Bluebells_SharpShells

Istp-T; 8w7 June Gemini 06 https://lnk.bio/Bluebell.shell THG ~ HOTD ~ DPS ~ Avatar

[tartybleedinghearts]

Help me why do all the ones I thirst over have no fanfic representation!!! THEY HAVE SO MANY FREAKING EDITS ON TIKTOK THOUGH IT GETS MY FUCKASS HOPES UP

[pienprince]

[fuckupwithashotgun]

New experiment!

Reblog if you platonically say I love you to ur friends, comment or like if you think that's weird!

[messerxo]

hello I am once here again to spread my dabi brainrot. pathetic boyloser dabi pulling you by the arm and dragging you to every corner of the hideout so he can sneak kisses and have your attention on him. big hands on your cheeks all desperate and clingy all over, travelling from your face to your clothes and keeping you cornered. hes not even that tall or that big, but his big fucking coat covers every desperately hungry look in his face and every sweet look you give him. he can pretend he's not interested when he's watched by the others, but when he's with you? he's always clingy. always aching. always whining. always needing more attention, more care, more doting. cause at the end of the day, he's still a big, bad, whiny, spoiled baby.

the way you get me is sickening 😩

barking and frothing at the mouth over the concept of boyloser!dabi

desperate for every crumb of affection you’re willing to give him, borderline yan ya know? disgustingly obsessed with your attention being on himhimhim.

you ever heard this song before? gives me biggggg pathetic and yearning loser dabi vibes

[tartybleedinghearts]

something about losers just… mmm makes me wanna take a chunk outta them

[tlockish]

Let’s get held at gun-point with papa💗

[sunskine]

𝜗𝜚 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲 ⁞⁞ 18+ ; mdni ⁞⁞ firearms, sub!tate, overstimulation, dacryphilia, this is a weird one, tate is a loser ⁞⁞ dead dove: do not eat ⁞⁞ wc: 1.4k

Tate’s hair is soaked, golden-brown curls plastered to his forehead, his pupils blown and his hands shaking as he climbs through your bedroom window. He’s shirtless, the tones of his chest and stomach sharp and intense under the dim light emanating from your bedside table. Raindrops coalesce and drip down his collarbone in long rivulets, patting rhythmically on the hardwood floor. In his trembling fist, a black metal object that seems to suck all the air from the room. 

He’s crying hard, his shoulders shuddering, body jerking up and down with the force of his sobs. “F-fuck,” he cries, staring at you. His gaze is dark and no doubt hardened by the stuff running through his veins. There’s a pinkness to his cheeks you haven’t seen in a long time, a flush down his neck that tells you this breakdown is spurred by a force outside of himself. “Fuck.”

The muscles over his stomach spasm, and for a moment you worry that he’s done more than just dissolve the skin inside his nose. Maybe he’s done something irreversible. “Tate,” you say. “What’s going on?”

He stares at you for a moment longer, his entire body shaking, droplets of water falling from the ends of his hair, the tip of his nose, his heavy eyelashes. He’s tilted forward, one shoulder closer to you than the other. He looks clenched tight, like he’s waiting for some kind of sign that he’s allowed to relax. Like a string at the nape of his neck has been pulled too hard, scrunching up the rest of his body. 

There are scratches on his chest, you notice. Long, red ones that mirror each other. Fingernails, presumably. But knowing Tate, they could be anything. 

“What’s going on?” you repeat, standing from your position on the edge of your bed. Your vision goes blurry, and you blink hard. 

Before you can make sense of the situation, before you can touch Tate and make sure that he’s real, here—and soaking and scared, but here nonetheless—and tangible, you feel something cold press into your palm. You look down, still lagging a second behind, and everything suddenly becomes very clear. 

Then Tate is on the floor, a loose nail digging into his knee, tearing the skin open and letting blood run in between two baseboards. He doesn’t notice. His forehead is against your thighs, hands gripping the backs of your legs. His wet hair dampens the front of your shirt, the part that hangs past your waist, a dark spot spreading quickly from where his face is smashed into you. “You gotta do it,” he begs wetly. “Make me feel it.” 

You’re not really thinking, just moving. The muzzle of the gun brushed through his curls, and your other hand moves to stroke behind his ear. “Talk,” you say. Your voice is commanding—the only way you know he’ll ever actually tell you anything. Despite Tate’s adamance that his mother’s authoritative rule was a deciding factor in his fucked-up-ness, a stern tone and a harsh hand makes him talk like nothing else. 

He whines into your skin, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. His fingernails leave marks on your skin; clawmarks. “I can’t be here,” he gasps. “This shit isn’t life.” 

You run the cold metal of the gun’s barrel downwards, tracing down the line of his neck. You fist his hair, tugging his head up. You meet his red-rimmed eyes, watch as his pupils expand to an impossible circumference. They’ve overtaken his irises, blotted out any warmth from the deep brown. Aperture into his soul. Dark, dark. 

His mouth falls open, plush lips parting with the force of your tug. He looks up at you through his lashes, chest rising and falling at a rapid, unnatural tempo. “Plenty of great people kill themselves,” he says. “It’s…b-brave.” 

“But,” you counter, dragging the gun from his neck to his jaw, then across his cheek. “You’re not brave.” You nudge the muzzle past his lips. “Are you?”

He accepts the metal into his mouth easily, letting the barrel weigh heavy against his tongue. His jaw unhinges, and you press the gun further. You click the safety. His eyes close.

“Suck,” you tell him. 

