Obsessive Aerion got the most votes on my recent poll, so here it is:)
Word Count: 2.1K
Summary: You have loved Aerion for as long as you can remember, and he has been completely and utterly obsessed with you for as long as he can remember.
I haven't proof read again, sorry!
Warning: Mentions of violence, violence, obsessive love
Reblogs, comments and likes are very appreciated :)
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My requests are open.
The day that you married Aerion had felt like a dream. You had known him for the majority of your life, for your fathers were good friends. Aerion was known for being cruel and wicked. Rude and arrogant. Yet, he had never been cruel to you.
Rude and arrogant, yes- but never was he cruel nor wicked to you. Quite the opposite, actually.
You had fallen in love with Aerion long, long ago, when you were a child. He was always doing things to try and impress you, whether it be going the extra mile in his sparring lessons because you watched, punching a young boy when he tripped you over and called you a name- one that you could not remember now. Or when he made a small, rather crooked bench for you to sit upon when you wanted to watch the sunset.
As you grew older, his light hearted fondness towards you turned deeper, and his heart began to burn for you wholly, He found himself threatening, and or hurting anyone whom even looked at you for too long.
When you were both ten and six, a boy proclaimed his love for you, publicly, having consumed a few cups of wine. You, of course, were horrified. As was Aerion, who with darkened eyes and a clenched jaw threw his dagger across the table. It span within the air as it flew, hurdling towards the drunk boy, resulting in the blade tearing through his chest before anyone could act.
He lived, luckily. The maester said that it had been a few inches from the heart. Aerion was glad, because if the boy had died his father never would have shut up about it. The punishment for that would have been horrific.
On your ten and eighth name day, your father threw a spectacular tourney in celebration. Another young boy, one that you couldn’t name, with a handsome face and kind eyes attempted to ask you for your favour.
An army of butterflies had erupted in your stomach in that moment. Part of you felt flattered as no men had spoken to you unnecessarily for a very long time due to the known reaction that it would evoke from Aerion. You had two choices, which were both inevitable to end badly.
“My lady, it would be a blessing from the seven themselves.” He called, a sweet smile upon his lips.
A smile that made Aerion feel sick.
You could accept, but of course Aerion would be livid and possibly- most definitely, kill the man. Or you could deny, and risk the awkwardness of such an encounter. You dreaded the crowds reaction to that. The small folk didn’t take too kindly to mild forms of disrespect.
Although his position was down on the ground and away from you, you felt Aerion’s eyes burning a hole into your head. You had searched for him desperately, your face finally stopping when you saw the magnificence of his helm and the sharp, beautiful features on his face within it.
He was a sight of beauty then, just as he was now.
You saw the fume in his expression; he looked as though he could have fought one thousand men alone in that moment.
“My apologies, sir,” you had stuttered awkwardly, your fingertips fiddling with the emerald jewels within your satin dress, “I must deny for I belong to another.”
You were in fact not sworn to Aerion, not politically. But your heart belonged to him fully, the same way that his belonged to you.
Despite the fire that burned within him at the sheer audacity of the man, a soar of hope shot through him when he witnessed your denial and proclaim that you belonged to him.
Belonged.
You remembered how the man’s face softened, and his brows furrowed in embarrassment. Aerion had commanded his steed to move closer, and a satisfied smirk sat proudly upon his face.
“Firstly, you attempt to receive the favour of my woman, which fails. Next, you will try and beat me- you will fail.” Aerion’s mocking words tore through the arena, earning some laughs, and some boos from the small folk within the crowd.
“Are you brave or stupid?” The question was of course, rhetorical.
Stupid, of course. What was supposed to be a light hearted joust in the sprits of celebration, turned into a bloody mess. Aerion, of course, beat the man. Very violently. Bending the rules of ethics in order to incite his revenge.
The crowd booed, but Aerion was certainly pleased with himself. As soon as he was declared the winner, he threw off his heavy helm and rode towards you. You, of course, gave him your favour and let out a yelp of surprise when Aerion climbed up the pole, picked you up and brought you down. He kissed you there and then for everyone to see- tenderly, lovingly. Not only a message for everyone whom saw, but a message to you- to prove his seriousness and dedication.
Your families watched in horror- they knew the love you shared, of course. They knew very well of the obsession that Aerion held for you. Yet, politically, you were not to marry. Such a public proclamation meant that suitors from all the realm would be scared off.
Aerion didn’t care, and did not understand why your fathers had not arranged your marriage sooner- he could have put two babes in you by now. The Targaryen prince never worried that you would marry another- no. He had done just fine thus far scaring off possibilities. And worst case, he had already bedded you many times- if there were to be a day where another arrangement would be announced, he would have no problem revealing that awfully kept secret.
After the tourney, Aerion had requested an audience in front of both his father, and yours, as well as his uncle and the king himself. It was there that he demanded that you marry. Aerion knew no embarrassment, and made witnesses sit for a whole hour while he recounted every memory that he had of you. The ones that he deemed appropriate, anyway.
You remembered the giggle that left you when he had started with, “it began when we were five years old.” And proceeded to tell the tale of how you fell and scraped your knee, and how he had helped you up and dusted the dirt from your bloodied knee.
Aerion’s obsession manifested itself in many ways; he knew every single thing that you liked, loved, disliked and loathed. He read every book that you mentioned, he had men travel the world in search of jewels and gowns that you had read of, he sometimes even travelled himself to acquire the finest flowers from the free cities, just to see the delight in your face when you inhaled the scent.
There was no fibre of your being that had the heart to tell him to calm down, even if sometimes you really wanted too. Every human on the earth needed their alone time, and he could not comprehend that. His alone time included you- it had too.
“I do not understand why we must host such delinquent people.” Your husband’s voice exclaimed from beside you, echoing throughout the hall and bouncing from the large stone walls. The sudden noise snapped your attentions back to the table that you sat at, a roasted duck still rested upon your plate.
During your dinner, Prince Baelor had announced that in the coming days, they should be welcoming the arrival Maron Martell, Prince of Dorne, and his eldest son.
Baelor laughed, hesitantly lifting a silver goblet to his lips, “Delinquents?” The heir took a large swig of wine before playing the cup back upon the table.
Aerion did not understand the humour within his words, and started as his uncle awaiting a valid response. Despite the stare, his eyes flickered to you once or twice.
“It’s your fucking great aunt’s husband and child, what problem could you possibly have?” Aerion’s father, Maekar, questioned impatiently.
You already knew the problem, yet were not sure if Aerion would admit it.
You see, Aerion knew very well that his Maron Martell’s eldest son was in fact around the same age as you both- described by all in the seven kingdoms to be the most handsome man of Dorne. He was said to have a thick head of dark curls, and a chiseled jaw. He was said to be tall, with sun kissed skin and an unforgivingly beautiful face. He was also said to be charming, and funny.
Naturally, Aerion did not want him anywhere near you. You should have known better than to question whether he would admit it.
“My problem is that I will not have that man whore set eyes upon my wife!”
Maekar shook his head in pure disbelief, and decided to allow someone else on the table to handle his son.
You, amused by the situation, placed your hand on his thigh gently, your fingers brushing the fabric of his hose.
It was fair to say that the people of Dorne did things differently; they are known to be very open with their doings, very confident and free.
“My love, that will not be a problem.” You said simply, peering at him with a blank expression.
Aerion couldn’t help the small tut that escaped him. Placing his hand on top of your own which rested on his thigh, he looked at you, leaning his face closer to yours. “Of course it will be a problem.”
“No, it won’t.” Daeron called from across the table. “Brother, you must be less…”
Daeron’s hands raised, and he gestured unknowingly as he thought of how to articulate his thoughts. “Less territorial.” He finalised his words with a small burp.
“And you, brother, must drink less. You are making my stomach turn.” Your husband shot back, his eyes darkening as they scanned Daeron.
And with that, your husband stood abruptly, grabbing the flowing, emerald sleeve of your gown as he stood- a forceful signal that he wanted to leave and intended to take you with him.
Two days later, your guests had arrived, and in turn, a flurry of guests dined in your husband’s family halls. You sat beside your husband, as usual. Your hand firmly clasped in his, laughing at the ridiculousness he spoke into your ear. Both of you loathed family gatherings, and so had always passed the time by making jokes of those who surrounded you. That, or you would spend the time whispering all of the things that you would rather be doing to one another.
The chaotic hum of music chimed through your ears and people of all ages danced happily to the sound. Aerion nibbled at your ear and pressed kisses to your neck as you both sat- you watching the crowd, and him watching you.
Maron’s eldest son was not as pleasing as the ladies of court had painted, and he seemed rather unintelligent, if you were honest.
“Princess,” You heard an unfamiliar accent call.
You peered to your right, and Aerion paused as his lips ghosted your neck. Him too looking towards the direction of the voice.
“Pass me the wine.” He commanded you calmly, yet loudly.
Aerion’s head snapped up, and he turned his head so it fully faced the young Dornish man. He sniffed through his nose and thought carefully- your husbands violet eyes throughly scanning his face.
“You dare command my wife.” Aerion spoke in a harsh voice. The Dornish Prince’s head snapped back in disbelief.
“I just want the wine.” He shrugged.
Aerion lazily reached forwards and nudged the tall jug of wine towards his direction. “Then get it yourself.”
The Dornish Prince peered at the wine, then peered at Aerion, and then looked at you.
“Sorry, my Princess.” He spoke in an overdramatised voice, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Aerion shot up then, despite your hand that had clasped his waist in a desperate attempt to make him sit back down. Aerion could threaten and beat whomever he liked, but Maron Martell’s eldest son simply could not be one of them. Makar barked at him from the latter side of the table, most of them now gaining the attention of the ridiculous display before them.
Aerion felt your harsh hands- a brief pang struck him as a consequence- not because it hurt, but because you always touched him gently, and tenderly.
Other than when you were in bed, of course.
Aerion thought for a heartbeat, about the consequences of putting his hands on the tanned man in front of him.
Despite it all, he lunged forward and punched the Prince in the face, causing his head to jerk back and a small gasp to leave his throat.
To your surprise, however, Aerion did not continue his attack. Instead, he moved away. Placing one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other on your sleeve, he placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Come, let us leave.” He pulled you up. “I cannot stand everyone here, being able to stare at you for much longer."
Summary: Aerion spends his entire life trying to please you, regardless of how difficult it may be.
Word count: I haven’t checked because I’m writing on my phone in the moment, but defo shorter than usual! Part 2 will be longer
I haven’t even read this back through tbh, and wanted to include an actual plot but didn’t want to make it too long so planning to write that later as a part 2- where there is something that he cannot provide for her. I’m at work so unable to format everything as I usually do on my laptop lol.
Warning: not really any, just a spoilt lady and a pandering Aerion
Master list
My requests are open
“I felt unloved by you today.”
The sadness in your voice cut through Aerion like a knife, yet the words themselves brought a small smile to his lips.
You felt the absence of his touch as he removed his hands from your back, where he had been carefully undoing your corset. Within the second, you felt the pressure of a hand on each of your hips, and was twirled so that you now faced him.
Aerion leant forward, planting a gentle kiss on your lips. Once parted, he did not move his face, instead holding himself there as closely as he possibly could, the ghost of him still touching you.
He bit the inside of his mouth briefly in order to stop his grin from broadening.
“And why would that be?”
He had no idea why you had felt neglected by him; he had held your thigh, as usual. He had stared at you for the majority of the evening, as usual. He kissed and held you at every opportunity, as usual.
You pursed your lips and looked away from him. He let out a short yet meaningful exhale, and used both his index and middle finger to turn your chin so that your eyes looked upon him once more.
“Don’t do this to me.” He darkened his eyes, his fingers still holding your face.
“You spoke to that woman.” You replied shortly, your voice closer to a whisper than anything else.
Aerion searched every crevice of his mind to find the memory of what you had accused him of. He stared at you, more so staring through you as he tried. Your eyes stayed firmly to the side, yet you could not help but to flicker between the window and your husband’s handsome face.
Then, he remembered. When introduced to a nobleman’s- someone he could not care to remember the name of’s- daughter. The conversation was brief, and Aerion had been as cold and rude as he usually was.
But it meant that he had taken his attention away from you for a few minutes, which, in your humble opinion, was an unbelievably long amount of time.
“My darling,” he began, now using both hands to hold your face in front of his to ensure that both of your eyes locked directly into his own. “My father would have hit me before everyone if I had ignored her and her father completely.”
“You did not even hold my hand.” Your response came with haste, indicating that you were not truly listening to his words, just thinking of your own.
Aerion allowed his smile to shine through, and so it did. Like sunlight beaming through an open window, Aerion’s white teeth flashed as he laughed. He often found himself cursing at your spoilt ways, yet he could not hold the curses for too long; you were a product of his own making- and he truly, truly adored it.
The Prince loved how much his lady wife relied on him, adored him, and asked from him. Most of all, he loved the fact that he was able to give you everything that your heart so desired, and more.
Aerion had been known to do an array of ridiculous things in order to provide you with things that you wanted, regardless of how small or large.
Notably, if you were to ask anyone whom resided within Summerhall, they would tell you about the tale of summer. It had been a brief flash of winter- barely even that. For one moon exactly, the sun did not blaze as strongly as it usually would have, and you could not stand it at all.
You believed your gowns to be much too fine to be hidden away by a cloak, and in turn refused to wear one. Despite how many times your handmaidens advised that you would stop shaking if you simply applied another layer. Aerion too attempted to reprimand you every time he caught you leaving the warmth of the castle with bare arms.
“Well, my dragon, if you wish for me to be warm, then you must find a way to bring me it without flames.”
Your words came with a beautiful smile, and if it was anyone else who had requested such a thing, he would have laughed.
But you were not anyone else, and he understood the seriousness that you spoke.
And so, both his family and the servants watched in amusement as he attempted to bring you summer. Aerion and two of his men spent hours in the library searching books- a desperate attempt to find anything that would help.
Eventually, Aerion found a page in an old text that spoke of a mirror- when angled at the sky in a particular way, the sun would shine off of it, in turn allowing a beam to flow through a gap in an open or closed window.
Additionally, one of his men heard word of a sorcerer in Lys whom claimed to be able to make birds sing on command. He sent word to the sorcerer, yet they drove a hard bargain and refused to come. Naturally, Aerion had to offer a price three times as much as his original offer.
Regardless of price, it worked.
Everyone watched in disbelief as you entered the large hall that day, and saw your emerald and gold embroidered chair waiting for you, in a patch of direct sunlight. A corner of the hall had been cornered off, and inside of the corner were a dozen birds all singing a melodic tune. Next to your chair, was a large platter of your favourite cakes.
You had let out a squeal of excitement, and jumped on him happily, wrapping your legs around his waist as you engulfed him in a passionate kiss.
In that moment, Aerion did not care for the money that he had spent, nor the time that he had wasted, for all that mattered was the fact that he had pleased you, once again.
Aerion had fallen in love with you the very first moment that he laid his eyes on you. You seemed to be an angel in the form of a woman as you stood confidently between two guards. Despite your smaller frame in comparison to the two men, whom were both of a tall and broad stature, your aura stood twenty feet above them.
Prince Maekar, Aerion’s father, had found himself to be a sweaty mess the entire morning before your arrival; his son, the self proclaimed dragon, had always voiced his lack of need for both lust and love- claiming that any man whom dedicated himself to one woman was a coward. You, a high born, proud woman, would never stand for such treatment.
Prince Maekar knew that, and in turn, he dreaded the outcome.
He watched Aerion carefully, and watched as his darkened, dangerous eyes vanished, and in their place came brighter ones, in a paler shade of violet. He watched just as carefully as you ignored everyone else who welcomed you, asked you questions and attempted to provide you with assistance. You were rude, yes, but you were not there for them.
You were there for the white haired man with the chiselled face.
You stood directly before him, not even bothering to look at anyone whom sat beside him. With your shoulders back, and a flick of your long locks, you placed your hand in front of him without a word. Aerion had looked up at you, confused. You, in turn, furrowed your eyebrows and gestured towards your delicate hand that still lingered in front of his face.
Everyone watched in anticipation, for they knew that if anyone would ever try and force such a pleasantly upon Aerion, it would be bound to end badly.
Yet, to their surprise, he smirked. His eyes locked into yours, and yours into his. Keeping his eyes held into a prison of your own, he leant up, grabbed your hand and raised it, planting a slow kiss onto your soft skin.
He fell in love with you in that moment, and you knew that you had stolen his heart, and planned never to release it.
or: wildfire makes your husband wild with desire/aerion in heat?
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The scent of smoke and burnt copper never truly left him.
When Aerion Targaryen swallowed the wildfire, expecting to be reborn as a dragon of legend, the maesters braced for a gruesome death. Instead, the substance did something far worse, and far more terrifying: it adapted. It didn't burn him to ash; it fused with his bloodline, burning away every lingering trace of human frailty and leaving behind a creature of pure, predatory instinct.
Before the wildfire, he used to steal you away to the hidden corners of the Red Keep's overgrown godswood, far from the prying eyes of the court.
You remembered one evening in particular, just before everything changed. The summer air had been soft, smelling of crushed pine needles and damp earth. Aerion had been entirely a prince then—polished, arrogant, and draped in rich silks—but the moment he was alone with you, the sharp edges of his public persona would melt away. He had pulled you onto his lap beneath the weeping branches of an ancient oak, his fingers gently unbraiding your hair just so he could feel the strands slip through his hands.
"They think I only care for crowns and ash," he had murmured against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet, protective warmth. "But they don't know that my world begins and ends right here. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground before I let anyone take you from me."
He had kissed you then, a slow, deep promise that tasted of sweet wine and pure devotion. It was a memory you clung to like a lifeline, a beautiful contrast to the nightmare your life had become since the night he drank the green fire.
Now, that sweet memory felt a lifetime away.
For a full moon’s turn, Aerion had been a ghost. The proud, arrogant prince who used to haunt your steps and demand your undivided attention had vanished into the shadows of the holdfast. From your window, you had watched his new, broader silhouette pace the battlements at night like a caged beast. By day, the letters you sent him were returned unopened.
Sitting at your vanity in the quiet of your chambers, the rejection gnawed at you, twisting into a bitter, heavy ache. You stared at your reflection, wondering if your love had finally found a light more dazzling than yours. Perhaps the wildfire hadn't just changed his body; perhaps it had burned away his affection for you entirely. You feared he was seeking someone else—someone stronger, a highborn maid worthy of the dragon he claimed to be—or that he had simply grown bored of a mortal girl now that he felt like a god.
