't strangers.

The video blows up online and Baelor is frustrated, but he knows it’s not Valarr’s fault. Someone invaded his privacy, likely someone he trusted.

Valarr’s girlfriend is mortified, ashamed that the entirety of Westeros had seen her feeling up her boyfriend as they shared spit, and that their relationship, which had once been quiet and peaceful, was now loud and public.

He’s caring for her, gentle and kind, soothing her worries and wiping away the tears that spill over as she cries into his chest. He’s just such a good boyfriend, even when his family give him knowing looks. He’s always been soft, but he’s at his softest with his girlfriend.

It doesn’t help that Valarr wants to show her off publicly, now that their relationship has been exposed. He's proud of her and somewhat proud of himself for being worthy of someone like her.

He starts bringing her to his events, the bigger ones like his annual polo match, or his family's Christmas party - the ones where cameras are allowed. Their photos together make the front page of the Daily Westeros, speculation coming around whether the royal family will have another wedding soon.

There are still some critics who hold their video against them, but mostly, the public doesn't mind the couple. In fact, they end up quite popular with a number of TikTok edits being made of the pair.

It's no surprise to anyone when a few years down the track, the King is announcing that his grandson will soon be married in the great sept, and the bells are ringing all across King's Landing to celebrate the new nuptials.

Okkkkkkk, however.....

The idea of a darker side to modernprince!Valarr is tickling my brain. It's not just a random video of him and his girlfriend making out that gets leaked, but instead, it's the sex tape the pair filmed one weekend on a trip to the coast. Both their faces are in it, and no one can deny what they're doing. It's simple, just a phone propped up on a dresser, capturing the couple on the bed - nothing elaborate. But it's what's in the video that captures Westeros's attention. Harsh rutting, loud whines, long and drawn-out moans. Prince Valarr might be the pinnacle of propriety in public, but in the bedroom, he's calling her 'good girl' or 'my pretty whore' as he tugs her hair back, hitting it from behind. He's making her cum on his cock as she whines into the sheets. He's slapping her ass until the handprint is visible to the lens, and cumming inside of her and making sure it stays inside.

The video has both of them staying inside for days, lying low as the scandal blows up. She's despondent, horrified at the leak and the media attention. It pushes her further into her boyfriend's arms, Valarr doing his best to console her as she sobs.

Valarr can only stroke her hair and hide his grin, for it was he who leaked the video to the press. He'd looked at her phone the week before, seeing a message to her friend saying that she didn't know if she could do it anymore - the attention and constant eyes on her were too much. He had decided then that he just couldn't let her leave him.

Now, she would have to stay with him. No one would want her now. She'd have no career, nor any future away from him. All she could do was stand by his side, rebuilding their image as a deeply in-love couple. A few attendances at his next polo match would surely smooth things over, Valarr thought. Maybe an heir would help too, but all in good time.

(Aerion congratulates his cousin on the mess happily, thinking back to the time his own sex tape got released.)

[novaursa]

The List Of My HOTD Reader Insert Works:

The list received a makeover. There is no longer a second one. All is here, in one place.

I don't give permission to others to use my original ideas for their works (that includes any form of art). I also don't give permission for my work to be copied or translated into another language and posted somewhere else. This also applies to anything regarding an AI. You have been warned.

You can buy my original book here.

Requests are CLOSED FOREVER! Please stop sending them to me!

Aegon II Targaryen

Helaena Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

Daeron Targaryen

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Jacaerys Velaryon

Daemon Targaryen

Baela Targaryen

Otto Hightower

Gwayne Hightower

Alicent Hightower

Cregan Stark

Harwin Strong

Criston Cole

Jason Lannister

Tyland Lannister

Jason and Tyland Lannister - The Golden Court

Davos Blackwood

The List Of My ASOIAF Reader Inserts Works:

Oberyn Martell

Aerys II Targaryen

Rhaegar Targaryen

Daenerys Targaryen

Grey Worm

Arthur Dayne

Robb Stark

Sansa Stark

Arya Stark

Jon Snow

Edmure Tully

Euron Greyjoy

Theon Greyjoy

Margaery Tyrell

Tywin Lannister

Cersei Lannister

Jaime Lannister

Tyrion Lannister

Robert Baratheon

Eddard Stark

Brandon Stark (The Wild Wolf)

Lyanna Stark

Roose Bolton

Ramsay Bolton

Jojen Reed

Petyr Baelish

Jaqen H'ghar

Sandor Clegane

Khal Drogo

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater

Beric Dondarrion

Styr the Thenn

Oswell Whent

Ser Duncan the Tall - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Lyonel Baratheon - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

The List Of My F&B Reader Insert Works:

Aegon I Targaryen

Visenya Targaryen

Rhaenys Targaryen

Maegor I Targaryen

Torrhen Stark

Orys Baratheon

Aegon (The Uncrowned) Targaryen

Viserra Targaryen

Aegon III Targaryen

Aegon IV Targaryen

Daemon I Blackfyre

Maekar Targaryen

Daeron (The Drunken) Targaryen

Aerion (Brightflame) Targaryen

Brynden Rivers

Baelor (Breakspear) Targaryen

Valarr Targaryen

Original Targaryen Characters

Dune Crossover

Requests are CLOSED FOREVER!

