Betrothed to the Bright Prince since childhood, you have done everything in your power to stop wedding him. However the union is inevitable, and you will be forced to face the feelings you have always held for the dragon prince.
cw: emotional constipation, angst, arranged marriage, vomiting, period-typical understanding of mental illness, disordered eating, not technically a suicide attempt but Aerion thinks it is, reader is described as being malnourished, vaginal fingering, oral sex. please do not read if these topics are triggering for you. your mental health always come first.
Aerion Targaryen x Reyne!reader
a/n: I'm back! I was on vacation and was listening to the Rains of Castamere and got inspired to write this. Enjoy :3
You vomited into a chamber pot after tea with Queen Myriah and the other noblewomen of the Red Keep. Your aunt Alyssa had the serving girls leave, except for Genna, who was the only one from the westerlands. Genna had been with you when you were sent to House Celtigar and was one of the few people in the Red Keep you could trust.
"I should have stopped you after the first honeyfinger," Aunt Alyssa said as she helped Genna pull the fabric of your dress back so you did not dirty it.
You shook your head and immediately regretted the action. "Princess Kiera had them brought from Tyrosh…. There… would be… talk if I did not eat at least two," you said with much difficulty. Your throat burnt each time you tried to swallow or take a breath through your mouth. The cold floor was hard against your hands and knees.
"I should send for the Grand Maester," your aunt said but you reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her. She sighed through her nose. "Or at least one of the other castle maesters."
"A maester has already seen your niece two days ago, Lady Celtigar," Genna said softly.
"Water, please," you croaked. Genna went to retrieve a cup of water, which you used to rinse your mouth of the remaining vomit. The two women helped you stand and make your way to a chair. When you sat, you closed your eyes and rolled your head back, shivering at the feeling of your sweat dissolving on your skin.
"Genna, please leave us," you heard your aunt say. You opened your eyes to see your aunt watched you with scrutinizing dark purple eyes, her lips pulled into tight frown as a hand found her hip, disturbing the red fabric of her dress. Genna left without a word and when the door to your chambers closed, your aunt stepped forward, clasping one of your hands with two of hers. "My dear, you must consider your health."
You sighed and looked away. "I have. This is nothing to hold concern over."
"Darling, you are nine and ten years of age and—"
"And I have not flowered. I am aware," you snapped.
"That is not what I wanted to say. You are nine and ten, and frail. I have spoken to the tailors regarding your dresses and it seems that every year, they must add more and more padding," Aunt Alyssa said softly. Her brows drew inward, causing a crease between them to form. "Your uncle and mother may care about your late flowering, but I worry about your constitution. Allow me to call Grand Maester Sumner." She reached up and cupped a hand on your cheek.
You turned your head back to your aunt, staring into her purple eyes that swam with worry. "Alright," you relented. Your aunt smiled softly and turned to the door, where she had Genna—who was standing just outside—fetch the Grand Maester.
Grand Maester Sumner, a man of mid-age with brown hair, arrived to your chambers quickly. He pulled a small vial of clear liquid from his robes and instructed you to drink it, claiming it would help calm the body. You drank the foul liquid as your aunt explained your vomiting.
"Have you had any pains as of late, my lady?" Grand Maester Sumner asked, pulling a chair over to sit beside you.
"My stomach," you admitted. A strange pain had begun to radiate from your lower stomach two days ago, resulting in you called on a maester to see you.
"Maester William informed me of such," Grand Maester Sumner nodded. "It appears you have gotten… thinner since I last saw you. A new diet may be beneficial. Some maesters at the Citadel have found that noble ladies may stop eating when their nerves are out of order, and it is most helpful to have them eat small amounts seven times a day." He said the last part to your aunt.
"Thank you, Grand Maester Sumner," your aunt said, although she still appeared worried. "And my niece's stomach pains?"
"Likely a womanly pain." The Grand Maester stood, the metal of his chain clicking as he did so. "I will send you a note with the ideal foods to eat, Lady Celtigar." When the Grand Maester left, your aunt still watched you with concern.
You were certain your aunt knew that you starved yourself. It was not a secret that you ate very little during dinner—in fact, there was a time you had been praised for it by some of the noblewomen in the Keep, but that was before your bones had become visible beneath your skin and your aunt had to request gowns that covered almost every inch of you. You were also certain that your aunt was not aware of the plant leaves you had Genna purchase for you, each of which was said to delay the flowering of a woman. You ate them each night, the fear of marriage ever-present in the back of your mind. If it was not punishment enough to hear the whispers about how your brother sided with Daemon Blackfyre during the short rebellion, the throne found it fitting to betroth you to a Targaryen prince at five years of age. Perhaps it was a sign of mercy from King Daeron, yet you suffered the most when you were sent to live with your maternal family in the Red Keep.
When you awoke the next morning, you felt light, as if a pressure had been released from your chest. Genna arrived to your chambers and drew back your red curtains to allow the golden sunlight to flood your room. Still half asleep, you rolled to the side of your mattress and stood slowly, the cold floor biting at your feet.
"My lady." Genna's voice was breathless. You looked at Genna to see that a hand was covering her mouth and her eyes bore down onto your night shift. There was a red spot on it and when you looked behind you, there was another stained onto the white fabric.
"No," you murmured, trying to rub it away. You lunged at your bed, pulling the furs back, only to confirm what you already knew: the sheets had been stained with your blood. Your vision began to blur. You already knew that a day would come when you bled and your efforts had provided you at least three years of life as a maiden, but your heart still ached at the loss of the freedom you had enjoyed.
Genna tried to keep the other serving girls away from your chambers, but they had already seen the blood and quickly informed your aunt and uncle. Aunt Alyssa found you in your chambers, still crying and clawing at the sheets. She quietly instructed for you to be dressed before taking to you to meet with the queen in the royal apartments.
Queen Myriah was a radiant Dornishwoman, but her beauty came from her kindness. There was almost a sorrow in the queen's dark brown eyes as your aunt informed her of your first moon blood.
You remembered two large events from the months afterwards: the first was that King Daeron commanded his son, Prince Maekar, to bring your betrothed back to Westeros, and the second was that the air was cold. Summer had begun to shift to autumn, and the seas were angry, bringing storms to the crownlands. The rest of your memories were a blur of court appearances, afternoon teas, and hiding in dark corners to escape your obligations of planning a wedding you did not wish for, only to be haunted by noblewomen and servants alike when they quietly spoke about the poor, frail sister of the Blackfyre loyalist Lord Reyne and her marriage with the cruel Targaryen prince banished to Lys.
Your aunt, on the other hand, was delighted to see that you had taken some weight onto your body, resulting in the development of curves on your hips, thighs, and breasts. She hounded you relentlessly seven times a day until you ate at least half of what was brought for you. Some of the padding on your dresses were removed, and you had begun to sleep better and for longer periods of time. Genna noted to you that your hair appeared to be less dull.
The Red Keep was tense when House Reyne arrived at King's Landing. Your mother and your brother, Robb, greeted you with the familiarity of people you had only seen once every several years. Now the Lord of Castamere, Robb seldom spoke to you, although you suspected that your mother was behind his infrequent communication. After you were promised to your betrothed, there had been an uproar among nobles who believed the betrothal rewarded House Reyne rather than punished. Your mother, formerly of House Celtigar, sent you to live with her lord brother, who's loyalty to the Targaryens was unquestioned as the master of ships on the king's small council. But ultimately, it was Alyssa Celtigar Velaryon who ensured your understanding of the politics within the Red Keep. In many ways, Aunt Alyssa was more of a mother than your own.
Many houses traveled to celebrate the royal wedding that was to come, and the Grand Hall was merry with food and drink for the days following your family's arrival. The merriment dimmed around Robb, who received glares and drunken snide remarks. You spent most of your days with your aunt and away from Robb, knowing that speaking to him more than required would only cause disdain for you in court.
Finally, your betrothed arrived and you could feel the last inklings of your control slip away. You did not want to look at silver-haired prince when you, your family, and the royal family came to welcome him in the outdoor courtyard, yet you inevitably did and was struck by the childish whims of your younger self. You were not always opposed to your betrothal; rather you had been quite excited to be wed to a prince, even if he was ninth in line to inherit the Iron Throne. Prince Aerion was the only person you could ever love, as told to you by your family, tutors, and even servants, and there was a time you thought you could love him.
But as you watched his cold purple eyes turn to you, you were starkly reminded of his words from when you were eight. "House Celtigar muddied its blood with the likes of Sunglass and Brune. They disgraced the blood of old Valyria." It was well known that Prince Aerion valued the legacy of House Targaryen, and you, his bride, did not look Valyrian.
Prince Aerion did not speak to you that day. He did not speak to you in court or during the feast held in his honor. He seemed to be quite content in ignoring your existence, of which you welcomed because he had done just the same before his banishment to the Free Cities. The only interaction you had with Prince Aerion—if one could call it an interaction at all—was when Genna brought you a box containing a necklace of dark, almost black, metal with a single blood-red tear-shaped ruby. The design was simple but the craftsmanship was unmistakeably refined. You told Genna to put it someplace safe.
You woke on the morning of your wedding cold. The sun had yet to rise and you stared out your window, watching orange and yellow begin to streak the sky. Your memory again blurred, resulting in a strange mixture of events where you could only remember standing in the Great Sept of Baelor, your brother at your side as he handed you to Prince Aerion.
The prince, dressed impeccably in his house colors, removed the grey cloak around your shoulders that featured the roaring red lion of House Reyne. It was quickly replaced by one black as midnight, and you could feel the red three-headed dragon on the new cloak burn through your wedding dress and onto your skin.
"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," the septon said. You held the rough hands of Prince Aerion as the septon bound them together with a black silk ribbon with red embroidery. Prince Aerion watched you with unfamiliar Valyrian eyes—the kind you were unused to staring at you with such indifference. Your lip almost quivered when the septon spoke again. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say the words."
The ribbon was unraveled from your hands, but under tradition, you kept them in place despite wanting to pull them away.
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," the two of you said.
"I am hers and she is mine."
"I am his and he is mine."
"From this day, until the end of my days."
"From this day, until the end of my days."
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Aerion said, his voice clear and unwavering. He pressed his lips against yours. Thankfully, it was over quickly.
The prince did not seek you in your bedchambers that night.
Your marriage remained unconsummated for a week, then a month, and you were delighted. To Prince Maekar's horror, there was even talk about Prince Aerion visiting pleasure houses while his wife remained chaste. Many noblewomen, and even some of the princesses looked at you with pity, but you could not have been happier, even thanking the old gods and the new each night the prince did not appear in your bedchambers. However, that all came to an end when Genna informed you that Prince Maekar had demanded Prince Aerion fulfill his marital duty or he would be sent to the North.
Genna prepared a bath for you in your chambers and you quickly dismissed her when you got in the burning hot water. You wished to be alone with your thoughts, many of which regarded how horribly short-lived your joy had been. As you leaned your head against the side of the tub, you watched droplets of water slowly fall down your bent knees, joining with others until they finally reached the surface of the bathwater. You had been so cold recently, the autumn air chilling you even through closed windows and doors. Genna kept a fire roaring in your room for almost all hours of the day.
You took a deep breath and eased your head beneath the water's surface with your eyes shut, wondering if hot water was the closest one could get to living in fire. It was certainly one of the few ways you could warm yourself. There was a calmness in you as your lungs began to ache and you allowed a flurry of bubbles to escape your mouth. You were just about to returned to the surface, when something roughly grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you upwards.
Your eyes flew open and you attempted to pull yourself away from the force behind your neck, only to find Prince Aerion's violet eyes glaring down at you. He hovered over the tub, one hand at the back of your neck and the other holding your cheek.
"Are you mad?" Prince Aerion's voice was harsh. You pushed his hands away, coughing slightly at the feeling of water trickling down your throat from your nose. Some had gone up and now your nostrils felt wet and you could only smell the lavender Genna had dripped into the bath. "Speak!" Prince Aerion hissed.
"I am not," you said, leaning against the side of the bathtub and pulling your knees up to cover your chest.
The prince looked at you with contempt. "Then why were you trying to drown yourse—"
"I was not," you said quickly. "If anything, you have harmed me by pulling me so quickly from—"
"I harmed you?" The prince gripped the end of the tub. "I walk into my wife's chambers and find her head under water and all air in her lungs rising to the surface. And I hurt you instead of saving you?"
"There was no saving required," you said.
Prince Aerion stared at you for what felt like an eternity. He was completely still, and you could not see the soft rise and fall of his chest. Whatever Prince Aerion had done in the three years he spent in the Free Cities had removed the excess natural fat on his face, resulting in sharper cheekbones and jaw. An old scar ran from the middle of his right cheek to his ear, and from what you remembered, the prince has received it during the Trial of Seven in Ashford. He had always been so achingly beautiful and when his lips parted, you could not tear your eyes away from him. Finally, he spoke. "You disgrace the blood of Valyria."
Any goodwill toward the prince left your mind as you remembered yourself. "Why are you here?" you asked as you turned your head away.
"To see my wife."
The air felt colder and you sank a little lower into the water to cover your shoulders. "You have barely seen or spoken to me since our wedding. One could barely consider me to be your wife."
"Are you upset that I do not dote on you like a love-sick hound?" The prince's voice was mocking and harsh.
"Do not assume your actions have any effect on me," you scoffed and pulled your knees closer to you.
In the corner of your eye, you saw Prince Aerion tilt his head in the direction you were looking. "Then why do you shun me?"
"I am only doing as you have, Your Grace," you said softly.
"You're a liar." Prince Aerion leaned closer. "You have shunned me since childhood and all I've done is remain indifferent to your rudeness."