You had given him your heart when he was just a proud, flawed prince. To think he had cast you aside the moment he attained the power he always craved was a betrayal that made your chest hollow.
But the air in your room was growing unnaturally thick, swallowing the evening chill. The heavy iron doors of your chambers were bolted from the inside, yet the familiar, rhythmic thudding of boots in the corridor made your breath hitch. It was followed by a low, vibrating growl that shook the very floorboards.
The temperature spiked, the air tasting suddenly of sulfur and dry heat. Then came the sound of leather and metal scraping against the wood, followed by a heavy, desperate lean against the door.
"Open it," a voice rasps. It barely sounds like Aerion anymore. The polished, lyrical voice of the prince you loved is gone; this is deep, jagged, and dripping with an unnatural, feverish heat. "Open the door, little bird. I know you're in there."
Your hands tremble as you stand, caught between the ache of his weeks of silence and the terrifying intensity radiating through the wood. You slide the heavy iron bolt back.
The door doesn't just open; it is violently shoved inward. Aerion crashes into the room, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway, and the sheer physical presence of him forces you a step back. He looks like a man who has been wrestling with demons in the dirt. His silk shirt is discarded, leaving his torso bare, his skin a roadmap of pulsing, dense muscle and violet veins that glow with a faint, sickly green light beneath the surface.
He is vibrating, his muscles twitching with a frantic, overcharged energy, but his luminous green eyes lock onto yours with a frightening, possessive focus.
"I told you," he hisses, his voice a jagged ruin. "I told the guards to bar the way. Why aren't you away? Why are you still here?"
"You've been avoiding me for a moon's turn, Aerion," you say, the pain in your chest finally boiling over into a trembling defiance. "If you want a new companion—if you want me gone—you only have to say it. Don't hide from me like a coward."
He took a jagged breath, his chest heaving. The smell of ozone and hot metal was overwhelming.
"I stayed away to save you, you fool," he growled, his luminous green eyes fixed on yours with a frightening intensity. "The fire... it’s not just in my blood anymore. It’s a hunger. A rut that doesn't end. If I touch you, I won't be able to stop. I'll break you. I'll consume you until there's nothing left but ash."
"I'm not afraid of you," you whispered, taking a step toward him.
"You should be!" he roared, slamming his fist into the stone wall beside him. The masonry cracked under the force of his new, unnatural strength. He slumped against the wall, his head hanging low, his long silver hair damp with sweat. "I love you so much it's rotting me. Every time I smell your skin through the vents, every time I hear your footsteps in the hall, the dragon screams to claim you. To mark you. To keep you in a cage where no one else can even look at you."
He looked up, and the raw, unhinged devotion in his gaze was more piercing than any blade. He wasn't just a prince anymore; he was a territorial beast, barely holding onto the leash of his own mind.
"I am a monster now," he rasped, his eyes darting over your face as if memorizing it before he lost control. "A beautiful, golden monster. And I am starving for you."
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He crossed the distance in a blur of heat, his hands catching your waist and lifting you off your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin so hot it felt like a brand.
"Tell me to leave," he begged, even as his grip tightened possessively, his fingers sinking into your hips. "Tell me to go. Tell me you want to be free of me. I love you so much I cannot bear to hurt you when my desire takes over. Because if you don't... I'm never letting you out of this room again."
He didn’t wait for you to answer. The moment your hands came up to cup his face, the fragile wall of his restraint crumbled completely.
With a low, desperate sound, Aerion buried his face in the crook of your neck. He was crushing you against him, his massive arms wrapping around your waist like iron bands. Yet, for all the terrifying, animalistic power humming through his muscles, the way his lips pressed against your skin was unbelievably tender. It was a frantic, worshipful heat, his mouth tracing up your throat to your jawline, leaving a trail of scorching kisses that made your skin tingle.
"I thought I lost you," you whispered into his damp silver hair, your fingers tangling in the strands. "I thought the fire took whatever love you had for me."
"Never," he choked out, the word vibrating violently against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his luminous green eyes swimming with a desperate, wild adoration. "The fire changed everything else. It made me a monster, it made me mad—but it only made this louder.” He brought your hands to his chest, his heart thrumming frantically. “It’s the only part of me that still feels human. You are the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth."
His hand came up to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle given the bruising grip he’d had on your hips just moments ago. His thumb, rough and intensely hot, traced the line of your lower lip.
"When the fire takes me, I forget my own name," he whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, unhinged vulnerability. "I forget the throne. I forget my father. But I never forget you. Your face is burned into the back of my eyelids. Every beat of this broken heart is just your name, over and over again."
You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss into his palm despite the unnatural heat radiating from it. "Then don't run from me anymore, Aerion. Let me stay."
A shudder ran through his entire frame at your words. The territorial, predatory gleam in his eyes flared brighter, but this time, it was laced with a profound, aching relief. He loved you with a ferocity that bordered on religious devotion; you were his sanctuary, his goddess, the only beautiful thing in a world that had suddenly become loud and violent.
"You are my rib," he growled softly, a feral but deeply devoted smile breaking through his exhaustion. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bed as if you were the most precious heirloom in the Seven Kingdoms. "My little bird. The dragon’s heart. If you stay, I will worship you until the flesh rots from my bones. I will give you everything I tear out of this world."
He lowered you onto the mattress, shifting his heavy body over yours with an agonizingly slow deliberate care. His hands pinned yours to the pillows, fingers interlocking tightly, sealing the bond. Even as the primal heat of his rut demanded total surrender, he paused, his forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.
"I am yours," he swore, his voice a dark, possessive vow that echoed from the very depths of his altered soul. "In this life, or in the ashes of whatever comes next."
The mattress groaned under his newfound, dense weight as he shifted completely over you. He pinned you, his massive chest pressing down until the air left your lungs in a breathless gasp. He felt massive, broader and heavier than any man had a right to be, his entire torso radiating a terrifying, feverish heat that bled straight through the layers of your shift.
"Aerion," you whined, the sheer, primal gravity of him overwhelming your senses.
A low, vibrating growl rumbled in his throat—a sound so deep you felt it resonate inside your own ribs. His hands, calloused and burning like hot irons, slid up from your wrists to cup your face. He wasn't gentle, but there was a desperate, frantic reverence in the way his large fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.
He consumed your lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth with a bruising, hungry urgency. He tasted of smoke, copper, and a wild, intoxicating heat that made your head spin. You gasped into the kiss, and he used the opportunity to growl against your lips, his hips bucking down against yours in a heavy, involuntary twitch of pure, unadulterated need. The friction was electric, sending a sharp jolt of desire straight to your core.
He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his breath scorching your lips as his gaze racked over your face. His glowing, toxic green eyes were completely dilated, the violet edges swallowed by a dark, manic lust.
"You're so small," he rasped, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper as his large hands slid down your neck, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before gripping the fabric of your shift. "So soft. I’ve been dreaming of breaking you. Of taking you until you scream my name to the gods."
With a single, effortless twitch of his hands, the linen of your shift tore open down the middle. You shivered as the cool air of the room hit your bare skin, but the cold lasted only a fraction of a second before Aerion replaced it with his own blistering heat.
His mouth tore down your jawline, burying itself in the crook of your neck. He bit down hard enough to leave a deep, possessive mark. You cried out, your arching spine lifting off the bed as a wave of intense pleasure rushed through you.
"Mine," he growled against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, bruising your flesh as he forced your legs apart. He crowded himself between them, his thick, heavy thigh pressing hard against your aching center, creating a friction that had you sobbing out his name. "Tell me you're mine, little bird. Tell the dragon who owns you."
"I'm yours, Aerion—gods, please," you begged, your fingers digging into the tight, corded muscle of his bare shoulders. His skin felt like polished stone, shifting and rippling beneath your fingertips with terrifying power.
He groaned, a loud, unhinged sound of pure triumph. He reached down, his fingers finding your wetness, and you buckled against his hand. He was completely feral now, his movements devoid of courtly patience, driven entirely by the frantic, roaring rut in his veins. He stroked you roughly, his thumb smearing your heat over your clitoris until you were weeping, your hips chasing his hand in a desperate bid for release.
"Look at what you do to me," he gasped, his forehead dropping against yours as he guided his swollen, aching length against your entrance. He was massive, hot, and twitching with a desperate need to claim. "I am a god, and I am begging at your feet."
He didn't wait. With a heavy, relentless thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.
The fullness was staggering. You threw your head back, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your body stretched to accommodate his massive, unnatural size. He froze above you, his entire body trembling violently as he held himself deep inside you. The veins along his arms and chest flared a brilliant, luminous green, pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat.
"Gods," he choked out, his eyes rolled back slightly in sheer, agonizing ecstasy. "You're so tight...so warm. You're squeezing me to death."
He began to move, and all sanity left the room.
It was a brutal, relentless pace. Aerion possessed you with a feral, animalistic rhythm, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a force that rattled the heavy wooden bedframe. Every thrust was deep, bottoming out against your womb, filling you with a blistering, white-hot sensation that threatened to consume you entirely.
You clung to him like a drowning survivor in a storm. Your legs wrapped tightly around his thick waist, riding the wild, unhinged waves of his lust. The room faded away; there was only the smell of sulfur and sweat, the slap of his heavy torso against yours, and the terrifying, beautiful sight of the monster who loved you with a madness that defied the heavens.
"Sweeter than the fire," Aerion roared, his pace turning frantic, desperate, as he sensed the end drawing near. He leaned down, pinning your hands above your head again, his chest crushing yours as he drove into you harder, faster, completely lost to the beast. "Burn with me! Let it consume us both!"
The friction built to an unbearable, agonizing peak. Your walls clamped around him tightly, triggering your orgasm in a sudden, violent rush that made you scream his name into the empty room.
Hearing your release broke whatever microscopic shred of restraint Aerion had left. With a loud, guttural roar that sounded like a dragon breaking its chains, he delivered three final, devastating thrusts, burying himself as deeply as physically possible inside your twitching body.
He came with a violent, shuddering intensity, filling you with a deep, scalding heat that felt as though the wildfire itself was pouring into your womb. His entire body went rigid, the luminous green light beneath his skin flaring to a blinding brilliance before slowly, agonizingly fading back into the deep violet of his veins.
He collapsed over you, his heavy, sweaty chest heaving against yours, his breath coming in ragged, exhausted gasps. He didn't pull out; instead, his arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you into his side and burying his face back into your hair.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ coach’s daughter!reader, secret relationship, possessive!garrett, praise, risk of getting caught; in the hockey house kitchen, fingering, handjob, briefff oral (m.) language, teasing, edging, pet names (baby, pretty thing, my girl, gorgeous + no y/n), oh && he refers to himself as a good boy + refuses to leave ☺︎ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
You’re barefoot in the kitchen, hair still damp from your shower as you measure out some sugar with the little spoon. A to-go cup for Garrett. And a mug for you.
You stir without really thinking, watching the little sugar crystals disappear into the swirl as you hum some song from the bar last night, lingering in the back of your mind. Ding!
The toast pops out of the toaster. You walk over to the fridge to pull out some jam. You bend at the hips, reaching for the little glass jar tucked behind the mess.
A whistle cuts through the kitchen. You already know who’s standing behind you.
You glance back and sure enough, there he is, caught mid-stare, duffle slung over his shoulder, dressed head to toe in Briar U Hockey workout gear. His dark curls are sticking out from beneath his hat, still messy from sleep, and the gold chain around his neck catches the kitchen light when he shifts.
He looks at you like you’re something he’s not supposed to touch, always seconds away from getting walked in, but that's half the fun at this point. He takes his time looking you over, his hand lifting to turn his hat from the front to the back with a lazy flick.
He’s on you in a second, big hands sliding around your hips as you straighten up; his body pressing into yours.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with sleep—the kind that always gives him away when he’s stayed up too late the night before and woken up too damn early. “What are you doin’ down here, huh?”
“I made your coffee,” you murmur and he groans.
“Saw your text,” he hums, grazing his mouth over your cheek. “You’re too good to me.” His chain brushes your collarbone when he leans in, cool against your skin.
Garrett lets you go, reluctantly, and you start to walk toward the counter. His eyes trail up the length of you.
“It’s just coffee and toast, baby,” you smile, tilting your head slightly.
“Considering everything you did for me last night… I should be the one making breakfast—you don't owe me anything.”
Your cheeks burn, suddenly shy under all this attention as he walks closer. His hands rest on the counter on either side of your hips just as you lean over the counter, reaching for the butter, your ass arching back, right onto his lap. On purpose. You don’t even try to pretend it wasn’t.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes, his voice low and amused as he plays along with the accidental contact, his bag falling heavy to the floor, looking over his shoulder for his roommates. “Real sorry, baby.”
You let out a bubbly laugh as he grabs your body and turns you toward him, lifting you up to set you down on the cool counter.
“What if the boys see you down here, huh?”
His smile’s smug; the man stepping between your thighs as his hands slide up the back of his jersey. His rough thumbs slip under the band of your panties, gripping your hips in his big hands.
Garrett reaches up a little higher, squeezing your breasts before his thumbs brush softly against you. “And what if they did?”
“See you?” His grin widens. “Coach’s daughter wearin’ forty-four and not much else.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, arching into him a little more.
“Well, damn,” he murmurs, looking at you like he’s just remembered he has somewhere to be. “I’d be fucked—I mean, it's pretty risky. I could stop,” he grins against your skin.
“No, you couldn't,” you dismiss it with a teasing laugh.
“No shit. Wearin’ my jersey. No bra… Panties. Textin’ me telling me you made me coffee and breakfast. You honestly think I wasn't gonna thank you a little. Thank you, baby,” he breathes as he leans in, pulling the fabric up, his mouth finding your breast.
He circles it once with his tongue, then again before sucking down, rough enough that your breath hitches and your fingers thread through his dark hair, his curls tangling between your fingers as you hold him there.
“Wish we lived alone,” he grumbles, turning his face further into your chest as his curls tickle your skin.
“Yeah?” You ask breathily as your thighs widen on the counter.
“Whole house to ourselves?” He says, letting the words vibrate against your skin.
He tilts back in, greedy mouth following the curve of your neck as his hands clutch your thighs, holding you open as he leans in close.
“I’d lift up the back—bend you over the counter.” His fingers shift around your body, tracing down your spine, landing on your ass, kneading your flesh.
He smiles against your lips, snapping the waistband of your panties against your skin. “Couldn’t have put on some shorts, or somethin’?”
“More comfortable like this,” you whisper, turning his words back on him when you say, “I mean, it's pretty risky. I could run upstairs and put some on.”
“No, you wouldn't,” he hums. “You did this for me and I fuckin’ love it. Just walkin’ around here like you own the place. What if Tuck and Logan see you, huh? Dean?”
“Oh, Dean?” You ask, because suddenly this conversation makes a lot more sense.
“Don’t start,” he scoffs. “You know he likes you.”
“None of you are subtle,” you answer and he lets out a laugh.
“Yeah, well you got no idea how many conversations I’ve sat through, baby.”
Then his hand slips forward, grazing over the thin material between your legs, pressing soft little circles onto your clit until your hips twitch at his touch.
“They think they know what it’d be like to be with you—they got no fucking clue,” his voice breaks a little when he softens it. “How perfect you are—how much you do for me. To me.”
You hook a hand around the back of his neck, thinking about how easy it would be to have him press himself in and lay you out across the counter, but the both of you would never recover from being caught like that.
You pull him closer and his lips suck down on your neck, rough enough to leave a mark.
“Kept my mouth shut. Haven't said shit. It kills me…” He breathes over your collarbone right where the collar of the jersey meets your skin. “I've been such a good boy for you.”
“So good,” you whisper. “And yet, you stopped telling what we would do if this house was ours,” you breathe, nails tracing over the thick bulge in his shorts.
He laughs, liking the sound of that. “Got you bent over this counter. One hand on your hip, the other gripping this jersey in my fist while you cry out that name on your back.”
His fingers trail even lower, dipping just barely between your folds, right above your entrance, the barrier of fabric only adding to the ache between your thighs. So much for all that teasing he accused you of. He’s worse.
“Too bad you have a workout.” Your fingers card through his dark hair. “We could stay back.”
He grins as he chuckles warmly against the column of your neck, dragging your panties to the side. “Fuck, you wanna get me in trouble, huh? Won’t be able to play tonight if I don’t show—you know that. After the game, though. Boys’ll go to the bar,” he breathes as his fingers mimic the tempo of his words.
His breath catches in his broad chest as your finger slips under the band of his shorts, pulling him closer before you slide your hand inside.
“Christ,” he grits through a smile as your fingers wrap around his cock, finding him hard and heavy. You stroke and he hums deep against your lips about all the things he wants to do to you when you're alone.
“Trying to get me all worked up just to send me off,” he whispers. “That’s fucked, pretty.”
He works you with his long thick fingers, slow enough to tease. “How fast do you think I could get you off, huh?” He chuckles, his laugh buzzing against your lips. “Pretty close right now, huh?”
Garrett breathes those words against your jaw. Your hand slaps over your mouth, muffling the sound of his name.
Your pussy squeezes around his fingers and you lose the rhythm of your strokes, but he doesn't, leaning into the counter a little more. The wet sounds of his hand darting in and out suddenly, too loud but it's replaced by the pounding of your heart in your head.
“Come on, baby… Cum on my hand,” he mutters, teeth scraping your neck and your body releases, fluttering around his fingers.
Your thighs squeeze together as he keeps going, whining against your hand, before he slows his pace.
He brings his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with his heavy gaze locked on yours, the watch on his wrist glinting.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbles as you slip off the counter and into his arms. “I love you—”
“I love you too,” you whisper as your lips find his again, hands sliding down his chest. Your hands slip lower. His shorts are already halfway down his hips, cock trapped beneath the waistband.
“What are you up to, huh?” He asks like he doesn’t already know as you back him into the counter. “Yeah?” He laughs softly. “Bet you won’t.” That challenge barely leaves his mouth before he kisses you again, eyes flicking toward the stairwell mid-kiss before dropping back to you as you sink to your knees.
“In my jersey,” he mumbles as he tilts back, hands resting on top.
He sucks in a sharp breath when the air hits him, shivering when your tongue glides up the side of his cock, tossing back his head as he bites down on his lip, holding back a moan—BANG!
“Fuck me,” he hisses, hanging his head between his shoulders when a bag drops in Logan’s room above you.