Tate doesn’t question it. His lips close around the barrel and his head bobs back and forth. Maybe he understands this in the symbolic, which seems to be the only language of communication Tate knows these days. To pleasure death is to indulge it. And it helps, of course, that you’re behind the trigger. His thighs spread wider, smearing blood in a half-circle away from you. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling his hair. Part of you wants to yank it harder, wants to rip it from his scalp, wants to make him hurt for everything he’s done. But the other half, the softer, weaker one, wants to offer him a caress. A kiss.

He moans around the gun, eyelashes fluttering. Maybe he’s waiting for the bullet. 

But it doesn’t come. Instead, you drop to your knees in front of him and pull the gun from his mouth. His hands move to your shoulders as he sags forward, but you don’t let him rest against you, instead grabbing him by the neck and pushing him up to the wall. His knee catches on the nail again, and this time it tears a larger strip of skin. 

“Please,” Tate breathes, you don’t think that even he knows what he’s begging for. You like the sound, though. Fuck, do you like it. 

You hold him in place, eyes darting between his lips and his own hazy gaze. Your knee moves to pin him against the wall, and when it comes into contact with the square of his chest, all the air hisses out of him. 

The gun seems to be piloting your arm. You’re not sure if you’re moving of your own accord anymore, the limb gone rouge and disobedient, moving in directions you don’t want it to, proliferating this moment into something uncontrollable. It moves down his body until it rests between his legs, the side of it pressing into his groin.

He keens, eyes squeezing shut. Your name passes his lips in a half-desperate, half-pleading breath. His skin is tacky-looking; pale and getting paler. You begin to wonder if he’s losing a significant amount of blood. It doesn’t matter either way. The gun pokes past the waistband of his jeans. 

He grinds up into it and his obliques jump. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.”

You press it harder and he lets out a choked noise, one hand moving to his fly, yanking the zipper down with an urgency you hadn’t expected but absolutely are not opposed to. 

He undoes jeans with shaking fingers, pushing them past his ass. He tries to keep still, but his hips jerk up in tiny, minuscule thrusts. “God,” he begs. “God, I w-want more.” 

You oblige, this time slipping your free hand into his underwear and wrapping your fingers around the length of him, keeping the body of the gun pressed against his balls. Precum beads at the tip and you squeeze, coaxing out enough to wet his cock for your ministrations along with a loud, pained whine from Tate. “Fine,” you hiss. “Then take what I give you.” 

He bucks up into your touch, hand moving to the floor behind him so that he doesn’t fall backwards. “All of it,” he gasps. When you squeeze him again, pressing down on the tip, a more tears escape his eyes and his chin points toward the ceiling as his head is forced back by sensation. 

When he comes into his underwear, sobbing violently, all that passes his lips is “I love you, I l-love you, I love you, d-don’t leave me, don’t, pl-please—”

The gun finds its way into your closet. When you return to the wall, Tate sags against you, and this time you wrap your arms around his trembling shoulders. He sobs for real that night, big, heaving cries that leave him breathless and shaking under your covers. 

In the morning, there’ll be something on the news that will follow you forever. But tonight, he’s in your arms, and there’s a bandaid on his knee, and you still want to fucking scalp him. Instead, though, you brush a kiss on his forehead and whisper something saccharine enough to keep him alive for another day.  

tags:  @xrag-dollx @posiebb @star-rey-night @ethereallmonkey @darlingdearestdove (i think you asked to be tagged in my stuff at some point????? i don't remember - sorry if i'm bothering you lmao)

idea from the eternally brilliant @zoebensonsitonmyface

lmk if you'd like to be added to the list, removed, or if i've fucked smth up !

tell me what you think !! i love to talk to people!! reblogs r very appreciated as well

yes i did consider putting the gun up his ass but i decided against that 🥰 you're welcome 🥰🥰🥰

[bakuonmydeku]

Why make them hot if their a killer?? Why make then be morally grey if their gonna be boyfriend shapped?

[sunskine]

i wholeheartedly believe that tate has a praise kink, but i’m thinking about him realizing. he probably freezes, whimpers, and then tears up a little bit

18+ ; mdni tate langdon x f!reader ⁞⁞ religious imagery, oral sex

tate langdon thinks about god a lot. 

religion was constant in his family home before he died; both in the literal way, and in the abstract. his mother had been god, in a way. tate, her lucifer. her light-bringer, her fabled, perfect son. and her fallen fucking angel. 

but in the house, there is no heaven nor hell, and nowhere to be cast away from. one can’t be the king of purgatory. all that exists are the hallways. the attic. the huge, unused rooms and the stained glass that puddles multicolored sunlight on the hardwood floor in the mornings. 

and then—you. a flash of revolutionary difference amidst the sameness. you fit no role here, your presence spilling over the confines of archetype, unnameably free. to come and go, to age, to love him. 

when you fuck, head thrown back in pleasure, sweat sheening on your skin, the convergence of your bodies reminiscent of eclipse, he feels closer to god than he ever really has. deliberate, hedonistic disobedience of whatever his mother preached gets him high. 

and when you whisper to him, body bare, heart thumping against your paper ribs, your thighs clenched around his head, fingers twisted in his shattered halo of curls, he feels more like a disciple than a seraphim. salvation. 

“tate.”

he lets a whine pass his lips, rolling his hips into the mattress, pressing his face closer, working to coax more of that sound from your body. 