About Me

[controld3vil]

INSTINCTIVE

pairing: aerion targaryen x valyrian!wife!reader synopsis: requested by ask1! ⤷ alt: Some would say you and Aerion are simply the heads and tails of the same coin. 

notes... after four essays, i finished one request... please enjoy! gif img: diidona tags: reader not in specified valyrian house, reader does not have valyrian features, aerion threatens the reader with a dagger, she does the same thing back 0.0, hints of arranged marriage, power struggle, canon typical violence, morally gray romance, second sons & daughters, hurt/comfort, no beta ofc

You were promised a dragon at nine years old. 

Glimpses had haunted you long ago. In your dreams, they held disturbing imagery much like the after-smoke came from a devastating fire. The lingering images of burning flesh and agonizing screams are scorched into your memory. At five years old, you learned quickly to look past the fear and nightmares. Still, their features haunt you. A tail cutting through the soot. Wings vast enough to swallow the horizons. And the fire spilling from its hollow, gaping maw. 

In truth, this entity never looked at you. 

It looked through you. 

You remember the first time you saw for what it was; how you woke up, trembling with hot tears from your eyes. You were certain that would be your last breath. 

Yet it never came. 

And no dragon came.

You were left wondering whether your younger self would be relieved that, for a split moment, your destiny was not carved in stone. There were whisperers of your scare, frightening your family, especially your father. Even now, as you held your head high for all the lords and ladies, you did not mend easily. You displayed unwavering loyalty to your House, cloaking yourself in retribution rather than showing weakness. Your House words have a formidable hold on your soul.

On your name day, your father made an offer to King Daeron. He promises to scour the rest of the realm for Blackfrye loyalists, the filthy mongrels who allied themselves with their false leader, Daemon Blackfrye. He promised retribution for their crimes, in hopes of advancing his troops into the Reach and the Free Cities. 

In return, he asked for something small. 

A promise. 

And at last, the dragon stirred. 

Aerion has heard stories. 

Gossip travels quickly in the Red Keep, where, at times, he was not even sure if they were completely true. Aerion was a Prince of the Realm; it should not be his concern. However, something in the air provoked his interest. Gods be bothered, if it was possible to find anything interesting, Aerion believed they were exaggerations, false tales to scare little girls and boys. 

They called you cruel. 

Insolent. 

Too foreign for Westeros. 

A lady of some small House once mocked your Old Valyrian blood, called it diluted, mongrel, and unworthy of its connection to House Targaryen. But the insult did not survive. By dawn, an arrow had pierced her skull, creating a clean hole through her forehead and the back of her head. What was most certain at the instance was the arrow itself, decorated with delicate charcoal bristles. Much reminiscent of your House colors.  

Aerion laughed when he heard. 

Not because he doubted it.

But because he hoped it was true. 

He had grown tired of soft women who mistook meekness for obedience and fondness. He rolled his eyes when women flinched. If you were half as vicious as the realm claimed, then perhaps the marriage would not bore him. He wanted someone poised and praised, beautiful to look at, but never the one to steal glory.

The first time he saw you, you stood beneath a veil dusted in the stars, silent among lesser ladies. From a distance, you were unrecognizable among the colorfully draped upper class. Up close, your gaze did not lower.

It sharpened. 

Aerion felt it then, that flicker of heat beneath the skin. 

Perhaps the Gods had not promised you a dragon. Maybe they had promised him one. 

He does not remember how it began. When you first witnessed how long he had been staring at you, with immense intensity and woe. His gaze never bothered you; it simply compelled you to linger longer. Where others have his silence suffocating, you were intrigued, silently harboring the secret of his unnerving stare.  

“Is it true then?” Aerion asks, his face devoid of a silver inch of courtesy. A subtle, underlying darkness lurked beneath his gaze, predatory, yet curiously non-threatening, like a beast waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

You raised your cup, measured, and were curious. “What is true?”

The Prince leaned forward, his red tunic shifting to reveal more of his chest. 

“Is it true?” he murmured, his gaze intense. “That you took a woman’s life over an insult to your House?” 

A heavy silence hung in the air, a momentary pause where neither party dared to speak. Moreso, the Targaryen Prince remained perfectly still, tilting his head sideways, wearing a grin that did not match his intense gaze. He was waiting for you to break first. 

“Those are just rumors,” you huffed, forcing a slow sip from your cup while maintaining eye contact.

Yet his gaze never wavered, those piercing lilac eyes locked on you, framed by silver-white hair. He didn’t deny them. You choked down on your drink, fighting your uneasiness with restraint. This was not the welcome you expected in King’s Landing. Instead, you felt trapped opposite him in this room, forced to celebrate this wretched farce of an engagement. 

“In the realm, people are meant to answer for their crimes,” you shrugged, trying to dismiss the tension. 

The Prince simply smiled, a dangerous one. “Whether I did it or not means nothing.” 

You believed your actions were righteous; that was the truth. When the news arrived that the daughter of your father’s rival had been murdered, he smiled down at you with pride. While rumors of the culprit circulated, they whispered about your name. Aerion only felt immense pride, thrilled, and knowing that you weren’t any Southern girl. But someone just as feared as he was.

The commemoration of your brother’s name day was a somber affair, making his transition into a man destined to take your father’s place as Lord. He was a dutiful son, always by your father’s side during council, ensuring he would grow into an adequate ruler. You had hoped he would instill the same fear and respect your father had for the remaining Houses under your influence.

During the height of Valyria, your House stood as a titan of industry, renowned as a stone and artillery maker throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Your father spent restless nights perfecting monstrosities during the war. From massive crossbows to catapults, he thrived on the cost of war, perfectly exploiting his influence over the Free Cities.

