I don’t have the talent to put pen to paper for this, but asoiaf writers i would LOVE to read this.
So, Aerion Targaryen x reader.. bones and all au.
Aerion to me SCREAMS this vibe and I would literally kill to see what someone makes up with eater!Aerion x eater!reader. Also the angst in this movie already kills me, and I feel like Aerion’s presence would make it feel even more intense.
Also idk if someone thought of this before but if someone has, I would love to read it!!
Idk this is my first actual post so I hope someone sees it 💔
I don’t have the talent to put pen to paper for this, but asoiaf writers i would LOVE to read this.
So, Aerion Targaryen x reader.. bones and all au.
Aerion to me SCREAMS this vibe and I would literally kill to see what someone makes up with eater!Aerion x eater!reader. Also the angst in this movie already kills me, and I feel like Aerion’s presence would make it feel even more intense.
Also idk if someone thought of this before but if someone has, I would love to read it!!
Idk this is my first actual post so I hope someone sees it 💔
I always feel so devastated for Bobby in any verse. He deserves so much better than loving someone who isn’t his soulmate.
what makes you think that he isn’t?
people often go “oh it has to be BB” “oh it has to be Bobby” when actually it’s both of them. that’s the point. both relationships are written with the idea that both Bobby and BB are your soulmates just split into two bodies (what one lacks, the other has and vice versa). there’s no right or wrong or a ship that’s inherently superior. they both have strengths and deep flaws, and who you like better will simply depend on your personal tastes/experiences.
they're honestly tickling me today for some reason.
so, we know bobby is a flirt, right? that's his default setting, his resting state if you will, the thing he does like breathing. and the second he's comfortable around you (which takes about forty minutes, because you're terrifying but also you laughed at one of his dumb jokes and that was it, he was a goner after that) he starts trying to fluster you.
little things first. leaning too close when he's adjusting the lighting. calling you sweetheart in that warm drawl to see if your expression changes. stretching in front of you and letting his crop top ride up past his navel and glancing over to check if you're looking.
and you're always looking. you just don't give him the satisfaction of reacting.
so he escalates. shows up to the next shoot in cut-offs so low his hip bones are doing the talking for him. no underwear, obviously, because he knows what that does to you now. crop top that ends above his ribs, the kind of outfit that screams "I got dressed with the sole intention of being undressed" and he leans against the doorframe and grins and says "hey, you."
and you look him over. slow, head to toe, taking your time. his grin gets wider because he thinks he's winning. then you cross the room, grab his jaw, tilt his face to the side, and press your mouth to the warm tendon in his neck and bite. hard enough to bruise. slow enough that he feels every second of your teeth sinking in, the blunt/hot claim of your tongue dragging across his pulse. bobby's grin disappears, his breath catches. his hands come up to your waist and grip.
"you wore this for me," you say against his throat. not a question.
"maybe." his voice has gone rough.
"you'll take it off for me too."
and the flirting war is over. he won the battle but you won the war, and he's so into it his whole body is vibrating.
that becomes the pattern. he tries to fluster you and you fluster him back, and the volley between you is addictive. he'll say something cocky on camera and you'll raise one eyebrow and shoot something back, and he'll flush scarlet. his subscribers lose their collective minds because they've never seen bobby flustered. the charmer gets charmed and the comment sections fill up with people screaming about your chemistry and the blatant flirting.
and the shoots themselves are something else.
because nothing is faked. that's what makes them ten times hotter than anything else on his channel. every sound is real, every moan earned, every gasp genuine.
when he touches you, you respond because it feels good. you don't spare men's egos, never have, never will. when you touch him, he falls apart because you mean it. the camera catches two people who are so grossly into each other the performance disappeared somewhere around first kiss and what's left is just blinding, stupid, too-hot-to-handle want.
you give him head like you're trying to suck the soul out of his body. hand at the base, mouth everywhere else, taking him so deep and so mean about it that bobby's thighs are shaking and his hand is fisted in the sheets and he's moaning. loud, wanton, completely gone. you pull off just to look up at him with spit on your chin and that cold, pleased expression, and then go back down without missing a beat. he throws his arm over his face and makes sounds the neighbours hear.
and then he makes you sit on his face. grabs your thighs and pulls you up and settles you over his mouth and he's having the time of his life. hands gripping your hips, nose pressed to your clit, tongue working you open with the enthusiasm that borders on ridiculous.
"finally figured out how to shut you up," you say above him, breathless despite yourself.
bobby laughs against your cunt. this rumbling, genuine laugh, the vibration buzzing through you, and then sucks on your clit and you shudder so hard your hand slams against the headboard. he grins into you (you can feel that damn cocky grin) and does it again, and you grab his hair and grind down on his face and the footage of this particular moment becomes the most replayed four seconds on his entire channel.
he starts dressing for you shortly after that. before you bobby dressed slutty because he genuinely liked it. now he dresses slutty because he likes how you look at him when he does. that ravenous, possessive expression, eyes going dark, jaw tightening. he lives for that look. he'll change his outfit three times trying to trigger it.
and the marks...
you can't help yourself. you're possessive and you're greedy and you don't hold back with partners if they manage to meet you.
every shoot bobby walks away bitten, bruised, scratched to hell and back. hickeys blooming on his throat, his collarbones, the inside of his bicep where you grabbed him. bite marks across his shoulders and down his chest. fingerprint bruises on his hips and deep welts from your nails across his back.