“fuck, tate, oh my god…so good, so perfect…”

that feels more like gospel than anything. he can imagine staying here, between your legs, where he’s good and warm and useful, where his worship matters, for the rest of the forever he’ll spend in this house. he’d be seraph for anything that thanked him. 

his dick fills out and he rubs against the bedspread, seeking friction, physical stimulation to match the intensity of what’s happening in his mind. his tongue works faster, lapping up whatever you’re willing to give him. 

your fingers trace on the nape of his neck and you shift your hips. “so perfect,” you repeat. he can’t see your face but he can guess the kind of twisted up pleasure-pain painting your expression. 

and it hits him, then, that nothing feels better than the holy light of your love. your praise. 

he freezes, forehead pressed against you, eyelashes damp. when the tears come, he resumes moving, fingers clenching in the soft flesh of your ass, letting them drop onto your sex, devotion mixed with your natural wetness. he stops chasing his own crescendo, focused entirely on you, on the only provable deity.  

tate langdon thinks about god a lot.

[fear-is-truth]

18+

tate langdon isn’t doing much to disprove his therapist’s diagnosis when he fucks you into the chaise longue in your dad’s office, one hand clamped loosely ‘round your neck while he drives himself into you with unforgiving force. “you know what he said? apparently i’m—fuck—scared of people leaving me. fear of rejection. fuckin’ hilarious, right? like, like i wouldn’t fucking make you stay if you tried,” he spits out bitterly, voice cracked with a desperation that doesn’t quite match the brutal rhythm he’s setting. “i wouldn’t dream of leaving you, tate.” your legs hook tight around his waist, pulling him deeper in your desire to feel him. lately he’s been both clingy yet unreachable, even when he’s inside you. “i love you,” tate huffs, forehead pressed against yours. the world seems to tilt on its axis when he pummels into your g-spot. “why’d you put up with me? i’m-” he buries his face into the crook of your shoulder when he cums, mumbling a feverish litany: “i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m so so sorry.”

[asia444dreams]

men will never understand what a teenage girl feels when she sees Evan Peters in his blonde hair era

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

The thing about me as a woman and as a writer is that I will never give my men six packs. I might consider a tonned stomach, yeah, okay, fine, but prominent abs? Never.

Look, I don't care that Kurt is an acrobat and a flexible, agile, bouncy X-Man, he will have a fluffy soft tummy and I will imagine planting my face there as a form of stress relief and that's final.

[threefates]

and for the lady, perhaps a devout knight?

[trying-trying2lyk]

i love writing out numbers and then putting them in parentheses like "one (1)" even when i dont need to i think its funny

[justatiredlittlesnail]

[celestialwyvern]

SOFT SPOT - Aerion Targaryen

SUMMARY - Having met as children and reuniting once you've grown into a woman, Aerion's previous suspicion of you grows into the softest spot imaginable.

CONTAINS - pure fluff, reader is extremely kind, aerion is only kind to reader, classic sunshine x grumpy

A/N - i personally couldn't stop giggling while writing the "pastry" scene. Ughh i need him

The blazing sun over Summerhall was unforgiving, but it did nothing to melt the sour disposition of Prince Aerion.

At barely ten name days old, the boy was already terror embodied. He sat on a smooth rock by the edge of the river, a fishing rod held tight in his small, tense hands.

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.' Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

A faint smile broke across his face. “Watch me,” he repeated, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Now hold still and let me fix it.”

[rose3heartzzz]

➤ double entendre

synopsis: ethan has had a crush on you since forever, but you develop a particular taste for a… different version of him.  pairing: ghostface!ethan landry x reader, ethan landry x reader warnings: i don’t even know what to call this it’s like really goofy and definitely doesn’t take ghostface ethan as seriously as it should, kind of dubcon? (reader doesn’t know ghostface is ethan at first), hooking up, p in v, unprotected sex (big nono irl), blowjobs, making out, cowgirl, doggy style, dom-coded switch!ethan, sub-coded switch!reader, ethan being insanely bad at dirty talk, a lot of swearing, crack, MINORS DNI word count: 3.7k notes: ethan’s highkey such a loser in here lol, like you don’t need to bring out the whole serial killer fit to date your crush pls just shoot your shot directly + he kinda switches personalities a lot (when the mask is on vs off) but i like to think his real one is a mix between the two depending on where he is and what he’s doing + the pacing's pretty bad for this one and to be honest i don't think it was written that well, but i had fun writing it haha + hope you enjoy!

you don’t think something that feels right can be wrong. or, better, something that feels good.

that’s selfish, sure. probably immoral too. it’s definitely selfish when that something is fucking ghostface.

“take off the mask,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist. he’s panting against you, hips stuttering for a moment.

the mask tilts slowly, the voice changer reverberating against your skin. 

“you don’t want the face,” he gives a particularly sharp thrust, “all you need is a dick to fill you up.”

“no–ah,” you protest weakly, “wanna see your face.”

he laughs, the modulator fluctuating briefly, “so greedy. sex isn’t enough for you, huh?”

your head knocks back against the window he had snuck in through, a sudden burst of panic at the exposed glass quickly overridden by the dual stimulation of his gloved digit rubbing tantalizing circles into your clit.

you stifle a sob when he pinches it, cunt drooling around him.

“i’ll ruin your life,” he bites out, voice rising in a way that makes you think he’s grinning, “everyone will know what a slut you are.”

“no, no– i won’t tell!” you plead, eyes rolling back as he rubs your clit in time with his thrusts, “i promise, just wanna know–”

“wanna know who’s giving you such good dick, huh?” he grunts, as you convulse around him, “fuck, you’re choking my cock.”

he shifts, bouncing you a little and pressing you further into the wall, slipping his fingers into your mouth to feel the back of your throat. he should have you suck him off sometime.

your walls are hugging him so goddamn tight, and it’s difficult to focus on ramming into you when his knees are weakening. his tip brushes against that sweet, gummy spot and fuck, your pussy encloses around him like a vice.