Golden light danced across the hall, throwing long shadows against the walls. You sat beside your husband and little sister, the latter happily oblivious to the danger brewing. Aerion was a figure of brooding darkness, lingering between the firelight and shadows, swirling his wine with disdain and ignoring your father. 

Across from you, Maekar looked stoic, the harsh, unforgiving atmosphere of your home, miles of luxury of Driftmark and Dragonstone, more akin to a dark dungeon than a dining room. As your father discussed crop yield, Aerion viciously stabbed his pork loin, with his intent clear. Exhausted from the journey to get here, you swallowed your pride and watched the coming storm in silence.

Your father was discussing matters with Maekar before you even noticed. Beside you, Aerion shifts, brooding and unbothered. 

“My lord,” your husband perks up, his gaze already locked onto your father’s. Tension stretched as he cut across your father’s point. In the distance, you catch Maekar looking at his son with open disappointment and caution.

“Yes, my Prince?” 

“How do you ensure this place?”

The words tore from his throat, heavy with irritation. Aerion leaned toward the open hearth, his lavender eyes mirroring the violent, dancing flames. He ignored you completely, dismissive of your evident frown. You tightened your grip on your chalice, waiting. Your father-in-law holds an uncharacteristically calm expression.

Your father, ever the restrained one, glances at you, then at his son-in-law. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

Aerion doesn’t eat; he butchers. He stabs at the meat again, treating it like a dead creature rather than sustenance. Then, the insult comes, quiet and sharp. “I’m asking you, why is your home so painfully dull?” 

The room goes silent, yet the table rumbles under the quake of the storm outside. Your mother looks ready to squeal, while your siblings sit rigid, eyes not cowering, but watching you. If Maekar were in a happier mood, he might dismiss this entirely as ill temper from the journey to get here. But even he shifts in his seat. Your father folds his hands, sits silently, even-tempered. 

“We are not in King’s Landing, my Prince,” he says. 

“No,” Aerion agrees lightly. “That much is obvious.”

A familiar warmth coils around your throat. It wasn’t shame, it was pure ire. Annoyance creeps up, forming a tight scowl on your lips.

“Aerion,” you try again, softer this time. 

He smiles, but not to you. “I had thought,” he begins, “that a House so proud of its Valyrian descent would at least attempt to resemble it.” His eyes drag over the rough stone walls, the sparse banners, and the hearth. “This feels more like smoke after the fire has long since died.”

No one spoke. Or at least your father did not want to say. He did not rise, but ultimately endured. Your father was stubborn, unrelenting to the men he served, stone-faced to the lords who criticized him for wanting to conquer the savage Free Cities. Aerion was the same, except he might be the only exception for him to dismiss. All because of you. 

If it were anyone else, your father wouldn’t have let the insult slide, but your husband was your family now. And he was never one for silence either.  

“Tell me,” he adds, casual as a blade set down slowly, “Does your blood run as thin as these pale trappings? Or is this restraint a mask to hide how little Old Valyria remains in you?” He smiles, a cruel and amused expression, dragging the moment out, basking in the silence.  

Maekar looks utterly paralyzed by the humiliation and unable to meet anyone’s eyes except his son. Your mother was utterly frozen, her knuckles shaking as she gripped the ends of her dress. Your brother is vibrating with repressed rage, his hands balled into fists, ready to lunge. And your sister, your poor sister, only watches you, fearful and hoping you would do anything to stop this. 

Your fork clatters against the plate. The sound cracks abruptly like a whip being slashed. In a stunned heartbeat of silence, you rise. You don’t realize you’ve stood until you see the sudden tremor in your husband’s amused smile. 

“Enough.” 

There was no malice nor plea, but the look in your eyes was tranquil, like the air before a lightning strike. The silver-haired prince tilted his head, amused.

“Sit, wife,” he murmurs, “I am speaking to your father.” 

“And I am speaking to you.” The words sharpened, breaking the air between you like clashing steel. “Don’t insult my House, my blood beneath the roof that feeds you. You mistake our hospitality for weakness.”

You growl, forcing down a restrained anger. Your hands trembled, not from fear but from something far colder and more furious. In this moment, you were not Prince Aerion’s wife, nor a princess of wealth and prestige. You were a daughter of your House, defending its name against the long history of treachery wrought by higher houses, House Targaryen included. 

“You think you are born a dragon only because you believe your blood burns faster,” you continued, leaning closer, your palms flat against the table. “But it is only because you bear the Conqueror’s blood. Your name has no power here.”

His smile falters slightly. Yet you lean closer, with ire in your eyes. 

“We yield to the dragon because we mean to make peace, not to let you mock our sacrifices for the realm. We are the smoke, unyielding and eternal. We do not break under dragonfire; we endure it.” Your voice rang with dangerous, intense, and heated confidence. Your blood was boiling, much evident through the way you gripped the edges of the table. 

“You dare test me, wife?” he snaps, rising from his seat. 

“Enough!” Maekar’s voice cuts through like a low growl.

“My daughter,” your father warns as well. “You have said your peace.”

But you do not look at him, keeping your gaze fixated on the Prince, your husband, the man you swore to spend the rest of your life with. How can you live on, knowing all that he believed of your family’s undying loyalty was never deemed equal to his family's bloodline? That all your House has done is bleed in their wars, fund their funds, and sell off their daughters, only to be deemed unworthy in the end. 

Your stare is cold, even deadly. The room is deathly still, and finally Aerion rises with a slow, composed grace that threatens to turn violent. Instead of an outburst, a colder, calculated look settles on his face.