he has to hide them for his solo content. concealer on his neck, higher necklines, strategic angles, because his body is a crime scene. his fans notice anyway. "why is his neck always wrecked after the mystery girl shoots?" becomes a running joke.
he doesn't cover the ones on his hips. those are for him. presses his thumb into the bruise your fingers left and grins at his own reflection like an actual idiot.
his comment section every single upload: "when is she coming back???" "bobby we know you're hiding hickeys we can SEE the concealer." "she looked at him like she was going to eat him alive damn."
he reads those ones out loud to you while you're lying in his bed in nothing but his crop top after a shoot, eating takeout. you don't look up from your noodles, licking the grease from the corner of your mouth, and say "they're right" and he grins so hard his face hurts.
and the thing underneath all of it, the thing that surprises you, is that you genuinely like him.
not just for the sex (though the sex is exceptional). not just for the body or the hip game or the way he moans your name (he does moan very prettily, it's kinda offensive). you like HIM. he talks enough for three people and he's cocky as hell and he can't be in a room for longer than four minutes without making a joke about something. but there's genuine sweetness to him. a boyish charm you never once thought you were particularly into and might have been wrong about.
he asks about your day and actually listens to the answer. he's shameless in how tactile he is. he makes fun of himself constantly and never makes fun of you. he fell asleep on your shoulder once after a long shoot and his face in sleep was so open and so young and so trusting that you sat perfectly still for forty-five minutes just watching him.
you don't do this. you don't do boyish charm. you don't do golden retriever energy and lopsided grins and men who talk too much. you do sharp, composed, dangerous men who match your edge. that's your type. that's always been your type.
bobby is not your type. bobby is something you didn't know you wanted until he was already under your skin, grinning up at you from between your thighs with that ridiculous face, and by then it was too late to do anything about it.
he calls you "my wolf" in a behind-the-scenes clip that was supposed to be cut. his editor left it in on purpose. the internet loses its mind.
you text him that night: "your wolf?"
he texts back: "yeah. mine. that a problem?"
you don't reply for six hours. he sweats through all of them.
you reply with your address. "come over. bring the camera. don't bring the crop top, you won't be needing it."
If you do a 4th chapter of Aerion and his woods witch, it could be both of them drinking the sex pollen this time
I Promise You
Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader
✿ having spent time with aerion at summerhall, you both come to a realisation (part four of Here With Me).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.5k
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, possessive!aerion (not as bad this time lol), dual consensual sex pollen/stimulant consumption, SMUT, slight predator/prey (chase), unprotected piv, semi-clothed sex, outdoor sex, prone bone, creampies, slight hyperspermia?, multiple orgasms, praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), dirty talk, hint of a breeding kink, fluff (so maybe ooc but shhh), strong language, maekar being a good father, ser roland mention again <3
✿ a/n: lol here is the highly requested part four. thank you all for the love and support on this series !! i hope you enjoy :)
part one here — part two here — part three here
The gardens of Summerhall hum around you as bees flit from flower to flower, and birds nesting in the lush elm overhead sing out loudly. It’s peaceful here. It’s peaceful and quiet as you sit between two protruding roots, your back pressed to the elm’s trunk with a book spread open in your lap.
You compress a small, delicate flower to the page and scrawl around it. You note its smell, the colour of its pollen, the way its light pink petals feel like silk between your thumb and forefinger. You note where you found it: growing small, undersized beneath the towering, well-pruned carnations that grow in abundance before you. You tack the flower in place with a small droplet of sap, thumbnail indenting the amber as if it were a wax seal, and you blow it gently to set it dry.
The soft padding of footsteps across grass draws your gaze from your notebook. Prince Maekar approaches, his hands clasped behind his back, head cocked slightly in curiosity as he notices the book open in your lap.
You move to stand, a slightly embarrassed scramble as you place your book aside, but the prince holds up his hand. The gesture stills you immediately, and you peer up at him from your spot at the base of the tree. You watch him exhale a deep breath as he steps into the elm’s shadow and takes a seat a metre or so from you on a low stone bench.
Silence stretches as the prince looks out across the garden of carnations, the blooms varying in pinks and the lightest of purples. Fidgeting with the edge of a page, you watch the prince carefully, a small knot of guilt forming in the base of your stomach. You’re not sure why you’re feeling this way, but a prince of the realm was sitting calmly across from you, and suddenly you realise just how out of place you are here.
“My wife had these planted,” Maekar says suddenly, nodding towards the garden. Your eyes dart from him to the sea of carnations. He continues, “She grew quite fond of them. They made up the crown I gifted her during my first tourney after our marriage. I suppose, since then, she saw no reason to favour roses or lilies or what have you.”
You listen carefully, eyes finding the prince’s side profile again. You observe the hard lines of his face, the slope of his nose, the pox scars across his cheekbones. Having spent the past month at Summerhall, basking beneath the clear summer sun, his pale skin has the comings of a golden Dornish glow.
“They’re beautiful,” you decide to tell him, thinking back briefly to your discussion with Aerion about the flowers several days ago.
Maekar turns to you then, his attention leaving his wife’s flowers. His eyes, light in colour, appear darker beneath the thatching branches of the elm, but his gaze is surprisingly soft. He takes you in, and you watch him take you in, like a man thinking of what to say next.
“What have you done to him?”
The knot of guilt in your stomach suddenly grows tenfold. “I beg your pardon, your grace?”
“You’ve changed him,” the prince says. “Aerion. He’s… different.”