“shit,” he grits out, snapping his hips harshly, “such a slut, fuck, sucking me in like a vacuum.”

you barely process his words, barely able to breath with every thrust. he shoves his fingers deeper in your mouth and you gag, drooling all over them.

his head is thrown back, letting out a guttural sound and a brief moment of clarity incepts into your mind the impulse to pull the mask off him.

if he kills you for it at least he fucked you beforehand. besides, you've been as good as dead ever since he caught you at that party the first time and gave into his impulses.

the sudden thought passes quickly, as tears start to bead at your waterline. you cum hard, his fingers in your throat and his cock kissing your cervix. 

he bites down on his lip hard enough to taste copper as he cums as well, a garbed string of curses leaving his lips as you’re stuffed full of his seed, seeping out to form a white ring around the base of his cock.

he hisses lowly, pulling out of slowly once he’s steady enough to. your tongue swipes over the saliva coating your lower lip, fumbling at your top and tugging it down haphazardly.

if it feels this good, how could it possibly be wrong?

“oh, did you hear all that stuff about ghostface?” quinn starts casually.

heard about him? you’ve been around him.

“that’s that serial killer guy, right? doesn’t mindy think it’s ethan or something?”

“oh, yeah,” quinn snorts, “i swear, she’s on crack. ethan’s such a pussy.”

you roll your eyes playfully, “don’t say that…”

“what?” she smiles innocently, “even you can’t deny it, and you’ve got that little crush on him.”

you scoff, “since when?”

“since forever,” she smirks.

“it was one time,” you grouch, “the bottle landed on him, whatever! besides, we didn’t even do anything, we just talked and stuff, it was sooooo awkward.”

“it wouldn’t have been that awkward if you had actually done something,” she snarks.

“you are unbelievable!”

quinn shoves you to the masses immediately at the school sale, tables all up and down the gymnasium littered with accessories and sustenance and… bucket hats.

“so, uh,” you fidget in-place, offering a wan smile to ethan. quinn’ll hound you for proving her right, even more so because if you’re completely honest with yourself, you sort of do have a teeny tiny absolutely massive crush on ethan, “you… you gonna buy one?”

“oh!” he jumps a little, expression adorably flustered for a moment as he whirls towards you, “sorry, you scared me.”

he offers a smile of his own, although it’s a lot sweeter than yours, “i don’t know, they’re a bit… kitsch.”

“It’s fitting,” you proffer.

his brows furrow, “hey, was that a shot?”

“no, no,” you smile, more earnestly now, “you’re far from kitsch.”

he flushes further and you quickly curse your abominable mouth.

“they’d look cute on you.”

stupid fucking mouth.

“...really?” his features soften into a diffident grin, “well, when you put it that way, i really should get it.”

“get it,” you tell him simply, emboldened now, “you’d look… like, really good– well, you always do– wait no, that came out wrong, just ignore everything i did. just get it.”

he glances away from you to conceal his rapidly reddening cheeks.

you swerve the conversation swiftly, “so, which one are you thinking?”

“oh– i, um– i don’t really know, uh,” he’s not nearly as smooth about it as you, stumbling over his words endearingly, “i, uh, i like the one with the little knife. it’s a bit, well, cute and creepy.”

it’s only cute because it’s on you, you want to say, but you think saying that’ll kill both of you.

you nod fervently, “i think it’s nice.”

his gaze dwells on you for enough time that you start to shift from foot to foot “thanks.”

“for what?”

“for…

everything,” he declares, finally. you have no idea what he means.

your mouth is warm and wet around him and the slits for eyes in the damn mask are barely enough for ethan to see the full view, see how pretty you are on your knees, all dolled-up and obedient for ghostface.

he likes to think of himself as separate from ghostface. it’s easier to face you that way.

“fuck, that’s it,” his head is thrown back, as you try to take all of his cock at once, gagging as it hits the back of your throat.

it sends a sick thrill to his head, the prospect of seeing you every day, all self-assured and cleaned-up, and simultaneously sucking him off because of some weird kink for hot murderers. 

fuck, it’s so much better when you don’t know it’s him.

you run your tongue along the vein on the underside of his cock, flattening it against his length. he groans, fingers curling into your hair.

his hips buck up into your mouth, and tears escape from your eyes as you do your best to breathe through your nose.

“oh, shit,” he hisses, balls tightening as he forces you to take it, “just like that, such a good girl.”

you whine around his cock, the vibrations quickly sending him over the edge.  you let his length slip out of your mouth as he strokes himself, his cum falling in reams over your face and chest.

he’s breathing heavily throughout his orgasm, fingers gradually loosening from your hair. you’re so fucking hot, ethan thinks. if only you knew who he was.

“you have economics with ethan, right?” mindy queries.

you glance up at her approaching form, lazily inking out the last of your notes, “oh. uh, yeah.”

“did he go yesterday?”

you frown, “uhh, I don’t really remember.” more like you weren’t there to know.

you rest your pen, turning your chair towards her, “what’s with the sudden interest? quinn didn’t put you up to this, did she?”

“god, no,” she scoffs, “…although you two could be cute together.”

you roll your eyes, as she continues, “it’s just… with all this ghostface stuff— he’s been absent during most of the murders too many times to be a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“you can’t seriously think ethan’s ghostface,” you deadpan, “he’s such a… a… i don’t know, he’s too soft, i guess.”

she cocks her head, “what do you mean?”

“oh, um, well,” you start ploddingly, quickly realizing that you should’ve just kept silent, “ghostface seems like he or she’d be the self-assured type, y’know? hide in plain sight. trying to act the exact opposite of ghostface probably wouldn’t get the killer anywhere. I just feel like, they’d have a little more… grit.”

“you sound pretty sure of yourself,” she remarks.

you shrug, “just my own two cents.”

when she doesn’t make any move to leave, you make a show of returning to your notes, aimlessly rewriting annotations on a few passages you’ve already scanned through.