You looked back at the prince, noticing how his eyes burnt with an angry passion. In the time of the dragon lords, that face would have meant a painfully slow death in dragonfire. "Do you only wish to insult me this evening, Your Grace? I tire and want to rest."
When the prince moved, it was fast and there was a pressure on your jaw before you could pull away. Alarm sparked where his fingers dug into your face, flooding your body with the fires of panic and the desperate need to put as much distance between you and Prince Aerion. "You will not dismiss me like a servant," he said, his tone severe and punishing.
You were surprised by your own boldness when you spoke. "Then do you wish to stay? I heard you were quite content with your whores and pillow houses since our marriage. Are they no longer worth your attention this evening?"
Prince Aerion's brow drew together. "Do you truly think of me so lowly?"
"Yes," you said, your word hanging in the air with finality.
Prince Aerion scowled down at you, his fingers digging further into your cheeks as you let out a painful huff. "Perhaps I should go prove my lady wife correct then," he said before letting go of you and retreating to your door, his footsteps loud and unforgiving on the shiny floor. The prince stopped just before he left. "From this day foreword, you will not be left alone. Ever." The sound of the door slamming closed made you wince.
The prince had been true to his words and a cot was moved into your chambers so Genna could remain by your side at all times. Prince Aerion called for Grand Maester Sumner to examine you the next morning, right after the wretched cot was placed on one side of your room and the prince had demanded everyone leave, even Genna.
"I found her attempting to drown herself," Prince Aerion said when the three of you were alone. If Grand Maester Sumner was surprised, he did not express it.
You glared up at Prince Aerion from the chair you sat in. "I was not," you said to the maester softly. "I was cold and place my head underwater momentarily to warm myself. His Grace came into my chambers and assumed the worst."
Grand Maester Sumner held a hand out to you and you slotted one of yours against his, familiar with the process of bodily examination. The maester held your hand gently, applying slow pressure to your fingers and looking at your skin before placing two fingers on your wrist. He was quiet for a time, and then he placed your hand onto the armrest of your chair. "As I have told Her Grace and the Lady Alyssa Celtigar, a change in diet is sufficient."
"I have done as you instructed," you said.
The maester nodded and stepped away. "That is clear, even without the knowledge of a maester. The only thing I can recommend is relaxation to calm the nerves."
"That's all?" Prince Aerion snapped. "Rest?
"Matters of the mind cannot be fixed with a brew, but rather time and gradual healing," Grand Maester Sumner said.
Prince Aerion glared at the maester. "You will speak of this to no one."
The rains were heavy when Prince Aerion whisked you away to Dragonstone, where the smell of salt was permanently etched into each carved rock, and the air hung with the whispers of Targaryens from another time. The halls were damp and oppressive, decorated with dragon statues and dark furniture that only served to make the castle lonelier. Similar to life at the Red Keep, Prince Aerion spent his days apart from you, although here in Dragonstone, he made the effort to eat dinners with you. They were taken in silence, with barely a word spoken between the two of you.
The maester's chambers were found in the Sea Dragon Tower, a great structure shaped in the visage of a long serpent coiled around the tower as its slender head gazed into the sea with a serene look in it eyes. A balcony wrapped around the entirety of the top, providing a salty escape from the rest of the gloomy castle. You visited the place often. Even if you told Genna to leave you to yourself, the top of the tower was still visible to the maester and any guards Prince Aerion demanded stay by your side.
About an hour or two before evening fall, you found yourself at the Sea Dragon Tower again, watching the waves and looking across Blackwater Bay to where King's Landing was visible, a red speck on the green and grey land. The air was calm when the sun began to dip towards the land, painting each black stone of the castle in a lively orange. You had finally convinced Prince Aerion's guards to leave you, insisting that you were quite alright and would not require their protection. In the prince's egoism, he had neglected to tell the guards why he wanted them around you each waking hour.
You were at peace for a time, until you heard the sound of footsteps followed by a harsh voice. "Why are you alone?"
"I had your guards leave me," you said, refusing to look behind you.
Your husband's breaths were heavy and when he stood next to you a small distance away, you could see the steady rise and fall of his chest in the corner of your eye. His black clothing looked as if it was merging into the shadows. "I told you I don't want you to be alone."
"Are you afraid I'll jump?" you asked softly, peering over the ledge at the sharp stone statues mounted on the sturdy walls. "A fall from this height would kill quickly, but not before you come to the realization that you will die. I'd rather be unaware of my death."
"Enough," Prince Aerion said as he stepped back. "Come dine with me."
"Is that a request or a command?"
"Your husband wishes it."
You turned away from the ledge and stepped out of the slowly cooling air, walking fast enough that Prince Aerion had to lengthen his stride to catch up with you. The sound of footsteps echoed through the stairway. You came to realize as you walked that since marrying the prince, your dresses had slowly shifted from red and white to almost entirely black to match your husband's attire. A part of you wondered if things had been different; if your hair was silver-gold and your eyes were purple, then perhaps Prince Aerion would treat you kinder.
No words were spoken at dinner; the only sounds to be heard were the quiet clinking of cutlery against porcelain dishware. You finished quickly and picked at your nails as you waited for the prince to finish. The private dining room inside the royal apartments was cold and empty, save for the table, the prince, and yourself.
Prince Aerion held your hand when he escorted you to your chambers, much to your disgust. Your face burnt from the impropriety of his actions. The hand he held was still warm when Genna came to prepare you for a quiet evening reading in bed.
Prince Aerion stood at the top of the Sea Dragon Tower the next afternoon. His velvet black cape flapped gently in the wind, revealing the deep red underside decorated with subtle red stitching made to look like dragon scales. You wanted to leave, but the prince had already turned his head and made eye-contact with you, his eyes telling you to stay.
You dismissed Genna and stepped outside, away from the prince. After yesterday, your guards had now increased from two to five and refused to leave your side no matter now much you asked them to. They positioned themselves a few feet away. Your jaw clenched as you looked out across Blackwater Bay, where two ships flying the sails of House Velaryon were headed towards Driftmark. As the sound of the wind grew, and the quiet shift of armor came and went, you watched one ship break away from the other and begin its way through the Gullet.
The silver-hair prince was at the tower again the next day, and your jaw ached from how hard you bit down in his presence. You decided to go to The Windwyrm the next day, a tower shaped like a snarling dragon on the other side of the castle. Prince Aerion found you again, standing with you in silence as the wind howled.
Frustrated, you returned to the Sea Dragon Tower the day after, only to be greeted by the presence of your husband shortly after your arrival. Your nails were biting into the palms of your hands when Prince Aerion finally spoke.
"Leave us."
The words hung in the air with a finality as your guards shuffled back inside the tower. The prince did not look at you and he did not speak further, although your heart hammered in your chest because he looked as if he wished to.
You were surprised that Prince Aerion began to dismiss the guards when you were at the tower with him. For half a moon, words were spoken infrequently and sentences were short. This ended when the prince placed a black box on the thick railing in front of you and left the tower. Inside, you found a solid bracelet of the same dark metal as the necklace the prince had given you before your wedding. The metal was carved to depict a dragon's eye on one side and the pupil was inlaid with a dark red ruby.
You had a difficult time sleeping that night, so you dressed yourself at the hour of the nightingale and went to the Sea Dragon Tower with the bleary-eyed guards that stood outside the doors to your chambers. As the sun was beginning to rise, you heard the sound of your guards retreating and the soft footsteps of your husband. He walked with a lightness to his feet that you had only just recently grown accustomed to.
"Thank you for your gift," you said. Prince Aerion did not respond as he approached the railing to stand beside you. "It's beautiful," you continued.
"You're not wearing it." The prince's voice had a low, gentle quality to it as he spoke barely above a whisper.
You looked down at the simple dress you had haphazardly put on. "Genna is asleep."
The prince turned his body towards you for the first time and leaned against the railing on his arm. You could feel him scan your face as you remained frozen in watching the sea. "You've yet to wear the necklace as well."
"I have not found a suitable occasion for it," you said. Your eyes betrayed you and snuck a glance at the prince. His hair was mused from sleep and he wore a loose pair of pants and a shirt, all of which covered by a thick black cape.
"What is a suitable occasion?" he asked.
"I am not sure," you admitted.
Prince Aerion remained still for a moment before standing straight and untying the strings around his neck, his movements quick as he removed his cape and draped it over your shoulders. He pulled you by the cape's fabric to face him, and you watched the prince's features grow stony as he tied the cape comfortably around your neck. When he was done, Prince Aerion walked away without looking at you. "Don't stay out here for long, you'll catch a chill."
Genna showed you another black box that evening. You looked at the black metal earrings as the rubies in them glittered by candlelight. A part of you was satisfied when Prince Aerion appeared disappointed when you did not wear them the next day. The prince's face remained neutral and calm, but his eyes would trail along your neck, your wrists, your ears, as a deep fire burned within his eyes. By the time Prince Aerion had gifted you three more bracelets, two more pairs of earrings, half a dozen rings, and several Lysene dresses, that disappointment shifted to smugness.
The prince had grown bold, often touching the fabric of your skirts or allowing his hand to stay at your waist longer than needed. You found yourself unable to concentrate enough to pull yourself away from his grasp. The heat of his closeness rendered your ability to think impossible as he held you like you would disappear at any moment. And when he slotted his soft lips against yours for the first time since the wedding, you did not know if you would ever speak again.
"I will find you in your chambers tonight," Prince Aerion whispered above the wind.
Your stomach knotted with an impossibly large pit. Your skin was sore from how the serving girls had washed you with a rough rag, but the silky nightgown Genna had brought to you soothed your warm skin. You picked at your nails as you waited, your mind turning over and over on the books you read during your pursuit to prevent your moon blood. You could only hope that the act would be quick.
Your chamber door opened and closed almost silently, and when the quiet click of your husband's heels against the floor came, you almost shivered. The lit fireplace cast an inhuman glow on the prince, those purple eyes almost white as he watched you unblinkingly. "Get on the bed."
You climbed onto your bed, not taking your eyes off of Prince Aerion, and sat with your legs folded to the side. He approached, looking you over intently as the mattress shifted under the weight of his knees. The prince placed a hand on your chest and gently pushed you down until you were laying beneath him, his weight crushing and final. His first kiss was slow, like he had all the time in the world. A hand found your waist, the fire in his blood warming you in each place your bodies connected, as you threaded your fingers through his short hair.
The kiss deepened, and Prince Aerion impatiently grabbed at your leg, which you lifted so he could run a hand down it. His scalding hand gripped the newfound curves of your thigh, pushing the hem of your nightgown up. The prince must have felt you freeze at the sensation of cool air hitting your more intimate areas, because he pulled back, sitting up and pushing your legs apart.
Your hands scrambled to cover yourself up as your face heated under your husband's gaze. "What—"
Prince Aerion surged forward, pinning your hands down as his tongue uncomfortably explored between your legs. You could not remember the proper name for space you were told never to touch, and you certainly did not want to when the prince's tongue circled around an area at the top that made a sigh leave your lips. He continued with that motion, causing your breaths to lengthen and a pleasurable feeling to radiate upwards. You whined when he stopped and trailed lower, to where the pleasure lessened and where you could feel the muscles in that area clench. When Prince Aerion let go of your hands, instead of pushing him away like you wanted to, your hands gripped the sides of his face, trying to pull him up.
"Go… back," you murmured.
Violet eyes caught yours, and an anger flickered through them before fading into arrogance. When his tongue returned to the place you wanted it, you felt something prod at your entrance. Your eyes squeezed shut at the sensation of that something pushing inside you, and you tried to move away but a hand held you in place.
"Aerion," you fumbled for the hand at your waist keeping you pinned down, "it feels strange." You sat up on an elbow as Aerion lifted his head. the bottom half of his face shiny in the firelight. You realized that the strange feeling came from one of his fingers, which was inside—
"It'll feel better," he said as you watched him slowly move the finger. The sensation was different; it felt deeper, like the bliss was darker and far more raw. When Aerion's finger curved and hit a section in the front, you could not contain the moan that left you. The smile on Aerion's face was horrible as he pulled his finger away. "Turn around." You were slow to do so, your arms feeling weak, and your legs tangling with Aerion's. He pulled you up by the waist effortlessly, flipped you over, and shoved you down before tapping your hip. "Up."
You lifted your hips and Aerion's immediately pushed a finger inside you, hitting the place that made you unable to think each time he moved. You instinctively reached behind you, and after a moment, Aerion's hand found yours. You gripped it hard, your nails digging into his skin hard enough for him to hiss, however he did not pull away.
"Aerion," you gasped. A pressure in your lower stomach began to build. "I'm—"
Aerion let go of your hand and threaded his through your hair, pulling your head back as he slammed his lips against yours. Your legs shook uncontrollably when the pressure broke and pleasure flooded your body. There was a slight pain that radiated through the space between your legs when Aerion removed himself and sat back. Your heavy breaths warmed the sheets beneath you, and the rise and fall of your chest slowed. The bed shifted and you watched as Aerion climbed off your bed and reached for a towel left at your bedside. He wiped his hands before tossing the towel down to you. The silver-haired prince stared at you for a moment, his eyes cooling from a blazing fire to smoldering embers. You sat up suddenly when he turned and left your chambers without a word, the door slamming closed behind him.
Your gaze was fixed on the door for a moment, the realization of what had just occurred hitting you slowly. You pulled your nightgown down over your legs, feeling suddenly cold despite the fireplace and the warmth that still coiled in your lower stomach. Admittedly, you did not know much about the marital act, but you knew there was more required of your husband in consummation. Were you not sufficient?