Your fingers curl around the edge of your book as you lean back against the elm’s trunk, hoping for it to swallow you, draw you in and hide you amongst bark and sap. But you remain under the watchful stare of the Prince of Summerhall, and all you can do is clear your throat and try to gather your thoughts.
“I apologise—” You begin, but Maekar quickly cuts you off.
“Since… you,” he says pointedly. “The boy has been… calmer about the home. He is still Aerion, I must admit, and he is still intense and rather poor-mannered, but he is calmer. He has more patience with our servants, and he speaks softly to his sisters.”
You listen. The knot of guilt in your belly has shifted into something else. Something warmer. That fuzzy sort of feeling you get when someone bigger than you, someone more important, praises you without warning.
“He hasn’t threatened to kill anyone in a very long time,” Maekar continues, a small laugh escaping him. It makes you smile. Then he shakes his head, lips a flat line across his face as he looks at you. “So what exactly have you done to him?”
You think for a moment, still fidgeting with your notebook.
“In all honesty, your grace, I’m not quite sure,” you answer truthfully. “I have treated his injuries, and soothed his illnesses, and I have—”
“Given him what wants,” Maekar interrupts, nodding. “He’s never needed to chase attention. He’s always been the centre of it. But now, with you… things are different, aren’t they?”
You reply with a slow nod.
Maekar huffs out another laugh. “Gods above, he’s absolutely infatuated with you.”
The heat in your stomach burns hotter, and it spreads wide too. It fills your chest, ichored sunlight seeping between the ivory of your ribs. You lean back against the tree, unable to keep the nervous smile from your face.
A few beats pass before Maekar shuffles further down the bench. He taps the spot beside him then, gesturing for you to sit. You obey, folding your book neatly beneath your arm and padding across the grass, churned slightly by the exposed roots. You sit down beside the prince, feeling the warmth of his body amidst the cool shade. And then the pair of you sit there in comfortable silence for another few moments, listening to the bees and watching the light summer breeze brush through the rows of carnations.
Quietly, Maekar resumes, his eyes on the garden. “You are welcome here for as long as you see fit. Although—” he turns to face you now. “—I must admit, I hope you see fit that your stay here be… more permanent than temporary. Aerion is, well, better with you.”
You feel the press of the prince’s eyes on the side of your face as you look out at the sprawling gardens. A worker passes through the flowers, humming peacefully to himself.
“I have a shop,” you say quietly, placing your book back on your lap so you can curl your fingers around the edge of the cold stone bench. “I have a community to help. I… I am not a maester, your grace.”
“I understand that.”
“I cannot—” You take a deep breath. “—I cannot just leave that behind.”
“I understand that also.”
You look at the prince now, spending a split second gnawing nervously on your bottom lip. You release it to sigh, feeling the corners of your mouth twitch downwards. You fight the pout as you reply, “Then what am I to do?”
Maekar thinks for a moment.
“Do you wish to leave?” He asks, head cocking to the side to gauge your reaction.
Your reply is instant and frighteningly visceral. “No.”
The branches overhead tremble as a pair of birds cut through the leaves, chasing one another, screaming and shouting. Maekar waits for them to fly on, the sounds of their fighting disappearing around the gleaming castle, before continuing.
“And I suppose my son would have my head if I even insisted you go.” He reaches across then and places a hand against your knee. It’s comforting and friendly in a way you hadn’t been expecting, and for a split second, you feel the hot press of tears behind your eyes. He looks at you, expression soft. “As I said, m’lady, you are welcome here. You are welcome in the Keep. You are welcome anywhere my son needs you.”
The word need pierces you through the chest.
“As for your shop,” Maekar says, removing his hand from your knee now. “You must keep working. You enjoy it, do you not?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Then you shall continue working, and if Aerion really lo—” The prince stops himself. He stares out at the flowers, then draws himself back into the conversation as though nothing had happened. “If he really needs you, if you mean that much to him, then he will allow you to do that. I will… I will also have a word with him, if that would be helpful.”
You can’t help but smile. “Thank you, your grace.”
Maekar looks you up and down once more. He smiles then—again, it is small and a mere press of his lips in a slightly curved line—and offers you one last pat on the knee, his hand large and warm against the linen of your skirt.
“No,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
—✿—
That evening, you watch the sun set from one of the latticed windows of your chambers. Streaming lights of watery pink and orange move across your desk as you sit before it, your notebook open in front of you. The candle adjacent casts a subtle yellow halo across the pages as you finish your notes for the day and close the book.
There’s a knock at your door as you gather yourself to your feet. You pad across the chambers and pull the door open, finding Ser Roland waiting there patiently, his hands clasped behind his back.
You offer him a warm smile. “Hello, ser.”
The kingsguard nods in return, his armour glinting beneath the flames that mount the walls and light the long hallway.
“I apologise if I’m disturbing you,” Roland says first. “But I have been asked to fetch you. By his grace.”
You lean against the doorframe, frowning slightly. “Ser Roland, we’ve had this discussion. Aerion can fetch me himself. You must not let him run you about.”
Ser Roland gives you a small, nearly embarrassed smile as he looks up and down the hall briefly before replying, “I understand that, my lady, but he said it was urgent.”
“Of course he did,” you mutter, unamused, as you draw back into your chambers to grab your cloak and your satchel of supplies, just in case.
“He’s in the gardens,” Roland tells you, and you follow him then, through the winding halls of Summerhall and out into the garden.