Your tongue swipes against his tip and he blows out a sharp breath through his nose, his sticky wet precum catching on it.
“Just—Just a little more,” he mutters, holding your head, following you as you take him in your mouth. You bob back and forth and his grip tightens, eyes fluttering shut—THUMP!
You draw away when you hear some more motion upstairs. He shakes his head, laughing under his breath, watching as you kiss the tip.
“That’s how we’re playin’ this, huh?” Looking back at you in playful frustration, he tugs you up fast, muttering bitterly under his breath as you tug his shorts in place.
“Sorry, baby,” you smile.
“Teasin’ me, baby. Just wait until later,” he warns with a smile, grabbing his workout bag, walking with you back up to his room.
His fingers find yours automatically as the two of you step into the hallway.
Garrett walks a half-step behind you, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your knuckles. You glance over your shoulder and catch him already looking. He drags a hand across his mouth, trying and failing to hide his smile.
You step up one stair, and by the third he already knows he’s in trouble. His number stretched across your back. His last name stamped over your shoulders. The curve of your ass peeking out each time you take a step higher.
The intrusive thoughts win without effort. His other hand reaches out for you, pulling you back and into his strong arms. “Garrett Graham!” You whisper-scream and his deep laugh echoes through the stairwell.
“You are drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbles like he's pissed—smiling like he's in love. “I’m just a man, alright? What do you want from me?” Your arms curve loosely around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you, carrying you the rest of the way. “Plus you were walkin’ up the stairs too slow, you needed my help.”
“My hero.”
“Good thing I'm riding by myself. I need some time alone with my thoughts.”
“You’re dramatic,” you cut in, but that only encourages him.
“You know one hand on the wheel, the other doin’ what you started and didn't finish… you're lucky you're gorgeous.”
“So are you,” you smile and he scowls.
By the time he sets you down inside his room, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, shutting the door before anyone can see. “I mean…” Garrett shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Maybe I could stay.”
You give him a look. A long look. And his shoulders slump.
“I know,” he mutters. “Goddamn, baby. You run a tight program.”
“Workout,” you whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Hockey,” you remind him.
“Mmm… Mhmm,” he hums, so dreamily you laugh. “Fuck, I love when you boss me around—”
“We’ll have all night—”
“How am I supposed to focus now? All I can think about is how pretty you looked trying not to make a sound.” His finger hooks under your chin, lifting your lips to his. “But you... you gotta be careful, baby. These boys are gonna hear you one of these days. They could have caught us down there.”
You look up at him through your lashes ever so slightly and he melts.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, blowing out a tired breath. “You own me—don’t even know why I try.”
He reaches out, grabbing the jersey on your body, pulling you closer. His nose brushes against yours—his lips doing the same, drawing back and leaving you chasing them just enough to notice before he kisses you.
“You don't have class until ten, yeah?” He murmurs between kisses.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wishin’ you were me right now, huh?”
“Wishin’ a lot of things honestly.”
Garrett groans, dropping his forehead to yours, his voice dripping honey-sweet as he takes a different approach. “Shit, baby… what about your coffee? I should probably go get that for you, hmm?”
“Seriously—”
“Then, I don’t know…” He continues when that doesn’t work. “Maybe not get my ass beat at the gym. Sweat here instead. Do something better with my time.”
“You’re gonna be late—”
“And, I wonder why,” he cuts in. “Running out of excuses.”
“What are you gonna tell him, Captain?”
He thinks about it for a moment, stalling still. “Pretty thing. Wears my number. Torments me. Tells me I have to stay or else—”
“Or else, huh?” You giggle, and his eyes fall to your lips. “She sounds like a bitch, baby.”
“—Don’t talk about her like that. That’s my girl.”
“Such a charmer, Garrett Graham,” you hum, twirling one of his curls with your finger. “Leave—” Smack! His hand claps against your ass, the mesh barrier, just another reminder that he can't have you how he'd like.
He batts his hand against the door handle, still unwilling to let you go for another moment.
“Send me a picture or somethin’,” he mumbles against your lips. “You know, for the car ride there.”
“I don’t know, baby. You look extra pretty when you suffer,” you whisper, and he chuckles deeply, the sound going straight through you.
“Gonna ruin you later.”
“M’counting on it…” You smile and his groan breathes against your lips when he pushes open the door.
maybe pissing your boyfriend off wasn't the best idea. you whined and groaned as you looked down at theodore. his cheeks were slightly flushed and you noticed the slight change in his breathing yet there he was, not moving, one arm behind his head while the other held the cigarette he smoked, and staring right back at you. he had that look on his face, the one he always has when he knows he has the upper hand.
you were putting on a show of riding his hard cock and he laid there as if you were barely doing anything. it was your fault really. theodore had mentioned how much he hated that cedric diggory was a little too nice to you for his comfort. you always brushed it off and laughed at him insisting it was strictly platonic from not only your side but cedric's too. however, this night you decided to mess with him.
cedric came up to you at the party the slytherins were throwing and joked about the professor you both hate. you noticed theodore watching you two from afar. theodore ignored mattheo who was ranting to him and his grip on his cup got stronger by the minute. you smiled at theodore and turned back to cedric, over exaggerating how "funny" he was being. you dramatically laughed at his jokes, squeezing his arm, and leaned closer to him not breaking eye contact. that was until you noticed cedric suddenly go mute as he looked behind you. theodore grabbed your hand and gave cedric a passive aggressive smile before walking off with you.
that's how you ended up here. being forced to ride theodore as he just watched you. you felt his cock throb inside you as you moved your hips up and down. you let out a soft moan and whined again as you gripped onto his chest.
"theo..." you said. he raised an eyebrow as he turned his head to blow out his smoke, not breaking eye contact. "please. y-you're killing me right now." you felt yourself squeezing around him and closed your eyes as you turned your head to the side. theodore grabbed your face and turned your head back to him.
"don't look away, principessa. keep riding and maybe i'll let you cum." he said making you let out more pathetic noises. "diggory will never get to feel how good this pussy is." it was the first thing he said to you since he told you to ride him 20 minutes ago.
"p-please, just a little noise or something, theo. wanna hear you so bad." theodore knew you loved every noise he made, moans, groans, his voice. it all made you cum so quick but he wasn't giving that to you after the way you acted. he kept staring at you, watching as your thighs began to shake from getting tired. you groaned out of frustration but kept going. something about the way he looked at you made you wetter by the second. his stare was intense and possesive and even though he was keeping his usual cool and collected posture, you noticed his jaw clenching and his tight grip on your thigh.
you weren't sure you could take much more of his behavior. you moved your hips slower, slowly grinding on his lap. "i bet he would feel so good inside me." you whispered out with a small smirk on your face. theodore slightly raised his eyebrows at you. "you think cedric would agree to fucking me?" you tilted your head as you asked him.
"what?" theodore asked. you opened your mouth to tease him some more but before you could say anything else he grabs your hips and flips you over to lay on your back. he's hovering over you and starts thrusting into you at a faster rate. "y-you're mine. this pussy, t-those tits." with one hand he squeezes your nipple making you whimper as you moan from feeling him fully inside you. "all fucking mine." you smile as he continues fucking you. he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, and down to your neck. you can finally him as he loses himself from feeling you clench around him.
"so good, t-theo." you whimper out. he looks down at you and smiles before leaning to give you a kiss.
Author’s note : this is my first fic, and I’m not sure if I like it or hate it.. 🫤 I was considering making it into a series but I don’t know yett
- this work contains : SMUT It’s basically porn with plot, mdni, p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, aerion gets jealous, gardens sex ? Reader is mean, rude, kinda lunatic and spoiled but fucking ambitious. She kinda match Aerion’s freak. Aerion being Aerion.. they are both freaks Summary : The Targaryens are invited to the nameday celebration of a Lannister lady, and the cruel Prince Aerion — forced into attending at first — finds himself unexpectedly intrigued by the sharp-tongued lioness. By the end of the festivities, what began as boredom and irritation turns into dangerous obsession and possesiveness.
The birth of a daughter was never celebrated as greatly as the birth of a son.
Yet the gods seemed to have favored you. Though you had indeed been born a girl, you were no ordinary one found anywhere in the realm as you were born a lady of House Lannister.
And the gods had been generous still, blessing you with remarkable beauty. But behind your pretty lips lay a tongue as sharp as Valyrian steel, a trait that was perhaps the true reason for your lack of suitors.
You had been of marrying age for quite some time now, yet your arrogance and biting wit were enough to discourage even the boldest lordlings.
Perhaps the true issue was the way your parents had spoiled you rotten, granting you everything you had ever desired. Yet how could they ever deny their precious princess anything?
Your father, Damon Lannister, The grey Lion had even organized a grand tourney in honor of your nameday — perhaps the most extravagant celebration the realm had ever seen. The royal family, House Targaryen, had been invited as well.
Though King Daeron himself would not attend, whispers spread through the halls that his sons and grandchildren would be present.
What an honor indeed.
Yet marriage had never truly interested you. You knew it would come eventually, as it did for every noblewoman, but your ambitions stretched far beyond those of the other ladies at court.
You did not dream of marrying a lord.
Because deep down in your heart you wanted a prince.
Today, the Targaryen princes were to arrive. And you had specifically requested your maids to braid your hair in the way valyrians used to do —based on the knowledge you had learned during your history lessons with your septa—with intricate silver ribbons woven delicately through the strands. If dragonlords favored beauty reminiscent of their own blood, then you would give them exactly that. And perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to get one of the princes favor.
“You look ethereal, my lady,” your thoughts were broken by one of your handmaidens whispering softly as she had finished tightening the laces of your gown.
Your gaze remained fixed upon your reflection in the mirror, carefully studying every detail before a faint smile tugged at your lips.
“Please save your breath for something I do not know already,” you replied coolly. Your eyes glacing at her through the mirror and the handmaid lowered her eyes at once. You enjoyed the way they submitted to you this easily.
You rose from your seat with practiced elegance, smoothing your skirts before speaking again, your tone calmer now, though no less arrogant as you changed the topic.
“Tell me… do you think one of the princes might take an interest in me?” you asked but you weren’t exactly expecting an answer as you were admiring your reflection in the glass. “I believe I would look quite lovely as a princess…”your smile was as sharp as your tongue and arrogance.
“you may fetch me the family jewels. The ruby necklace.” You ordered the same maid as your neck was too plain and simple for you and knew your mothers rubies were the only thing missing to make yourself look even more perfect than you already were.
You had remained standing before the mirror, waiting for your maid to return with the rubies already imagining the heavy crimson stones resting against the pale skin of your throat. Rubies suited a Lannister far better than sapphires ever could. Well gold and red were the colors of power.
Later that afternoon, you had found yourself seated in one of the sunlit galleries of Casterly Rock, taking tea with your ladies in waiting whilst awaiting the arrival of the royal family.
The harbor bells had rung nearly a quarter hour ago, announcing the arrival of the Targaryens at the port below, yet still they had not appeared within the Rock itself.
And your patience was wearing dangerously thin.
Lady Redwyne, one of your ladies in waiting was seated at your right hand, and had spent those same endless minutes stuffing herself with lemon cakes whilst gossiping loudly about some Reach lordling no one truly cared about.
Your duty demanded that you remain there, smiling sweetly and entertaining noblewomen, when you could already have been at your father’s side, charming princes.
You finally set your teacup down with quiet precision before finally speaking.
“Tell me, Lady Redwyne…” you began smoothly, your eyes drifting toward the half devoured platter of cakes. “Has your house fallen upon difficult times of late?”
The chatter around the table died at once.
“You do seem terribly hungry today. I merely wondered whether House Redwyne could no longer afford proper cooks.” A fake smile touched your lips as you kept going "It would explain why you insist upon eating enough for three ladies.”
A deep flush spread instantly across the Reach girl’s cheeks. Her hand froze midway toward another cake.
Several ladies lowered their gazes to hide their amusement and giggling.
Lady Redwyne opened her mouth to answer, indignation already burning in her eyes, but before a word could leave her lips, your attention was drawn elsewhere.
A few yards away, your father — Lord Damon Lannister, the grey Lion— stood amongst a gathering of crimson-cloaked guards, offering greetings to the newly arrived royal party.
Then the lord of Casterly Rock glanced toward you— his only daughter and beckoned you forward with a single motion of his hand.
At last.
You rose with grace to your feet, smoothing your skirts of cloth-of-gold, your ruby necklace gleaming at your throat on full display as you excuse yourself to your ladies in waiting — though you were not sorry at all and quite please to finally leave— before making your way toward the dragons.
Your father was already greeting the royal guests with all the pride and grandeur expected of the lord of Casterly Rock when you arrived, before finally motioning for you to step forward to introduce you properly.
“Your Graces,” the lion lord began smoothly, “allow me to present my daughter.” Pride could be seen in your father eyes, you were a beautiful young woman, the only issue was your behavior but your father expected you to behave during the festivities.
You dipped into a graceful curtsey, your ruby necklace glimmering beneath the golden light of the hall.
Your sharp eyes first settled upon Prince Daeron.
The prince possessed none of the striking silver-gold beauty one expected from the blood of Old Valyria. His hair was a darker shade, more golden than silver, tousled from the long journey, and his tired lilac eyes seemed clouded by wine and exhaustion alike. Even standing still, he looked as though he would rather be back in a winesink in King’s Landing or a brothel in flea bottom than attending some western celebration.
Then your gaze shifted toward the younger prince.
Prince Aerion Targaryen.
The infamous cruel prince.
Unlike his brother, Aerion stood perfectly straight beside his father, every inch the dragonlord despite the irritation written plainly across his features. His pale eyes swept over your form slowly, lingering for several long moments upon your face, your gown, and the rubies at your throat.
Judging you.
You were pretty, certainly.
But pretty girls were hardly rare in the Seven Kingdoms. Every court from Dorne to the Wall was filled with maidens boasting soft smiles, bright eyes, and delicate waists, all desperately hoping beauty alone might earn them a favor from a prince.
Aerion finally looked away, though the displeased scowl upon his handsome face did not lessen.
Oddly enough, you were smiling. So the pretty prince was a difficult man. interesting, your nameday shall be entertaining then.
You had heard countless tales of Prince Aerion’s beauty, and even more of his cruelty. Yet cruelty had never frightened you half so much as dullness or boredom did. And the stories had spoken true indeed — the dragon prince was beautiful in the way wildfire was beautiful.
It is Dangerous, Unstable indeed but Fascinating.
It was decided then and there.
You wanted him. Him not another prince, you wanted Aerion Brightflame. And you would even if you had to bewitched him or something you would do it without any shame.
Whether for marriage, a night, or merely the pleasure of taming something wild, you did not yet know. But you would have the prince’s attention before the festivities ended.
“Daughter,” Lord Damon suddenly said, “perhaps you would be so kind as to show the young princes to their chambers and help them find their way through the Rock." You nearly stared at her father in disbelief. Did he perhaps hit is head too hard on a wall this morning? Or Did he mistake her for some servant girl?
You had spent half the morning preparing yourself— sacrificing your sleep to prepare early— to be admired, not to guide guests through corridors like a household steward.
“Why me? I am not a—” The protest died instantly beneath the cold warning look your father cast your way.
Ah.
So today, your tantrums would earn you nothing.
Too bad
You forced a thin smile onto your lips. Though anyone could see that it was a fake one.
“Of course, Father,” you replied smoothly, though the irritation beneath your voice remained impossible to miss.
Without another word, you turned sharply upon your heel and began leading the way deeper into Casterly Rock, your silken skirts trailing behind you flawlessly.
Every few moments, you were glancing back to ensure the princes followed.
The displeased expression that had once rested upon Aerion’s face now appeared upon your own instead.
Prince Daeron, likely too drunk or weary to notice, merely wandered after you lazily.
Aerion, however, noticed immediately.
And to his own surprise, the dragon prince found it amusing.
When King Daeron had first announced that they would travel west to attend the nameday celebration of some Lannister maid, Aerion had nearly scoffed aloud. Casterly Rock lay days away by horseback, and he would have greatly preferred remaining in King’s Landing — tormenting his brothers, haunting the streets of Flea Bottom, and indulging in cruelties that brought him far more entertainment than courtly feasts ever could.
Yet now, as he watched the pretty lannister storm ahead of them with fury hidden beneath elegance, Aerion began to suspect this journey might not prove dull after all.
The first stretch of the walk passed in near silence, broken only by the sharp echo of their footsteps against the stone floors of Casterly Rock.
At last, they reached Prince Daeron’s chambers.
The weary prince barely glanced around before stepping inside, already looking eager for wine and sleep alike.
“If you require anything, Your Grace,” you said smoothly, though not warmly, “I suggest you ask one of the servants. I am not known for answering foolish questions.” You didn’t even care about the fact they were princes and that you were being disrespectful, you were not happy and you would show it.
Daeron merely laughed drunkenly beneath his breath before disappearing into the room.
And then you were finally alone with him
The silence that followed lingered only a moment before Prince Aerion moved to walk beside you instead of behind. The corridor ahead stretched long and wide, lit by towering windows where the dying afternoon sun poured across the marble floors.
Richly colored tapestries lined the walls between golden sconces, depicting ancient Lannister battles, hunts, and previous Ancestors of the Casterly Rock. Everywhere one looked, wealth announced itself proudly.
The dragons upon the Iron Throne might rule the realm but the lions possessed enough gold to shame royal blood.
Aerion’s eyes were drifting toward several painted portraits hanging along the corridor.
Your portraits.
Three already, and all placed prominently.
Oh
The prince was quick to understand what that meant.
This pretty wench was favored and spoiled— perhaps excessively so. Certainly more cherished than your elder brothers if the halls themselves were any indication.
The realization amused him.
Eventually, the silence bored the dragon prince enough for him to speak.
“I have heard songs of your beauty,” Aerion drawled lazily, violet eyes settling upon you once more. “Some even call you the most beautiful maid in all the Seven Kingdoms.” A smirk slowly spread across his lips. Before spitting his next words. “But now that I have seen you…” he continued cruelly, “I can say with certainty that I have fucked whores much prettier.”
The insult was delivered lightly, almost playfully, though the malice behind it was unmistakable.
Aerion expected outrage. Tears perhaps. At the very least, wounded pride.
Most ladies wilted beneath his words.
But you did neither.
Instead, you turned your head toward him with maddening calm, your eyes sweeping over him slowly, deliberately, Searching your words.
“Well,” you replied coolly, “I," she marked a pause, "expected you to be taller, my prince.”