The sheets and fur could not fight the chill that came to you that night.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. A light mist coated your skin as you watched the grey rain that enveloped Blackwater Bay. Even from your usual perch, you could not see Driftmark or even where the cliffs of Dragonstone dipped into the sea. Your guards stood inside the tower just out of reach of the rain. You could tell they were tired of your constant visits to the Sea Dragon Tower, especially when all you did was stand still for hours and when your husband was not around to dismiss them from their post.
He had not come to see you in days and you only discovered after the second day of not seeing your husband that he had left for the Red Keep. There were whispers of you watching over Blackwater Bay in hopes of glimpsing the sight of a ship sailing the black and red flags of House Targaryen, but it was absurd. Whether your husband stayed in King's Landing or returned to Dragonstone was no concern of yours; he could enjoy himself in the Red Keep for all you cared.
If the Seven had cursed you, they certainly took that moment to remind you of your suffering. It seemed that your guards took a collective deep breath as the familiar click of your husband's footsteps approached.
"You were not at the Great Hall to greet me at my return."
"Did you leave Dragonstone? You did not tell me," you said to the air.
Your husband's voice was sharp. "Go stand at the bottom of the stairs."
You did not look behind you as your guards shuffled down the central stairs of the tower. Your skin was freezing, chilled by the rain that soaked through your gown and ate away at the sensation in your fingers. "Will you leave again?" you asked.
"No." The tension in your chest released at his words. Your husband stepped closer, enough that you could feel the warmth radiate off of him. "Why are you standing in the rain? You'll grow ill."
"It's quieter when it rains," you said softly. "The winds aren't as strong."
"You risk your health for silence?"
"Yes."
"You're a fool then."
You turned and looked up at the prince. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your actions have reminded me of such greatly these past days."
Your husband stared down at you with a scowl. "Are you angry I left?"
"No," you said, picking up your wet skirts to walk around him and into the tower interior.
The prince grabbed your arm and pulled you back. "All you Reynes know how to do is deceive, but the dragon knows when it is being lied to. Tell the truth."
Your gaze flicked from to ground to the sky, anything but the Targaryen who held your arm with a steely grip. "Does it matter?" you asked. "You would not care."
"I would," Prince Aerion said. "You are my wife and I want to know why she is angry."
"Then you are a liar as well."
The grip on your arm loosen and Prince Aerion reached upwards towards your neck. You expected him to grab your neck, but instead his fingers brushed against the black necklace you wore. "Why do you scorn me?" He ripped his violet eyes from the necklace and its shining ruby to map the lines of your face.
Your hands curled into fists. "All you have ever done is insult me and my family. You insult my appearance, my intellect, the things I choose to do with my time. You are cruel."
"The Reynes deserve insult."
Your lip curled. "The Celtigars do not. They are staunchly loyal to your family and you hurl disgusting words at them because they do not look Valyrian."
Prince Aerion's eyes narrowed. "Those kinds of words have not been uttered by me since childhood. The blood of Valyria still runs strong in the Celtigars, even if they do not look it."
You considered his words. "And when you said I disgrace the blood of Valyria?"
"I though you were trying to drown yourself," the prince said, his brows furrowing. "We came from the dragonlords. To die by your own hand would be to disregard our blood and the place that House Celtigar carved for itself in old Valyria and Westeros."
You stepped back. "Why does this concern you?"
"You are my wife," Prince Aerion said, taking a step to fill the gap you had created.
A trickle of rain ran down your spine and you almost shivered. "Our marriage was arranged. Your care for me is out of obligation and I ask you to stop."
Prince Aerion shook his head and leaned in, his hand burning the back of your neck when he reached for it. "You have been mine since you were five and I was six. My care is not a falsity. You are the only one I can or will ever love, until the end of my days." He kissed you, hot and forceful, as if to prove his words.
You pushed him away. "You neglected me for a month after our wedding and left me at Dragonstone while you went back to King's Landing. You have visited pleasure houses and barely spoken to me in the time we are together."
Prince Aerion let out a huff through his nose. "You have only ever detested me and when the maesters advised against consummation in fear of your health if you were with child, I thought I would enjoy having a neglectful husband. And I have not laid with a woman since I received word in Lys to return to Westeros. My loyalty to you has been paramount."
"Not even when you went to King's Landing without me?" you spat.
"I returned to King's Landing to lie to my father about bedding you," the prince hissed. "Dragonstone has less prying eyes and I can at least control the information that leaves this place."
You watched the rain, which had grown heavier, soak through Prince Aerion's black doublet. You surprised yourself by leaned in. "Prove it to me."
Prince Aerion slammed his lips into yours, pulling you against him. He held you like you would disappear at any moment, hands grabbing harshly at your ass and waist. You kissed him back, your lips awkward and clumsy as your palms slid up his chest. The rain invaded each kiss. Aerion pulled away, his breath heavy as his forehead rested against yours. "You will marry me in the ways of old Valyria."
You shook your head.
Aerion's eyes were cold. "Yes. You want proof of my devotion." His kisses were soft this time, trailing slowly along your jaw and down your neck. The heat of his mouth scorched your skin, causing you to shiver and your hair to stand on end.
As you rolled your head back, the chilling rains over Dragonstone came down in heavy droplets that made you feel like you were drowning. The air did not feel as cold in the arms of the dragon prince.
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2. The Delectable Negro: Human Consumption and Homoeroticism Within US Slave Culture by Vincent Woodard
3. "Abolitionists turned the tables on Europeans by accusing them of being cannibals when they ate sugar tainted with the flesh and blood of slaves."
4. Zombies (which I would class as cannibals, since they were human and need to eat humans to live) have a root in Haitian folklore and represented enslavement.
adding that, if you can find it, cannibal culture by deborah root is about exactly this. the way the white western world is a hungry, destructive force that cannibalizes non-white cultures and creates wealth and status through the cannibal colonization of those cultures.
here's the intro
i almost think there's an essay in bell hooks' black looks about this too? yes! just checked, there's an essay called "eating the other"
Aerion is meant to be marrying your sister - not letting his attention drift to you...
⊹₊⟡⋆
Aerion Targaryen was forced to become an important hand of an alliance much desired.
House Sterling, with its midnight jewels, steely soldiers, and mythical-like luck, was an ancient and secluded sovereign kingdom that was now a new competitor in the games. A competitor the seven kingdoms either wanted by their side or eliminated.
And its King was seeking a suitor for his youngest daughter.
Aerion told himself to seem as complicit as he could in front of his father. Told himself it was proof they were taking him more seriously.
He told himself he would now have someone to praise him when he won his battles, and pleasure would be at his fingertips - beneficial as it would lead to an heir.
Aerion Targaryen stood outside the great entrance doors of Red Keep alongside his father, an advisor, and footman as the Sterling carriage rolled towards them.
He lowered his head and watched it approach through his brows, impatiently waiting to see his future bride, wearing his finest clothes, draped in colours that resembled flames and burning coals. His silvery hair was freshly washed and his fingers decorated with encrusted rings.
And finally, the carriage came to a stop with the nicker of the glossy grey horses pulling it. He glanced up at the flag atop it.
It was made from glistening silver fabric, the border a pristine white. In the centre was the silhouette of a tall white stag with two blades angled inwards behind it, creating a cross. Aerion huffed.
What was a stag compared to a dragon?
The footman opened the cool-toned gilded door, and out stepped the King of House Sterling; robust, bearded, with ruddy cheeks and beady eyes. He gave a smile. His attire was adorned with silver medals, his neck with a string of animal teeth.
He and Maekar greeted each other as a woman slipped down onto the ground. Her hair had the same colouring as her fathers, only hers lacked the streaks of grey and had a luminous glow. The front pieces were wrapped in plaits and delicately pinned back with amethyst finery and blossoms made of silver. Aerion let his eyes trail down her dress, its silky material a soft lilac. The embellished trim a fine silver.
It was her smile that he noted. A smile that told him she was all petals and gentle rainfall and music. It was soft and genuine, and it reached her bright eyes.
As her father introduced her; Derella Sterling, Second Daughter of House Sterling, she bowed - and she bowed low. Fabrics rustling, her hair shifting over her shoulders, and two-toned jewellery gently clinking against each other.
Aerion was impressed by their choice of bride, a small smile playing on his lips. He managed not to glance at his father.
And then another emerged.
A crease formed between his brows as he watched you climb out of the carriage. You did not match the smiles that Derella and the King possessed.
The horse closest to you stood up on its back legs, neighing harshly before recomposing itself. The footman moved to calm it down. Derella and your father looked back at you.
If his betrothed was opal, you were onyx.
You had a split lip. Your ruched dress was a deep navy blue that seemed to shimmer cerulean when you moved. Your hair was pulled back with jewelled pins that glittered like glass under the sun. Your expression - stark in comparison to your sister's - was schooled. Austere and calm. Unbothered and possibly unimpressed.
Aerion almost huffed at that, and then your eyes cut to him, and he swore that for a moment they caught the sunlight strangely. It may very well have just been a trick of the light.
Your lips thinned. Eyeing the boy before you - your sisters future husband - you found that you weren't entirely pleased. His violet eyes were amused, mocking and pointed. His hair was as the stories had said - white and silvery.
A superior smile pulled at his full lips as you moved forward for your own introduction.
You supposed it could be worse. He could be old or ugly. You were yet to find out just how cruel he was.
You came up beside Derella as your father introduced you next.
"This is my eldest. Y/n Sterling, Daughter of the Southeast."
You gave a polite bow. Aerion's eyes cut to your figure, then shifted towards the hip ornament that moved with you. A kind of gold and silver chatelaine that sat to the side; amethysts and sapphires hanging comfortably against you.
Odd.
Pleasantries were passed, and it was decided - the Targaryens were to host a feast later that night as a welcome and to mark Aerion's and Derella's first meet.
Derella, your father, and yourself were escorted to your chambers, and Aerion watched as you all disappeared.
He fell into step beside his father. "Tell me more about the sister."
"Your bethrothed's sister?"
Aerion refrained from casting him a withering glance. Must he point out the obvious?
"How come the King of Sterling wishes to marry off his youngest daughter and not the eldest?"
Maekar did not slow his pace. "She may be of more value to him." They rounded a corner. "I've heard House Sterling's council is no longer private. I've heard that she has began attending strategy meetings. House Sterling has not lost a battle since."
Aerion's pace slowed as he eyed his father, doubt plain in his violet eyes. "Is she not a Princess?"
Maekar continued walking, "Decipher it for yourself tonight."
˖⟡ ݁˖· ─
One of the many drawing rooms were close by. You had seen it on your venture up to your chamber.
After slipping out of your day dress and slipping into something more regal for the feast, you sought it out and decided to rest upon the railing of the stone balcony inside it, looking out at the sunset.
The sky was streaked with dark blues and oranges. The room was coated in a comfortable silence, decorated with expensive finery - from thick rugs to hanging lighting features.
"Your sister spoke very highly of you."
You turned to see Prince Aerion entering the room, dressed in a surcoat patterned like a swirl of smoke and fire. His silver hair gleamed like sunlight mixed with moonlight beneath the candles.
You half-turned to greet him. "I hope you two had a constructive evening." You replied.
He ignored that. "It seems she cares a great deal what you think. I thought I would see what was so fascinating about you myself."
The air seemed to shift when he entered a space. It seemed to simmer.
"You may not like what you find." Though he considered your words, Aerion ignored that too, taking in the new dress you wore. You adorned a burgundy bodice with shining embellishments - the red shade being out of respect for his house colours, but your thin skirt was layers of silver-grey that cascaded in soft folds.
You still had that chatelaine on, sitting above the dresses hip drape.
One glance up at you and you felt as though he was planning something wicked.
"Pretty little split," he murmured, eyeing the blossoming injury on your lower lip. "Pretty jewels, too." His hand was fleeting as his let his finger brush against the sapphires and amethysts at your hip. You turned sharply, but he was slipping away before you could do much about it.
Something roguish tugged at his lips as he circled you like a predator. You quite easily held his steady stare. Maybe he expected you to flinch or cower or look away under the weight of his violet eyes, but Aerion the Monstrous was not as vile as the things you'd seen in your lifetime.
A dragon was just another thing to tame - or break.
He looked away first with a dismissive exhale, turning instead to pour himself some wine that was sitting upon a small, stone table. "Tell me," he began. "Do you believe the tales regarding the beings that are born in Asshai?"
Your posture sharpened. "People speak of the place as though it's a cradle for monsters and miracles in equal measure."
"You know that's where they say our dragons were born?" You watch him turn to look back at you over his shoulder, expression faintly mocking. "Some stones..." he continued lightly, "are said to hold memories, or influence. If you know how to manipulate them."
Aerion turned to fully face you again. "Do you believe that, y/n of the Southeast?" He took a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim.
You tilted your head at him, eyes narrowing slightly like you were granting him the benefit of your attention rather than challenging him.
"Do you suspect something, Targaryen? Is there something you wish to ask?"
"Careful."
The word slipped past his lips like venom, heavy with warning. Heavier with intrigue.
The candle light flickered in the room. Aerion set his cup down with deliberate ease, and you figured maybe it was best to let dead dogs lie and let spoiled Prince's believe what they like.
Aerion shifted closer. His attention dropped down again, and you felt it as it fell to the line of your hip where the jewels hung.
The Targaryen was less measured now. "You did not answer my question about Asshai." You both stood tall, breaths warm against each other as you held one another's stare; his burning like hot embers, yours cold like purified steel.
"You're not frightened by the stories of the Shadow Lands. That's either foolishness, or practise."