The sheer expanse of the space is covered in shadow as dusk falls heavily, and the large elm trees that frame the perimeter appear like dark, hulking masses silhouetted by a pale pink sky. Ser Roland gestures to the closest elm, and you thank him, before crossing the gardens alone until you bend beneath a particularly low-hanging branch and enter the cool shade.
Aerion paces over the exposed roots. The sound of your footsteps snaps his attention over to you, and even through the shadow, your eyes now adjusting, you see the flash of relief on his face. He rounds the low stone bench, and you smile warmly as his arms circle around your waist, pulling you into him. His face immediately finds the crook of your neck, and he inhales deeply, nose pressing to the tendon along the side as your head tips to accommodate him.
“Little witch,” he greets you, words muffled against your skin. The vibrations are tickling, and you can’t help the way your smile grows wider and a pleasant heat settles in your tummy. The prince groans softly against you, his body warm against yours, arms tight around your middle. “I’ve missed you.”
You can’t help but laugh. “You have only been away since midday.”
“And that’s too long,” he admits, taking a few more moments to inhale the rose water and honey from your skin, before he pulls back.
His hands remain on your sides though, fingers pressing firmly against the plush of your hips.
The way he’s looking at you makes you want to step back within yourself. Fire burns deep in his irises, and the way in which he drags his eyes down the length of your body, then back up again to trace the lines of your face through the shadows, is intense. He stares at you as if he can see inside. As if he can see through the linens that cover your body, through the barrier of your skin. As if he can see the clattering of your heart against your ribcage.
You look away, hands finding the strap of your satchel nervously. It rests heavily against your hip. But the prince doesn’t let you look away: one hand finds your jaw, surprisingly gentle, and guides your eyes back to him.
“What’re you looking away for?” He questions you, cocking his head to the side. His tongue darts out, presses briefly to the corner of his mouth as he waits for your response, then disappears again. “I’m right here.”
You maintain eye contact for as long as you can, and a victorious smile stretches across his face. He takes a step forward, and the hand on your jaw vanishes—as does the one on your hip—and he takes both to bring your satchel up and over your head. You watch him carefully as he takes the satchel from you and steps back, placing it on the low stone bench and flipping it open. You join him, watching him rifle through the contents without protest.
You can’t help but smile and huff a laugh out through your nose as the prince searches near frantically, muttering to himself.
“What exactly are you looking for?” You ask, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looks at you. “The first day we met. What did I drink?”
You huff out another laugh, shaking your head. “The stimulant?”
“Yes, that,” Aerion says, still looking at you. “Do you have it?”
You look at him strangely. “Why would I bring a stimulant here?”
“Because you’re a good girl and you’d bring everything from that little shop of yours if it means it would make me happy,” the prince says, a serpentine smile crossing his face. He leaves the satchel on the bench and draws you into his arms again, before dipping and pressing the softest of kisses to the very corner of your mouth. When he lifts his head, he’s still smiling. “So?”
One of his hands finds your back beneath your cloak. It sits on the small of your back, and that warmth in the base of your stomach kindles even warmer. The brashness of his words, his ego, should make you roll your eyes and shove him away. You wouldn’t pack nearly half of your shop into your satchel to make him happy; you’d do it to make yourself happy, knowing you could help anyone. But—
Slowly, you nod.
His smile grows as you dig through the contents of your satchel. Bottles and vials clink together, and Aerion watches you carefully with his hand still on the small of your back. Your heart beats heavily behind your sternum as, in the shadowed darkness, your fingers brush against a small velvet pouch near the very base of the bag. You pull it out and then unthread the ties, pulling out a little vial: the liquid inside wine-red, shining like it was coated in oil.
“Gods above, you never disappoint me, do you, sweet girl?” Aerion practically purrs as he takes the small vial from your grasp. He uncorks it with a push of his thumb, and he brings it to his nose to inhale. You smell it from where you’re standing—internally congratulating yourself at such a clean, potent batch—and taste overripe grapes and crushed honeysuckle at the back of your throat. Aerion groans, eyes closing as he says, “I remember this.”
He raises it to his lips, but you shoot a hand out and clamp your fingers around his wrist.
“What are you doing?” You hiss out, urging his hand away from his mouth. He relents marginally. You frown. “Aerion.”
The prince returns your challenging stare with one of his own. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know,” you reply simply, slightly annoyed. “But you cannot—”
“I have missed you,” he repeats, firmer this time. It’s loud in the silence of the night, dusk having shrouded the garden in still, dark shadows. The hand on the small of your back presses you closer by a fraction, and you feel the heat radiating off of him. A pyre of a man, fire thick in his veins. “And so I am going to drink your little stimulant, and then I’m going to fuck you for as long as I want.”
Your mouth goes dry, but your fingers remain tight on his wrist. “Your grace—?”
“Don’t start that now,” Aerion whispers.
“Aerion,” you begin instead, your other hand finding his chest. You push a palm flat over the beating of his heart, softened by his padded doublet. You are about to convince the prince not to drink the stimulant. Convince him not to go through that intensity again. But there’s a glint in his eyes that makes you reconsider, and the heat in your belly certainly isn’t helping. You sigh slowly. “Aerion, you need to be careful.”
He watches you thoughtfully.
Carefully, your fingers rise from his wrist and he lets you pluck the vial from his grasp. He continues to watch, patient, trusting, as you lift the vial to his mouth. If not for the blurring of shadow around you, you would have seen the way his pupils expanded like a cat’s and the way his throat bobbed in anticipation.
“Open,” you whisper.