Aerion gives a reluctant nod before he unceremoniously leaves the room. 

The tension slowly dies out once your husband’s footsteps fade. Then it feels as if the room sighs in collective relief, as most of the steam had already disappeared. Your mother, ever the silent woman, released a soft exhale, clenching her chest. Your brother and sister had stoic expressions, unable to meet your gaze. Then you make eye contact with your father-in-law. 

Maekar’s expression is one of pure rejection, a look of profound disappointment that you immediately recognize on your own father’s face, too.  

In that moment, you understood why Aerion was always so desperate to prove himself.

Your shared bedroom was prepared with care, dragon banners stitched in black and crimson hung from the hearth, soft silken Dornish sheets spilled like liquid gold across the bed, and your favorite white blooms arranged beside the window. Every detail reminded you of your old childhood. 

Something Kingslanding never gave you. 

You knew where he stood. Aerion never strayed far. Whether you were in the courtyard, he was in the training grounds. Or when you were in the library, he was by the corridor, challenging some knight to a duel. 

He stood before the fireplace, back to you, one hand extended toward the flames as if reading omens in their tongues.  

You ignored his presence, removing pearled jewelry before the mirror, placing one down with deliberate silence. Every piece you wear came from him. Unfortunately, he would never forget that. 

You barely have time to face him before he strikes in long, purposeful strides, his boots striking the floor like judgment. 

“What possessed you?” he demands, and there is no princely composure left in his voice, no soft diplomacy, only something raw and affronted. “To shame me before my father?”

You steady yourself against the edges of the table, forcing you to breathe into a slow pace that will reach your throat. “You shamed yourself,” you answer, meeting his reflection in the glass.

A sharp, humorless person leaves him. Almost a laugh, though without the humor. 

“You made me look like a fool.”

“You were.”

The air changes, it thickens. He moves suddenly, almost too quickly for you to understand what was happening, and his hand is at your throat, not crushing, but enough to make you aware of the cold steel that held contact against your pulse. In the same motion, his other hand frees the dagger from his belt, the steel catching. 

The tip rests beneath your chin.

Cold and steady, if you moved an inch, blood would be drawn. 

“Do you think,” he slowly mumbles, leaning closer so that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, “that you can stand in judgment of me?”

Your heart pounds hard enough, knowing for certain that he can feel it beneath his palms, yet you do not look away.

“You insulted my blood.” Your teeth clenched, trying to steady your stance, but Aerion’s overwhelming grip was firm. “My father. My mother.”

“You chose them,” he hisses, the words pouring like acid, almost like betrayal. “Over me.”

“They are my Blood.” You snarl.

Then the dagger shifts, pressing close enough to remind you how easily this could turn from a simple threat to dire consequences.

“You forget,” he says softly, each word measured and deliberate, “what it is to shame a dragon.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The storm outside rattles the shutters, wind howling against stone as though the gods themselves lean closer to listen, and in the space you, there is nothing but the pride you held like a shield against your chest. 

Your brows slowly soften, tired of the anger that had stirred in you today. Your voice lowers, anger folding into something more dangerous. 

“What do you truly think of me, Aerion?”

The question unsettles him in a way defiance never could. You feel it in the slight hesitation of his fingers around your throat, in the way his face shifts from fury to scurrying. 

“Was I worth it?” you press, swallowing whatever courage you left past the steel at your chin. “Or was I simply just an object to you?”

Silence follows. The dagger does not fall; it does not press further either. For a moment, you think Aerion might finish it here and now, and cut your throat. 

His jaw tightens, and his lavender eyes search your face not for weakness but for something far too difficult to confront. 

“Yes,” he says at last.

The words repeated in your mind. It was not soft, but simply true and light. 

“You were worth it.”

The blade lowers. Finally, you inhale for the first time since he touched you, the absence of the pressure leaving your skin almost cold. 

“I would not have taken you otherwise,” he adds, and you note the phrasing, the claim in it, and the absence of an apology. 

“You do not bend. You never have,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That is why I chose you.”

He sets the dagger down on the table between you, as if placing something dangerous within both your reach. For a heartbeat, you stood where you were, motionless and unfazed. But something in you settled, not calm nor forgiveness but intent. 

You stepped forward, and he did not stop you. Your fingers close in around the dagger’s hilt, and for the first time since he’s seen you, it is he who watches you with uncertainty. You don’t hesitate and press him against the stone wall. 

Not with fury, but with certainty.

The blade rises to his throat. He does not resist or change. But his eyes darken.

“You insulted my House,” you spoke, noting the evident strain on your voice. “You said we were not worthy of the Valyrian blood when we’ve burned lands for you. Bled for you. Buried our sons beneath your name.”

“You think I do not know that?” he asked, voice low and controlled. The steel presses closer, and you can almost feel his pulse underneath your knuckles. 

“Then why say it?” you began, slowly beginning to fill the incoming rage from your previous conversation at dinner.

“Because you hide behind honor,” he says. “Because you cling to righteousness while the rest of us crawl for survival.” 

You hold his gaze. 

“And what do you claw for, Aerion?” 

His hand rises slowly, not to disarm you. But to touch your wrist, in firm affirmation and certainty.

“For greatness.” From there, you see the fire in his eyes. You see the burning sensation beneath his fingered flesh, and what he truly meant. You and Aerion were both the second children of great men, never to be expected of anything. Always looking the other way for the eldest to win their father’s favor. 