Something tightened in the side of your jaw. "I have no time for practise." You said plainly, and he merely responded with a scoff.
He suddenly remembered the whole reason as to why you were here. Aerion clicked his tongue, "Does my blushing bride possess jewels made to woo me into submission?" He raised his finger so that it hovered close enough that you could feel the intent of it more than the touch itself. You didn't pull back. "Is this some treacherous plan disguised as flattery?" He smiled a cruel smile, then his hand dropped with his expression as he waited for a response.
You couldn't help but snicker at his paranoia, and for a brief moment, you simply watched him. "Truly, I've only ever witnessed such things through the stories you speak of. Stories people repeat when they wish the world to feel larger than it is."
His frown returned as he clenched his jaw - but not out of anger. Out of sharp evaluation.
You turned to circle about the room, feigning curiosity for the things in there. "I suppose it would be easy to mistake suggestion for intent with such tales running rampant in Kings Landing."
You turned back to him and shrugged one shoulder. "But I would not presume to correct a Prince on what he chooses to believe about distant places."
Aerion let out a short, unimpressed laugh through his nose. He considered you, your form, your way of words and your jewels.
"Besides, I'm sure you know far more than I do." The faint suggestion of a smile kissed your lips. "But no - you needn't worry. My sister is not the manipulative type."
Aerion was before you again in a few unhurried steps. A servant appeared to call you both down for supper.
He stayed where he was, looking past you at the poor servant. Aerion's jaw flexed once.
Then, abruptly, he scoffed. "Peasants and their poor sense of timing." With that he brushed past you like you were a servant too.
˖⟡ ݁˖· ─
As soon as you entered the opulent dining room, you found your little sister and linked arms with her.
"You would think they would make the wedding as soon as possible to lock you in. Not an event to happen in a weeks time."
Derella frowned at you as you both made your way to the long, decorated table. The room seemed cold with all of its grey stone and iron. "How do you mean? He isn't so dreadful..."
You side-eyed your sister. There was no confidence in that statement. Obviously, things came to light during their evening conversation that she didn't particularly favour.
Your eyes brushed over her exposed skin in search of any marks.
"Did he touch you?"
"Oh, no," Derella began. Your skirts drifted across the floors as you both turned around the table and took your places.
Red and black dragon banners hung from the walls. The table was lined with grand candelabras, roast meats slick with sauces and greens, and decanters upon decanters filled with wine.
You settled into your seats - your father at one end of the table, and Maekar at the other end. Aerion sat lazily across from Derella.
She leant in to whisper the rest of the conversation, "I fear he is a little, well..." you both glanced at him as he played with his knife. "Jagged?"
You nodded, "Yes, I can see what you mean."
The feast began. The conversations held centred mostly around the cooked game on the table, dragons, armies, House Blackfyre, and rumours of magic.
Aerion's attention flickered to you at the mention of that. You ignored it.
The night went on pleasantly, but you knew your sister too well.
From the way she tapped her foot beneath the table, to the way she insistently rubbed the fabrics of her gown between her fingers. Her round eyes consistently flickered to each person speaking, as if to keep up with every conversation happening within the room.
She would never admit such anxiousness out loud out of fear of disappointing father, disappointing House Sterling.
It made your stomach twist inside out.
You grabbed your drink and turned to her, ready to give a toast meant only for your sister's ears.
"To a fruitful marriage and enduring alliance," You partially raised your chalice, and she smiled. "Good fortune to you, sister, and pity to our enemies," Your gaze caught Aerion's. He arched a brow as you watched him, as something soft yet mocking occupied your face. "for only the tarnished break." You recited your House words.
It seemed Aerion wasn't the only one who listened in on your conversation.
"And to the prince!" Someone shouted drunkenly at the other end of the table - someone you hadn't seen before. He sluggishly raised his own chalice as he stood, tipping and swaying. "Here's to having a whore in your bed every night, and whores in Kings Landing to choose from too!"
Your head instantly snapped back to the man who uttered such words, your chalice landing back onto the table.
Your father's hand instantly came up to halt you, Derella's own hand coming down on your arm. "It's alright, y/n," she urged. "Dismiss it."
Glances were passed around the table. You stared past those who stared, past the candlelight and towards the man as he laughed into his cup.
Aerion watched you. He noted how you did not wait for a male member to defend your sister, though it was ettiquete. He noted how both your father and sister's immediate attention was on you before anything else.
His eyes danced down to your lip again.
Derella's hand was still gentle yet firm on your arm, her expression as neutral as ever. You tightened your hold on the stem of your chalice.
You didn't know how she did it. Such phrases from such men made your blood boil, but you had to consider the arrangement. The alliance. That collected expression you had mastered soon slipped easily back onto your face. All wasn't so bad.
All you did was look at the scum at the end of the table. Still, you didn't look to your father.
"It is brave of you to speak on a Prince's marriage in his own hall." Aerion's words landed like a blade laid flat against the table.
Those that dared to chuckle quickly quitened themselves.
Now silence stretched thin as tension became thick, though some had to admit - they were excited to see what kind of scene, what kind of threat the Monstrous would make.
You looked up at Aerion.
His violet eyes gleamed with that Targaryen authority, that sheer cold superiority thousands spoke of in both fear and awe.
The man seemed to wither under Aerion's stare. "Speak out of turn again, and I shall flip a coin to decide what to remove from you - your hand or your tongue-"
"Enough." Maerek's voice boomed through the room, and all swiftly returned to their meals.
Shoulders soon loosened. Chalices clinked against each other once again.
The man seemed to sink further into his seat, hopeful to not draw the Prince's attention again.
Derella let out a long, soft sigh, taking a mouthful of wine. You kept your focus trained on the food spread across your plate.
But you felt it - lingering and insistent. Eager for you to face it head on.
You glanced up to see Aerion staring back at you, violet eyes burnished with something unreadable.
And though he would deny and deny and deny, deep down, somewhere in that dark swirling soul of his, Aerion felt as though you had imbued him like one of your jewels, for he could not stop trying to untie your intentions like a knotted chain.
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Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a continuation to Growing Strong series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, Iron throne kink, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas.
a/n: Bonus smut fic because I felt bad for ending the series with the last chapter not featuring much of Aerion and his wife.
The Iron Throne dominated the great hall even in emptiness, a monstrous tangle of fused blades and jagged edges that climbed toward the vaulted ceiling like a frozen explosion of steel. Torches guttered in their sconces, casting restless shadows across the dragon skulls that lined the walls. The hour was late; the last petitioners had been dismissed hours ago, the Kingsguard posted outside the great doors with strict instructions that the King was not to be disturbed.
Aerion Targaryen, first of his name, sat sprawled across the throne with the careless ease of a man who had never once been cut by the blades that had drawn blood from a dozen kings before him. His legs were spread, one arm draped over a melted sword-hilt, his crown tilted slightly askew on his silver-gold head.
He looked, you thought as you crossed the empty hall toward him, unfairly youthful. The years of fighting had kept his body hard and lean, the muscles of his arms and shoulders still evident beneath the silk of his doublet. His face was unlined, the pale Valyrian skin still smooth despite the sun he had taken during campaigns. Eventually, the years would catch up. But not yet.
"You summoned me, Your Grace," you said, stopping at the base of the throne's steps. Your voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space.
Aerion's mouth curved into that slow, knowing smile that you had spent years learning to read. "I did." His violet eyes tracked over you with open appreciation. "You look tired."
"I have been reviewing trade agreements with the Free Cities since midday."
"Then you should sit." He patted his thigh. "Come."
You raised an eyebrow. "The Iron Throne is not a loveseat."
"The Iron Throne is whatever I say it is. I am the king." His smile widened. "Come, my sweet rose. Do not make me repeat myself."
You cast a glance toward the great doors. "The Kingsguard..."
"Have been told we are not to be disturbed for any reason short of a city burning." He extended his hand toward you, fingers beckoning. "I have been waiting for you."
You knew every shade of his moods. Tonight, he was restless. Tonight, he wanted you close.
You climbed the steps.
The throne's blades whispered against your skirts as you ascended, the metal worn smooth in places by generations of royal backsides. When you reached him, he caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap.
"This is highly improper," you murmured, even as your body settled against his.
"What good is being able to sit the Iron Throne," he replied, his breath warm against your ear, "if a man cannot fuck his own wife on it?"
"Charming."
"I thought so."
His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you back against his chest. For a moment, he simply held you there, his chin resting on your shoulder, his heartbeat steady against your spine. The great hall stretched before you, empty and echoing, the torches painting everything in flickering shades of gold and shadow.
"You have been thinking about Maeron," you said quietly.
"I am always thinking about Maeron. He's my son."
"Specifically about his marriage."
Aerion's arms tightened fractionally. "We need to discuss it. He is past twenty, and he has no bride. No betrothal. No prospects that we have formally considered. The lords are beginning to talk."
"The lords always talk."
"They talk more loudly when the heir to the Iron Throne remains unwed." He paused. "I have received three ravens this week alone from houses offering daughters. The Lannisters sent a portrait."
You made a dismissive sound. "The Lannisters."
"Painted rather flatteringly, I thought. Though I suspect the artist took liberties."
"You are not seriously considering a Lannister."
Aerion's chest shook with a silent laugh. "I am not. But I wanted to hear you say it."
You shifted on his lap, turning slightly so you could meet his eyes. "I do not want lions in this family. Not in our blood. Not in our halls. Casterly Rock has spent generations buying influence with gold and calling it loyalty. The moment we show weakness, they will be the first to pounce."
"I am aware."
"They betrayed the rightful Queen once. They would do it again."
"I am also aware." His thumb traced idle circles on your hip. "I am not arguing with you, sweet rose. I am agreeing. The Lannisters are out."
That gave you pause. You had expected more resistance, not because Aerion was particularly fond of House Lannister, but because he enjoyed provoking you. "And the Hightowers?"
His expression soured. "Absolutely not. Oldtown thinks too highly of itself. The Hightowers have always believed they should have more influence than they do. The Citadel is in their pocket, the Faith bows to their whims, and they would use a marriage to our son as a lever to pry open the crown's authority." His voice hardened. "I did not bleed for this throne only to hand it to a pack of book-reading schemers in grey robes."
You smiled faintly. "So we are agreed. No Lannisters. No Hightowers."
"Agreed."
"That narrows the field considerably."
"It does." He pressed a kiss to the curve of your neck. "But we are not without options. The Velaryons have daughters."
"Cousins, technically. Distant ones."
"The blood of Old Valyria runs in their veins. It would strengthen the line."
You considered. "True. But Corlys Velaryon's ambitions were legendary. If we elevate them again, they may grow…expectant."
"Expectations can be managed."
"Can they?" You turned further on his lap, hooking your legs over the arm of the throne so you could face him more directly. "Or will our son spend his reign fending off Velaryon cousins who believe they are entitled to more than they have been given?"
Aerion studied your face. His hands had moved to your waist, steadying you against him. "You have someone else in mind."
"I have possibilities. Nothing certain."
"Speak."
You hesitated. "The Starks have daughters."
Aerion blinked. "The Starks."
"Why do you look surprised?"
"Because Winterfell is a thousand leagues from King's Landing and the Starks have never married into the Targaryen line. Not once. Not since the Conquest."
"Perhaps it is time." You placed your hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. "The North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, but it is also the most remote. The most isolated. The Starks keep to themselves, and the realm has allowed them to do so for too long. If we bind them to us by blood, we secure their loyalty in a way that no oath ever could."
Aerion was quiet for a long moment. His fingers traced the embroidery at your bodice, following the pattern of golden roses stitched across green silk.
"The North is not like the other kingdoms," he said at last. "They keep the old gods. They do not bend easily. A Stark bride would find King's Landing alien, and our son's court might find her alien in turn."
"Maeron would not mind. He has always been curious about the North."
"Maeron is curious about everything. That is not the same as being suited for a Northern bride."
"Are you opposed?"
He tilted his head, considering. "I am not opposed. But I am cautious. The Starks are honorable to a fault, that much is true. An honorable ally is valuable. But an honorable ally who feels slighted or overlooked can become an honorable enemy, and honorable enemies are one the most dangerous kind." He paused. "Still. It is worth exploring. I will send ravens to Winterfell. Discreet ones."
You nodded slowly. "There is also the matter of Dorne."
"Dorne." Aerion's expression flickered. "The Martells?"
"They have already been bound to the Iron Throne through marriage. A second marriage would reinforce that bond."
"It would also," Aerion said slowly, "remind the other kingdoms that Dorne is favored. That could cause friction."
"Friction is inevitable no matter who we choose. The question is which friction we can best manage."
Aerion was silent again. His hands had stilled on your waist, his violet eyes distant. You recognized that look, the calculating stillness that came over him when he was weighing possibilities, measuring outcomes in the privacy of his own mind.
"You are fretting," he said finally.
"I am planning."
"You are fretting." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You worry that we will choose poorly and doom our son to a miserable marriage. You worry that the lords will object to whoever we select. You worry that time is slipping away and every day without a betrothal is a day of uncertainty that our enemies can exploit."
"Someone has to worry. You seem determined to be cavalier about the whole affair."
"I am not cavalier. I am confident." His hands slid down to your hips, his grip tightening. "Maeron will marry well because we will ensure he marries well. We have built a dynasty from blood and fire and sheer stubborn refusal to lose. We will not falter now over wedding negotiations."
His voice had dropped, taking on that lower register that you knew intimately. The shift was sudden but not unexpected, Aerion had always moved between moods like a storm changing direction, unpredictable and consuming.
"We were discussing politics," you reminded him.