He obeys immediately. His lips part for you. With gentle precision, you tip the vial against his lips, and watch through as drop after drop, thick like blood, slips over his lip and into his mouth. You count out the measurement in your head, and you pull the vial away when six drops gather behind his teeth.
He swallows before smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And how much did you give me?”
“Enough,” you reply simply.
He eyes you skeptically. “Enough?”
“It’s the correct dose,” you tell him honestly. “So it will make you feel good. There won’t be that… well, breathless desperation you experienced last time.”
It’s a subtle jibe, and he takes it, rolling his eyes. But the moment passes quickly before he’s grinning, rubbing his hand over the base of your spine as his eyes drop to where you hold the vial in one hand, your other still across his chest.
“Well?” He nods down at your hand. “Drink up.”
You frown. “No.”
Aerion leans in and presses his mouth to yours. The tip of his tongue swipes serpent-like against the split of your lips, and you can’t help the way your body reacts: eyes falling closed, blood heating up, and you open up for him and that sharp tongue of his, letting him slide it across your teeth and then against your own. You taste grapes as he kisses you deeply, and the sickly-sweet drip of honeysuckle down the back of your throat has a whine lifting from you, your fingers balling against the material of his doublet. The prince responds with a noise of his own, a deep purr from the top of his chest, as he coaxes your tongue into a rhythm that is almost too slow and too much at the same time.
You’re not sure how much time passes before Aerion pulls away. He rests his forehead against yours, and you’re both panting slightly, the space between you non-existent as he pins you to his front, the hand on your back a solid anchor.
“It tastes nice, doesn’t it?” He whispers, eyes scanning your face. He angles lower then, speaking against your lips as he holds them there, brushing softly. “It tastes so good, sweet girl. C’mon, just this once.”
The next kiss is slower, more tender, but he still tries to bully his tongue into your mouth. You turn your head with a huff, and he chuckles against your cheek, smearing spit over your jaw with his kiss-slick lips before pulling back. And then he watches you with rapt attention, the smile on his face near villainous as you lift the vial to your mouth.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Aerion mutters, pleased, as the deep red liquid drips slowly from the vial, all viscous and thick and sweet-smelling. He watches the droplets, and he observes the way you obviously count in your head—six, then no more—before you cork it and stuff it back into your satchel. Aerion is beaming as he chases your movements, both hands wrapping around your waist again. “Oh, my sweet girl. Always so good for me.”
You roll your eyes. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“Of course not,” Aerion replies sarcastically. Then: “So, how long will it take before it starts working?”
“With the correct dose?” You lilt, wriggling free of his grasp. You take your satchel and heft it back across your shoulder. “Not long. Twenty minutes, I suppose.”
You walk away from him then, ducking out from under the elm’s low-hanging branches and following the narrow stone path back towards the castle. He follows you with a wicked grin on his face, his cloak billowing out behind him, casting a shadow that appears like wings beneath the rising moonlight. His hand slips around your waist again, and he pulls you into his side, still walking. Ser Roland stands near the door, ever dutiful.
“Shall we make this more fun, then?” Aerion whispers in your ear, and he thinks about sinking his teeth into the outer shell, but he decides against it.
You shoot him a pointed look as you come to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Roland’s eyes flit down to the pair of you for the briefest of moments, before they drag back to the darkness that envelops the garden. A torch glows hot overhead, his armour appearing gold.
“What?” You hiss out as Aerion’s touch finds the delicate belt at your waist.
“You have twenty minutes to hide,” he tells you then. It’s a quiet threat that pushes on the heat in the pit of your belly, the weight threatening to seep between your thighs. He’s grinning, and you see the points of his teeth flash in the moonlight. “And wherever I find you is where I fuck you.”
He says that last part louder. It’s pointed. Sharp and purposeful, and Roland shifts his weight nearby, turning his head to scour the perimeter.
You slap Aerion on the chest, getting one foot on a step. “You’re horrid.”
Aerion’s hand clamps down on your wrist and he leans in. “You love it.”
You pull your arm from his hold with a huff and ascend the steps. He remains at the bottom, smiling up at you when you pause in the doorway and gaze back at him. You know the effects will take him earlier—you didn’t feel the need to tell him that these stimulants typically work faster for men—but you know the effects will find you eventually. You suppose, then, you’d need to find a good hiding place.
“Ser Roland,” you begin, still looking at Aerion. The knight turns his attention immediately and steps closer. Enough for you to place a delicate palm to the plate across his chest. You look at him then, smiling softly. “Would you escort me to my chambers?”
Aerion watches the interaction from the bottom of the steps. His smile has not yet disappeared, but even through the dusk-blurred darkness, you could see the narrowing of his eyes. You could see the fire burning there, raging deep in the colour of his irises, and you could feel the heat of his stare as you continue to offer the kingsguard a disarming smile.
“Of course, my lady,” Roland nods, gesturing for the door.
You turn and follow the gesture without another look back, but you don’t miss the call out from the Targaryen prince behind you: “I’ll see you upon the hour, little witch.”
—✿—
When you had returned to your chambers and slipped your cloak and satchel back into their place of belonging, you had thought briefly about taking the antidote. Sipping the tansy-soured liquid and warding off the stimulant’s effects, thus leaving the prince to moan and whine through the corridors of Summerhall while you hide yourself away. You thought of it with a cunning grin, a golden and far-reaching pride spreading through your chest. But ultimately, with Summerhall quiet of the rest of the Targaryen family, and the sun having set completely behind the horizon, you decide against it.