“…where were you last night?” she asks, finally.

you glance up at her.

“you can’t seriously think i’m ghostface,” by the time the words have left your mouth, you quickly realize that it’s actually a fairly viable conclusion.

“well, you said ghostface needs grit. according to you, ethan doesn’t have that,” she monitors your expressions carefully, “but you do.”

you can’t help the slight relief that breaks into your features. at least she hasn’t caught onto the actual truth, although this isn’t much better.

“i was actually at econ,” you lie, after a moment of contemplation. telling her you were too busy sucking ghostface off is about as bad as directly presenting yourself as ghostface.

she peers at you intently for a few moments, and you can tell she doesn’t believe you. she doesn’t press it any further, however, and she leaves you be, with a low sigh.

ethan is soft and sweet and he tastes like strawberries and when you kiss him you realize, fuck, you do like him.

he tenses immediately, torn between melting into the kiss and having a heart attack from it.

he gets all pliant and blushy in seconds, hands fumbling around your shoulders. you let your teeth graze his lip slightly, relishing the way he sucks in a sharp breath as you step back.

“so,” you start kittenishly, “our first real kiss together, huh?”

he lets out a delirious laugh, “oh, yeah. we, um– last time we got picked for the closet, we just sort of stood around and talked, didn’t we?”

“probably should’ve made out instead,” you answer, “at least we have our chance now.”

his eyes widen, lips parting faintly. he speaks before his brain even fully processes your words, “yes please.”

he’s adorable, you think. you cup his face gently. for a second you want to devour him whole but something prompts you to start slow, lips pressing against his sensually.

his hands linger around your waist, fingertips digging in, as an attempt at self-restraint as he kisses you back. 

you ease his lips apart gently, mapping out his mouth with your tongue. his breathing is ragged all the while, heart pounding so hard you can feel it against you. you kiss him for what feels like forever, but evidently isn’t. he’s babbling, you process faintly. something that sounds faintly like gratitude.

you must’ve reached the seven minute mark, because the closet doors are flung open, to a string of scandalized gasps from your friends.

mindy rolls her eyes as anika squeals, “i’m gonna make a ship name!”

every shift of your hips has his veins dragging against your walls and you quickly realize that riding ghostface is his only weakness.

“f-fuck…” he exhales shakily, hands half-fisted in the sheets. you roll your hips again, eliciting another trembling breath from him.

“let me take it off,” you murmur.

“this again?” he sighs, distastefully, although it’s quickly undermined by the quiet whimpers he lets out as you adjust your position atop him. 

it’s jarring to you, for a moment, the unfamiliar way his control starts to slip and he’s so much more sensitive. you decide to have your fun with it, a predominantly horny wave of self-assurance swelling within you, throbbing alongside ghostface’s cock. he must’ve discarded his voice modulator at some point, but still you can’t quite place his voice, not without his face.

you start grinding slowly, rocking your hips back and forth. his reaction is immediate, fingertips digging into the sheets and muffled sounds from behind the mask. you wonder what he looks like under there, beyond just his face. his expressions, his flushed cheeks, his parted lips. you want to see him lose control.

you reach down, caressing his balls cautiously at first, testing the waters. his breath hitches, hips jerking upwards, prompting a soft moan from you. 

he seems to be fighting with himself to still his hips, and you start to grow more daring, fondling his balls gently. at the same time, you continue your movements. soft whines escape him, sending a dizzying rush of your head at his increased reactivity.

“f-fuck,” he moans, your walls clenching around him tightly, “just like t-that…”

the thought enters your head once more. god, it would be so easy to just take the mask off now that his guard is down.

you start to bounce lightly, his cock pressing into all your sensitive spots. you bite your lip, a fresh wave of slick coating his cock as you rise at the thought of the reactions accompanying his noises.

he barely registers it when the mask is removed and cast away to the side. his hands fly to your arm before he even fully processes it, pawing at it for a few moments as he struggles to focus on anything other than the heat coiling like a fist in his gut.

he blinks blearily. you gaze down at him, lips faintly parted from both pleasure and shock at ethan landry sprawled beneath you in his full unmasked glory. his cheeks flushed a deep hue of feverish red, hair mussed up against his forehead, wide doe eyes glazed over and lolling back slightly. all his bravado seems to vanish in an instant, attempting to bite back his whimpers as the stimulation fails to cease.

the dual sensation proves too much to him after a while, as your fingers continue to stroke his balls, and the only warning you receive is a choked ‘oh, fuck!’ before his hips are thrusting upwards uncontrollably, painting your insides white. you tip over the edge as well, mind a whirlwind of disbelief that dissolves quickly into a punctured ecstasy.

“fuck…” ethan lets out a drawn-out whine as he starts to come down from his orgasm. he’s still in the throes of his high, still rutting like an animal into your pussy, only a little more coherent than before.

he’s surprisingly pliant, as you grasp his jaw and turn his face from side-to-side, eyes absorbing his features incredulously now that you’re not distracted by physical sensation. ethan’s… ghostface?

ethan, who tried to offer you cheetos when you were sad. ethan, who was always lamenting about being a virgin. ethan, who bought bucket hats from a school fundraiser. ethan, who you were making out with literally today.

ethan landry is ghostface. not only that, he’s the one who’s been sneaking into your dorm when he should be killing your friends, the one who’s been stalking you every night, the one who’s been fucking you so good you were willing to hookup with a literal serial killer for the sex.

one thing’s for sure. he’s definitely not a virgin anymore.

“oh my fucking god,” you scramble off of him, “ethan?!”