"We were. Now we are finished discussing politics."
"Are we?"
His hands moved to the laces of his breeches, working them loose with practiced efficiency. "We have eliminated the Lannisters. We have eliminated the Hightowers. We have identified potential matches among the Velaryons, the Starks, and the Martells. Tomorrow, I will instruct the small council to begin formal inquiries. Tonight..." He freed himself from the constraints of his breeches, already hard and straining upward against his stomach. "...tonight, I require something else."
Your breath caught slightly. The sight of him like this: arrogant, demanding, utterly unashamed of his own desire, sent a familiar heat coiling through your belly.
"Here?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
"Here." His hands bunched in your skirts, dragging the fabric upward. "I told you. What good is being able to sit the Iron Throne if a man cannot fuck his own wife on it?"
"This is a desecration of the seat of power."
"This is a celebration of the seat of power." His grin was sharp and wicked. "Lift your hips."
You obeyed, and he pushed your skirts up around your waist, baring your thighs to the cool air of the great hall. His fingers found the cleft between your legs, testing, and he made a satisfied sound low in his throat.
"Already wet," he murmured. "You argue with me about Starks and Velaryons while your body prepares itself for me. I have always admired that about you, the ability to multitask."
"Don't be crass, Aerion."
"Make me."
You kissed him instead, your fingers tangling in his silver-gold hair. He groaned into your mouth and pulled you forward, positioning you over him with the same decisiveness he brought to everything. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and then he was pulling you down onto him.
The stretch of him inside you, familiar and overwhelming all at once, drew a gasp from your throat. Aerion's head fell back against the throne's unforgiving steel, his eyes fluttering half-closed.
"Gods," he breathed. "Every time. Every single time."
He did not wait for you to adjust. He never did. His hands clamped onto your hips and he drove up into you with the kind of hard, fast rhythm that was his signature, incapable of complete gentleness when it came to you, incapable of patience or restraint. The Iron Throne was beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you thought that this was obscene, this was sacrilegious, this was exactly the kind of thing that Aerion Targaryen would do and damn the consequences.
"Look at me," he commanded, and you realized your eyes had closed. You opened them to find his gaze burning into yours, fierce and utterly undone. "There. Yes. I want you to see where you are. I want you to remember."
"Remember what?"
"That you are the Queen. That this throne is ours. That no one, no Lannister, no Hightower, no Blackfyre pretender, can take this from us." His hips snapped upward, driving himself deeper, and you cried out despite yourself. "That's it. Let them hear. Let the ghosts of every dead king know that this throne still serves its purpose."
"You are..." You gasped as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "...entirely mad."
"Possibly." He thrust harder. "Do you care?"
"No," you admitted, and it was true. You had stopped caring about his madness years ago. You had learned to navigate it, to temper it, to love it even.
Because beneath the fire, the fury and the insatiable need to claim and conquer, there was a man who had slit a sorceress' throat to save your life. A man who had refused to sire more children because he would not risk losing you again. A man who, for all his flaws, loved you with a terrifying, all-consuming devotion that had never once wavered.
His rhythm was growing erratic now, his breath coming in harsh pants against your throat. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but you did not mind. You never minded. The marks he left on you were reminders of his passion, his possession, his refusal to let you go.
"Close," he gritted out. "Are you..."
"Almost."
He shifted his angle slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies to find the pearl of your pleasure, and the added stimulation was enough to tip you over the edge. You shattered around him with a broken cry, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, driving into you one final time and spilling himself deep inside with a groan that echoed off the walls.
You slumped against his chest, your forehead resting in the curve of his neck, your breath mingling with his in the torchlit darkness. His arms wrapped around you, holding you in place, his cock still buried inside you as if he could not bear to separate.
"We should not have done that," you murmured eventually.
"We absolutely should have. We should do it again tomorrow."
"Unbelievable."
"You love me." He pressed a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. "Say it."
"I love you."
"Sweeter than summer wine." He shifted beneath you, and you felt him stir again, not yet fully hard but recovering with the swiftness that had always characterized his appetites. "Again?"
"We need to discuss Maeron's bride."
"We discussed her. We have options. Options can wait until morning." His hips rolled lazily, pushing his softening length deeper into the mess he had made inside you. "Right now, I want my wife."
"You have her."
"I want her again."
You laughed despite yourself, a soft, breathless sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You will end me."
"Never." His voice dropped, the playfulness fading into something more serious. "You are the only thing that keeps me alive, sweet rose. You and Maeron. Everything else is just noise."
You cupped his face in your hands, studying the familiar planes of his features: the sharp cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the violet eyes that still burned with the same intensity they had possessed when you first met him. He looked young in the firelight. Young and fierce and utterly yours.
"The Starks," you said softly. "I think we should pursue the Starks first."
He blinked at the sudden return to politics, then laughed, a genuine, startled sound. "Here? Now? While I am still inside you?"
"What better time? You are relaxed. Agreeable."
"I am many things. Agreeable is not one of them."
"Agree to the Starks."
He studied your face, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. "You truly believe this is the right path."
You paused. "The Starks are not like the other great houses. They do not scheme. They do not plot. They keep their word, even when it costs them. That is the kind of blood we want in our line. Blood that remembers honor."
Aerion nodded slowly.
"I will send ravens to Winterfell in the morning," he said. "Discreet inquiries only. No formal offers until we know more about the daughters and their temperaments."
"That is all I ask."
"No," he said, shifting beneath you and beginning to harden again inside you, "it is not. You also ask..." He thrust up gently. "...for my attention." Another thrust. "My devotion." Another. "My seed."
"I have all of those already."
"You do." He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours. "And you will have them again. Right now."
The great hall echoed with the sound of your mingled laughter and gasps as he began to move once more.
a/n: Can you guys tell I am not ready to say goodbye to Aerion and Lady Tyrell.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
An important part of fighting against AI is to engage with artwork that can't be made by AI. Sing with friends, go to live concerts, make handcrafts, see a live theater show. It sucks that there are certain artforms--digital art, writing, recorded music--that can be easily faked by a machine, but there are still artforms that you can know aren't from a machine because the people are right there in the room with you. It's imperfect, it's amateur, it'll never get a huge audience, but it's also local and personal, and that's something beautiful that's much harder to corrupt with machines.
I am living for these posts that don’t just say, “AI is bad,” (though we do need informational pieces too,) but propose hope and avenues for going forward. The joy in homespun, unpolished creativity,especially shared creativity, is more enormous than many people remember day-to-day.
"Your attraction to Kai's new friend is undeniable— however, dancing around said attraction gets old quick; looks like you'll have to see what it takes to get this push and pull over with."
taehyun x fem!reader
Genre: strangers to lovers, smut, barely any plot
Word Count: 19k
warnings: dom!th, sub!mc, use of weed, high sex, lots of smoking!! consent is not explicitly stated at times but trust me. they want each other. body worship, slight brat taming, shotgunning, oral (m. rec, f. rec) deep throating, handjob, lots of making out, dry humping, manhandling, tyun carries the reader once, hair pulling, spitting, pussy slapping, biting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, taehyun is an EATER okay he puts that girl through it, squirting, pet names (angel, baby, etc), bulge kink, choking, lots of praise and degrading, creampie
notes: NEVER take the solomon pill this shit gets SERIOUS
When Kai sent you a message asking if you were busy tonight, you earnestly responded that you weren't. When he asked if you wanted to come over to smoke and hang out with a few others, you hesitated— because it was a Thursday night, and he was definitely aware of your nine-am class and the way weed made you feel drowsy the day after. But when he sent you a photo of him pouting and a table full of snacks behind him, you promptly changed your mind.
You're so glad you did— you'd definitely beat yourself up forever if you knew what you were about to miss out on.
Tanned skin, broad shoulders and a criminally narrow waist that flashes beneath the flannel he wears over his tank top— all complimented by a face sculpted by the gods with clear love and care; a plump bottom lip that juts into a pout, tall nose and large eyes that scanned the room curiously— you first made eye contact after Kai let you in, your gaze instantly attracted to the makeshift halo given to him by the lamp he sat in front, his long black hair falling into his eyes. While you instantly looked away, intimidated by how attractive he was, you felt his gaze linger on you for a bit longer.
You let Kai take your hand and drag you to the couch across from this beautiful stranger; some random animated adult comedy show droned on in the background, the only light left after the lamp gets turned off, a few others already taking up space on the couches; you squeezed into the corner while Kai sat to your left, Soobin and Beomgyu taking up the rest of the space— they were nice and fun to talk to, but you only knew them through Kai; you learned it was more entertaining to watch them try to argue whilst high out of their minds.
Across from you, Kazuha and Yunjin wave at you— you were mutual friends through Kai, getting to know them through your econ class after you were paired together for a project; they introduce you to the friends they invited, Chaeryoung and Ryujin. Yeonjun has forfeited a seat on the couch in favor of sitting on the floor, hunched over the coffee table as he rolls up— when you greet him, he gives you a toothy grin, nodding behind him as he introduces you to his invited guest—
"Taehyun." Oh god, you have to try your best not to react too much as he greets you— a polite smile is all you can muster, because you fear anything more than that would give away the effect his mere voice already has on you. It's smooth and deep, with an unexpected gentleness in his tone despite the cool and standoffish front he has going on. You all fall silent, some paying attention to the television while you opt to watch Yeonjun finish rolling up the joint.
He works fast, his fingers nimble and clearly experienced; as much as you like to tease that his skill is concerning, you never turn down a smoke session when it's Yeonjun that's rolling up— you'd like to think that the extra care he puts in his joints add a little extra something that makes your high better. Not that you'd ever tell him that.
You're snapped out of your trance at the sound of Yeonjun calling your name; blinking owlishly, you find him holding out the finished joint and a lighter out to you, eyes tinted with an amused glint.
"Wanna start it off?" he asks— you suddenly feel everyone's eyes fall on you. "You look like you're dying for a hit."
"Am not," you scoff, yet take up the offer anyway; this earns a chuckle from Taehyun, who you can't help but become attuned to instantly. Placing the joint between your lips, you pray that you don't fumble lighting it up and make a fool of yourself in front of everyone.
Then again, it's hard to when you have Yeonjun's work in your hands— you quietly marvel at how quickly the joint lights up, taking a slow drag and watching the tip burn in response. You turn your head to the side to blow out the smoke before passing it over to Kai, settling back on the couch and turning your attention on the show that plays in the background.
As the joint makes its way back to you, a quiet conversation adds to the white noise; you talk about the semester and the finals that approach, listening to Yunjin rant animatedly about her cumulative calculus exam that's driving her up the wall, nodding along in sympathy. Beside you, Kai starts to complain about his job— hyping himself up by saying the same as always: "I'm gonna quit once this semester ends, I swear." The effects of the weed already seem to kick in as you can only muster a slightly slurred remark that he's a hypocrite that's been repeating the same thing for the past two years— when you stumble over your sentence one time too many, the group begins to laugh and you quietly scold yourself to shut the hell up.
It's been a while since you last smoked; you're definitely sure it's showing too, as you proceed to melt into the couch more while the others continue the conversation like nothing— at some point, the others start skipping you when passing the joint around.
Beomgyu and Soobin have started arguing again, something about League and their current rankings. While they have the world's most incomprehensible screaming match, Yunjin drags the girls up and to the kitchen, rambling off about how hungry she is— she turns to you to ask if you'd like to tag along, but when your bleary eyes meet hers and you give her a sluggish shake of your head, she leaves without a fight. Yeonjun trails after them at the reminder of food; beside you, Kai watches his friends fight with a small smile, taking a slow hit from the joint and leaning on your shoulder with a sigh. The two of you curl into each other, and while Kai laughs at the jabs the two throw at each other, you're left unsure of whether they're even speaking a language you know.
A chill runs through your body, and you instinctively turn to the couch across from you— your eyes meet with Taehyun's for the umpteenth time today, but in your high induced daze, you don't feel a panicked urge to look away. Instead, you allow yourself to hold his stare, tilting your head as your eyes begin to wander.
He's shed his flannel; he's left in nothing but a white tank, showing off his arms that are so defined with muscle you're able to pick it up under the low light of the TV. It's unbearable, having such perfect eye-candy on display— even more so when he places his hands behind his head and stretches back, his short tank riding up and exposing his stomach— rather, his fucking abs. You didn't think it was possible to find someone with actual defined abs in real life; Yeonjun always complains to you about how hard they are to maintain.
You're suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, and you can't control the way you gulp as an attempt to relive the tension. You watch as his eyes flutter shut and his head tilts back, his back arching as he continues to stretch— a low groan escapes his lips, and before you can look away and feign nonchalance, he's melting back down into the couch and meeting your eyes again.
Your face feels like it's on fire, your eyes widening a fraction as you look away— but not before catching the way his lips quirked up in amusement.
"I don't give a fuck that you were at master tier— you're at emerald now and I'm at diamond. So I'm obviously better."
"When have you ever reached master?!" Soobin's yell cuts off your flustered line of thoughts, jumping closer to Kai from the shock his sudden increase in volume gave you. Kai merely laughs at you, grabbing your thighs to bring your legs up to rest on his lap; he absentmindedly rubs your thigh while watching the two continue to debate on who's better.
"And who had to carry you during last night's match?!" Beomgyu yells back; the two are heated, sitting up and trying to loom over each other, but they keep trying to one-up each other that you think they'll stand up any moment. "How many kills did you get again?!"
"Hey, did you want any more?" Kai is holding out the joint to you, leaning in so you can hear him over the screaming match happening next to you. You think about it for a minute— you still feel light and dreamy, but there's the unmistakable feeling of the fog clearing in your mind, able to keep a better grasp on your surroundings than before— and decide it's too early to let the feeling fade, nodding softly and going to reach for the joint.