One brow arched elegantly.
“It seems songs and rumors greatly exaggerate certain things.” Your gaze flickered downward for the briefest moment before returning to his face. “Before your father introduced you, I almost mistook you for a stableboy. And I find myself sharing your disappointment my prince..” she was obviously lying but it was still amusing to see her try.
Aerion’s amusement faded only slightly, though the corner of his mouth still twitched.
“Careful, my lady,” the dragon prince murmured. “Insulting a prince can be dangerous."
You only huffed and continued your walk at an unhurried pace, your golden skirts whispering against the stone beneath your feet.
“And so is provoking lions within their own den,” you replied smoothly. “It seems we share a certain fondness for danger, you and I.” Aerion did not answer immediately, to your surprise.
Instead, the dragon prince merely watched you with that same unsettling gaze, as though trying to decide whether he wished to strangle you or push you against the wall.
At last, you finally stopped before a tall oak door adorned with carved lions in the wood.
“your chambers, my prince,” you announced calmly. “The servants shall bring your belongings and those of your family before supper tonight.”
Yet as you reached for the door handle, Aerion made no move to enter.
“You are dismissing me already?” he asked lazily.
You almost laughed. What was he thinking?
"Were you expecting me to linger outside your chambers, my prince ?”
“Perhaps.” A smirk ghosted across Aerion’s lips. “Most ladies would.”
And you finally let out a soft laugh beneath your breath, the sound dripping with amusement and mockery alike.
“I fear I am not most ladies, Your Grace.”
A sharp, knowing smile crossing your lips before you turned gracefully upon your heel, your golden skirts trailing behind you as you were disappearing down the corridor before he could answer.
Aerion remained standing before his chamber door long after you had vanished from sight.
Though at first, Prince Aerion had seemed less than pleased upon arriving at Casterly Rock, he found himself increasingly entertained by your pretty sharp-tongue.
Far more entertained than he ought to have been.
Your chambers, unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately — had been placed near one another, and that morning the dragon prince had lingered outside his rooms with suspicious patience, waiting for you to emerge.
At last, your door opened. The maids were the first to step outside hurrying to return to their task, even more when they saw the cruel prince. And then you walked out already dressed for the day.
As you were stepping into the corridor dressed in deep crimson silk trimmed with gold, your hair braided in curls resting elegantly over one of your shoulder.
Aerion pushed himself lazily from the wall where he had been waiting. He hadn’t been waiting that long luckily.
“I shall be jousting today,” the prince informed you confidently as you began walking side by side through the corridor.
You merely hummed in acknowledgment, clearly expecting him to continue.
“I assume you will be seated and you will watch me,” Aerion went on. “Perhaps I shall ask for your favor… though I hardly require it to win.”
That earned him a small smile from you.
“Is that an invitation, my prince?” Aerion glanced toward you before the words came out.
“A command,” he corrected smoothly. “And should I fail to see you there, I might be forced to punish your arrogance.”
Oh really?
You only huffed softly beneath your breath, though the corner of your mouth was twitching upward despite yourself. You were trying so bad to contain your laughter.
“Very well,” you replied with deliberate indifference. “I shall consider it.”
Aerion only nodded quite satisfied with your answer convinced that you will attend, before leaving to join his family.
—————
Surprisingly, the seat reserved for you had remained empty throughout the entire joust.
Yet instead of feeling anger or humiliation, Prince Aerion found himself enjoying the challenge. You had ignored his command entirely, and strangely enough, that only made him desire your attention more.
In time, he would bend you to his will.
He knew it.
No one refused the dragon forever.
As Aerion had promised, he won against every knight participating that day, though not always fairly. Yet who would dare call out a prince of the blood openly?
By the end of the tourney, the crown of flowers still rested in his possession.
Aerion cared little for tradition. He had no desire to crown one of those simpering noble maidens his Queen of Love and Beauty.
No.
He had reserved that honor for one lady alone. And she made herself desired.
You had been taking tea and eating cakes within the beautiful gardens of your home alongside your ladies-in-waiting — thankfully without Lady Redwyne, who had been dismissed after Lord Damon finally grew tired of hearing incessants complaints.
And the afternoon had been quite peaceful until Prince Aerion decided to interrupted it.
Ignoring the other ladies entirely, the dragon prince requested that you accompanied him for a walk.
You were wandering slowly through the gardens side by side under the warm western sun.
“You did not come to watch me joust,” Aerion stated as you walked along the stone paths.
“I did not,” you answered calmly.
He turned to look at you — and stopped.
The sun shining upon your face made you look almost ethereal beneath the golden light of the gardens. You curls gleaming like molten gold, and the warmth upon your skin only sharpening the dangerous beauty you were carrying so effortlessly.
Now that he thought about it, Aerion had been so certain he had seen prettier women before… yet as he found himself lost within your pretty eyes, he realized he could no longer remember when.
His gaze slowly drifted lower.
To your lips.
And there, at the corner of your mouth, lingered the faint stain of blackberry jam.
The sight alone sent sudden heat and hardness curling low within the prince’s crotch.
Fucking hell.
Aerion imagined for one reckless moment that it was not jam staining your mouth at all.
“Must you eat like a peasant?” the dragon prince asked, his voice lower now, roughened faintly by thoughts he ought not entertain.
You turned toward him at once, confused and insulted in equal measure, already preparing one of your venomous replies but before you could speak, Aerion stepped closer.
Too close.
His thumb brushed slowly against the corner of your lips, wiping away the dark stain with deliberate care. The touch lingered just long enough to make your breath catch softly in your throat.
The prince’s pale violet eyes never left yours.
Then, without hurry, Aerion brought his thumb to his mouth and slowly sucked the sweetness from it.
You froze.
For perhaps the first time in your entire life, no sharp remark came to your lips.
You couldn’t think.
Instead, heat bloomed deep within your body, sudden and unfamiliar, settling low in you lower stomach as you watched the prince’s tongue glide over his finger with obscene slowness..
“Blackberry,” he murmured lazily. “My favorite.” Aerion hummed softly, savoring the taste far more than simple blackberry deserved.
His gaze dropped briefly toward your parted lips before returning to your eyes once more.
“M-my apologies, my prince… I must go. I feel quite unwell…” The proud lioness who had mocked and challenged him since his arrival was nowhere to be seen as you now stood before him as a blushing, stammering mess.
Before Aerion could answer, you turned sharply and hurried away from him, nearly fleeing through the gardens without daring to glance back.
And all the while, the dragon prince watched you leave with dark amusement lingering in his pale eyes.
————
The corridors of Casterly Rock felt far colder than the warm gardens below.
The towering stone walls, the endless crimson banners, the painted faces of dead Lannisters staring down from gilded frames — suddenly all of it felt suffocating.
Your heart was still pounding violently within your chest from what had occured moments ago.
By the Seven.
You needed your chambers.
And where were your maids when you needed them ?
You needed this cursed gown unlaced before it strangled you entirely.
Needed to think.
You were walking so quickly through the halls, so lost within your thoughts that you failed to notice the approaching footsteps behind you. Only when a hand settled upon her shoulder did you nearly jump out of your skin.
“Sister?”
You spun around sharply, ready to curse whichever fool had dared to startle you so badly but relaxed slightly upon seeing that it was only your brother instead.
Tybolt Lannister. Your father’s heir.
“Gods, Tybolt,” you hissed beneath your breath. “Must you creep about the halls like an assassin?” Your dearest brother only laughed softly as you were throwing him daggers with your eyes.
“Are you well? I called your name at least three times.”
“What is it, brother?” You asked quickly, almost impatiently.
Truly, you only wanted nothing more than to escape to your chambers and be left alone for at least an hour before someone else decided to torment your sanity. Tybolt was studying you carefully before a knowing grin slowly spread across his face. “Since when has the prince been courting you?” Immediately, irritation flashed across your pretty features. That’s it you were going to strangle him, strangle them all.
The son of the Grey Lion already looked far too entertained by the idea of his younger sister finally attracting a suitor — and a prince no less.
“The prince is not courting me Tybolt.” You were rolling your eyes at him ready to strike your brother if he dared to open his mouth again.
“Of course he is,” Tybolt scoffed. “Why else would—” He stopped abruptly, frowning now at the genuine annoyance upon your face. Confusion flickered across his expression. He knew his sister well enough to recognize ambition when he saw it, and marrying a Targaryen prince had once sounded precisely like the sort of dream you would chase. Yet now you almost sounded angry at the suggestion when days ago you were dreaming of marrying a prince.
“The prince has not asked for my hand,” you cut in sharply. “Nor has he sought Father’s blessing. Has he?”
Tybolt opened his mouth, though no answer came.
“He has not,” the lioness continued coldly. “Therefore, he is not courting me.”
You adjusted the sleeves of your gown impatiently before brushing past your brother.
“And if you would excuse me,” you added irritably, “this dress is no longer allowing me to breathe properly.”
At last, you were finally able to retreat to your chambers in peace. Yet even within the safety of your own rooms, the strange sensation twisting low within your stomach refused to leave you. You had never felt such sensation before. Never felt your body react so violently to mere thoughts.
And worst of all…
Every time you mind wandered toward the dragon prince — toward his voice, his smirk, his fingers, his lips—it always returned to his tongue.
Seven hells…
Surely a bit of distance from Prince Aerion would rid you of all of these ridiculous feelings.
It had to.
Because your nameday festivities would soon come to an end, and still no proper suitor had approached you openly — not with the dragon prince constantly circling you like a treasure he wished to protect and keep to himself. And you were certainly refusing to end your days as some forgotten septa because a mad Targaryen princeling had unsettled your senses.
For the next few days, you made every effort to avoid him.
Whenever you caught sight of silver hair in the corridors of Casterly Rock, you were immediately changing direction. If Aerion appeared in a hall, you vanished from it. If he entered a room, you found any excuse to leave.
At first, Aerion found the game amusing.
Then it became irritating.
And when Aerion began noticing some impudent Dornish lordling attempting to court you openly, irritation quickly twisted into something far uglier.
Jealousy and Possesiveness
The dragon prince watched from across the hall as the young Dornishman spoke to you with clumsy admiration, smiling far too boldly whilst you were answering with practiced politeness.
Aerion hated the sight instantly. You were his.
And when you were lowering your lashes with faint amusement at something the fool had said..
—that was enough.
The prince crossed the room without hesitation, fury darkening his handsome features.
He stopped directly before you.
“Do you need something?” You asked coolly, though the undertone of annoyance in your voice was impossible to miss.
Aerion ignored you completely.
Instead, his pale eyes settled upon the Dornish lord.
“If I ever cross your path beside her again,” the dragon prince said calmly, “I shall have your head impaled upon a spike and sent back to your pathetic little house in Dorne. Is that clear?”
His tone remained so smooth, so frighteningly composed, that anyone overhearing might have mistaken the exchange for ordinary noble conversation.
The young lordling paled instantly.
“M-my apologies, Your Grace,” he stammered before quickly retreating, nearly tripping over himself in his desperation to escape.
Wise boy.
Aerion watched him disappear with grim satisfaction before finally turning back toward the lioness.
And gods—
You looked furious.
Your eyes burning with enough rage to set the gardens aflame, and somehow the sight alone sent heat surging low through the prince’s crotch.
You had never looked so beautiful than right now.
You looked like moments away from striking him, strangling him, or perhaps both at the same time, you were still thinking.
But Instead, you spun sharply upon your heel and stormed away through the gardens.
And Naturally, Aerion followed after you.
“You dare ignore me, wench?” the dragon prince called after you.
His longer strides quickly closed the distance between you two.
You had barely made it between the tall hedges before Aerion caught your arm and forced you backward until your spine was being pressed against the greenery behind you.
That is when it hit you, Aerion stood far too close.
One hand braced itself beside your head against the hedge, trapping you neatly between his body and the leaves.
“I should have punished your arrogance the first time you dared speak to me so insolently,” Aerion murmured with anger flooding his eyes.
Gods, he was close.
You could feel everything, could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could feel his breath against your skin, could smell leather, steel lingering upon him.
And his lips
You were no longer listening to whatever threat the prince was whispering against your ear. Because you could only think about the way where he was standing—
if Aerion leaned even slightly closer—
You would kiss him.
And he did leaned closer
Your eyes locked with his as you grabbed him by the base of his silver hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him toward you, attacking his lips like a beast worthy of the sigil of your house.
The kiss was messy and rough, every ounce of tension and desire between you finally spilling into it. Aerion’s hands settled firmly upon your hips — perhaps a little too firmly, for you would likely wake with bruises there by morning — holding you as though loosening his grip for even a second might allow you to disappear again.
You could feel everything — his hardening cock pressing insistently against your thighs as he unconsciously rutted his hips against you, the hunger and desire he poured into the kiss as low sounds escaped into your mouth. Your lips parted briefly for breath before finding each other again almost immediately, unable to remain apart for more than a heartbeat.
You could already feel the wetness gathering between your thighs your slick soaking your silks covering your womanhood as though your body had entirely surrendered to him. You were still devouring each other’s mouths, tongues battling for dominance whilst the prince’s hands wandered beneath your skirts, slowly pushing the fabric higher until he discovered the ruined silk dampened by your arousal.
Aerion’s fingers brushed teasingly against you, and the dark amusement in his violet eyes made it clear he was more than pleased to discover how wet you had become from nothing more than a bit of kissing.
“Are you sure you’re not a whore with the way you’re soaking my hand?” he asked, voice low with dark amusement as he finally tore away the silk, giving himself unrestrained access to you.
You gasped at the roughness of the gesture, scandalized both by his crude words and by your ruined silk now clenched in his hand.
Aerion only watched you with that infuriating, satisfied smirk — as though your reaction was exactly what he had been waiting for.
“Aerion!” you struck his shoulder, scandalized, as he looked at you with that familiar, maddening smirk while slipping your ruined silks into his breeches pocket.
“What?” he replied, amusement clear in his voice. “Just want a little souvenir.” You could hear the smirk even before you saw it, felt it in the way his tone dropped lower, more dangerous, as he leaned in again.
His lips returned to your neck, trailing small, deliberate kisses along your skin, while his skilled fingers wandered once more, unhurried and confident, as though he already knew exactly how easily he could undo you.
“You better not leave any marks on my neck, I am still a maiden,” you said, frowning at him even as you pushed his head closer into the curve of your perfumed throat, silently encouraging him to continue. "And I still need to find a husband.” That last remark earned you a bite against your skin.
“If you keep speaking,” Aerion muttered against your neck, his voice rough with warning and desire all at once “I will have your mouth busy with something else, wench.”
You were preparing another sharp insult, but the words died on your tongue when Aerion’s skilled fingers entered your warm cavity pulling a high pitched sound from your throat instead.
Whatever retort you had planned dissolved into moans you could no longer fully control.
The prince did not allow you the space to recover.
His mouth moved along your jaw and throat with relentless focus, each kiss messier and sloppier than the last, while his fingers were still fucking you, and tearing pretty sounds from your lips.
Your fingers were tangled in his hair almost instinctively, gripping tighter whenever his fingers reached a certain spot or the way they curled inside, stealing more gasp and moans from you— as though anchoring yourself was the only way to stay grounded.
It was hard not to notice how his hips were rutting and staining his breeches when you decided to wander your hand lower and to untie his breeches for him as his other hand was already too busy struggling to unlace the ties of your gown, in order to allow him more space to kiss your exposed cleavage.
Your hands had managed to push his pants just enough to free his aching cock from it. Your gesture made him release a deep groan as your hand got in contact with his manhood..Aerion hadn’t been stranger with woman touches as he had been visiting pleasure houses for a while now.. but you, a maiden lady was grabbing his cock like a courtisan and Aerion could swore that he almost cummed from your touch only.
He got back to himself as his hand immediately reached yours to stop you from pursuing your movements on his length, he had almost ruined his expensive pants from fingering your tight hole but your stroking would be the reason of his spilled seed, and he was planning to keep it for something else..
His reaction caught you of guard as you were throwing him a curious glance and tried to repeat your movements but when he blocked you again, you focused on the expression he was wearing and there you understood..
Oh
You were now the one smirking, ready to tease him.
“Are you sure you want to shut me up with your cock when you can hardly handle my touch, my prince?”
Aerion’s reaction was immediate.
A low, sharp grunt left him, irritation flickering across his features before he seized you again, pulling you closer as if your words had physically struck him.
Then he bit into your neck. Hard enough to bruise this time..but not enough to truly hurt, but still enough to steal the breath from your lungs and shut you up.
“You dare mocking me?” Aerion growled against your skin. “I should take your tongue for that, whore.”
His hand rose to your throat in an instant.
Not quite choking you.
But holding you just firm enough to make you feel it — the pressure, the control, the silent reminder that he could end your life if he wanted to but he simply chose not to.
His grip tightened slightly as he held you there, forcing you to meet his gaze, violet eyes dark with something far more dangerous than simple anger.
He withdrew his fingers from your cunt stealing another gasp from you before putting those same fingers in his mouth, the same way he had done with the Blackberry jam he had collected from the corner of your mouth, some days ago, but this time it was your slick he was sucking from his slend fingers, this view only, could be enough to make you come undone on the spot.. He noticed the way you were rubbing your thighs together, clearly missing the sensations he had given you and then taken away from you—without any remorse..
"I was planning to fuck you properly after the wedding,” he murmured darkly, “but since you insist on behaving like a whore, I will fuck you like one.”
You froze at his words.
What could he mean?
What wedding was he talking about?
You were so confused and struck upon these words that you hadn’t noticed him entering you with his manhood, the painful stretch made you stir from your thoughts and you find yourself grimacing at the new sensation..
this was new and very different from what you imagined as you recall the explanations from your septa about women duties when it comes to marital act, this new stretch wasn’t comfortable at first but you could still feel the same pleasant feeling his fingers offered you minutes ago but quickly you cavity got used to this stretch and the pain turned out in pleasure.. you also noticed the blood of your maidenhead coating his pulsing cock, but it did not hurt like you thought it would.
Aerion could feel himself even more aroused at the view of your blood staining his cock, he would have been disappointed to not be the first to be able to fuck your pretty cunt, his eyes searched for you as he waited a few seconds for you to relax around him before starting to move in and out, hips meetings yours while he couldn’t contain his grunts anymore
The faint pain you had felt from the stretch of him had now entirely disappeared to be replaced by the spasm of pleasure running between your thighs
The only issue was the sounds you were making, you were too loud and while you were to lost in the pleasure you were feeling to take notice how loudly you were being, Aerion did.