His words struck something raw in you. Not in a long time, you felt true honesty. Not from him in a long time. It was ugly, raw, and it almost did not feel like Aerion. 

But his digits tighten slightly anyway, guiding the blade closer. 

“If you mean to test me,” he whispers, intimate and bold, “do it.”

Your pulse falters.

“Was I for power?” you ask.

“No.”

His forehead nearly touches yours with the dagger resting by his pulse. 

“You were the only one in that hall I saw that night. The whispers, they speak because they fear you.”

The fire cracks behind you, noticing the feeling of warmth in your chest. The fluttering feeling of acceptance? Love? Commonality? 

You gulped air, leaning against him. His silver locks brushing across your forehead. Peace. Finally, a standing ground. The finalization grounds you. 

Then his hand leaves your wrist, dropping the dagger into your hands.

“Let them fear us.”

When you arrived at Ashford, you avoided Aerion like the plague. 

Even though you resolved your grievances, you and Aerion were the same when it came to dignity. Both of you were too stubborn to admit to the other how wrong you were about each other. You spited Aerion for his rash tongue. And Aerion took a distaste for your swallow opinions. 

For some in the realm, even Maekar would admit you both were the two sides of the same coin. Aerion was the flame that carried onto the battlefield. While you were the smoke that lingered behind, threatening and leveled. 

Still, it did not sour your time at Ashford as much as you believed it to be. You did other things to keep yourself busy, while your lord husband battled knights on the playing field. 

Every once in a while, you can feel his gaze on you without looking. You remember the intensity of it, piercing through you as you conversed with his father. Maekar finds it incredibly childish that you and his son allowed this to stray for so long. He’s, however, happier that at the very least you were no longer trying to kill each other. 

The night Ser Duncan sought trial by combat, you stood silently behind the doors of the great hall. You did not mean to eavesdrop, not having spoken to Aerion for days, you’re left to wonder and observe the actions of others. 

You hear murmurs from Baelor, Aerion, and Maekar, all discussing with Dunk on the matter. You could only pick up a few words: refuse, fool, and seven.

Suddenly, a pit of dread grows in your chest, as you can no longer imagine the kind of punishment this beastly man has to suffer. Aerion would deal with him. He always did. 

A trial of Seven. Seven against Seven. In the Ashford Meadow, he would ride with his father, the Kingsguards, and his brother against Duncan, Baelor, and other knights. 

Your heart was pounding uncontrollably as you sat beside Egg. Your hands trembled, so unlike the persona people associated you with, a woman of Valyrian blood, unruly and barbaric for the likes of lords and ladies. Yet you suppress your doubts and look forward in confidence in the God’s decision. 

Egg looks at you in neutral silence. He may not enjoy your company; however, he can respect your loyalty to his brother, as mad as the both of you were. Your love lost the lives of women and men. To have unyielding devotion meant fear alone. 

Then you watched. 

Witnessed the horns blowing as loud as the screeches of peasant folk knew how to holler. Lances broke against each other, and horses crashed into the mud like chess pieces being defeated at checkmate. One by one, knights fell off their horses and scurried on land, striking one another like rapid animals. 

Even though there was a mass of people, you could still make out where he was. His flamed, gorged helmet was easy to find, strikingly resembling his heritage and blood. Aerion swings at Duncan with ferocity you’d imagine a dragon would against its own prey. He jousts, dodges, stabs, and everything Duncan threw at him, Aerion was faster. 

Until the moment he slips, and instantly the giant man takes advantage of this opportunity to blunt him on the head with his own shield. 

It all happened too quickly. One moment, you were cheering beside Egg. Then, the next, you stood agape, horrified at the scene. You couldn’t scream, you couldn’t move. You were frozen on your feet, watching your husband be beaten at his own game and fall as the failure. 

Dunk drags his body like a rag doll in front of Lord Ashford’s box. He lifts him by the visor and screams something inaudible. You catch Aerion saying something, then you realize the crowd is screaming. He had lost. Everything that led to this moment, Aerion had lost. He had lost the battle, the trial, and his honor. The dragon was fierce no more. 

You ran as the horns bellowed and the crowd rumbled in unison. Your feet rushed past the mud, not caring how dirty your dress would become. All you wanted to see was Aerion. 

Was he dead? Would he die?

All your answers rushed right in front of you as you saw him in the distance. With his father by his side, and the other Kingsguard huddled around him. 

His broken body, his scarred face. 

You screamed before you felt an arm circle around your waist. You cried, thrashing violently. Tears dangerously spilled down your cheeks as you used every ounce of strength you had to get to him. 

But the arm releases, then you’re met with Maekar’s worn and beaten face. He moves in front of you, shielding away the horrific scene before you. Not that it would be helpful, you saw how he was, barely clinging to life. 

“Aerion– He needs help!”

“The maesters will care for him!” His father pushes back, making you stumble. He grips your hands tightly. “You need not see this, Princess.”

You look at him like fury reincarnated. “He is my husband. Do not test my patience!”

Nothing would stop you. Until you tired yourself out, then passing out in Maekar’s arms for how much you screamed, cried, and yelped for Aerion. 

Your husband was asleep. His bedroom is separate from yours. You both decided it to be this way. But it has now come back to you to bite you in the back. You felt immense guilt and shame for what happened. Even if you had no part in it, you always felt responsible for Aerion’s actions, his impulses, which were fueled by your ambitious nature. 

Now it didn’t matter. 

One late night, you came with a tray of food. You knew it was useless to feed him now when he was asleep. But you felt that the gesture would make up for your failed attempts as a wife. 