Instead, Kai beats you to it. He's bringing the joint to your lips, smiling when you raise a brow in surprise but accept the gesture anyway; you follow his instructions to take a long hit, and when he finally pulls the joint away, you've filled your lungs with so much smoke that you end up having a small coughing fit.
"Shit, my bad— that was probably a little too much," he pushes your legs off his lap and hands you the joint, giving you a pat on your back before standing, "I'll go get you some water."
You're left trying to calm down your coughing fit with the smoking joint in your hand, Soobin and Beomgyu now speaking so fast you feel like you're going crazy— there isn't a single word you're able to pick up on, and all you can do is stare at the rug beneath your feet as the weed begins to course through your system once more.
The joint feels warm between your fingers, and you're suddenly itching to get rid of it; glancing to your left, you immediately rule out Soobin and Beomgyu who have now begun to point aggressively at each other. The only other person you can hand this to is sitting across from you, and already staring when you look at him. Taehyun sends you a small smile, reaching his hand out in a silent plea. He's too far from you, so you're resigned to stand on shaky legs and walk over to hand him the joint.
Maybe you should've paid a bit more attention to your surroundings— because then you would've been able to catch Yeonjun's bag on the floor next to the coffee table, your foot catching on it and sending you stumbling forward; you crash into the couch unceremoniously, able to turn your body at the last second to ensure you didn't crush the joint nor burn either you or Taehyun with it— instead, you almost fall on him, saved instead by his hands that shoot forward to steady you. Your head spins from the sudden movement, panting as your heart tries to calm down from the scare.
"Fuck, that's so embarrassing," you whine, covering your face with a hand in shame— Soobin and Beomgyu's argument is briefly cut off in favor of laughing at you, retreating to their own world in surrender after you send them a glare. You hear a low chuckle next to you, and your heart begins to panic once more as you remember who it is you almost fell on top of.
"I'm so sorry," you say through the gaps of your fingers— you don't have the guts to look at him, holding the joint out to his general direction instead. When he takes it, his fingers brush over yours; they're warm and a bit calloused, and you try to ignore the electricity that shoots through your fingertips into the rest of your body.
"No need to apologize," Taehyun says, "you okay?"
"Yeah I'm fine," you say, trying to adjust yourself on the couch— you really don't think you can get back up, especially now that you're high again— you shift away from him, just so you don't have to feel like you're going to shut down every time your thighs press against each other, and frown, feeling a sudden tension in your right hand.
Taehyun takes another hit, and you try to watch from the corner of your eye—his plump lips that wrap around the joint, his brows that knit together while he inhales, looking away from you so he can exhale; you catch him doing a ghost, and you swear you've never seen anyone look so hot while smoking. You're quick to look away so he won't catch you ogling this time.
You're back to watching the TV absentmindedly, the tension in your hand coming back as you shift— frowning, you begin to massage your hand, flinching when your fingers push into the knuckle of your thumb; a stinging sensation shoots through you, and you can't hold back the sharp hiss you let out as you experimentally push in again. Taehyun's head snaps over, watching quietly as you continue to massage your thumb, fingers careful and hesitant as you press into the muscle.
Your eyes that were glued to the hands on your lap widen as Taehyun reaches for your sore hand, bringing it up to his face to examine it; your mouth feels dry as you observe the concern etched into his frown, lithe fingers wrapped around your wrist and turning your hand over in his— his lips clamp down on the joint so he can examine you with his other hand, leaning toward you as he does.
Slowly, his fingers smooth over your skin, fingertips stopping at the knuckle you were tending to earlier. His thumb and pointer fingers move to squeeze your joint experimentally, his eyes flickering up to your face when you grimace and your hand twitches in his hold.
"How bad does it hurt?" he murmurs, his face so close to yours it feels like you've been sucked into a whole different dimension. You can smell the weed that lingers with the joint, the flame beginning to die out, and the clean, calming scent of his cologne— serene and endless, like a cabin in the woods surrounded by the smell of cedar and nature. It's fresh, clean— his face is a mere inches away from yours, and when his eyes flicker up to meet yours, you feel as though you've been kicked in the gut and forced to answer.
"Not— not too bad, I'm sure it's nothing serious," he raises a brow, digging his fingers into your muscle once more— when you let out a choked yelp, the corners of his lips tick up. You let out a shaky breath as you try to be brave and hold his stare. "I think I just landed on it wrong."
"You're sure?" his eyes sparkle with an undeniable mischief, watching with a glint in his eyes as you immediately nod— he presses into your thumb again, just to watch you jolt and try to rip your hand from his; he tightens his hold on you before you can. "Still sure?"
"Okay, maybe it's a little sore," your courage has been snuffed out, your eyes falling to your lap dejectedly. Taehyun chuckles, plucking the joint from his lips before putting it down on the ash tray on the coffee table— his hand has yet to let yours go.
"Thought so," he murmurs; bringing your hand close, he caresses the sore spot slowly. "Sorry, didn't mean to get so rough with you."
Your mind goes blank— his fingers linger on your skin for a second, his eyes fluttering to look up at you once more. He's gently placing your hand back on your lap, giving it a gentle squeeze before he lets go. You're not sure what prompts you into saying the things you do, but the words tumble from your lips anyway.
"No, it's fine. I don't mind."
Beside you, Taehyun stiffens; he does nothing more than nod, letting out a thoughtful hum and leaning back into the couch. The air between you two feels undeniably charged, and you think you might blurt out something stupid again if this tension persists. Instead, you're saved by Kai who finally emerges from the kitchen— you send him a glare for taking so long, and he rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile.
"Sorry, Yeonjun was telling us about his situationship again," he sits next to you, uncapping the water bottle before handing it to you, "I got distracted."
"You're lucky I love you," you murmur, gulping down water— Kai leans in, dropping his voice and whispering in your ear.
"Why'd you switch seats?"
You don't like the tone in his voice— teasing, as though you had ulterior motives. You narrow your eyes at him when you find a coy smile playing at his lips.
"I was passing the joint to him."
"And you just had to stay here?"
"Shut up," you raise your voice, smacking his shoulder to get him away from you— while Kai just laughs, you see Taehyun glance over at you from your peripheral. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."
"Yes ma'am," Kai gathers your legs in his lap again, pulling you closer instinctively, "Taehyun, could you pass the joint over here?"
"Sure," he leans forward, picking up the joint before frowning— he gives a testing tug, and when nothing comes out, he shakes his head. "It went out. Where's the lighter?"
"Oh— I have it," you're patting your pockets in search of it, finally fishing it out with a triumphant cheer— you're about to hand it over to Taehyun, but instead of taking it, he leans into you, the joint hanging between his lips.
Your eyes flicker up to meet his— his eyes are dark, and he's raising a brow at you as though your hesitation were odd— he nods his chin toward you, and you're bringing up the lighter, having to flick it a few times before the flame finally emerges. While his gaze is glued to the tip of the joint, you take this moment to get a closer look at him; his black hair that's lit up under the soft flame, stray hairs falling over his round eyes with thick lashes that flutter softly, his smooth skin and slim face, you take it all in like it's the last time you'll ever see him again; when he finally pulls away, you're quick to do the same, afraid to get caught staring for the millionth time tonight.
You face forward, trying to pretend that the moment that passed wasn't enough to startle your heart— when you look up, you're mortified to find Soobin and Beomgyu staring at you with wide, sleazy smiles. When you frown, their grins only widen— you shake your head softly when you see Beomgyu ready to speak, and to your surprise, he actually shuts his mouth with a coy chuckle; you think there might've been genuine fear flashing in your eyes with the way he obliged so easily.
From the corner of your eye, you see Taehyun taking another hit before passing it off to you; you don't hesitate to take it this time, more than ready to ease tonight's tension a bit, taking a long hit before passing it off to Kai— you and Taehyun don't interact much for the rest of the night, and while your heart is thankful for it, your brain quietly itches for a little more; a glance, a conversation, something— but Taehyun falls quiet without Yeonjun by his side, and the said man spends the rest of the night in the kitchen ranting to the girls about his recent heartache.
It isn't until everyone is leaving that you run into him again, standing idly in the kitchen and picking at the snacks that were left behind; it's two AM and you've cashed in your best friend privileges to sleep over at Kai's while everyone is saying their goodbyes after finally sobering up. Yeonjun is glued to your side, sneaking in a last few pieces from the candy bowl while you make him promise to catch you up on everything he was spilling to the rest of the girls.
"It's not my fault, you're the one that chose to stay on the couch the whole time."
"Well, you should've tried to come get me again!"
"Why would I do that?" he leans in closer, whispering in your ear with a coy grin, "when you and Taehyunie were getting along so well?"
"Whatever," you shove him off you with a scoff, but he only lets out an obnoxious laugh, leaning in to give you a kiss on the cheek before bidding you goodbye and running out the kitchen. Taehyun wanders in a few minutes later.
It's ridiculous, really— your heart begins to race the moment you make eye-contact with him, and you're turning to face the counter as a result, picking aimlessly at snacks and candy bowls in a weak attempt to seem busy. You think your heart might stop when you feel him looming over you, his shadow encasing yours as he softly clears his throat; you have to brace yourself before you finally turn around.
"Hey," his voice is deep and a bit raspy, and you get a whiff of mint as he speaks— sure enough, he's chewing on gum, and you realize with a pathetic skip of your heart that he has dimples, one so deep and etched into the side of his right cheek. "Do you have Yeonjun's lighter?"
Oh. That bastard.
"Oh! I do, yeah," you give a weak laugh, an attempt to ease your overactive nerves; sure enough, Yeonjun's lighter is still in your pocket, and you're fishing out the Zippo decorated with stickers and handing it out to him.
"Thanks," he shoves it in his front pocket, and you nod. He takes a step back, and lingers for a moment. "It was nice meeting you. I'll see you around?"
"Yeah," your response is a tad too swift and eager, and though it makes your skin crawl, the smile he gives you evens it out. "It was nice meeting you too."
He gives you a polite smile before turning on his heel and leaving for good— you watch him leave, quietly following up to the kitchen doorway just to keep him in your sight a little longer.
And thank god you do— because the image of his broad back and the subtle flex of his muscles is the last thing you get to ingrain in your mind before Kai shuts the door behind him. Your best friend is instantly turning to you, and you hide behind the wall and pretend you hadn't been caught.
His obnoxious cackle is enough to have your skin heating up with embarrassment, hiding your face behind your hands as you recount the way you acted tonight.
"Dude, you were like a cat in heat."
You can't even fight back, because he's undeniably right.
☆☆☆
You can't stop thinking about him. It's been a week, and he's still invading your thoughts; maybe it's because you're starting to notice him on Yeonjun's Instagram posts more, or because you actually pay attention to Kai's rants after finding out he works with him at the local record shop— he's everywhere. He's been everywhere, and you just never realized it. You're anxious to see him again, your heart trembling with every night you had to spend overthinking the few hours you spent together— the lingering gazes, his touch on your hand, the kind glint in his eyes— you're tired of recounting the same scenarios over and over. So when Kai invites you to be his plus one to a party Taehyun's friend is hosting, who are you to say no to your best friend?
"Oh my god, how many times are you gonna ask? I don't know, they look the same to me!"
"They're literally not!" you flip the denim skirts over to show him the back, "the pockets! And the color! One's darker."
"Well they look the same."
"Ugh, you're not helping," you throw the skirts off to the side, flopping on your desk chair with a sigh. From your bed, Kai pouts, hugging your bunny plush closer as he watches you massage your temples.
"What about that one dress you have?" you look up in confusion, and he nods over to your open closet, "the pink one you got for our beach trip."
Your face lights up— that pink dress. The one you found at the mall by sheer luck, flattering and short with a skirt that swayed with your movements and gave others a peek of what was underneath if you weren't too careful. You completely forgot you owned it.
"Kai, have I ever told you how much I love you?" you bat your lashes at him, skipping over to the closet— sure enough, the pretty pink material peeked out from the very back of the rack, begging to be taken out. Kai only hums absently, and you look over your shoulder to send him a smile. "Now can you please get out? I'm gonna change."
☆☆☆
You're smoothing the dress down your hips when Kai knocks. It's been half an hour and you've yet to let him back in again.
"Come in," you finally say, turning to the side in the mirror, checking if the halter straps of your dress are tied in that perfect bow you practiced. The fabric of the skirt moves with you, fluttering around your thighs like a blooming flower— you see Kai come into the frame behind you, wearing a tight shirt and jeans that sit just a tad bit low on his hips, skin coming into view when he raises his hand to ruffle his curled blond hair. You glance at your appearance one last time before turning to him.
"Do I look okay?"
"You look great," he smiles, taking you in, in all your glittery glory, "you'll have Taehyun drooling all over you tonight."
"Shut up," you scoff, turning your back to him and scampering to get your purse and heels— Kai's insufferable smirk won't leave his face as he leads you out and to the ride he ordered to take you two to the party.
Kai is graceful enough to drop the subject for the rest of the car ride, choosing to tell you about the actual host of tonight's party so you don't go in blind; contrary to what you previously thought, there's no special occasion for tonight's party— Keeho merely did it for the love of the game. Kai details how Keeho throws parties every month or so, because after having his twenty-first get called a "rager", he decided it'd be fun to keep the title up.
"It might be packed tonight," Kai says, "Taehyun was telling me all the shit he had to get for tonight— from the sounds of it, I wouldn't be surprised if there were like, over a hundred people in there."