And someone — a maid, a noble, or perhaps worse, your father — might hear you. And Aerion could recall the frown on his father’s face when Daeron had caused yet another scandal that morning by inviting whores into the bed your family had lent him. And Aerion knew that if the Grey Lion discovered that his pretty, spoiled little princess had been ruined in his garden, Aerion might not be able to simply hide behind the excuse of being a prince of the blood. Even though, he had already decided he would ask your father for your hand once your “gardening” was over…
His lips claimed yours roughly, cutting off whatever sounds you were about to release, while his hips met yours in a rhythm that left you both breathless.
you were so perfect, this tight cunt was perfect and had been made for him to keep his cock warm, he was sure of it.
You were now a clenching mess and the way he could swallow your cries and gasps, he could sense that you were close from reaching your end
And so was he
One of his hands went low enough to tease your clit by rubbing it in circle, trying to help you finish quickly as your little escapade in the hedges, unchaperoned with a prince would soonly get you into a scandal if someone was to caught you in the act.
Fortunately the combination of his cock crushing your inside out and the rubbing of his skilled fingers on your clit lead you to reach your orgasm…
your eyes were now rolled back in your skull, too lost in the pleasure you were feeling — you now understood why some of your ladies in waiting talked fondly of the bedding they shared with their lord husband— Aerion was swallowing another of your sound, this one louder than the others as your nails scratched his neck, like a lion would with his claws
and the view you offered him,
the marks you were putting on his neck, your tightness.. all of that was now enough to help him reach his end as his hips jerked off and the dragon prince filled you with his hot seed..
It took you a few seconds to regain your breath and come down from the intensity of the moment as Aerion finally pulled away from you and straightened himself.
He adjusted his pants back before moving to you, helping you retie the laces of your crimson dress. Your legs were still unsteady beneath you, your body too slow to obey you again after what had just passed between you.
You were exhausted — spent in a way that left you quiet, almost dazed, but not unhappy.
When he finished, your eyes met again.
Aerion lingered for a moment before pressing a brief, softer peck to your lips, as though nothing in the world had just shifted between you two
And then you remembered his words.
“What wedding are you talking about?” Your tone was serious again, your composure snapping back into place as you demanded an answer. You watched him closely, impatience sharpening your gaze as you both finally stepped out from the cover of the hedges.
Aerion couldn’t possibly mean it. Could he?
“Did my cock make you forget how to think, or have I finally made you entirely stupid?” he replied sharply, his cruelty returning as easily as breath. You stiffened instantly, ready to slap him for it, done with his games—
But he must have noticed the shift in your mood, because his expression changed just slightly. Less mockery. More intent.
And then he gave you the answer you had been waiting for.
“I’m going to ask your father for his blessing,” Aerion said, voice lower now, controlled. “For your hand. Even though I do not need it. I am a prince of the blood and—"
He was suddenly cut off as you raised your hand to his mouth, stopping the words from spilling out. Your eyes rolled slightly in exaggerated annoyance, though a smile tugged at your lips anyway.
“Oh please, shut up.”
Thanks you for reading <3 this is probably so messy or trashy I really don’t know what to feel about it :/ anyway if you like it you can leave a comment and if you don’t like it you can also say it as long as you are being respectful asks are opened btw 🫶🏻
choking aerion while riding him as he’s starting to get overstimulated (😮💨)
this is so hot. we know i think aerion is pathetic, loves to give it the big show until it's time to perform. and whilst i do think at first he would do well, he would know just the pressure points to have you breathless beneath him, it would soon falter. and you would end up atop him, breasts bouncing in his face as he struggles to maintain his own breathing.
"ready to claim defeat, husband?" you moaned, a wicked smile on your face as you looked down at him.
his cheeks were flushed, eyebrows knotted together viciously as the pleasure bit at his throat. his stunned manner was clear to you, he had become so lost in how you felt and how you looked, he did not think he would last much longer.
"nothing more to say?" you laughed, taking a hand from his chest to place at his neck. squeezing the sides gently, willing his eyes to look up at yours.
he nodded, eyebrows now tilted upward as he relinquished control. "feels so good, wife."
and even if you could see his complexion reddening, attempting to remove your hand from his neck to allow him to breathe, his hand locked over yours. pushing your fingers further into his throat.
SUMMARY - You were laughing with a knight and Aerion is not happy about it.
CONTAINS - SMUT, aerion is controlling, aerion is insane as usual, dacryphilia?? (if u squint)
A/N - managed to make time for this piece, please have mercy on me lol
“You found him amusing,” Aerion murmured, his voice a low purr as he advanced, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.
“Tell me, what did he say that merited such a beautiful, sweet laugh from you, my wife?”
You backed up until the mattress hit the back of your knees, your breath hitching. “Aerion, it was only courtesy. Just a jest–”
“I do not care for his jests,” he snarled, the sudden spike in his tone causing you to shiver.
Before you could even move, his fingers locked around your wrist with unyielding force. With one brutal motion, he threw you onto the bed.
The impact knocked the air out of your lungs, and just as you caught a breath, the suffocating weight of his body descended upon you.
He pinned your thighs wide apart as his heavy chest pushed down on your breasts, completely trapping you beneath him.
“You smile for me,” he hissed against your lips, “you open your mouth for me, and you look pretty for me. If I ever see you looking at another man like that, I will keep you locked in my chambers forever.”
You whimpered, a mix of fear and undeniable, traitorous heat curling deep in your stomach. Your body was already betraying you, growing slick and desperate beneath him despite the terror.
Aerion knew exactly what he did to you, knew that his wrath twisted something wicked inside your core.
With a mocking chuckle, his hands left your wrists to tear impatience from his clothes.
He shifted his weight downward, the broad, rigid length of his cock pressing firmly against your entrance, immediately smearing into your uncontrollable wetness with an agonizingly slow friction that made you arch off the mattress before he had even pushed inside.
“Look at me,” he commanded, but the sheer size of him pressing upon you made you flinch. You turned your head into the pillows, your eyes squeezing shut as you anticipated the storm.
He didn’t wait. With a slow, heavy thrust, he drove his cock forward, breaching you completely.
You gasped, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your walls stretched to their absolute limits to accommodate the raw intrusion.
The fullness was overwhelming, an immediate ache that made your hips twitch in a desperate attempt to find room for him.
But Aerion didn’t allow you to adjust. He held you completely still, his hands shifting up to grip your hips, holding you in place as he began to roll his hips with a punishing force.
“So fucking tight,” he exhaled, a harsh, angry sound. “You’re practically choking me. Did you get this tight just thinking about me punishing you?”
The pleasure and pain blurred instantly. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, blurring your view of everything.
Overwhelmed by the sensation of being so utterly claimed, you turned your head away again, trying to bury your face to hide how loud your moans were becoming.
Aerion’s hand snapped upward, his fingers clamped around your jaw with bruising force as he ruthlessly twisted your face back toward him.
“No,” he growled, violet eyes shining with primal lust. “Open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see your face as you stretch around my cock, you little whore.”
His fingers then dug deeper into your thighs as he drove into you again—harder this time, a brutal, deep stroke that hit a sensitive spot deep inside your core.
A broken moan escaped your lips, your eyes wide and watering as you stared up into his face, hands clutching onto his shoulders.
“He couldn’t get you this wet,” he whispered filthily, his voice rough and ragged as your skin slapped against his.
He slammed his hips forward again, driving even deeper, forcing you to surrender to the sheer scale of him. “Look at you, you’re leaking all over me. Tell me whose cunt this is.”
“Yours,” you cried out, nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders, your hips rising instinctively to meet his thrusts. “Aerion–ah. Please–”
“That’s right, it’s mine,” he growled, satisfaction coating his words as he angled his hips to hit your spot repeatedly, making you whine out of pure pleasure.
Aerion leaned down to kiss the tears falling from your eyes. “Every time that knight thinks about you, I’m going to stretch you out like this. I’m going to mark you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for weeks.”
He quickened his pace, his breaths ragged and hot against your neck. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer as the pressure in your core coiled into a tight knot.
Every heavy stroke frictioned perfectly over your over-stimulated clit. Your pussy was clenching around him, begging for the release that was torturously close.
That deep, brutal angle hit your spot again, and the coil finally snapped. A high breathless wail tore from your throat as your release crashed over you in violent waves.
Your walls clenched around his cock, pulsing frantically in a way that left you completely breathless and shaking.
Seeing you shatter under him only pushed Aerion over the edge. His thrusts became more erratic as he buried himself, releasing deep inside you, his hips shuddering with the force of his climax.
The chamber fell into heavy silence, broken only by the desperate sound of your shared breathing.
Aerion didn’t pull out. He stayed buried inside you, his frame completely pinning you to the bed, crushing you beneath his weight as if he still couldn’t get close enough.
He finally pushed himself up onto his elbows, his eyes dilated and manic as they raked over the absolute wreck he had made of you.
You were still trembling. His eyes travelled down to your thighs where they were stained with a mixture of your ruin with his.
A terrifyingly soft, obsessive look settled into his features. “What a filthy, beautiful little mess you are for me.”
He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent.
i'd suffer hell if you'd tell me what you'd do to me tonight | modern!au aerion targaryen (18+)
masterlist ❈
summary: your boyfriend and star striker for king's landing fc, aerion targaryen, is hurt on the pitch during what you all assumed would be an easy away match against a low-ranking rival football club. what follows is weeks of torment and - mercifully - subsequent relief.
author's note: i'm bad at summaries! footballer!aerion is hurt during a match and his teammates have convinced him that fucking his girlfriend in season is the problem and will cause him more suffering (def not based on personal experience. not at all. you think this happened to me? never). also i'm not british i'm just a long-suffering arsenal fan and i know he'd make an annoying football player
pairing: modern!aerion targaryen x f!reader
part one of two
word count: 5245
warnings/tags: pWp (with, y'all!), alternate universe: modern setting
“For those following along at home, it looks like Aerion Targaryen, captain and star striker for King’s Landing FC, is currently being led off the pitch, accompanied by his brother, defender Daeron Targaryen. Oh, he’s limping. Seems to be favoring his right side considerably – not ideal considering the Dragons will need his left foot to carry them if they hope to make it to the finals in just a few weeks’ time.”
Aerion has been away for a few days now with the team for what everyone thought would be an easy away match in the Barrowlands. Halfway through the second half of the match, a rogue tackle from one of Barrowton FC’s midfielders had sent him tumbling, and you feel certain your heart stopped in that moment.
Though it rarely happens, nothing ever feels as terrible for you as having to watch Aerion on his back on the pitch, face twisted in agony, as medics kneel next to him to assess whatever injury has befallen him this time. Daeron helps him to his feet and tosses Aerion’s arm over his shoulder, and they hobble off the field. Your stomach lurches at his feeble, exhausted stance.
“He’s alright,” your sister murmurs, rubbing your shoulder. You hadn’t even realized but in the wake of Aerion’s injury and the wave of exclamation that’s gone up around the bar, your hand has clapped over your mouth and you now lean forward over the countertop, eyes glued to the television. “He got up pretty quick, at least.”
“You look like you could use another one of these.”
A fresh pint of cider slides across the bartop into your waiting hand and you mean to smile your thanks, but from the look on Duncan’s face, it must translate as more of a grimace.
“Thanks, Dunk.”
He nods at you, returning your small smile, eyes catching on your sister beside you, before he turns to tend to the patrons at the other end of his bar.
“Aerion’ll be okay. He always is. Plus, he’ll call you when they know what happened, won’t he?”
You sigh, palming your cold, fresh cider, and press it against the side of your neck. Some of the contents slosh out onto the bartop. “Yeah, he’ll call me.”
“Yeah,” she echoes. “Put it out of your mind for the moment, alright? Drink your beer and finish watching this match with me.”
You’re nursing your third – maybe your fourth – drink of the night, your sister finally flirting back with Dunk across the bar, the won match against Barrowton long forgotten to the night when your phone starts to buzz in front of you. Aerion’s name flashes across the screen.
“This is him. I’ll be right back.”
You don’t even wait for your sister to respond before you’re pushing out the front door out into the muggy night, King’s Landing sweaty and tight and damn near suffocating, and answer the call, phone pressed flush to your ear.
“Hello?”
“Baby,” Aerion breathes, and you could cry at the sound of his voice. “Hi.”
“You scared me, Aerion.”
“Scared myself,” he laughs, but you can hear him shakily exhale down the phone. “But you can stop worrying now, okay? That Barrowton fuck just sprained my knee. Did somethin’ to my hip, too, but they’re not sure what, yet. I’ll be out at minimum two weeks, but physio’s been treating me like I’m made of glass. Everyone clearly thinks it’ll be longer than that.”
You sigh, tilting your head back and covering your eyes with the hand not holding your phone. A sprain isn’t the end of the world, but it isn’t exactly good news. “What am I going to do with you, my love?”
Silence builds like a bridge between you.
“I miss you, dove,” he whispers, and your heart stutters in your chest. “They’re sending us straight home tonight, so I’ll be home around midnight.”
“I can come pick you up from –”
“No need. They’ll send me home in a fancy car, I’m sure.” You hear his shaky breath once again and bark out a laugh.
“Aerion,” you murmur, shaking your head though he can’t see. “Are you smoking?”
He coughs once and joins you in your laughter. It’s a moment of reprieve after a very tense couple of hours for the both of you. It makes you wish you were there to share the cigarette with him.
“I thought you’d quit.”
“Well. Circumstances.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll see you soon.” Aerion’s voice is sure and unfaltering, and its pitch sends warmth straight to your belly. Normally when he gets home from an away match – especially a win – he spends the night fucking you into the mattress in the high-rise apartment his cushy captain’s salary affords him. It’s become something of a routine for the both of you. You’re filled with thrill at the thought, but with his injury, you can’t be sure what the night will have in store for you.
“See you,” you murmur, smiling softly and running your fingers across your mouth, the ghost of the last kiss he’d given you before he left settled there. “Love you.”
You wander back into the pub, pocketing your phone and beelining for your spot at the bar, where Dunk has left a fresh cider for you.
“You’re incredible, but I’m too far gone, unfortunately,” you murmur, and he nods, pulling the pint back towards himself and taking a sneaky sip. You crack a smile for him. “Plus this whole injury thing has soured the night for me. Can you close me out?”
“Took care of it for you,” he says meekly, and you screw your face up, trying not to weep.
“Duncan,” you chastise, but he won’t hear it. Your sister thanks the man and you wish you didn’t feel so poorly so she could stay behind and finish what she’s started with him, but she insists on escorting you back to Aerion’s before she heads home herself. The promise of seeing your boyfriend before you put yourself to bed is the only thing that keeps you from falling asleep on her shoulder in the back of your rideshare.
The sky is just starting its transition from black to blue – ironically, nearly the same shade as Aerion’s fucked knee – when he finally, finally, presses his key into the front door of his flat. He shoulders the door open, leaning heavily on his right leg, and drops his duffel on the kitchen floor. The clock on the stove reflects an ungodly hour. There’s no need to bother with the bag now – it’ll still need unpacking in the morning. All he can think about as he toes his trainers off is ditching his travel clothes and crawling under the covers with you.
Aerion spots your sleeping form in the bedroom, curled up on your side, silhouetted by the light you’d left shining in the en suite, presumably so he’d be able to navigate his home in the dark without hurting himself any further. Fuck, he loves you. The thought hits him hard and fast and nearly swallows him whole.
He feels as if he’s sleepwalking whil he unzips his team jacket and tosses it onto the chair in the corner of the bedroom, pulls his tee up and over his head as well, then drops his joggers straight to the floor, before peeling back the covers and, as carefully as he can, sliding into bed. He winces when he accidentally bends his injured knee too far.
Just as he’s settled down next to you, readying himself to tuck an arm around you and fall asleep curled against you, he feels you stir in your sleep.
“I thought you said you’d be home around midnight,” you whine, breathy, your arms stretched up and over your head. “I waited up.”
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, pulling you tight against him. Your hands land on top of his arm, absently rubbing his skin warm.
“Are you going to take a shower? Do you need any help?”
“Sweet thing,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to the back of your neck and tuck the duvet back up around your neck. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“How’s your knee sleeping like this?”
“I’ll ice it in the morning. I told you, I’m –”
“Do not say you are fine.”
Aerion can’t help but laugh, the sound low and breathy in your ear. He feels you shudder against him. He’s no fool; he knows he’s conditioned you to expect something very particular of him when he comes home from these away matches. He wishes he could give it to you, but he knows his trainer will kill him if he ends up on his knees for you tonight.
“Alright. I won’t.”
He hears you huff and smiles against your cheek at the sound.
“I love you, okay? Go back to sleep. I mean it. We can talk about this in the morning.”
“Alright,” you echo him, sounding cross but slipping away too quickly to follow through.
Aerion finds it so endearing when you’re like this, and it’s even sweeter to him that he hears your breathing even out less than a minute later. He tightens his arm around you, carefully tucks his painless knee between your legs, and readies himself to follow you to slumber as easily as he possibly can.
When you wake the next morning, you’re relieved to find that you hadn’t dreamt Aerion’s return home late at night. The two of you have shifted in the night as you always do, your stomach now pressed to the sheets, Aerion’s body folded over top of you.
The man’s not much bigger than you, but his grip is unrelenting as you try to ease yourself out from under him. He groans and shifts in his sleep – you freeze, not wanting to wake him – and inhale deeply when you feel his half-hard cock pressing at your back. Fuck.
Try as you might, your body can’t forget what it’s typically promised when Aerion returns from away.
“Aerion,” you whisper, bringing your hand back to push at his hip. He does not budge. You try again, uttering his name a touch louder and raking your nails along his skin. This time he twitches, but still he does not rise.
“Aerion, you’re crushing me. Get off.”
“I’m crushing you because I’m so strong,” he mutters, and you laugh as much as you can with his torso pressing down on your lungs. “It’s all my muscles.”
“I cannot believe that’s what woke you up.”
“I won’t have my honor called to question.” His arms circle your waist and he pulls you even tighter against him. There’s no longer any questioning his arousal against you.
“Let me go,” you whine, but you turn your face into his bicep to hide your grin. Aerion brings his hand down and cards his fingers through your hair, urging you to spin around in his arms. “I want to get coffee.”
“Coffee can wait.”
“For what?”
“For me to have my fill of you.”