You first saw Maekar, sitting in the chair in the dark. He had bruises, but nothing as devastating as his son’s demise. 

Instinctively, you bow. The flutter of your night gown brushed against the wooden floors. Your heart fluttered as you set the tray aside and took a closer look at him. 

Maekar watched as you sat beside him. Soft and gentle, so unlike how you treated each other at the very beginning of your marriage. You never initiated affection like now. You never traced his cheek with genuine fondness before. You never combed through his silver locks so attentively. 

It took you nearly his life to make you realize how much you cared.

“Take care of him,” you turn, finding Maekar glancing at the floor. “He’ll need you in the Free Cities.” 

You were told before about Aerion’s punishment. Rightfully so, you agreed. It did not take a maester to recognize how much sorrow you were feeling. You were grieving, at the same time, coping with the possible chance he would wake from his long dream. 

ayothank u for reading til the end, i honestly did not expect it would end like this, anyway requests r still open imjust very slow w/ them

[accountnametaken]

୧ ‧₊˚ 🥩🦴 ⋅ - ' show me your teeth ' | aerion targaryen

⋆˚✰ ݁˖⭑.ᐟ - aerion 'brightflame' targaryen x lady-in-waiting!reader | one-shot !

2.9k

tw/cw - aerion (he lowkey thinks he's a dragon) (you kinda encourage him), smut ! oral (fem receiving), slight blood/knife play if you squint, lots of biting, switch! aerion and switch! reader, they're both bratty, you lowkey blueball him, maekarlings mentioned, not proofread !

a/n - he whimpers but you kind of have to beat him up a little bit, enjoy ! <3 feel free to share your thoughts, i feel like im cheeks at writing for him lol

You did not particularly enjoy the company of Maekar's children.

Daeron was a drunk.

Aemon was absent.

Aegon would have rather been born a commoner than a prince.

Rhae was spoiled.

Daella was quiet.

And Aerion... He was as cruel as he was pretty. A temperamental thing, really. But so fun to watch.

You served the sisters, as a lady-in-waiting. It was an easy enough task. They were much younger, however. And you found yourself unable to relate to some of their fancies, at times. They were tolerable, compared to their brothers.

The drawing room was empty, save for yourself. You sat at a mahogany table, a stack of letters in front of you. Princess Daella was having you sort through them.

It irked you slightly. You were not some common-blooded handmaiden. You were noble born, from a filthy rich house. You were above replying to birthday party invitations.

Still, you slit another envelope open with a ruby colored letter opener, sliding the parchment free with a quiet sigh.

Another invitation. Another tedious pleasantry. You set it aside.

The door behind you slid open, without so much as a knock. You did not look up immediately. Both princes and princesses had a dreadful habit of entering rooms as though they owned every inch of them.

Which, unfortunately, they did.

"Is there something else you need done, Princess Daella?" You guessed, tone a little flat. Your eyes still on the pile of ivory letters.

A haughty scoff answered you, and footsteps dragged closer. Wrong princess, then.

"You mistake me, for my soft-handed sister, wench?" Aerion Targaryen hovered by the windowsill.

His silver hair was still cropped. You assumed he had cut it to make himself more menacing.

But you liked to believe he'd accidentally burned most of it off, and cut it out of embarrassment.

"Apologies, my prince." You said, smoothly, "I did not mean anything by it." You let you gaze linger on him for just a moment longer, before averting it.

He hummed in reply, his head cocking to the side slightly. Always watching.

"A mistake I can forgive, I suppose." Aerion ran his tongue over his teeth, "An error made by the less observant."

You almost rolled your eyes, "Indeed." You agreed, "The family resemblance is to blame, perhaps."

He scowled, unsure if you meant to insult him or not. Aerion pushed off the sill, and wandered closer to your side, ".... What are you doing? I've been looking for you. Daeron makes for hardly amusing company."

"Reading letters." You answered, turning your cheek to the side.

He glanced down at the pile in front of you, mildly disgusted, "Your prince is in the room with you, and still, you choose to read letters? Are you truly that insolent?"

"I am speaking to you now." You replied, keeping your tone even, "... And it was your sister and father who instructed me to do as such." It wasn't technically a lie.

He looked slightly disappointed. No doubt at the thought of not being able to torment you further.

"They are just invitations." Aerion's lips curled downward, as if thoroughly unimpressed.

“Your sister’s admirers are relentless.”

“Daella has admirers?” He rolled his eyes. He plucked one letter from the stack before you could stop him, scanning the contents briefly.

You reached to snatch it back, "I have yet to see your name mentioned. It seems you've been omitted from some guest lists."

"I should be." He murmured. “It would improve the entertainment. It matters little to me. I do not concern myself with the irrelevant tea parties of girls."

Aerion set the letter down again, though not in the correct pile. Deliberately, you suspected.

"You're doing it all wrong." He had the audacity to snark.

“Then by all means, your grace,” you said dryly, “take over.”

You slid another envelope toward yourself and pressed the letter openers blade beneath the wax seal.

The paper resisted, so you applied more pressure. Your hand slipped, and the blade sliced cleanly over the pad of your thumb.

“... -Damn it.” A thin line of crimson welled instantly. You held your hand up limply, resisting the urge to strangle someone. The closest person, preferably. Which happened to be Aerion.

"You should be more careful." Aerion said, feigning worry. He looked delighted at your discomfort.

"Thank you for the concern." It was your turn to scowl now, "There is no need for it, though. It's hardly a mortal wound."