“surprise,” he offers weakly.

mindy was right. she was right all along. you think you should be horrified.

well, sort of. 

the fucking-a-serial-killer part you don’t mind, but for that serial killer to be ethan of all people? you’re not sure if that should sour or sweeten the deal for you. 

“you’re ghostface,” you say, “you’re… ghostface.”

“you’ve mentioned that a few times,” he murmurs.

“i– you’re ghostface?”

his eyebrows raise, “is that really so hard to believe?”

“i mean, yeah,” you admit, “you’re… ethan. you’re the guy who thought our economics teacher was a student, and stutters around girls (it’s a bit cute, you suppose, but you’ll never tell him that) and asked people for murder party merch for your birthday!”

a unrestrained wave of giddiness washes over him at the prospect of you remembering his fixations, but he suppresses it quickly, “what’s wrong with murder party??”

you ignore him entirely.

“you straight-up thanked me for kissing you!” you recall incredulously, “literally today!”

“the duality of man,” he smiles deceptively. you want to smack him, but you remind yourself quickly that ethan is ghostface, and you should be intimidated by the ghostface part, at least.

what in the world have you gotten yourself into?

“so… am i just supposed to… hide you?” you query tentatively.

he shrugs, “it’s not like you weren’t already doing that.”

“i– yeah, but this is different!” you exclaim, “i have to see you almost every day, they’re gonna find out!”

“so?” he retorts dismissively, “they won’t care if you’re dating me. as long as you don’t mention the ghostface part, obviously.”

“but we’re not dating,” you cut him off.

his gaze darts to you, a soft scoff leaving his lips, “just tell them we are. it’ll keep us both out of trouble.”

“mindy suspects me as well though.”

he frowns, “why?”

“well, she thought it was you at first, and i sort of argued against that,” you cringe a little, remembering it now. a lot has happened in the past few days.

“oh, really?” he gazes up at you intently, and you remind yourself once more that you should be scared, should be panicking because ghostface is still ghostface, even if he also happens to be ethan, “that’s interesting.”

you’re not sure what to make of it. 

“are you, uh… gonna kill me?” you ask slowly.

his eyes widen and he looks genuinely surprised for a moment, before mellowing down as he seems to recall that he is, still, a serial killer, “oh,  right, about that…”

he hesitates briefly, gaze lowering, almost shamefully, “you’re not supposed to be, um– i wasn’t supposed to target you or do anything ghostface related with you.”

“wait, then why…?”

“i’ve had a huge crush on you for a while now,” he confesses. 

it takes you aback, “but how is that… connected?”

“you never seemed to like the dorky ethan or the shy loser or the guy ghostface is supposed to hide behind,” he admits quietly. it’s strange, seeing ethan so depraved and ghostface so vulnerable. makes you wonder who the real one is.

“it– it was an accident at first. i just wanted to see you, that night, while you were, uh, sleeping,” he grimaces, recalling it now, “i didn’t think that you’d be so… responsive to the mask. to… me. i didn’t know how else to get you to like me.”

“but i do like you,” you tell him, “dorky you. i think it’s sweet.”

“more than ghostface me?”

you falter, “well… i mean, up until now, i mostly thought of you and ghostface as separate people. i’m attracted to both, yeah, but i don’t even know who the real ethan is anymore.”

“come and find out,” he declares finally, “if we date, you can be my alibi and i can be whoever you want me to be.”

there’s something in his eyes, something you don’t recognize from ethan or ghostface. something… more profuse.

buy one, get one free, you suppose. 

“deal.”

it works beautifully, to the point that ethan considers sneaking in a few extra kills for the thrill of it. he shouldn’t push it though, he knows, both as your boyfriend and as a killer.

nobody seems to question how often he’s absent anymore, once the possibility of him getting laid is in the picture, and you come to find that the true ethan landry really is the best of both worlds.

your back is arched at an angle that should be unnatural, tears leaking into your blindfold as ethan snaps his hips forward brutally. 

“feels so much better now that you know who it is, huh?” he pants, pressing his chest against your back. he pistons his length into you mercilessly, right hand forcing your hands back and pinning them against your ass.

you sob, the sound muffled by the gag. he laughs, “what’s wrong, baby? too much?”

his hand meets your ass sharply, and the pain mingles with the pleasure almost immediately, dissolving into the heat in your stomach.

it’s too good, too much, but you still can’t help the way you clench around him, sucking him in greedily.

he’s fucking into you with deep, harsh thrusts, tip kissing your cervix. he’s already well-endowed, but he fucks you like he’s trying to compensate for something.

“shit, i’m close,” he pants, thrusting sloppily as his fingers dig into your hips hard. one hand snakes down, rubbing at your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

you bite down on the gag, a sharp cry caught behind it as your orgasm crashes over you. the sensation of your walls spasming proves too much for ethan as well, and he lets a garbed string of words as he floods you with cum. 

he keeps thrusting through your orgasm, gradually slowing down as you both start to come down from your highs. ethan reaches for your gag, removing it gently once he’s regained his ability to use his hands without them shaking. 

you wince as he pulls out, turning over onto your back and sinking into the bed. your eyes slip closed, faintly registering as ethan cleans you both up. you think you’re being carried, lowered into warm water. cleansed. 

suddenly, it’s sweet ethan again, dorky ethan, ethan who started bringing extra snacks for you whenever you were shaken up by the news of another death, presumably inflicted by him.

you’re laid in bed again. you think he goes to shower as well, the sound of running water almost lulling you to sleep before you feel him slip into bed next to you.

your eyes open blearily, faintly making out the lines of your form in the darkness.

“what?” you murmur, when he stares at you for too long.