"Jesus Christ," you're pulling in to a street, finding the neighborhood lined with cookie-cutter houses that look like it'd take you three jobs to maintain; you can already spot a house toward the end of the cul-de-sac bleeding music loud enough to disturb the neighbors and other cars dropping off people who are already stumbling inside— adrenaline licks up your spine, a smile breaking out on your face at the sight of a party actually living up to the hype. When you turn back to Kai with stars in your eyes, he laughs.
"See what I mean?" He thanks your driver before sliding out the car behind you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you inside, "He got the reputation for a reason."
"How the hell has this not gotten shut down yet?" you have to raise your voice as you slip inside, the air instantly switching to something foggy and hot— there isn't a single person in front of your that's sober, and Kai has to lean close to be able to hear you.
"I think his neighbors are usually out on business trips," Kai yells, "but I've also heard rumors that he keeps a "special" relationship with them, if you know what I mean."
You do not. And you're sure you really don't want to.
"That's him!" Kai is pointing at the elevated DJ booth, and when you ask who you're supposed to be looking at, he points at the DJ himself— your jaw drops as you take him in, platinum hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and his dark eyes narrowed as he focuses on his deck; he takes off one of headphones as someone approaches him, probably requesting a song stupid enough to warrant the way his face twists with disgust, waving the person away without a second thought.
"Wait!" something in your mind clicks when you see him look up, the confident grin on his face giving you flashbacks to a late night out, "Isn't he DJ K? From the rave we went to?!"
Kai's nod is reciprocated with a slap to his shoulder— when he gives you an offended look, you scoff.
"He's been throwing parties this whole time and you didn't bother telling me you knew him?"
"Taehyun knows him," the mere mention of his name is enough to bring a smug smile to Kai's face, "so if you're gonna be mad at anyone, get mad at him."
Kai's sporting that weird look on his face again, like he's scheming something and you're at his mercy— it's making you nervous, and it must show on your face because your friend is taking your hand and dragging you through the house with a suspicious familiarity that makes you wanna hit him again. Instead, you allow him to bring you to the mini-bar— bar!— they have, ordering a round of shots you gratefully accept. The tequila Kai ordered for you goes down smooth, though you can't stop yourself from making a face, scanning the crowd to try and play it off; you can see Kai laughing at you from the corner of your eye.
"You wanna go dance?" he asks, watching you continue to analyze the crowd before you, "or… are you looking for someone?"
Reluctantly, you look up at him— he sounds like he knows something you don't, so you give in and tell the truth. "Maybe."
"About time. C'mon," Kai offers his hand, lacing your fingers with his and pulling you close, weaving through bodies and venturing deeper into the house— again, with such effortlessness that has you irked. He's leading you to the basement, leaning close to your ear with a grin. "That clueless act was getting old."
His loud laugh and the booming music is enough to drown out the names you curse out, the smell of weed already reaching your senses as the air gets cloudier the more you descend— your heart begins to pound in anticipation at the thought of getting to see Taehyun again.
Right as you reach the last step, Kai lets go of your hand and snakes his arm around your waist instead— when you send him a confused look, he merely shrugs and pulls you in closer.
"Don't want any creeps to try and hit on you."
The basement is relatively dark, only lit up by a line of bulb string lights that go across the back wall— there are small rectangular windows high up that are left open, and a pool table off to the side where a few people crowd, but the real center of attention lies in the center of the room, people melted into the couches that circle a small coffee table, filled up with ashtrays and beer bottles— it's there that you spot Taehyun rolling up, finishing up a joint— not the first one, if the lingering smoke in the room is any indicator. His tongue darts out to lick along the paper, and like some freaky sixth sense, his eyes dart up to meet yours.
"Scary," Kai's hold on your waist tightens, "it's like he was waiting for you."
Your heart flips at the mere thought, but you act aloof as you allow your friend to lead you into the circle, finding a conveniently open spot next between Yeonjun and Taehyun— the former cheers at the sight of you two, opening his arms for a hug you happily initiate.
"Finally!" You're bending over to hug Yeonjun, who's practically one with the couch— Kai hovers behind you to cover your rising dress. "I almost thought you weren't gonna show up!"
"And who told you I was coming?" because it definitely wasn't you— pulling back, you catch Yeonjun's red eyes widen before glancing over your shoulder. You've barely spent five minutes with him, but Yeonjun's already managed to piss you off.
"You came at a good time," Yeonjun says instead, pulling you down by the wrist to sit next to down; Kai squeezes between you two instead of taking the open spot. "Those dumbass randoms took our joint, so Taehyunie's rolling us a new one."
Sure enough, Taehyun's cleared out a small space on the coffee table to make way for his setup; a thought lingers in your head that you wish you could've seen him rolling up, because as he's finishing up the surprisingly pearled joint, your eyes linger on his nimble hands, and your thoughts wander to an embarrassingly desperate place.
Taehyun is fishing something from his pocket, a simple black lighter with the letters K.TH written toward the bottom of one side; he goes to sit as he lights the joint, the action so indifferent that you're convinced to think nothing of the way he falls back next to you, pressed close despite having plenty of space to sit.
He's dressed in all black today; a simple black tee that hugs his body and ends just above the waistband to his jeans, earning you a peek of his navel as he leans back against the couch. The thin silver chain he wears glints under the low light of the flame, complimented by the small silver hoop earrings that decorate his ears. When he looks over at you, you play off your staring by pretending you were waiting patiently for him to pass the joint to you.
You quickly realize that Taehyun is a very quiet person— and it's frustrating. Kai and Yeonjun make idle conversation that you occasionally jump into, but your interest is more on the man next to you that's decided all he can do is nod along to what the others are saying. By the time the joint has been passed back to you for the umpteenth time, you're high to push yourself to try and talk to him— the last thing you want to do is stumble over your sentences trying to woo this man.
"I wouldn't pass it to her, I think she's already out of it," Yeonjun and Kai laugh to themselves, and your head rolls over to them to send a scathing glare. Your sluggish movements only serve to make them laugh harder. "She's a total lightweight."
"You liar!" you're sitting up, crossing your arms against your chest with a pout. "Just because I don't smoke every other day like you, doesn't mean I'm a lightweight!"
"Nah, if you take another hit you'll probably fall asleep," Kai is all in your face with that insufferable grin of his, refusing to stand down, "it's what you always do when we smoke at my place."
You're about to curse Kai out for airing out your business like this— the last thing you want Taehyun thinking is that you're a lame person to smoke with! You're fired up, brows knitting together and lips curling to a scowl when suddenly, Taehyun cuts into the conversation.
"Hey, don't do my girl like that," all heads are snapping over at him: Yeonjun and Kai because they're surprised to hear him join in, and you because you think you're hearing things.
He's leaned back against the couch, arms crossed and showing off his biceps— you have to rip your eyes away from his arms to take in the small, coy smile he dons, the lit joint hanging loosely between his lips. His eyes flicker over to you, his smile widening a tad when he catches the surprise on your face. "If she wants another hit then let her get another one."
"Someone's feeling brave," Kai put his arm around your shoulders, giving you a teasing shake that makes you whine in protest. "Acting like you weren't falling asleep earlier!"
Kai's teasing is persistent, cooing and pinching your cheeks as you try to shove him off and tell him that you'll be fine— your bickering goes on for a while, your foggy brain trying its best to keep up with Kai's childish arguments; it's a losing battle, but when you feel a warm hand land on your thigh, it's like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over you, sobering you instantly.
Taehyun has gotten close— very close, his shoulder brushing against yours as you feel Kai's hand slip from your shoulders; the world around you seems to fade away as he stares at you with low-lidded, dark eyes. His brows are set in a slight furrow and his jaw seems a bit tight, the hand on your thigh squeezing ever-so slightly— not enough to feel aggressive, but enough to make you squirm, breathless as your lips part in anticipation— for what exactly, you're not sure.
"Do you wanna take hit?" his voice is soft, but he makes up for it by leaning closer toward you. You can feel the callouses on his palms as he rubs your thigh slightly, fingertips brushing against the skirt of your dress that's ridden up. You nod, but it's only returned with a shake of Taehyun's head. "I need to hear you say it, or I won't give it to you."
His fingertips have ventured toward your inner thighs— your legs squeeze his hand on instinct, and you feel his grip tighten, nails digging in and making you swallow back a whimper.
"Y-yeah," you breathe out, "I can handle it."
Kai and Yeonjun scoot a bit away from you, looking at each other and pretending to gag— they're lucky you don't catch it, because if you did you might've beaten them up; they can't help themselves from glancing over at you two one last time before they head over to the pool table.
Taehyun takes one last, long hit, doing a french inhale that makes you call him a show-off. He merely chuckles, turning away to blow out the smoke before he's holding up the joint to your lips. Your eyes flutter up to meet his, glittering under the low lights as you part your glossed lips and take a hit— you find yourself a bit intimated by the intensity of his stare, pulling away far too soon and turning away in hopes of hiding your flustered face.
"C'mon, what was that?" Taehyun's hand is slipping from your thigh to cup your chin and pull you back toward him, huffing out a laugh at the pout you sport. He raises a brow at you, mocking. "Don't tell me you considered that a hit."
"I mean," with the way he's smiling at you, you're able to spot sharp canines that bite down on the tip of his tongue teasingly, a dangerous thrill shooting through your spine at the sight. "I guess."
He laughs, shaking his head as he squeezes your cheeks affectionately— you're positively dizzy with the sudden onslaught of attention, shifting on the couch and squeezing your thighs together; Taehyun's eyes flicker down, his brow twitching in amusement before he's bringing the joint back up to your lips. "You can take another hit, can't you?"
You don't hesitate to nod.
"Here. Take a bigger one," he's guiding your face forward to meet him halfway, placing the joint between your lips and watching the tip light up as you inhale. He keeps his hold on you the whole time. "Come on, keep going."
"Little more… there we go," he's practically purring the words out, plucking the joint from your lips and tucking it between his own. His smile is coy as he watches your brows twitch, exhaling the smoke and willing yourself to not fall into a fatal coughing fit. When you fall back against the couch in success, he gives your thigh a soft pat. "Took it like a champ."
You feel like you're losing your mind with the way his words are hitting you with a heat that festers in your core. Your limbs are tingling and you feel a small smile etching on your face, shifting so that you're leaning on your side to face him fully.
"Kinda hard not to when you were holding me down," you giggle, and he leans forward, successfully closing you two off in your own little bubble.
"Can you blame me?" he murmurs, "you were enjoying yourself."
"What, so you're a mind reader now?"
"Nah," Taehyun's eyes crinkle as he smiles, "but it's not hard to read you when you look at me like that."
"Oh yeah?" you reach forward to take the joint from his lips, taking a small hit to hide your smile. "And how exactly was I looking at you?"
"Like you've had enough for tonight," the joint is taken from you yet again, and you're frowning, getting ready to protest— he shakes his head, leaning to the coffee table to snuff out his joint; you're completely melted into the couch while he remains sitting up, hovering over you with low-lidded, red eyes and a gentle smile. His eyes run over your body, stopping at your hips and letting out a small sigh. Reaching up, he tugs your dress down, that familiar tick to his jaw coming back. "Do you realize how short this dress of yours is?"
The smile on your lips only widens, and there's a playful glint in your eyes as you push your hips up, right against his hand that continues to hold the fabric down. "Something wrong with that?"
"'Course not." his hold on the fabric slips, watching it bounce right back up to rest on the curve of your hips, dangerously high. His gaze is shameless as he continues to take you in, and it's enough to have adrenaline shooting through you, a quiet, dazed giggle escaping you and snapping his attention back to you. He watches you for a moment, and there's this soft look in his eyes that has you squirming in place, your boldness instantly quieting down under the weight of his stare.
"You feeling okay?" he eventually asks; you simply nod. "Tired?"
"No," you bite back, though it's true— whenever you smoke with Kai and Yeonjun, you always find yourself falling asleep. But with this strand, you're feeling… different. Instead of that lethargic, dreamy high that settles heavy into your bones and sings you to sleep, you're faced with something brighter, urgent— your body tingles with restlessness, and there's a heavy heat that settles deep in your stomach that you refuse to acknowledge. "It's definitely not that."
You gulp, feeling yourself take the backseat in your own body; you feel absentminded as you continue this back and forth with Taehyun, finding yourself preoccupied with the feeling that continues to build up inside you— you feel good. It feels like the type of high your friends always describe, where they're giggling to themselves, lost in euphoria while you fight back sleep; your mind races as you say something that makes Taehyun laugh, a full body action that you can't help but find endearing.
You're staring. You know you are, but you couldn't care less in this moment, because he looks good. Criminally good, and it's enough to make that heat in your stomach worse.
"Still doing okay?" he asks. When you respond you're just a bit tired, he nods. "Do you want me to get Kai so he can take care of you?"
"What?" you raise a brow, caught off guard by the sudden mention of him. "Why?"
For the first time since you've met him, he looks embarrassed; under the low light, you swear you see his ears turn a bit red, and he's turning away to look at the pool table across the room. "I mean, it seems like he…"
His words hang heavy in the air. A minute passes before it finally clicks for you.
"Oh my god, no!" you fall into a fit of laughter, and Taehyun simply watches, confused. It's enough to make you laugh harder. "No, we're just friends. I promise."
"Oh," Taehyun seems deep in thought, and when he shifts, he seems a lot less tense. "Sorry, it's just that you guys are… touchy."
"Hmm, I can see why you thought that," you glance over at Kai and Yeonjun, the two playing a round of pool against two strangers, "but he's also the type to kiss his friends when he's drunk."
He frowns.
You laugh, "his guy friends."