"You should lick it. The spit closes the wound faster."

"...What?" You scoffed, looking up at him, slightly bewildered.

Aerion's hand caught your wrist before you could wipe the blood off on your skirts. The movement was quick enough to surprise you.

"Like this." Before you could pull away, he turned your hand slightly, examining the cut with a strange sort of fascination. Then he leaned down, and licked the blood from your thumb.

If you had half a mind, you would have slapped him. Or maybe shouted. But the way his tongue moved was almost mesmerizing. Warm and slow. It flicked away the swell of blood.

You could feel a flush crawl up your neck, and you swallowed thickly. Your eyes followed him, taken with his movements.

He dragged the pad of your thumb over his lips, letting it linger for a second more than necessary, before dropping it.

Aerion lifted his head slowly, running his tongue over his lip, "Disappointing. I thought it might have tasted sweeter. But that was foolish. You lack the blood of the dragon, after all."

"You are demented." Your voice returned with a snap, "That was hardly-..."

"But I liked it, all the same." He interrupted, without a care in the world.

You stood from your seat. And you should have stormed out of that room. But there was a challenging glint in his eyes. Like he was waiting for you to run away scared.

That pissed you off more than it ignited fear.

Your hands found the collar of his velvet doublet, and without a regard for consequence, you pushed him against the stone wall. Harshly.

His breath hitched, a little surprised. You almost missed it. Aerion's eyes zoned in on you, his pupils dilating.

"mmnh..." He leaned in before you could, pressing his forehead against yours, rather like a cat, "... I should have expected as much, wench."

"Talk to me in such a way again..." You hummed, almost sickeningly sweet, "And instead of letters I'll be opening, it will be your throat."

You would not grace him with the dignity of a response. You closed the distance between you, your lips finding his.

Aerion's hand found the back of your neck, pressing you closer. He licked at your bottom lip, with a surprising gentleness. But the moment lasted only a second longer, he soon gripped your lower waist with his free hand and pushed you against the cold wall.

In slight retaliation, you bit at his flip. And your mouth filled with a shared faint metallic taste.

Aerion's head tilted, before he broke away. His breath was warm, and heavy, as it fanned over your jaw. He bared his teeth.

"You believe yourself so worthy to taste the blood of a dragon?" He mocked, pulling away slightly, so you'd look him in his eyes

You did not glance away. You matched Aerion's defiant gaze, "You tell me, my prince."

"Perhaps, after I finish tasting you..." He mused, pressing a tentative kiss to your throat, "I might have an answer."

Your fingers threaded through his short hair and gave it a sharp tug, "Then by all means... Be my guest, your grace." You cooed, your gaze half-lidded.

He made an odd noise, between a choke and a moan. But he hid it quickly, by biting at your collarbone, "... Gods...-fuck." He breathed.

Aerion tugged at the front of your gown, displeased by the lack of access to your breast. You scoffed slightly, and made no move to unlace it. It was too much of as hassle for a rendezvous in a drawing room.

His hands slid down your sides, Aerion would have to make do somehow. He nosed down your stomach, planting kisses on your abdomen.

Eventually, he was on his knees in front of you. Never, in this lifetime, or future ones, would you have ever imagined this would be happening to you.

A faint smirk tugged at your lips. And he scowled up at that, "You should not look so pleased with yourself. You bring shame upon your house."

"As do you." You replied, "A dragon on his knees for a... how did you put it again? A wench."

"A wench." He repeated, looking pleased despite himself, "A pretty one, at that."

"Should I feel flattered?" You rolled your eyes, watching him press a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

"Very." He leaned into your touch, as if savoring the attention, "Lift your skirt up."

You obliged him, and he wasted no time in gripping a thigh. He pressed his face against the inside of your thigh, biting at the soft flesh there. His teeth were sharp enough to make you gasp, but not enough to be painful.

You felt him grin, as he smoothed his bite over with his tongue. He had refrained from biting down too harshly on your neck. It did not seem he held that same restraint with your thighs.

Your back was flat against the wall, one hand gripping his hair still, the other running over your collarbone. An almost nervous gesture.

He left more marks, leaving indents of his teeth behind, almost gloatingly. Slowly, he made his way to your core. He was panting, you could feel it through your damp undergarments.

"You are too easy." He scoffed, pulling them down to your calves with a lazy finger.

"Then go seek out more of a challenge. I have little reason to keep you around." You said, hoping you sounded more threatening than you looked.

Aerion didn't seem convinced, but he didn't press. He was distracted by your musk. A sweet perfumed-oil, and something else. It was frustrating. He liked it.

You let a gasp slip, when you felt his tongue flick at your pearl. Warm and soft. Your head hit the wall gently, your lashes fluttering shut.

"...gods." You sighed, as he moved his head slightly for a better angle.

You could have sworn you felt him grin, almost knowingly. You clamped your jaw shut. Not wanting to give him the luxury of a victory.

You swallowed another moan; your thighs began to tremble. Aerion's fingers pressed into the plush of your leg, "...don't." He said, so softly you almost missed it, "... you sound so pretty."

It was almost sweet. But you knew better. If anything, it was an ego boost. Something he'd mock you about later.

Still, it was getting hard to stay quiet. Your stomach was coiling, and your skin felt hot as dragon's fire. His tongue swirled strangely, almost reptile-like. It was all the more pleasurable for you.

"It must not be a sound you hear often, then." The quip quickly fell from your lips however, as he ravished you more deeply.

"Gods... there-..." You sighed, your head thrashing around, "...please-..!"