His meaning could easily have been misjudged, but the deep gravel of his voice leaves no room for interpretation. Your face reddens and your eyes flutter at the thought.
“Your trainers said –”
“I know what my trainers said,” Aerion utters, breathless, before fisting the hair at the base of your skull and lowering his mouth to yours, kissing you as thoroughly as one can running on four – maybe five – hours of sleep. He bites your bottom lip, gently but with definite urgency. “Fuck the trainers. I’ve missed you.”
You groan into his mouth and situate yourself so you’re properly facing him, looping an arm around the back of his neck and holding him tight to you. Aerion cradles the side of your face in one hand and deepens this kiss; it feels as if he’s attempting to devour you whole. You roll your hips against him and nearly pant when he brings his hand down to trace along the waistband of your sleep shorts.
“If I give you my fingers, am I going to discover you aren’t wearing anything under here?”
Smiling, you close your eyes and nod your head, just barely. Aerion’s breath hitches and he does as promised, pushing his fingers inside of the garment and grinning against your cheek at the feeling of your bare skin and the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.
“And are you wet for me, my love?”
Without waiting for a response, two eager fingers split the seam of you, and he seems pleased to find that you are, in fact, soaked through.
“Thought you would be,” he murmurs, circling your clit with his thumb and letting you clutch at him like you’re going to float away while he does.
Your arms tighten around his neck and you let out a breathy moan at the sensation. “How’s your knee?”
Aerion snorts. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now? I’m about to fuck you with my fingers and you want to know how my knee feels?”
He drags his first finger down to your entrance and presses in, slowly at first, then sinking in deeper when he finds no resistance. You gasp and tilt your head back, an open invitation for his mouth to latch itself to the spot you love under your ear. It does so gladly.
“Stop thinking,” he whispers, tongue tracing your earlobe feather-light. You make a small noise in the back of your throat, and Aerion adds a second finger alongside the first. The stretch is absolutely delicious. He strokes you from the inside, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit all the while, and you are quickly drenching his hand in a way that would be mortifying had he not seen you like this so many times before.
When he feels you begin to clench around him in earnest, his hand stills.
“What the fuck, Aerion,” you chastise, but he doesn’t give you time to be angry; instead, he pulls his hand from your shorts and tugs them off of your body. You watch as he tosses them to the floor, eyebrows knitted together.
You reach for his briefs, intent on pulling his cock from its confines, but he shakes his head. You open your mouth to protest but he beats you to it. “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“No,” he murmurs, cupping your bottom and shifting you up, watching you scramble for purchase against the headboard as he guides you over his chest. “Come here.”
Disbelief courses through you but arousal and intrigue burn it out. Aerion directs your hands to grip the headboard in earnest, then shifts so the back of his head is flat to the mattress. Muffled underneath you, you hear, softly, “Come here,” before his mouth finds the tender skin of your thigh and sucks. You shudder, settling down against his lips, and he groans, satisfied.
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the feeling of him sucking a bruise into skin only the two of you will see. Aerion noses at your clit, grinning when you jump at the sensation, then flattens his tongue against your slit and tastes you properly. His saliva further dampens your curls. This has always been his strategy with you: you love for him to use his tongue, teasing your folds until you’re nearly crying. That’s when he’ll latch his lips around your clit and suck until you do.
Lightning fast, your orgasm catches up to you – or you catch up to it – and your knees tighten around Aerion’s ears. You ride his mouth through it. He groans, palming your thighs and wrenching his eyes open to watch your chest heave above him.
When your breathing returns to normal, Aerion guides your body down to cover him, pressing an uncharacteristically-sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. You can just about make out the taste of yourself on his lips.
“Fuck,” you whimper, tears at the corners of your eyes. “Aerion, god, please fuck me.”
“I can’t, baby,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind your ear. You sigh, a deep, world-weary sigh, and tuck your face into his neck. His erection presses against you, desperate for attention. You wriggle your hips against him and revel in the deep groan he unleashes at the pressure on his cock.
“Let me fuck you, then.”
You feel him shake his head and almost cry.
“I can’t risk it.”
Groaning, you fist your hand in the sheets next to his head and he chuckles softly. You finally settle, melting into him, feeling like liquid against the rigid planes of his athlete’s body.
“What happened to fuck the trainers?”
“I swear,” he whispers, kissing the top of your sweaty head. “The moment this is healed, the moment I’m cleared to play on the pitch, I’ll fuck you so good and for so long you’ll forget I ever refused you.”
His words make your skin flush, the warmth cascading through all of your limbs. “You promise?”
“I do.”
Four weeks. Four long weeks. That’s how much time has passed since Aerion’s injury. He’s attended only the home matches his coaches asked him to, for morale. The team has skated by without him, leaving him behind for the away games, and if you could allow yourself to be honest with him – though you won’t; you know how much he hates being away from you for work – you really have loved having him home. More than thirty days have passed since he was declared unfit to play, his health being reassessed on a week-by-week basis, and you have treasured every second.
That’s unfortunately also more than thirty days since the last time Aerion truly touched you. A chaste kiss in passing. Lips pressed to your forehead before he turns the bedroom light off for the night. A hand at your hip when he ducks past you in the kitchen. On those lucky nights he’s feeling just as pent-up as you, he invites you into the shower and presses you against the glass, coaxing an orgasm or two out of you with his teeth in the back of your neck. Each moment has torn you apart even more than the last. You’re a pent-up mess and every time you try to get handsy with him, he shuts you down – gently, but he still shuts you down.
“We can’t, love,” he had whispered last night when you’d turned to him in bed, carded your hand through his hair, and tried to pull his mouth down to meet yours.
“But we both know you’re feeling better.”
Aerion had grunted at the feeling of your hand in his hair, and you had taken immediate delight in the way he’d subconsciously shifted closer to you. You’d pouted, your bottom lip jutting out toward him, practically begging him to take it between his teeth.
You stand at the kitchen counter now and daydream about the look on his face, like you’d asked him to do something much worse than simply kiss his girlfriend.
Though you knew what his answer would be, you had still offered to drive him to his weekly appointment with the team’s physio this morning. He had given you the same look he’s given you the last three weeks, grabbing his phone and calling the driver the team assigned to him while he’s injured. Based on the last few weeks of assessments, you had it on good authority that the doctor would clear him for play today.
By the time he’s back in early afternoon, you’ve cleaned up around the house – done the laundry, made the bed, – and are just putting the kettle on for some tea. Aerion finds you in the kitchen when he opens the front door, dropping his bag to the floor and locking it behind himself.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, a hand grazing your back as he passes you on his way to grab water from the refrigerator.
“What’d they say?”
“Fit to play,” he grins, and you toss yourself at him, arms encircling his neck and pulling him down to kiss you. He allows you a moment of reprieve, his hands gripping your waist, returning your affection earnestly before he pulls back to take you in.
The look on his face has your heart racing, disbelief kicking around in your stomach. It’s not that intimacy is the best or most important part of your relationship with Aerion – far from it – but a month straight without being able to touch your partner, sharing a bed with them but having to keep them at arms’ length, not allowing yourself to find comfort in them or provide them with comfort. It’s enough to drive a girl mad.
“I think we should…”
“But you said –”
“I know what I said, and I’m sorry. It’d just be for the rest of the regular season games –”
You step back from him, crossing your arms in front of you. “You know I love you, Aerion, but it’s absolutely fucking ridiculous that you won’t touch me because of some strange superstition.”
“Well, look what happened!”
“You didn’t get hurt because you fuck me in-season, you fucking idiot.”
The look that crosses Aerion’s face is a mix of hurt and surprise at your outburst.
“Daeron said –”
“Oh, fuck what Daeron said. I’m sorry, I know you love your brother – I love him, too – but when has he ever been right about anything?”
“Enough,” Aerion mutters, pinching his lip between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s enough, okay.”
“Well, yes, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit pent up. Fuck. And fuck you for making this decision for us.”
“Look,” Aerion starts, unzipping his jacket and throwing it over the kitchen island. He holds his hand up and you try your hardest not to stare at his fingers. Four weeks is a long time for the two of you. “It would just be until the finals, okay? It’s only a few weeks longer. The physio said I’m fit to play, but that I have to be cautious. Particularly when it comes to activities that involve my hips. And my knees.”
You roll your eyes, your arms still crossed, and you hate it but you’re starting to see where he’s coming from. This whole experience has turned you into a madwoman; you’re selfish, and prickly, and you feel like you’re coming apart.
“Fine. Okay? Fine. But you’re buying me a good fucking vibrator to get me through.”
He makes good on that, at least.
“Fuck,” he groans, palming himself through his briefs, watching as you drag your new pink vibrator through the wet slick that’s already coating your entrance. With your back against his headboard and your legs spread wide, it gives him the perfect view from where he stands at the end of the bed.
“Remind me,” you breathe, core muscles clenching under his searing gaze. “Didn’t you say you aren’t supposed to participate in activities that involve your hips?”
He laughs and tells you to fuck off. The two of you continue like this for a minute or two, you teasing yourself with the toy he definitely spent too much money on, his eyes following your movements, hips chasing the barely-there feeling of his hands through the fabric of the last remaining garment on his body.
“Aerion, you know, I’ve been thinking about it.” He hums acknowledgment, for you to go on, half listening. “You just – you know, these last few weeks have really done a number on me, and I don’t think you should get to come.”
His eyes snap up to yours, watching, narrowing, as you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth and smirk. “What?”
“You heard me. All that you’ve put me through with your ridiculous superstition. I don’t think you should come.” You settle down further into the bed, giving yourself a few moments of relief with the toy pressed directly against your clit, before lightly teasing it against yourself once more. You sigh and bring your free hand down to pull your labia apart, two fingers spread in a V, pushing the toy directly into your cunt.
You let out a breathy groan and watch as Aerion’s knees nearly buckle underneath him. His hand still cups his still-growing erection – you can see it twitch through the material of his briefs with every noise you make – so you pull the toy away from yourself, flicking it off, and lean your head back, closing your eyes.
“Why’d you stop?”
“I’m not going to let myself orgasm until you swear you’ll be good for me.”
He scoffs. “Who does that help?”
“Well, presently, no one. Neither has the last couple of weeks. See where I’m going with this?”
“Baby,” he starts, all breathy like he knows you like, but you shake your head, chest heaving from the effort of your own breathing.
“Stop talking unless you’re going to tell me what I want to hear. Sit down on the end of the bed. You can watch me come, and you can think of me while you fuck your hand in the shower later, but I don’t want to see you touch yourself again tonight. Do you hear me?”
Aerion’s eyes nearly glaze over. You can see the wheels turning in his head. If he lets you come now, he gets to come later. Everybody wins. He thinks.
“I don’t think I like you bossy,” is what he says, but you can tell by the flush crawling up his neck to his cheeks that it’s a flat-out lie. He loves it. He thinks for one second longer before he takes a seat on the mattress, hands extended behind him and propping himself up at an angle. His head lolls toward you and he tilts his chin down toward your cunt, your legs falling wider subconsciously at his attention.
“Go on, then.”
His performed indifference is kind of hot, you have to admit. You grin lazily and power the vibrator back on, kicking it up but only to half its full potential. The buzz of it has you feeling warm almost the moment you have it pressed back against you. The long, lean lines of your boyfriend fill you with so much desire you have to stop yourself from kicking one foot out just to be closer to him, just to be touching him.
“Need you to talk to me.” It’s shameless and you don’t know why but the admission has your heart hammering in your chest.
“You want me to talk to you?” Aerion scoffs, eyes narrowing. “You tell me I can’t come, and now you want me to help you get yours?”
“Yes,” you breathe, so simple, your eyes not pleading but rather supplicating him to do what you want. The look serving as what you hope is a reminder to Aerion that he might have been the one to decide you would both take part in this dry spell, but you are still an active participant in this relationship. He bends to your will.
“How do you want it, baby, hm? Slow, sweet? You want me to tell you how good you’re doing, how I love watching you like this – you’re the only one for me, you’re all I’ve ever wanted, you’re all I’ll ever need?”
Oh, you do love it when he talks to you like that, but you remain silent and he snorts at that, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. He cocks his head, almost predatory, mouth curving downwards. “No? That’s not what you want? What do you want, then?”
The toy twitches in your hand and Aerion grins, eyes narrowing, pupils blown.
“I need you to quit teasing yourself, love,” he breathes, turning slightly to get a better look at where the toy is just barely disappearing inside of you. “I need you to fuck yourself proper. Need you to make sure I’ll slide right in when I take you again.”
With one hand braced in the bedsheets, you tilt your hips forward and sink as far onto the vibrator as you can. It’s been so long since you’ve been reminded of the sensation not only of being filled, but how it feels to be filled by something made only for your pleasure.
You rise and lean forward onto your knees, holding the toy in place. Aerion inhales sharply at that and you look up to meet his gaze, attempting a smile but conveying a grimace instead.
“Y’alright?”
It’s sincere concern and so, so sweet. “Fine, baby. So good. Feels so good.”
“Fuck, you look so good, too. Fuckin’ flushed and sweaty. I can see how wet you are from here. Want to taste you so bad. I can’t. Can I? Can I taste you?”
You shake your head and he groans, head falling back against his shoulder blades.
You feel it, then, building low and deep in your gut, his eyes on you, so much want in those beautiful eyes of his, so much love between the both of you, what’s a month longer without touching? What’s four weeks more when you’ll have the rest of your lives? It shocks you that this thought arouses you even further.
Aerion can’t possibly know what you’re thinking but he reaches a hand out anyway, palms your calf, attempting to ground you as if he can see you’re being dragged off into some space he can’t follow you.
“Come on, darling,” he groans, eyes still trained to the apex of your thighs. With pupils blown so wide you can barely see any color in them, Aerion encourages you to rise, leaning as close to you as he can without the two of you touching, and holds the toy still for you. You gasp, betrayed, when he turns the vibration to its highest setting. “You can take it.”
When you come, you shake almost violently, palming your breasts and tilting your head back until the feeling of your hair brushing the small of your back overwhelms your senses. Aerion breaks his own rule and fists his hand in your hair and gently guides you forward, helps you press your forehead to his shoulder to soldier through the crest of it, the worst and best of it, holding the toy inside of you all the while.
Grinning against your temple, Aerion turns and plants a kiss to your hairline, pulling the toy from you and turning it off. Where it lands when it leaves his hand is none of your business. You let him guide you to lay back against his pillows.
You’re a panting, wriggling mess, but you still manage to turn your head and take Aerion in, to want him, to want to take your tongue to his spine, lick a stripe up the full length of him, taste the salt that has made his skin slippery there. “How much longer until we can fuck proper?”
Aerion groans, spent, and falls backwards onto the bed, shoulder knocking into one of your feet. He grabs your ankle and tugs, smiling when you cackle at the feeling. He adjusts his briefs and hisses at the way his cock twitches against him, a reminder he’s not finished. Closing his eyes, he relives, against his will, the way you’d looked when your orgasm had wracked through you. Right.
Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen was anything but inexperienced when it came to women. So imagine your surprise when the simple act of kissing left him a stiff awkward mess under your fingers.
part 1 here
a/n - i posted the first part over a month ago so it’s taken ages i’m sorry 🙏 i dont know if any of the people who commented when i first posted it are still in the fandom so that’s actually my bad 😞 this was my first/second fanfic ever so i found it really difficult
You grinned and his eyes flickered between your own.
Then your thighs tightened around his hips even more, tight enough so that when you suddenly rolled over you took him with you rather easily.
Now you sat atop him. Hips flush.
You had expected him to just lie there in surprise at first. And maybe then he’d get angry and flip you back over because he didn’t want to be in such a submissive position. Because he didn’t like the fact you were looking down at him. That’s what you thought. In reality, those thoughts had not even crossed his mind.
He didn’t do either. Instead he sat up almost immediately, lips connecting with your own once more.
Because you didn't anticipate how much he would’ve enjoyed this. For him, it was almost like torture to pull his lips away from yours, so when you flipped him over, lips separated from his, body’s being furthest apart since before you had kissed him, even if only for a couple of seconds, he felt his lips, his tongue, his throat feel painfully empty. His body felt painfully cold. Painful enough that he ignored his pride, his ego, because for him right now biting and kissing your lips was more important than his urge to appear in that same arrogant and cocky manner he usually presented in.
Now, you were in the same position as when you were sitting on the edge of the bed, you were straddling his lap, his hands all over you once more, except this time his legs were not hanging over the side of the bed. This time they were placed upon the soft sheets.
Still.
Until they weren’t.
As he continued to kiss you, your teeth began to nibble on his bottom lip in that same place you had previously bit, and there was a soft sound of movement behind you.
His legs were slowly moving up and down the bed, changing from a straight, pointed position to bent upwards, and then to knees angled towards the walls instead of the ceiling. They were moving slowly, but not slow enough you couldn’t hear the rustling of the sheets behind you.
He was squirming.
Fucking squirming beneath you.
You let out a small giggle that sounded closer to a sigh, but he had felt your lips curve into a smile. How could he not when they were biting his own. As painful as it was, he pulled back only slightly, enough to look at you slightly confused.
“What?” A small whisper as he squeezed you closer, because if he wasn’t going to have your lips pressed together, he was going to have every inch of your body’s touch instead.
“Can you raise your arms for me, Aerion?” Gently whispered against his lips that were so close to yours. You felt when he closed them, pressing them into a line of pure determination as he raised his arms with the most purely displayed submissiveness you had ever seen. He was sitting there, arms high and pride low for the first time in his life and he looked so desperate. His breathing was heavier, deeper, almost sounding like an angry growl, but not because he was angry at what you were doing to him. He was angry with what you weren’t doing. You weren’t kissing him. You weren’t grabbing the hem of his shirt and ripping it off of him. You weren’t grinding your hips against his in that perfect way of yours that grazed every part of his cock through his clothes. You weren’t naked. You weren’t stretched out around his cock.
“Aerion.”
He looked.
“Good boy.”
Said in the sweetest voice he had ever heard from your lips.
Said in the sweetest voice he had ever heard at all.
Aerion’s lip quivered. A muffled whine.
“My arms,” he blinked harder than necessary with his glassy eyes, “my arms are sore.”
Then that soft sweet smile, which was so encouraging to him. That look on your face of complete satisfaction, so proud of him for doing as you asked. Aerion believed he might do anything you asked if you looked at him like that for too long, not that he would ever admit it.
“Just a little longer, okay?”
A frantic nod.
His arms began to tremble ever so slightly, not only out of how much they were beginning to ache from being raised, but out of anticipation. From waiting to be closer to you with one less layer of torturous fabric blocking him.