“nothing,” he whispers, gazing at you fondly, “you just look really pretty right now.”

you can’t help the sleepy smile that forms, warmth blooming in your chest. 

“good night,” you say.

“good night,” he echoes, and you curl a bit closer to him.

in this moment he’s ethan and he’s ghostface and he’s your boyfriend and you let yourself fall asleep remembering that, no matter the circumstances that reconciled both his identities to you, he’s indelibly, undeniably, yours.

[wingkink]

btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here

[valyrianscribe]

When you grow distant from him. — A.T x Reader.

content tags: MDNI! fluff, aerion is a bit of a brat and a bastard, it's okay though cuz he gets hit with the wifeguy genetics from his father, mild foreplay and allusions to sex, implied insecure reader, implied manipulative reader (margaery core but it's for the good of the realm but she genuinely loves him), doomed brothers angst if you squint, poorly betaread (as always), eng is not my first language so TEACH ME PLEASE IM BEGGING.

author's note: this is part of the WYGDFH series, I wrote some of this in the middle of my final lmfao—anyways, this is my first time writing for aerion I lowk don't like it but I do?? didn't think I'd write THIS MUCH for him compared to his dad, speaking of daddy here's his chapter

NAVIGATION — MASTERLIST

W.C. 2.2K

DIVIDER CREDIT: @SARADIKA-GRAPHICS (DRAGONS), GRADIENTS (ME)

Aerion loathed you.

The girl who robbed him of his freedom.

From one moment he was unshackled, unburdened from the duties of marriage and a wife, the next he was betrothed to some girl — even worse, betrothed to a girl that had no dragon-blood coursing through her veins.

He was adamant in his plans, fully intended to make your life hell, make you rue your very existence.

He was adamant.

Until he met you.

 He expected a stammering little wench, but instead found you.

As if spellstruck, he'd forgotten all the words he rehearsed, all the cruel jokes he meant to play on you, all the names he wanted to whisper in your ear when you danced to watch you try and pretend all was well, instead he whispered sweet words that had you shy.

 "A dragon does not bend nor break, so what makes you think I am 'softening'?"

Those were the calculated words he responded with when Daeron questioned his change in plans and demeanor, words that had his eldest brother exhale in muted amusement—as if he knew something Aerion did not.

Well… Daeron never knew shit about anything, so…

What's he to know about strategy?

He was simply building you up so he can break you later — yes, that's why, that's why he spent so much time on figuring out what you liked.

Your favorite color. Your favorite type of jewelry. Your favorite gemstone. Your favorite flower.

Anything you liked.

Those were all easy facts to unearth, all he had to do was bribe your stupid brat of a little brother with a short play-time with his glorious draconic black-steel helmet to find that information out—if he wasn't your little brother he would have had him whipped for even daring to ask, hells, he wouldn't even let him ask for anything in return, but a dragon is merciful as much as he was strong-handed.

He had his armorer deep clean his helmet afterwards from your brother's disgusting sweaty head.

But it was worth it in the end, because you smiled the widest he's seen since he laid eyes on you when he presented the bracelets he had all but threatened the jeweler give priority over his other pieces (not that he'd need to be ordered).

 "It matches your eyes, my prince." You smiled softly, holding up your wrist as if to compare him with the amethyst-eyed silver dragon coiling around your wrist.

A very dangerous heat rolled over his body in waves, simmering, his heart gnawed at his ribs, he felt sick, like a fever possessed him, but a dragon doesn't fall ill, it had to have been something else.

 You adored him, that much was obvious. His plans were moving along nicely, it wouldn't hurt to have a little bit of fun with you now.

It took little convincing before he had you sitting on his lap, your knees on either side of him, looking up at him so sweetly, like he could never hurt you.

He wanted to ruin you.

Teach you that the word 'fuck' wasn't merely a profanity men threw around. Tear down all the walls your parents put up around you to protect you from this indecency he had you in.

And yet…

And yet… he couldn't find it in himself to do it.

Instead, he was soft.

Soft in the way he taught you how to kiss. Gentle in the way pressed his lips against yours, understanding in the way he let you pull away for air when he didn't want to, patient in the way he let you change the angle of your heads as many times as you wanted.

He let you kiss him until his lips were swollen. Then he let you walk away, not going any farther than that, and kept the promise he planned to break.

 It was only one afternoon that he learned the truth behind the phantom fever that came and went. Initially he thought you had a spell placed on him out of spite, and when he told Daeron of his suspicions, he gave him a look.

"Well, how's that going to help her?" Daeron laughed, brow raised. "A fever spell he says… sorcery has fallen on sad days."

Aerion simply rolled his eyes and went off to bed.

You were sat on a blanket beneath a tree when he finally found you—well, finally was a dramatic word, he knew you'd be here—it was only that he hadn't seen you since the night before.

Slowly and boredly, you plucked the petals off the flower in your hand, a growing stacks of petals on one side, each different colors, and on your other side was a stack of stems.

That wasn't what got him though—he knew you liked making coloring paint from flower petals—what got him was the way you lit up when you saw him, he was certain your smile willed the clouds away for the sunlight to shine through.

"Aerion!" You called, excited like seeing him was the best thing that's happened to you, he wanted you to say his name like that forever.

He felt his knees go weak.

Aerion understood what the "fever" truly was now.

That was a lie — the truth of it was known to him for a while, within the deepest crevices of his soul, he just couldn't admit it to himself.

His heart was yours to hold, a vulnerability he's willing to gamble on.

After-all – look at you, and the way you smiled and gazed at him so sweetly like you could do nothing but.

 And that was what you've done, and kept doing, through your wedding ceremony, through your marriage, and through… well…

He was certain something was wrong.

You grinned and kissed and touched at him the way you've always done, but there was a certain weariness in it.