Especially when, upon the hour, twenty minutes having whisked by like a billow of smoke, you find yourself creeping down one of the long halls with an ache between your thighs. The batch was pure and potent and it had taken you like an illness.
You trawl a hand along the smooth wall, trying desperately to keep yourself upright as heat blooms through your chest and runs down your spine, pooling in the base of your stomach. It’s seeping into your womb too, a low pressure beneath your navel, collecting strongly in your core until you can feel yourself. Warm, wet, pressing hot into the linen of your smallclothes, and each movement, each shift of your thighs, draws the material too close to your cunt, to the peak of your swollen clit, and you withhold everything inside you not to whine out like befallen doe.
The hall is mercifully empty of kingsguard and servants, and you reach the grand doors leading to the gardens with sweat damp on your forehead. Your face is hot to the touch as you press the tips of your fingers against your cheek.
As you do this, you hear hurried footsteps behind you, and you whirl around, skirts floating around your shins. At the very end of the hall, beneath the casting flickers of the mounted candles, Aerion rounds the corner. Even from a distance, you can see the flush across his cheeks, how dishevelled his white hair is, and the part of his pink lips as he sucks in desperate, ragged breaths.
He freezes when he spots you, fists balling at his sides. His doublet is missing, and his tunic sits loosely against his abdomen, the ties near the neck and wrists undone, exposing slivers of ivory skin.
“There you are,” he says quietly, and it barely travels down the hall. It’s a comment made more to himself, you realise, as a low groan fights out from the back of his throat. He takes a step closer, flamelight overhead shrouding his face in shadow. “My girl.”
You shoulder the door open, fighting past the need sitting high in your chest and ignoring the fluttering of your heart at the sight of him. The tepid night air greets you, and you break out into the gardens with a small, breathless laugh as you hear footsteps breaking out into a run behind you. You descend the steps quickly and run across the garden, fingers fisting the thin fabric of your skirts as you hold them free of your ankles. You run by the elm, slipping through the darkness, and the rush of air on your face is heavenly.
But a pair of arms wrap around your middle before you can get much further, and they haul you to the ground between a row of rounded shrubs. You breathe out an easy laugh, giddy and slightly dizzy with need, as Aerion flattens his body against yours, pinning you to the plush grass.
You turn your head and watch him from the corner of your eye as he pants above you, his hips grinding against the curve of your arse. A blazing shock rips through your core at the press of his cock between the split of your thighs as he nudges your legs apart and hikes up your skirts. You react with a loud whine, hips bucking back to push him deeper against your covered core.
You feel the prince shift behind you, moving as he rocks his hips and groans.
“Gods, this is going to feel so good, sweet girl, I promise,” Aerion whispers, and you catch the glint of metal beneath the pale moonlight. The prince has pulled his dagger from its sheath at his hip, and the sight of it has you biting your lip to suppress a loud moan. He pulls his hips back just enough so he can pinch the fabric of your smallclothes away from your cunt, and he hisses out, “Fuck, you’re—fuck, you’re soaked.”
It’s breathless and near pained in the way he says it, before he’s slicing through the linen of your smallclothes. Night air braces against your core, and you cry out, hands scrambling in an attempt to grab fistfuls of damp grass as he tosses his dagger aside and runs two fingers up and down your slit. The movements are heavy, rough, as his other hand pulls apart the strings of his trousers and breeches.
The stimulant clouds your thoughts as you try your best to arch back off the grass, pushing into his touch. You whine, his name jumbled somewhere in the sound that whispers through the garden. The heat in your tummy sits heavy and low, and something taut tugs against it each time his fingers draw across the puffy bead of your clit, then down through your swollen folds.
“I promise,” Aerion breathes out, and you feel the blunt press of his cock against your cunt, warm and solid where you clench around nothing. His body rocks against yours as he pushes forward just slightly, his entire being shuddering with restraint as he notches the head inside you. He groans, eyes screwing shut. “I promise, little witch, this is going to feel so good—I’ll make you feel good. I’ll—fuck, f-uh-uck—I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”
He’s rambling and groaning as he slides into you, the thick of his cock pushing you apart. But you take him. Whining and shaking, you take him: your pussy opens, warm, willing, desperate for him as his hips press down against your backside. It’s a slick, tight heat that has his blood roping hot in his veins as the stimulant commandeers his thoughts: take it, take it, take it.
“Aerion,” you breathe out, hot cheek flat against the cool grass.
It’s as if you can feel every ridge, every vein that warps up the underside of his cock as he pushes inside you. Your nerves are alight, bleeding too warm through your stomach, drawing pleasure from everything around you: the thick split of his cock inside you, the hard press of his body against yours, the wet chill of the grass against your skin, the silence of the garden around you. It works you up, need whipping up like a fever through your body, skin clammy with sweat, heart hammering against your sternum.
And it all feels so good.
The prince bottoms out inside you, his hips snug against your arse. It’s unceremonious and needy. But he doesn’t stop—there’s no point of relent before he’s pulling back out and then driving back in.
The sound of the movement is wet, loud, the press of a thumb into the flesh of an overripe peach. It makes Aerion’s cheeks burn redder, blood pumping hot in his ears as he drives into you, arms straining as he holds himself up.
And, gods, you’re so warm. The heat of your body is plush, the smell of you is intoxicating. He groans, bending his head to nose at your temple while his hips slam down against your arse. He ruts you into the grass like this, just panting against the side of your head, listening to the wet schlick of his cock splitting your pussy apart, and the pretty little moans that tumble from your mouth.