Aerion hummed, pleased, "... since you asked so politely." He humored you, his eyes flicking up to look at you.

Your eyes were shut still and your brows scrunched, focusing on the intense feeling building up. Your cheeks were flushed, and thin beads of sweat gathered along your neckline.

"...ah-..." You could hear him pant softly. You could feel his heavy gaze on you. And you opened your eyes slightly.

His expression was nothing short of hungry. And he only gripped your thighs tighter.

The coil within your stomach snapped, your back arched off the wall slightly. Your cunt grinded into his face slowly, and Aerion did not pull away.

He lapped at your release, eagerly.

You tugged his head back, the stimulation almost too intense. Aerion's eyes were clouded, with a certain lust.

He stood slowly, his head tilting to the side, assessing you. He stepped closer, his leg between your thighs. He gripped your chin with his hand, before pressing a kiss to your lips.

You could taste your slick on him. And you supposed that's why he kissed you. Like a fool, your arms wrapped around his neck. His hands found your lower waist, fingers pressing into the plush of your ass.

You parted your lips for him, a little too desperately for your liking. You bit at his lip, drawing blood. And this time, he let you.

You felt him press into you. Hard. And aching, you'd wager. From the way he whined, not even bothering to hide it.

For some reason, that made reality come back to you. And you suddenly realized how dangerous of an idea this was.

You pulled away quickly, and his lips chased yours, almost needily. But he quickly caught himself, and furrowed his brows.

"I can't." You cleared your throat, "... your sister... She is expecting me. I cannot linger."

Aerion stared at you for a beat, chest still rising a touch too quickly. His eyes dark with something ugly and hungry and offended all at once.

"You can't be serious." He drawled, dryly, "Cannot? Or will not."

You stepped back, smoothing your skirts with fingers that were unsteady, "Does it matter?”

“Yes." He answered quickly.

“How unfortunate. for you, then.” You furrowed your brows and tried to clean up the slight mess of your hair.

His mouth twitched. You hated that he looked prettier with blood on his lip.

"You have quite the mouth on you." Aerion tilted his head, studying you with the same unnerving attention he gave to those he meant to humiliate, "Such insolence would usually go punished. Need I remind you, that you kissed me?"

He took one step forward, then another. Not enough to crowd you, though the room suddenly felt stuffy.

"You needn't be so smug about it."

"I am smug, because I am usually correct." He said, with an unsettling softness, "It inspires confidence."

You snorted despite yourself, then immediately regretted it when his smile sharpened.

“There she is,” he murmured. “I thought I had frightened you.”

“You should aim higher, my prince. I am not so easily frightened.”

“No,” he said. “I noticed.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, and you hated the answering heat that crawled up your throat.

You turned away first, gathering the scattered letters into a neat pile if only to have something to do with your hands.

"This was merely a lapse of judgement." You said, "It does not mean anything."

“Mm.” The sound was infuriatingly unconvinced.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “You agree?”

“No.” Aerion reached for one of the letters, breaking the seal with his thumb and scanning it with deliberate insolence. “I simply enjoy hearing you lie.”

You snatched it from him, "For a prince, you are illiterate in social graces.”

“For a lady, you are remarkably eager to be found alone with one.”

"I had not intended for you company." You grit your teeth, growing both flushed and annoyed. A horrible combination.

Aerion licked at his lips, slightly swollen from your kisses, "Perhaps I sought you out."

You hated how calm he sounded. How utterly assured. As if scandal were a game built for his amusement, and not a blade that could be laid across your throat.

"Then you'd be a fool, my prince."

“Would I?” he asked, low and amused. “For seeking out the one woman in this keep who does not simper when I enter a room?”

You lifted your chin. “No. For thinking that makes you interesting.”

That, at last, earned him a pause. A small one. But you saw it.

You stepped around him before he could recover, gathering the last of the letters to your chest. His hand caught lightly at your wrist, more instinct than force.

“Stay.” The word came rushed.

You looked down at his hand, then back up at him, "How sweet,” you said coolly. “You almost sound sincere.”

He scowled. Something you noticed he did often. “Do not mistake indulgence for weakness.”

“And do not mistake curiosity for devotion.”

You slipped free before he could tighten his grip, smoothing your sleeve where he had touched it.

Aerion watched you like something half-starved, all violet eyes and wounded pride, blood still bright against his lower lip.

You stopped at the doorway and glanced back, letting your gaze drag once, to his mouth.

“If you mean to hunt me down again, at least learn to hide it better.”

And with that, you swept out, leaving him standing in the middle of the drawing room, high and dry.

The corridor beyond was blessedly cooler.

You had scarcely made it three steps before Princess Daella rounded the corner, a small bundle of bright ribbons in hand. She blinked when she saw you, all soft eyes and quiet surprise.

“There you are,” she squeaked. “I was beginning to think you’d been stolen away.”

You steadied your expression at once, “Only delayed, princess.”

Daella’s gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then to the letters clutched too tightly in your hands. Her brow furrowed, curiously.

From somewhere behind the half-open door, there was the sound of something being knocked over. Or tripped over. You chose to believe the latter.

Daella looked past you.

You did not.

“Shall we?” you asked lightly.

And when she nodded, you walked on beside her, leaving Prince Aerion Targaryen alone with his temper, and wanting.

[stellav1va]

if I don’t watch hotd season 3 jace will never die 🧘‍♀️

[stellav1va]

shadow milk cookie you will be maxed out in this affection system mark my words.