Your fingers reached underneath the hem of his shirt, the back of your nails kissing his stomach lightly.
He shivered.
Then you lifted, and as soon as he was free from that prison of a shirt, his hands fell down to your hips. Arms finally being able to rest.
His head fell to your shoulder, breathing heavy into your neck. He was nuzzling into you like some wounded dog.
So what else could you do but tend to him. Your hands that had just thrown his shirt to some dark corner of the room reached up to his silver hair. You began to gently stroke the back of his neck. Consoling him. Relaxing him. Grounding him.
Because maybe he really was wounded. Not just from sore arms, or a bitten lip, but because of that arrogance he always carried, that cockiness that had been ripped from him the moment you had your fingers down his throat, and then your tongue, then his own blood. A wound you had inflicted upon him. An injury he would’ve killed anyone else for. Yet he just sat there, drinking it, liking it. He hated himself for that, for this.
He was almost purring into you now, he just simply couldn’t stop. Your smell, your touch, your taste, it was intoxicating. He needed more.
His fingers began to tangle with the bottom of your shirt, a signal he wanted to rip it off. Then he raised his head from the crook of your neck, looking at you expectantly.
“This, take this off.” He breathed out.
You could feel the heat of his hands against your lower back as he gripped your shirt tightly, growing impatient. You could also feel how they were fisted so tightly they were beginning to tremble slightly, a tight enough grip he could’ve just ripped it off if he wished to. Something he clearly wanted to do.
But he did not.
It was almost adorable the way he was looking up at you, like an impatient child, but there was still a glimmer of anger in his eyes. Danger. Like he could still sink his teeth into you without warning. He was probably going too if you didn’t tear your shirt off in the next few seconds.
You looked down at your shirt, then at him and raised your eyebrows, a silent challenge for him to take your shirt off himself. Something he had never done before. Aerion was silent for a moment, so you raised your arms just as he did, encouraging him.
He cleared his throat and with a look of extreme concentration on his face he began lifting your shirt, his hands warm against your skin. You couldn’t help the laughs that escaped you as he tried to manoeuvre it over your head and up your arms. A clear indication that this was his first time. Your shirt finally lifted off your arms and he looked undeniably pleased with himself as you were only left in a bra.
Unlike before where he took a moment to begin removing your shirt, he immediately started to try and unhook the clasp. Then pulling. Then pushing. A desperate attempt to remove it. It was clear his patience was only holding on by a thread with his rough hands and his harsh grip.
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you.
His movements stopped completely, his grip still tight on your bra. He looked up.
“I have already told you I'd have your tongue for laughing at me.”
“You did.”
Aerion looked equally confused and annoyed. His previous desperation now clouded by his anger, his embarrassment that he could not even unhook your bra.
“Yet you continue to do so?” A cold tone replacing his once shaky voice.
You cleared your throat in a dramatic manner.
“You are right. My apologies.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do not mock m-”
“Would you like me to help?”
Before he could even reply, you reached behind your back to try and guide his hands, but Aerion gripped your wrists harshly before they could reach him.
“No-, no just,” he let out a breath, “fuck i can do it okay, just let me do it.”
There was a second of silence.
All you could do was stare at him. All he could do was hold your hands. Your soft, warm hands.
“Just,” he brought your arms back to your front, and then placed your hands on his shoulders, his own lingering on top of yours longer than necessary, “here.”
You softly nodded.
Relief flashed across his features. It was either relief from the fact that you had stopped laughing. Or relief because he had told you what to do and you listened and it made him feel back in control even if just for a second. Or maybe relief because you hadn’t commented on the fact that the entire time he’s been fumbling with your bra his hands have been trembling, then shaking when he touched your own and brought them to his shoulders. An obvious indication of his inexperience.
But Aerion Brightflame was not inexperienced. He wasn’t some fucking virgin.
He had fucked women. Many women. A lot of women. And fuck why are your hands so fucking soft. Why is your body so warm? Why are your lips so perfect?
“Are you gonna take it off?”
Aerion looked at his hands still placed on yours. He then cleared his throat. You sighed. Your hands then gripped tightly and pulled him into you so his chin now rested on your shoulder and your check pressed into his neck.
“It’s probably easier if you can see.” You mumbled out.
He barely heard what you had said because your shirtless frame and bare skin now pressed against his felt so good. So warm. It was all the encouragement he needed to finally get this damn bra off of you so he could feel every part of your chest against him.
Peeking over your shoulder, his hands began fumbling with your bra for another minute or so before he finally managed to unclasp it, and you physically felt the tension leave his body. His shoulders relaxed. He let out a sigh laced with a laugh.
“See,” he grinned, "I told you I could do it.”
His accomplished face was almost sweet. You brought your hands away from his warm body and hooked them through the now loose straps of your bra, slowly peeling it away.
His face relaxed as his gaze lowered to your bare body, and you noticed the already pink tint on his cheeks deepening, then spreading down his pale neck. You also heard him gulp and try to hide it by clearing his throat.
You smiled.
“Don’t go acting like a virgin on me now, Aerion.”
His eyes shot up, his once relaxed face turning back into that familiar scowl.
“I am no virgin.” He gritted out.
“You’re blushing like one.”
“I’m no-”
You kissed him. He gasped into it.
Both of your shirtless bodies touching, squeezing one another to be as close as possible. He finally had you all shirtless against him. All warm. You could feel his heartbeat thundering against your own as your chests pressed into each other. Then if it was even possible his heartbeat quickened as you pressed your hips down onto his crotch and a pained sound that escaped his throat.
So desperate.
Every time your mouths glided against each other, faint wet sounds filled the air. All you could hear was him. His heavy breathing, a quiet squelch as you kissed him, the occasional whimper that had become a lot more common for you to hear after your bra had been taken off. So you did it again. His hands on your waist that have been squeezing you every time you moved twitched. Then he made another sound. Then he stilled against you. Then he shivered. Your lips broke apart but they were still just in reach of each other. He looked down and so naturally your eyes followed.
There was a wet patch forming on his trousers.
Did he just…?
You were both still for a moment, breathing heavily.
Slowly you placed your hand on his jaw and made him look up. His body had gone almost limp as he sat there trembling beneath you, not focused on your other hand you moved to press against that dark patch on his trousers.
He gasped against your mouth, which he then covered by a very obviously fake scowl.
“Not a word.”He choked out.
His eyes were glassy, and his breathing was shaky.
“I thought you weren’t a virgin, Aerion.”
You pressed again.
His grip on your waist tightened.
“You cannot speak to me like this.” Violet eyes now squeezed shut.
“Aerion.”
“Stop saying my name like that.” His voice sounded almost pained.
“Like what?”
“Like… that.”
“Aerion.”
“Stop.”
He was embarrassed. Humiliated. He couldn’t even look at you because he knew what expression you were going to wear, he was prepared for the laugh, the mocking.
“Look at me.”
He shook his head frantically, almost like a stubborn child.
“Fuck… Aerion.”
He wasn’t prepared for you to grab his face and start eagerly kissing him. He was so surprised he didn’t react at first, trying to understand what you were doing. But before he could get his thoughts in order, you pushed him down flat on the bed. It was then he saw your face. Your flushed cheeks, heavy breathing, dazed eyes.
Then he saw your hands fumbling with the waistband of your pants, sliding them down your legs, and he noticed a wet spot in your underwear, which you then also ripped off. “I'm sorry, I’ll, I’ll, teach you everything else,”you were basically panting, “some other day.”
What?
Suddenly your hands were on the front of his trousers, undoing them, yanking them down just enough so his cock sprang free. It was flushed, and still slick with his cum and he didn’t know where he should be shocked, embarrassed or turned on.
You were being so desperate for it, and he wondered if this is what he looked like when he was whining just a few seconds before. The look on your face, the trembling of your body, the eagerness in your movements, god he shouldn’t be this turned on, so turned on that even though he has just fucking finished inside his underwear he was rock hard again. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Just to lay there and admire your bare pussy, the fact it was dripping and he could see the slick reflecting of your upper thighs, and the way you positioned yourself so you were sat on his lap, on his cock. His cock that was hard, flat against his stomach, and your cunt that was placed on the underside of his length, your folds wrapping around it. Aerion brought his hands to your hips, and you brought yours to his chest. Eyes locked, Breathing heavy and just staring at one another. Your hips began to move.
Slowly.
It was agonising. Your heat rubbing up and down his cock, it was so warm, so wet, wet enough you could hear the lewd sounds of your slick mixing with his cum. You could feel his hard flesh pressing against everything. Grinding every sensitive part of yourself against him, both of your soft gasps and whines began filling the room. All while you just stared at each other, eyes never breaking apart.
“Im sorry ,I said.. I said I’d fuck I said I’d teach you, I will, I will, but I just need, I need..” Your eyes shut closed for a second and your mouth parted. He swore he had never seen something so beautiful. He didn’t even think before he gripped your waist and flipped you over, his mouth all over you. Your lips, your neck, down your chest. All while you let out those soft, pretty gasps. Then his mouth hovered above your core.
“Then teach me.”
His cock was aching, he wanted nothing more than to be inside you, but deep down the thought of your approval, your praise, that look on your face when you were pleased with him, when you felt good, it was more important to him right now than his leaking cock. He wanted to please you, to suck on your pretty pussy, something he had never done before, something he said to himself he would never do.
You gasped his name and he snapped. His mouth was on you. A flat stripe of his tongue up through your folds, and your back arched into his touch, then he spoke.
“You have to tell me, teach me,” his mouth pressed a small kiss to your thigh and he whispered, “please.” With the sounds of your gasping you didn’t hear that last part and Aerion was glad you didn’t.
“Okay, okay.” You breathed.
You sat up slightly, resting on one hand, your other now holding his face. Instinctively he pressed his cheek into your palm, then a soft kiss. You smiled at that.
“You’re getting pretty good at this.”
He glanced up at you and there was a smug grin on his face.
“Im a fast learner.”
A soft laugh left you, and unlike before when he would have gotten angry at you for that, he found himself savouring the noise.
He had one hand placed on the inside of your thigh, holding you open for him, then he brought the other to your own that was placed on his cheek. He then moved it to the back of his head and pushed slightly, it was a signal for you to guide him, show him where you wanted it. So you did. You pushed his head into you slowly, so his lips pressed against your clit and you let out a soft sigh.
“Lick.” An order that sounded more like a request, spoken so softly, so sweetly from your lips. Aerion licked.
“Harder,” you gasped, “please.”
He licked harder. More pressure on his tongue and you cried out. Fuck he thought he would come again from just your moans.
You started to guide his head up and down your heat, told him when to lick, when to suck, when to fuck his tongue into you then drag it back up to your clit. You told him softer, harder, faster, slower, when to slowly push his fingers inside you. He had become familiar with the movements that made you whimper, made you moan, or made you cry out and grip his silver hair.
His tongue was so hot, and it felt so good. So good the hand you had been resting on eventually gave way to pleasure and flopped back onto the bed, moans and the sound of his sucking filling the room. His hand moved up your body and pressed down on your stomach, pushing you into the bed hard enough so you stopped squirming against the sheets.
“Aerion,” you gasped, “im, ugh, Aerion,” your hands gripped harder, “please.”
He hummed against you.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” A trail of curses and moans left you as he continued to suck on your clit. Then the pressure that had been building in your stomach, the heat spreading throughout your body finally snapped and you came undone around his face. Tears fell from the corners of your eyes, yet your vision still stayed blurry. Your thighs clenched around his head and he groaned into you, giving you one last lick through your folds as you continued to tremble beneath him.
Almost predator-like he raised his head and positioned himself over your shivering frame. You were still breathing heavily, eyes not fully in focus until you felt him cup your jaw, his 4 fingers gently tapping your face twice.
“So?”
You scrunched your brows.
“Am I a fast learner?”
You scoffed and turned your face as he laughed softly at your reaction.
“Well,” your voice still slightly hoarse from your moaning, "I'm sure you don’t need any help with this part.”
He cocked a brow.
You gripped the base of his cock that had been pressing into your thigh and he jolted.
He hissed out a fuck which you grinned at.
“Or are you really a virgin?” A mocking tone in your voice.
a/n - also my first time writing a smut scene so bear with me pls but i still wanna do another part cus i have a few ideas and where they actually fuck
tmi and i’m a virgin so im going in blind here LMAO
Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen was anything but inexperienced when it came to women. So imagine your surprise when the simple act of kissing left him a stiff awkward mess under your fingers.
part 2 here
a/n - i was gonna write a little backstory for this but while i was writing I was really stuck and didn’t know if i should set this in a modern au or the original world so i kinda left it up to your interpretation. so you could imagine it as their wedding night or a one night stand after a party or whatever you like.
“Was that your first kiss?” A hint of shock in your voice.
He was quiet.
You stared, mouth slightly agape.
Violet eyes that usually glared into yours were darting around the dimly lit room around you, trying to focus on something, look at anything but you.
He looked like a frightened animal.
Shaky breath, stiff posture, clenched fists. He had not expected you to kiss him. He had expected it to be fast, not slow. Cold, not warm. Hard, not soft. Practical. Like it usually was.
Of course you were shocked, how could you not be?
He was no virgin, that was one of the few things you knew about him, so why was he reacting like this?
A soft laugh left you, though it was closer to a sound of shock directed at his current state. This was the same person that people usually held their breath around, anxious that any slight movement would set him off.
His eyes shot to yours, finally looking at you after that sound left your lips.
That laugh.
You had laughed.
At him.
Anger flashed his face, or maybe embarrassment. Both, you thought.
“I will have your tongue for laughing at me.”
He looked humiliated as he spoke.
You grinned.
“You want my tongue as you clearly do not know how to use your own?”
His fists clenched harder until his knuckles turned white.
Who were you to talk to him like that?
“I could have you killed.” He spat.
Usually this would have scared you, usually. Maybe it would have, if his voice didn’t waver as he said it.
Your lips pressed together.
Then your hands raised to cover them slightly.
Another laugh.
His jaw visibly clenched. and he narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t be stupid.”
A small smile reached your lips.
If he was anything, he was prideful, even if he didn’t mean what he was saying he would act as though he did. Anything to protect and uphold his image in the eyes of others.
Slowly, you stepped forward, the gap between you closing, enough so that the small act of breathing made your chests touch.
Silence filled the room as you stood close to him, only briefly touching when he let out those deep breaths laced with anger. Then, your hand reached his face, cupping his cheek, it was warm and slightly rosy. He was flushed. You weren’t sure if it was because he was irked at your words and actions, or if it was because he was unsettled and self conscious at your discovery.
His hand immediately gripped your wrist, harshly, pulling your hand away and you winced at his strength.
“You have no right to touch me, whore.” He gritted out.
You were quiet for a moment and you watched how his eyes scanned over you, eager for you to say something back, your silence clearly unsettling him.
He waited for a clever remark, something that would only fuel his anger.
What he didn’t expect was an offer.
“I shall teach you,” a gentle voice, a kind smile, a contrast to his bruising grip still placed on your wrist.
However your soft words made that grip loosen slightly, allowing your hand to reach his flushed cheek once again. His eyes flickered from yours to your hand on his face then back to you.
“Would you like that?”
You felt his breath hitch slightly, his eyes flashing with surprise, then he spoke, in an attempt to embarrass you instead.
“Ah, so you wish to kiss me that badly, is that it? No surprise really.” Aerion wanted you to get defensive, to flip this on you, but you didn’t react.
“Maybe.”
He stilled for a second at your words.
Then looked away, beginning to find your eyes difficult to look into, the way they did not falter and stared straight back. It was something he was not used to.
“Kissing is completely insignificant, I do not care for it, I never have.” A quieter voice than he had hoped, which made it obvious to you he did not really mean those words.
Maybe before you kissed him he would have meant them, but the feeling of your soft lips on his was something he’d never felt before. Even if it was just for a second. Even if you had only pressed your lips to his so gently it was as if you hadn’t at all. Even if as soon as you had kissed him his entire body froze, and his mind went completely blank, leaving him still, hopeless.
So, you leaned forward, your lips just a whisper away from his. Aerion's grip on your wrist tightened once more however this time it did not pull your hand away, it just held you there. A grip so tight you were sure he’d die right there and then if he let go.
But you leaned forward no more, hovering just out of reach from his gently parted lips, a soft smug smile embracing your own.
“Oh, well that is a shame.” You whispered.
The soft movements of your mouth causing your lips to graze his own. His breath stilled. His fingers twitched against your wrist. His eyes dart from yours to your lips, once, then twice. It was impossible not to notice the way his body leaned in so slightly.
But you refused.
Gentle fingertips grazed down his cheek as you pulled your hand away, taking a short step backwards.
His gaze never left your lips as you moved.
Then they did, and finally looked into your eyes again.
Gods.
His brows furrowed upwards in anticipation. Eyes slightly wider than usual.
He looked needy.
God he looked pathetic.
He did not care to kiss you? As he looked at you like that?
Fists now clenched at his side, jaw tight, those violet eyes full of hunger?
Aerion raised his chin in a desperate attempt to make himself look more intimidating.
“I do not need teaching from the likes of you, especially in something so, so, so pointless.” He stammered and it wasn’t clear if he was trying to convince you or himself.
You hummed.
“Of course not.” You replied, sweetly smiling.
Swallowing nervously, he bit his lip, clearly wanting to take you up on your offer, but his pride wouldn’t let him.
So prideful.
So pitiful.
But he was breaking. Slowly. You could see it. A few more pushes at him and he would crack.
“So if I don't need to teach you, then perhaps… practice?”
Before he could let out any more feeble excuses to protect his ego, you stepped in front of him again, gripping onto his shoulders.
“Hm?” Another sweet smile.
His breathing was heavier now.
So you decided to push his pride again.
Pressing harder onto his shoulders, he was forced to sit down on the edge of the bed. A position he did not like. He was not fond of any position that made him look up to someone like this.
So when you straddled his lap, and pressed a thumb to his lips, he bit down, hard.
A sharp gasp, and you withdrew your hand.
He made no effort to push you off however, and instead he just gripped your hips tightly.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
You batted your eyelashes innocently.
“Practising.” A simple reply.
“This is not-”
Two fingers shoved into his mouth and fuck he shouldn’t of liked it as much as he did. Your other hand that was still rested on his shoulder slowly moved up to the side of his jaw, holding his face. With your fingers in his mouth and your body pressed so close to his, there was no room between you for his pride anymore.