“Oh gods,” you whimper. He nails that perfect spot inside you, over and over and over. But then again, with the stimulant flowing freely in your veins, every spot inside you feels like the perfect spot. “Aerion—Aerion, oh—”
“I told you,” he whispers right by your ear. “I told you it’d feel good. I told you, sweet girl.” He pulls back then, head dropping, eyes falling shut again as his hips move, and he has to focus hard on keeping his rhythm as your pussy clenches tight around him. But he continues, voice finding him hoarse: “You always take me so fucking well—fuck, fuck—”
His movements speed up until the sound of flesh-on-flesh echoes quietly around the garden. He groans hard, the noise splitting from between his lips so loud it makes your heart jolt in your chest. You reach behind you then, arm moving blindly, until the tips of your fingers brush against the linen of his tunic.
Your first stimulant-induced orgasm finds you quickly. You can feel it coming—you can nearly taste it, red wine bitter and floral sweet around the edge of your tongue—and you moan as it builds. Intense heat festers in your tummy, slots heavy between your lower vertebrae. It takes over your body, seizes your autonomy with a winding, molten hand and holds you limbless against the grass as the prince lures it to the surface.
“Aerion, please,” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as it slams through you. You tremble against the grass, your cunt drawing tight, clenching tight, as you release around him. Your blood turns to ichor as it hurtles through you, and you feel like you’re glowing. Pulse after pulse, gilded gold, body trembling as you whimper, “Aerion… Aerion.”
The prince comes without warning. He simply anchors himself to you, pushing the head of his cock as far as he can reach, and spills right up against the plug of your womb. He groans as he flattens himself to your back, his hips rolling desperately as he empties himself inside you, mentally begging for you just to take it, take it, take it.
Aerion groans, counting the beats of his racing heart—one, two, three, four—as he’s buried inside of you, still feeling his seed drooling, cock twitching where you wrap warm and tight around him. You grow still beneath him too, and the pair of you suck in breath long displaced, blanketed by nightfall.
A silent minute passes. A raven barks somewhere in the far distance.
Then, you whine, fingers tightening on his tunic. “Aerion.”
“I know,” Aerion groans in response, his cock still achingly hard inside you. He feels it twitch, a heavy weight in his balls as he adjusts his hips, the movement sliding him against you and wrenching a deep-seated moan that interrupts your whining. He grunts as he sits up. “I know, I’ve got you.”
His cock slips from the wet clutch of your cunt, and he bites down a pained groan. His hands find your waist, and you move with his urging until you’re flat on your back. Your skirts remain bundled above your hips, and the prince uses the new angle to pull your torn small clothes away from your thighs now, tossing them aside. You can’t find it in you to care as you lift your hands beneath his tunic, tracing the lines of his abdomen. His skin is warm, your hands strikingly cold from the grass, and he hisses when you trail them quickly up and over his pectorals, swiping across his nipples.
For a moment, he fists his hard cock, the tip red and leaking, as he watches himself dribble out of your pussy. He moans, low in his throat, and you respond in kind, the feeling of his cum drooling down the curve of your arse making you squirm against the ground.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, before he’s ripping his tunic over his head.
You grin lazily, remnants of your orgasm still sitting comfortably across your brain. Your hands run up and down the pale expanse of his chest and abdomen as he guides his cock back to your cunt. Then, he’s pushing in in one deep thrust. You gasp, arching off the ground, air sucked from your lungs as he fills you.
“Oh gods,” you manage to mutter, fingers tightening against the muscle of the prince’s chest as he ruts into you, sweat beading between the curve and rolling down towards his sternum. You whine out, the pleasure inside you aching, bruising. It hurts too good. “Aerion, like—like that, fuck, just like that.”
Then, Aerion dips to kiss you.
It’s a brief clash of tongue and teeth as he fucks you. One of his hands finds the plush of your thigh, hefting it around one of his hips. Almost subconsciously, you lift the other, and now both of your legs are wrapped around his middle, pulling him closer and closer with each thrust into the cool grass. Your hands wrap around his neck as you kiss him, and small, breathy noises escape you with each press of his tongue.
When he withdraws from the kiss, his lips shining, he pitches his hips and forces his cock even deeper inside you. The neat patch of hair at the base rubs against your swollen clit, and as he knocks up towards the base of your cervix, you feel tears pooling in your lashline.
The stimulant is potent as you suck in a desperate breath. You can taste it, feel it coagulating deep in your chest as raw need strings taut through your womb. It’s a craving you’ve never had before as the prince fucks you with all he has, panting and grunting and moaning your name as if it were the only word he knew.
A carnal need sinks its claws into your psyche, and the moan that rips free of your throat sounds nothing like you. Your pussy clenches tight around his cock, urges him deeper, and you bring the thought home—deeper, need it, need it, harder—by pressing your ankles to the flesh of Aerion’s arse. He groans above you, a dip forming in his brow as he blindly obeys, thrusts coming deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your stomach.
“Fuck, I know you feel it too,” the prince says around a grunt, eyes on you. “You need it so bad, sweet girl, I know. I know.”
You’re nodding because it feels right. You’re nodding because it’s Aerion who’s speaking to you and you’re nodding because it’s all you can think to do with him filling you like this.
“Aerion, please,” you whisper and it nearly hurts coming out. All the vowels and constants are slurred together as it squeezes past a moan lodged in your throat. The prince thrusts into you hard, body pressing down against yours even firmer, and it frees the moan, which finds the tepid night air like a yowl. “Aerion.”