A weariness in your tired eyes, the skin beneath your eyes sunken like you've missed sleep.

At first he thought it was his fault for tiring you out every night, driving into you relentlessly and filling you up over and over each night. Eager to see you grow heavy with his child, and claim you in one more way to drive the eyes of these lustful mongrels off you.

Now, that he has gone easy on you, it seemed like the problem lied elsewhere.

Still, you remained tired, and you spent less time near him.

He suspected his seed quickened within your womb, but that was quickly disproved by your moon-blood the day he wished to get you examined by a maester. What a pity.

So what was it?

Did you tire of him?

Surely not.

Aerion would burn Westeros to the ground if that happened, mark his words.

 He'd hoped it was mere paranoia, you didn't love him less, you still smiled at him the way he liked, you still slept beside him in his own bed, you never left him.

 You would never leave him — never.

 But here you were, doing just that.

Aerion woke up to a cold emptiness on your side of the bed and a disturbing lack of the limbs that usually wrapped around him much like a soft warm blanket, a haven from the coldness of night.

Your side of the bed was cold—It was cold.

You've been gone a while.

Where could you be that was so urgent you would disturb your sleep and comfort for it?

What was so important that would have you leave your dragon? your prince? your husband? your Aer?

He paced around the room, restless, plagued by his thoughts, the waning light of the candles shroud his mind in further darkness.

He had half a mind to rouse and gather all the servants to look for you, but what little reason he had – had won out. You will have to come back to bed eventually.

He will wait, yes.

You slowly and carefully opened the door, worried that the rickety hinges would squeak that annoying shrill sound and rouse your husband — unaware that he was already awake and watching you, cross-legged and leaning his elbow on the armchair with his temple rested on his hand, his eyes glinting with barely contained amusement despite his worries, it wasn't his fault you looked so adorable taking off your shoes and sneaking about like some scared little kitten.

"My love!" You nearly died right there from the scare.

"Aerion!" You whined with your hand on your beating heart, glaring at your husband who was all to happy about nearly murdering you. "Why are you out of bed?"

Aerion stood slowly and stalked towards you, one prowling step at a time. "Why am I out of bed? Why are you out of bed, when you've been so, so tired these past weeks?"

He took ahold of your hand, pressing his palm against yours and enlacing his fingers through your own. "What has you so busy that you would leave me in the cold dead of night?"

You gazed deep into his expectant eyes, you didn't want to tell him, not yet, so you took his jaw in your free hand and pressed kisses on the other side of his face, that usually had him wrapped around your fingers, and distracted him from whatever held his ire and wrath at the time.

Aerion was torn between pressing his cheek into your hand or your doting lips—instead he groaned and took your face into his hands and joined his lips with yours in a hard and lustful kiss.

It worked, but only for a second.

He pulled away from you in a sudden and quick movement, tragically… just when you felt the outline of something you've grown intimately familiar with against your abdomen.

"Tell me, don't avoid the question again." He ordered, irate.

"Where were you just now?"

You sighed in defeat, you wanted this to be a surprise.

"I will show you tomorrow." You compromised, pressing kisses again to his face, but Aerion pushes your face away, gently, despite his irritation at your relentless attempts in seducing him, at any other time, he would welcome it with elation, but now was not the time.

"No, show me, now." He commanded.

"As you wish, my Aer." You said with small pout at having your surprise be ruined.

You led him through the darkness. The halls of this side of the castle long abandoned, they weren't unfamiliar to him, he just never had the interest of being here, no longer a curious wide-eyed child but a grown prince with better things to do.

Aerion used to stack the furniture in one of these rooms into some kind of "castle" and force Daeron to play some make-believe game, he was Aegon the Conquerer, Daeron was Balerion the Black Dread, his brother couldn't exactly fly, but they made do—the memory had his lips quiver into a grin at the hilarity of it.

You walked him into a dark room and took the torch from his hand.

"Before I show you this, I want you to know that it's unfinished, I didn't want to show you this until your nameday, oh and it's pretty dark here, so don't give your verdict on it yet." You said, slightly nervous, and he began putting two and two together.

You were working on some kind of painting, for him. Impatient to see it, he wrapped his hand over yours on the torch and raised it to the easel behind you, bringing light to the painting rested on it.

It was a portrait of him and you, a masterpiece if he's ever seen one. The colors were so vibrant even in the dark. His features were so drawn so carefully, so identical to his own—is this why you've been holding him down in bed? Why you've traced every line and outline on his face? Why he's woken up countless times to you straddling him and staring so intensely?

The way you've drawn yourself was far inaccurate compared to his own, it lacked the details he loved about you, you've told him how hard self-portraits were to you, saying how the back and forth between the mirror and yourself was boring and arduous, but he knew the truth.

"Aer?" You called, uncomfortable at the way he was staring at the image of you. He hummed in response, taking the torch from your hand and lit the sconces on the walls, lighting up the room.

Aerion held you close to him, curling himself on you with his cheek pressed to yours, holding your head and turning it to the portrait.

"You have no idea how much you've delighted me with this, my love," he whispered lowly against your ear.

"But…" He said nuzzling his cheek against yours again and staring back at the painting. "It would be made much better if you've drawn yourself the way you deserve to be drawn."

You let him pull you before the tall mirror you've been using to draw yourself.

Aerion presses himself to your behind, and you feel his hardened cock against it. He takes his time in undoing the drawstring of your night clothes while pressing kisses to your shoulder.

You throw your head back with a breathy moan when his hand touches at you where you need him most, his other holding you up against him at the buckling of your legs.

"Eyes forward, my love, we will be here until you memorize every maddening detail of yourself."