“Relax your mouth, Brightflame.”
He scowled.
Then he relaxed, eyes still narrowed at you.
“Follow my fingers.”
He was still.
Then he did.
“Softly.”
Then he was.
For a moment you just sat there, guiding his tongue, controlling his movements, softening his eyes, hardening his cock.
His hands on your waist squeezed, so your hand on his shoulder squeezed back. Actions that were almost sweet.
Then you rolled your hips, and he couldn’t help but groan around your fingers, his tongue stilling for a second as his eyes fluttered close.
“Tsk, I told you to relax, Aerion.”
Your fingers retreated from his wet mouth with a pop, and he noticed how empty his mouth now felt.
He noticed how he hated it.
He hated how he was sucking on your fingers like some newborn.
He hated how he liked it.
“You cannot tell me what to do.” He breathed out, closer to a plea than a command.
His bright eyes then turned into ones of confusion as you reached both hands to cup his face.
You leaned in.
Once again, you stopped just before his lips. And despite his harsh words he wanted you to close the gap between you. He was getting impatient, which was made known to the both of you when a small whimper escaped his throat at the lack of contact.
You smiled at that.
Before he could say a word you tugged his hair slightly.
“Slowly.”
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“Yes.” He managed to choke out.
“And gentle.”
A frantic nod, and you smiled wide at his growing impatience.
Aerion Brightflame would kill anyone who saw him right now.
Eyebrows upturned with glossy needy eyes, staring up at you, unsteady breathing that sounds closer to whining.
Then finally, after rubbing your thumbs softly for a moment against his cheeks, you leaned in. Your soft lips pressed against his own in a simple peck and yet his body felt impossibly hot. Hotter than it had ever been.
Pulling back slowly and resting your forehead on his, his needy eyes were met with a desperate pair of your own. It started off as teasing, but as his hands gripped harder on your hips and yours gripped tighter on his shoulders, gripping his shirt, you realised you might have enjoyed that soft kiss more than you thought you would’ve.
So you leaned in again, this time firmer, less restrained, beginning a steady rhythm of rolling your hips against his cock. Perhaps that was the reason why he was more relaxed now, his tongue flowing more freely, moving less stiffly than before.
Touches became more frantic.
Arms wrapped around waists and necks.
Hands sliding down chests and thighs.
Fingers intertwined in hair and clothes.
Hips pressed impossibly close.
Tearing away from the heated kiss, you whispered against his lips,
“Good, you’re doing good.”
He breathed heavily out of slightly swollen lips.
You giggled.
“But don’t forget to breathe through your nose, Aerion.”
He glared, but there was a slight smile on his lips, and before he leaned in again, your hands gripped the back of his own, guiding them.
You moved one hand to wrap around your throat, then the other to wrap around your waist, his arm fitting perfectly around you.
“Here”, you breathed, “I like it here.”
Squeezing his hands in a signal for him to grip harder, something flashed in his eyes, so he did. He gripped your throat tight. Tight enough your eyes began to flutter, as he kissed you again.
It felt good.
So good you bit down hard on his lip instinctively trying to deepen the kiss, if that was even possible. Then it was warm, warmer than before as you felt something trickle down your chin.
Blood.
“Shit, sorr-”
His arm on your waist pulled you closer as his lips found yours once more. You expected him to lash out, get angry, call you even more names, but he didn’t.
Instead of hearing foul names come from his throat, you heard the sound of soft swallowing. The sound of him swallowing blood and spit as he continued to kiss you.
It was warm.
And wet.
And good.
He began to feel your throat bobbing softly under his grip as you began to swallow some of the metallic liquid as well. He wanted to lick and bite and kiss your neck. To leave a mark on the soft skin of your throat as you left one on his lips.
So he did.
Well, tried.
He pulled his hand away from your throat to place it alongside his other one, around your waist, then his mouth was on you.
It was all teeth really, then harsh sucking, a laughable attempt.
Another giggle.
“Never left a hickey either?”
He glared up at you and you couldn’t help but smile at him.
His narrow eyes displayed an expression of anger, but also one of curiosity, desperation, a look so eager you simply could not deny him.
So, you took your hands from his shoulders and brought them to the hand newly wrapped around you, gripping his wrist softly, bringing it to your mouth. He just watched you, waiting.
A soft kiss.
The simplest thing.
Gentle, warm.
And unbearable.
Abruptly, he stood up from the bed, holding you firmly against him and before you could realise what he was doing, your back was flush against the sheets, Aerion looming over you. Hands on either side of your head, hips between your thighs, which were spread embarrassingly wide around him.
“You said you would teach me.”
“I did.”
He stared down at you, searching your eyes. You brought a hand up to his wrist and rubbed your thumb against it slowly.
“I am.” A whisper.
He grunted in response.
“Hurry.”
“You shouldn’t rush your lessons, Aerion.”
A sound you could only describe as a whimper left his throat as he moved one hand to your lips.
“Show me.” A deeper voice now.
So you held his hand again and took the soft flesh of his wrist into your mouth, and you kissed him, then licked, then sucked, then a soft bite. A bloom of pink and red and darker reds bloomed against the pale skin. His cheeks resembled the same pink.
He was flushed.
And hot.
And hard.
And yet all you had done was kiss each other.
Clothes were still on. Buttons still undone.
And yet here he was.
Trembling above you as he watched your lips move against him. His wrist was tingling where you had kissed him, unbearably so.
He kissed you again roughly, earning a gasp from you, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. In return he pressed his hips to yours grinding softly through your clothes, your legs instinctively tangling around his hips.
This was new to him.
Sex had never been this warm and soft before. Nor did it take this long to actually start fucking.
But he did not seem to mind.
He kissed down the line of your jaw, then he reached the warm flesh of your throat, placing firmer kisses, then he licked, then sucked, then a bite. It was aggressive, but not like before with deep teeth marks and nothing more. It was more tongue. More kisses. Sweeter even.
As soft gasps and moans began to fill the air, he continued to kiss your neck and grind his hips.
“Like that.” A breathy plea.
“Just like that Aerion.”
Your encouragement hit him harder than he would’ve liked.
Aerion lifted his head slightly to look down at you, red and purple marks decorated your neck, accented with faint teeth marks.
The sight of it made him dizzy.
He pressed his lips together, a shaky exhale through his nose.
And of course you had to look up at him with those glossy eyes, shaking and flushed in your cheeks.
“Don’t,” you whined, “Why are you stopping?”
He leaned down instantly, planting a needy kiss on your lips, only pulling away after a moment to whisper against your lips.
“Teach me more.”
a/n - I was thinking of making a part 2 for this cus I really enjoyed writing it but I’ve never written smut before so it might take me a while if I do🙏
aerion betrothed to a good girl reader who everyone thinks is an angel and he thinks shes just pretty and boring but she turns out to be obsessed with dragons (and him) so they lowk match each others freaks
Dragon Tamer
Warnings ✩ blood kink, biting, breeding kink, smut, Aerion and his use of the word whore
A/N ✩ yes yes yes!
──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────
The first time you saw Aerion Targaryen, only one word could describe him truly, and that was dragon.
Your betrothed was everything like the mythical beast and more. Cruel, terrifying, unpredictable.
More often than not people whispered about him like he was a monster hiding under their beds. They spoke in hushed gossip about how cruel he was. About how much they pitied you.
You were to be thrown to a man who thought of himself as a real dragon. A man made of cruelty and delusions. It should have been enough to drive any sensible maiden away. But little did they know—you had been obsessed with dragons since your childhood.
You were excited to meet Aerion, despite what people said. You rode to the Red Keep without protest. Your mother kept glancing at you, as if she expected you to burst into tears. Your father keep repeating that there were always other men. To them, they did not want to give away their most prized possession to a creature that might destroy you, but you weren’t worried about that.
You were presented yourself to the Royal Family in the way you always did. Quiet, meek, and respectful, the very opposite of Aerion.
He had watched you with a hard stare and a teasing smirk on his face, like he was waiting for you to mess up. He was waiting for a little lamb like you to stumble so that that the dragon could devour it, but that never happened.
To his surprise, you turned out to be no lamb at all. There was nothing soft or tender about you; at least not on the inside.
On the outside, you put on the mask of a perfect Lady of the realm. Doing your duty, never talking back. There was absolutely no indication that you had another side to you at all. Aerion was, by all means, completely unprepared.
The first time that he saw it was on your wedding night. As soon as the door closed and the last spectator made their way out — on Aerion’s orders, of course. The dragon does not like to share — you pounced on him like no woman had ever before.
You were ravenous, your lips on his before Aerion could even blink. One of your hands came to tangle in his silver hair and the other pressed against his chest. You felt his heart beating while your lips moved against his in a perfect symphony; far too orchestrated for it to have been the first time. You had experience that you most certainly should not have had, evident in the way you had also bitten his lip, which made Aerion wince.
It was only when you began sucking on it, moaning at the iron taste, did he manage to breathe again.
“My, my. What is this?”
He pushed you away and looked at you with dark eyes, his curiousity piqued. The blood coming from his lip stained his mouth and left a bitter taste, but Aerion was anything but. In fact, the dragon prince was quite excited to see your desire, and your eyes dark with lust. “You are no lamb at all,” he mused.
“I never was,” you told him. A shy smile formed on your face as you stroked his cheek, admiring your work. “I’ve always thought myself more of a dragon tamer.”
The jest earned a genuine laugh from him. It was sharp but not cruel, and Aerion was indeed entertained. What he initially thought was going to be a very boring night suddenly turned into a very interesting game.
“Oh, is that so Krubōñe?” He teased you in his native language. The word rolled off of his tongue and filled you with more desire, even without knowing its meaning. You nodded eagerly.
“Let me show you,” you whispered, pushing him again. “Let me worship the dragon as they did in Old Valyria.”
You first started by sinking to your knees. Your hand trailed itself over his body and you palmed him through his breeches, relishing the way he weakened slightly. He cursed as you swiped the area with your tongue, and then he laughed when you undid the string with your teeth.
“Fucking hell. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, whore?”
You responded by taking his cock deep. You hollowed your cheeks and breathed through your nose, using your hands to play with his balls while you sucked. You felt satisfied as the action caused him to become weak, the words on his lips dying.
They were replaced by the sweetest of grunts, ones that urged you on greatly. You smirked as one of his strong hands tangled in your hair. You knew what he was doing. Aerion attempted to take control by setting the pace, but he failed miserably.
He ended abandoning his hope when you used your hand to stroke whatever flesh your throat could not reach. With the combined sensations, coupled with the fact that you kept looking at him through your eyelashes, he was completely at your mercy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Stop! Stop!”
You pulled away with a grin and soft giggle, your eyes shining mischievously. You knew exactly why he pushed you away and it made you feel smug.
“Oh, you think that was funny, do you?” Aerion hissed. He glared down at you, trying and once again failing to hide his obvious weakness.
You smiled teasingly. “No. But I will when I have you aching for me.”
You lifted yourself from your knees and abandoned him. Instead of continuing your pleasure, you began to undress, trying to tease him.
First you laid back on the bed and removed your clothing. It wasn’t much; only a sheer gown that your maids had dressed you in. They made sure that you were brought to the prince with as little barriers as possible, and it made it easier to expose your body to him.
Aerion tried to act as if it was not interesting, but you saw the way his eyes glazed over. He was hungry as he watched your hands trail over your body, sucking in a sharp breath when you touched yourself.
Your circled your bud like you had many times before, but this time you did not look away from him. You made sure that Aerion saw every emotion on your face, every draw of breath, every whimper.
You used it to reel him in, making him curious as to what it would be like with him pleasuring you instead.
You even went as far as to start moaning out his name. As your fingers glided in and out of your wetness, you let it slip and had the please of watching him come undone.
“Aerion…fuck. Aerion.”
He did not last much longer. His resolve disappeared in an instant. One moment he was across the room, staring at you, and the next he was hovering over you.
His face was twisted in desire and his lips were twisted in a snarl. He was angry as he yanked your hand away from your cunt, denying you of your own pleasure.
“I did not give you my permission to come,” he growled.
You smirked at him. “That is because I do not need it.”
In an instant, you pushed him down and then you were on top. You swung your legs over his waist to hold him down, and it was Aerion at your mercy.
At first he had struggled. He had tried to push you off. His violet eyes were blazing with a wounded pride but it quickly went away again as soon as you began stroking him again. When he relaxed, you giggled because you were right. He still glared at you, but he ached so badly that he no longer tried to reverse your position.
“That’s it…be a good dragon for me. Let me worship you, please.”
You leaned down to undo his breeches and Aerion, for once, had no protests. He allowed you to do just that, groaning when you stroked him again.
He was painfully hard, that you could tell. His cock stood eagerly and he was already leaking preseed by the time you lined him up with your entrance.
When you finally sank down on him, the two you moaned in unison. It soothed the aches that both of you had been left with, but your husband still was not satisfied. Aerion’s hands came up to trap you against him and he forced you to let him set the pace. He was not as kind as your previous lovers. Nor was he forgiving. Aerion was harsh as he pounded into you, staking his claim like any dragon would.
He did not let you escape, nor did he give you the satisfaction of teasing him any longer. He took what he wanted, oblivious that you gave it to him, and he groaned as your sweet cunt consumed him.
“Fucking Gods, you’re a menace,” he whispered in your ear. His teeth grazed your skin and his words made you shiver. You felt yourself losing control slightly the harder that he fucked you, so you decided to take it back.
You buried your head in his shoulder and you bit him suddenly. Not enough to truly hurt, but enough to make him bleed. His hot blood coated your teeth and made your mouth taste bitter, but you kept going because Aerion groaned louder, seemingly spurred on by the action.
You could feel his hips faltering the harder that you bit. His pace weakening with every thrust. You groaned as you were forced away from him, Aerion grabbing your hair harshly. He decided to repay you by not letting you move at all, forcing you to take him.
There was seldom you could do to escape him. There was no way to run from your pleasure. It overtook you as Aerion seemed to exactly which spot to tease, and he did not relent like you did.
Instead he fucked you through it, half-smug and half-mesmerized as you came undone.
Your cunt tightened around him and you let out the sweetest of moans. Pain mixed with pleasure when Aerion paid you back in blood, his own teeth sinking into your neck.
He bit you in a place that was the most obvious; where every one was sure to see his mark. He did not want his claim on you to be subtle at all and he grinned. Blood dripped from his lips as he reached his own peak, making sure that you took every last drop of him.
You might not have been a dragon, but you were to sure to carry one. He would not let you win so easily. Aerion would do everything he could to ensure that the flames of his seed licked at your womb. He would make sure that you knew you could not bring a dragon to its knees so easily—though you both knew that there still plenty of time to try it.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
Buck should definitely avert his eyes before he starts drooling.
"You're drooling." Eddie's amused voice comes from next to him.
Shit.
When Bobby had selected you, Buck, and Eddie to compete in the 51st Firefighter Games in Nashville, Buck had been ecstatic. Going on a trip with two of his best friends? It was exactly what he had needed to decompress.
And even though Bobby was alive and well post-lab, retired and tending to a very complicated herb garden, Buck had guilted the two of you into saying that poor Bobby would want the LAFD represented by only the best after the year he had.
So the three of you had came and conquered. Or not conquered exactly, since LA had tied with Nashville, but hey, at least you guys were bringing home $12.5k.
Everyone had gathered at a Nashville bar, celebrating the win by drinking to their heart's content and riding the mechanical bull in the middle of the room. Buck thought he was okay and not too buzzed until he saw you hop on the bull.
He sees your strong thighs tighten around the width of the bull, hips rolling with the rhythm of the bull's movement, and well, Buck is turned-on, alright?
Which is a big problem. Because you can be nothing more than his best friend. You had been working with the 118 almost as long as Eddie had. Nothing can come of being attracted to his long-time best friend and coworker.
"Eddie, I have a problem." Buck whines, finally ripping his eyes away from you and the bull.
"You just realized you were in love with our best friend?" Eddie supplies.
"L-love? No!" Buck sputters, but almost as soon as the words are out, Buck realizes something.
His eyes always seek you out in a room. He always feels most at peace with you. He always wants to hang out with you, and he misses you the second you leave his house. He is clearly attracted to you, if the half-hard situation in his pants was anything to go by. Don't those things point to love?
"Oh my god, I am in love with her." Buck breathes out.
Eddie laughs at the incredulous expression on his buddy's face. "Talk to her, pal. I'm heading back to my room, which if you remember is right next to yours. Try not to make too much noise, alright?"
Buck flushes pink at the implication - of bringing you back to his room - as he bids adieu to Eddie with a tilt of his beer bottle.
You bound over to Buck several minutes later, hair slightly messy and a giddy grin that looked beautiful on you. "Didja see me up there?"
"You were amazing." You are amazing, Buck thinks to himself.
"Thanks!" You grin, swiping Buck's beer bottle, pursing your lips before taking a long sip.
Buck swallows thickly, eyes tracking the move. Fuck, he was so in love with you.
"I'm so in love with you." Buck blurts out.
Oh shit.
Your eyes widen, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. "What?"
"Uh, nothing."
"You said you're in love with me."
"Did I? I think you heard incorrectly, it is pretty loud in here."
"Are you gaslighting me?"
Buck sighs. "Yeah, sorry. I am in love with you. I wanted to say it properly and I get if you don't reciprocate my feelings but can we forget about it? What happens in Nashville, stays in Nashville?"
You stare at Buck for a beat, completely silent.
You then step closer towards him, your legs between his open ones where he was seated on a barstool. You cradle his face, thumb gently caressing his birthmark that was practically red from the alcohol and heat. You lean in, slowly and cautiously, but finally, press your lips to his.
The kiss was ... exquisite. It was like the two of you were in your own bubble, the bustle and chatter around you reduced to nothing. It felt right and like a homecoming - like your lips and Buck's lips had always been destined to meet.
The two of you separate after a while, dazed and breathless.
"Wow." Buck mutters.
"Yeah." You agree. You place another kiss, chaste and quick to his mouth. "I love you, too, by the way."
Buck blushes, because even though you had kissed him, it was like his brain needed that reassurance. "Really?"
"Really." You grin. Your eyes darken then, biting your lip. "Want to get out of here?"
"Please." Buck states, almost tripping to get up to stand. He slides your hand in his. "I spent the night hoping I could be reincarnated in my next life as a mechanical bull."
You throw your head back laughing. "Well, c'mon cowboy. I can show you how well I actually ride."
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