Aerion’s barely holding on. “I know, I know. This is it, sweet girl, I promise—this is it. You—you feel it? Yeah? Fuck, fuck, yeah—” he rambles around a moan of your name. “—Tell me what you need. Tell me.”
One of your hands finds the back of his head and you thread your fingers through the soft white locks there. He groans lowly as you give him a small tug, anchoring yourself as close to him as possible as your second release packs tightly into your womb. It’s hotter than the first. It’s more visceral, leaning with all its weight behind your navel.
And that carnal need, the need with teeth and claws and an inhuman desire, holds on. It doesn’t let you go. It shakes you in its maw until you’re trembling against the grass, trembling in his hold, thrumming like the plucked string of a harp.
“Need you,” you whisper to him, tears rolling down your cheeks now. You’re burning hot and the muscles in your thighs are stiffening around his waist. “Need you, Aerion. Need you to—to come in me a–uh–gain.”
Aerion moans your name like a prayer. It’s wanton and lax across his serpentine tongue, tasting of ripened grapes and crushed honeysuckle. It tastes of you as he lowers his head and takes your mouth, passing the ending syllables directly between your teeth. You accept the kiss with a small whine.
When he pulls back, you’re both teetering on a wire. His eyes are black beneath his pupils and the shadows that consume you both.
“Tell me—” He breaks off with a grunt as your pussy flutters around him. “Tell me you love me when you come.”
“Aerion,” you mewl, a couple of tears rolling down towards your temple as your head tips back, spine arching off the ground.
He says your name in return. “Tell me.”
So, you do.
Your second orgasm comes crashing through you like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. You’re shaking, your legs are clamping around him, and your fingers grip tightly as it passes through you. A pure current of energy as it tracks down your spine and fissures over your womb. Your pussy clamps down around the thick of his cock, pulsing, hammering with the wild beating of your heart.
And while it drowns you, while that carnal need rips you apart from the inside out, you’re whimpering, begging almost, “Aerion—gods, I love you. I love you, I love you—”
Aerion comes with the muscles in his jaw flexing as he bites down a loud moan. His cock twitches, his balls jerk tight where they slap against your arse, and then he’s spilling straight against your womb for the second time.
But you watch his jaw unhinge as he empties himself inside you, and he whimpers your name as his hips lose their rhythm, spurred on only by the press of your heels against his arse. His thrusts slow, and he’s still filling you, muttering your name as you whisper how much you love him. And you do this, a murmuring of confessions beneath a cloak of glittering stars, as he keeps coming, thick and warm and full. You whisper and hold him tightly until his cock finally stops twitching inside you and slowly, slowly, begins to soften.
The prince collapses on top of you, and you let out a tired “oof” as he settles. Your legs drop from his waist, fatigued. The movement makes him groan where he’s buried his face against your neck, breathing you in.
You pet his hair and let the silence simmer as the heat in your body gently seeps away, leaving nothing more than a pleasant tipsy-sort of giddiness in your brain, and a dull ache deep inside your pussy.
You don’t know how much time passes before Aerion lifts his head. All you know is that you’ve gone cold against the dewy grass and goosebumps have raised across your arms.
“Did you mean it?”
You peer at him. “Hm?”
“What you said,” he mutters, shy. Aerion Targaryen didn’t get shy. But here he was, a blush crawling across his cheekbones. He was thankful it was dark. He continues softly, “What you said when…”
“Oh,” you mutter as his sentence lulls.
He grunts, obviously anticipating your response.
But you smile at him. “I suppose I did.”
He freezes against you.
You breathe out a small laugh. “Aerion?”
“It’s the stimulant, isn’t it?”
You shake your head slowly. “No, Aerion. I… I love you.”
Aerion looks at you. Studies you in the dark. His eyes trace the lines of your face: your eyebrows, your eyes, your nose and your mouth. And his gaze doesn’t rise again until he’s repeated the movements a few times over. You bite your lip, hiding your smile, and shift your muscles until your cunt clenches around the width of his softening cock.
You feel his abdomen clench and he shoots you a look. “Witch.”
You just smile.
Then, he sighs and leans forward. He plants a delicate kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your fingers still move against the back of his head, and you see him preening as he pulls out of the kiss.
“I…” He huffs through his nose, as if annoyed that he was struggling to find the words. “I love you, sweet girl. And I don’t think—I’ve never loved anyone like… like this.”
Like this. He’s never loved someone this viscerally. He’s never cared this much.
It’s your turn to lift your head and kiss him, and he allows you to lick over his lips. You share the lasting remnants of the stimulant before it dissolves forever.
And there’s thoughts of impossibility in your mind. You are a woods witch. He is a prince of the realm. There is no room for love here. You are two seeds, planted and grown in two completely different worlds, watered by completely different storms and yielding fruit of lives completely different to one another.
But as he kisses you with a tenderness you once assumed no Targaryen could possess, you begin to convince yourself otherwise.
You tell him, mind clear, “I love you.”
He replies in the same tone, in the same breath, “I love you.”
And it doesn’t taste of overripe grapes and honeysuckle. The words are not burnt around the edges from the heat of pleasure, fraying with lust or obsession. I love you tastes like you; of rose water and sugar, and the ink on your fingers and the sweat on your skin.
He kisses you again, and whispers another I love you against your lips for good measure.
———
ok not marathon sex but they both got a prize at the end :)