"Oh," his eyes widen, his ears getting a little redder. You're soaking it all in, welcoming the sight of him so discomposed, "somehow I haven't seen him do that before."
Shrugging, you send him a wink. "Maybe you're next."
The laugh he lets out is loud, a bit startled. Your words are lighthearted, but it's clear you both consider it a possibility; you think you might've scared him from being around Kai alone and drunk.
A loud cheer erupts from across the room, and you and Taehyun are looking over to catch Kai and Yeonjun celebrating, loud and shameless as Kai places a kiss on Yeonjun's cheek— Taehyun looks over at you, raising his brows, and you simply shrug as though to say 'see what I mean?'
Your small bubble is popped as Kai runs over to you, an excited puppy as he asks if you saw the way they defeated the guys they were up against. You pat his head and tell him he did great, and you swear you can see a tail wagging behind him— Yeonjun is then perking up as he hears a song he likes playing faintly upstairs, grabbing your hand and urging you to go dance with him— because according to him, it'd be a shame to not show off your cute outfit.
When you turn and ask the remaining two if they're tagging along, Taehyun shakes his head, much to your disappointment. "Not in the mood to dance right now, sorry."
Kai flops down next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and saying he'll stay behind to keep him company— when Taehyun's eyes widen and he looks at you for help, you merely laugh and wave him goodbye.
"Any progress with Taehyunie?" Yeonjun rests his hand on your hip, pulling you into him and whispering in your ear.
"Tons," you grin, glancing down at his hand that taps your hip to the beat. "What're you so touchy for?"
When you look up at him, Yeonjun's grin widens, sending you a wink (or whatever his rendition of a wink is called— a blink, more like.) before kissing your temple and pulling you even closer.
"He's a jealous guy."
Your heart skips, letting Yeonjun guide you up the stairs and looking over your shoulder for one last glance— and sure enough, his eyes are following you the whole way up, his brows furrowed and his tongue poking at his cheek as Kai talks his ear off. The look stays with you the whole night, even after you all reunite to say your goodbyes and go your separate ways— he's much better at hiding his irritation when you're watching, though you were still able to catch the annoyance in his eyes after Yeonjun hugged you close and complimented your appearance one last time, taking your hand and making you spin around for him. When you turn to say goodbye to Taehyun, Kai and Yeonjun suddenly become enraptured in their own conversation a few feet away from you.
"Did you get kissed tonight?"
Taehyun rolls his eyes and chuckles, "No, I didn't."
"Shame," you pout, "maybe next time then."
"Oh?" he cocks his head, raising a brow as he smiles slyly. "You offerin'?"
Taehyun seems to have a knack for catching you entirely off guard at the most random moments; your mouth is falling open and you're left speechless, feeling a heat rush up the back of your neck and flood your face— you can't hide the way he's flustered you, trying to recompose yourself while he watches with a satisfied smile.
"What, do you want me to?"
"I mean," he shrugs. "Who wouldn't want a kiss from a pretty girl?"
You'd like to blame your next action on your lingering high, your hands tingling as you reach to cup his cheek and bring him to you— his eyes widen, but before he can move, you're planting a gentle, glossy kiss against his jawline. When you pull away, you spot the imprint of your lips and smile.
"Goodnight, Taehyun," you say sweetly, "It was nice seeing you again."
You spin on your heels, feeling the skirt of your dress sway with your hips as you walk; you don't dare look back, because the mere heat of his stare is already enough to make your knees weak. This time, you've made sure to leave a lingering impression on him— hopefully it's enough to make him as crazy about you as you are about him.
☆☆☆
"Rough day?"
"Fuck, don't get me started."
You feel— and look— a mess. Finals week is fucking you over, the onslaught of work that's being piled on you convincing you that your professors are all in on a conspiracy to overwork you to death. You've just left your final class of the day, some random elective you chose to get the credits you needed to graduate, and your least favorite— because of course the professor would be insufferable and choose to call on you every other class. Even their voice is enough to make your skin prickle, and you've just escaped an hour of the most boring lecture of your life.
You've met up with Kai at your favorite cafe that's just off-campus; it's cozy and a better alternative to the library that's packed with students cramming for exams. You sip on your drink, some fancy latte you only gathered courage to order after Kai told you it was his treat.
"How are your finals going?" the question is more of a formality, because as you take a good look at your friend— clear skin, glowing eyes, hair perfectly styled, a gentle smile on his face— you scowl and shake your head. "Never mind. Don't tell me anything."
He laughs, smug and shameless despite the way your dull eyes glare at him.
"Seriously though, when was the last time you had a moment to relax?" he lets the question hang in the air, and frowns when you can't find an answer. "You wanna hang out this weekend? We could have a movie night and smoke. Get you some proper sleep for once."
"I dunno Kai," you say, "it just… hasn't been hitting the same."
Kai frowns. "What do you mean?"
"It's just," you bite your lip, hesitant, "I dunno— when we smoked at the DJ K party, it felt a lot better. I think whatever strand you have leaves me feeling weird the next day, but I didn't feel it when I smoked then."
A small smile flickers on Kai's face— you roll your eyes. "I'm serious."
"No, I know," Kai says, "but that strand you like? I don't have it. You'd have to ask Taehyun about it."
Your stomach flips; despite the clear opening, you can't stop yourself from being stubborn. "What, you can't just ask him where he got it?"
"Think he got it when he went to a music festival," Kai leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. "But if you're so curious, I can call him for you."
"Seriously?" He nods, sporting an innocent smile that doesn't waver even as you narrow your eyes at him in suspicion. "I mean, I guess you could."
"Cool," he's pulling out his phone and immediately dialing the said man— before you can scold him that you didn't mean call him now, Kai is sitting up and holding up his hand to tell you to hold on.
"Hello?" Kai's smile instantly switches from innocent to evil— your heart drops. "I have someone who wants to talk to you."
He's shoving the phone in your hands, scooting back and crossing his arms. You scramble, holding the phone in your hands like it's a bomb as you silently curse your friend out— Kai ignores the onslaught of names and insults, motioning to his phone and telling you that 'he's waiting!' The reminder is enough to have you pressing the phone against your ear, your voice shaky as you greet Taehyun and tell him who's speaking.
"Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to ask you something," despite your pounding heart and the blood rushing in your ears, you hold the phone tight and try to your voice steady— you're sure he can hear your efforts, because he's letting out a soft chuckle, his voice low and smooth as he tells you 'go for it.'
"Do you remember what we smoked at DJ K's party? I feel like nothing's been hitting the same… and I kinda need a bit of a stress reliever." You sigh. "Finals week has been kicking my ass."
"Shit, I'm sorry— I don't remember off the top of my head, and I'm not home right now to see," you're chewing your lip, wondering why Kai put you in this situation in the first place— what the hell are you supposed to get out of this? "And unless you're willing to travel a lot for it, I doubt you'd be able to get your hands on it."
"Oh," this conversation is a total dead end, and you're wilting back against the chair in disappointment. Kai on the other hand is on the edge of his seat, eyes widening in panic. "No worries then. Thanks anyway."
There's a pause on his end, and you're expecting him to end the call with a stiff goodbye— instead, he clears his throat, letting out a deep sigh.
"Tell you what," he sounds a bit hesitant, as though unsure of how to word his sentence. "How 'bout you just have some of my stash? We could smoke and you can tell me all about your finals. Maybe get something to eat."
You're heart flies up to your throat, and you're sitting up in surprise— Kai is leaning forward, mouthing a hasty 'what?!' that you ignore.
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Of course I am," he chuckles, "sounds like you need it."
"I— yeah, I guess I do," you say— you pause, looking up at Kai in panic as you mouth 'he wants to hang out.'
Kai blanches. 'When?!'
You cover the phone speaker. 'I don't know!'
Kai has to hold himself from slamming his hands on the table, his eyes impossibly wide as he pretends to yell 'Saturday!' Even though you try to protest that it was supposed to be your hangout with him, he shakes his head with such fervor that you're caving in.
"Are you free this weekend?"
Kai is halfway across the table— you'd think he were trying to press his head to the phone with how eager he looks.
"I am. Just say when and I'll clear my schedule for you," it's pathetic, the way your stomach flips at that, "You can come to my place. If you're comfortable with it, of course."
"That's fine with me," you're breathless, your hands clammy and forcing you to tighten your grip on the phone, "Is Saturday okay?"
"Yeah, that works. I'll text you and we can plan the rest."
"Okay," you've become unexpectedly shy, your voice quieting at the prospect of this hangout. "Thanks."
"Anytime."
You say a brief goodbye before you're hanging up, placing the phone down delicately like it could dial Taehyun again if you brushed against it wrong. You let a minute pass before you let yourself react, lunging forward to pull Kai's head toward you, planting an exaggerated kiss on his forehead.
"Muah!" Kai protests and whines that you're getting your lip gloss all over his skin, but you truly couldn't care less as ruffle his hair affectionately. "Kai, you're the best. Seriously, what would my life be like without you?"
"You'd probably be single forever." Kai's grumble is met with a swift kick to his shin under the table, and he yelps so loud it has half the cafe turning to look at him. He mumbles a sheepish 'sorry', rubbing his shin and curling into himself.
"That's what you get," you scowl, digging in your bag for your phone before you're sliding it across the table to Kai. "Now, could you give me his number please?"
You can tell that Kai is getting ready to give you another snarky comment, but a single glare from you is enough to have him tucking his tail and typing Taehyun's number into your phone without further complaints. When he gives your phone back, you catch sight of the contact name and roll your eyes.
Future Boyfriend >3<
"Thanks." You roll your eyes and pocket your phone, not bothering to change something that's clearly true.
☆☆☆
Taehyun's place is way nicer than you expected for a man in his twenties that lives alone.
You wore your tiniest shorts and a baby tee that hugged your form just right, and he showed up at your doorstep at five PM on the dot— he insisted on picking you up and getting something to eat, stating that it was 'for your well-being'— you ended the day out by getting ice cream and driving back to his place, where he let you rant about your professors and your finals the whole time; he nodded along and pitched in every now and then, listening with a fond smile that made you trip over your words once or twice. When you stopped at a light, he turned to get a good look at your face, his eyes dropping down to your lips.
"You got ice cream on your face." His thumb is wiping just below your bottom lip before you can even utter out an 'I do?' your eyes widening comically as he brings his thumb to his mouth and lick it off, letting out a satisfied hum.
You'd felt a raging heat pool in your stomach then, and it hasn't gone away since.
You've made yourself comfortable on the floor, despite Taehyun's protests that you should just sit on the couch instead— you refused, finding the cool wooden floor comforting after spending the day out in the heat, finishing your ice cream while you watch Taehyun finish rolling the joint from his spot on the couch. When he passed the finished joint to you, insisting you have the first hit, you cooed out a sweet "oh, you shouldn't have."
Holding the joint between your lips, you lean toward Taehyun so he can light it for you— your eyes flutter up to meet his gaze, a small smile growing on your face.
"You do this often?" you can't help but ask, "invite girls over to share your special weed with?"
"Hell no," Taehyun's laughter is genuine, and he's pulling away the lighter once he sees the end is lit. You're propping your elbow against the couch, holding your head as you take a small hit before passing it to him. He grins, taking a hit before he speaks. "I'm not sharing my special weed with just anyone. It was hard to get— I gotta enjoy it as much as I can, y'know?"
"Yet you're sharing it with me?" you say, "I'm honored."
He shrugs, a bit sheepish— you pass the joint back and forth, making meaningless conversation and learning more about each other. He tells you he's also in uni, majoring in music production with a minor in business, he tells you stories about working with Kai at the local record shop— mostly stories where Kai was flirting with customers— and you listened with stars in your eyes, the joint hanging idly between your fingers as you watched the way he talked about soccer and his favorite sports team, his hands moving with such fervor it made you laugh— his rant about his favorite team's recent lapse in performance is cut short, and he's looking down at you in confusion.
"What's so funny?"
"No, nothing," you say, though another small chuckle slips out, "you're just so passionate. It's cute."
"I'm glad you think so," Taehyun smiles, leaning down a bit— somewhere along this conversation, you've made your way closer to Taehyun, your body pressing along his leg while you rest your head against the couch. "My friends would usually be zoning out by now."
You go to take another hit, but Taehyun is taking the joint from your hands before you can— you're pouting at him, but he simply scolds you for hogging the joint with a chuckle, leaning back against the couch and keeping the joint by his lips. You let your eyes trail from the smoke that blows in the air, down his chest, to the hem of his shirt that's ridden up again. The haze from your high clouds your judgment, and you don't bother to hide the way you drink in the smooth skin that peeks out.
"You always wear such short shirts?"
He raises a brow, playing innocent. "What d'you mean?"
"All the shirts I've seen you in are always a bit short. You're always flashing your stomach," reaching forward, you're go to play with the hem of his shirt, your fingertips threatening to skim over his skin. "Nice abs by the way."
"Thanks," he laughs, and you're utterly shameless as you watch his stomach ripple with laughter. "I didn't think they were visible."
"Barely," your heart pounds in your chest, fingers shakily running along the hem of his shirt. "Could I get a better look?"
The air is thick and suffocating, yet you still find a reckless courage to look up at Taehyun— you find he's already staring you down, his eyes low-lidded as he gulps. When he sees the unwavering resolve in your shining eyes, he nods.
"Yeah. Go ahead."
You're shifting so you're kneeling, able to get better access to Taehyun this way; beneath the recklessness of your foggy brain, you're nervous— your hands are cold as you gently push up his shirt, your freezing fingertips coming in contact with the heat of his skin, a small smile cracking your lips when he flinches. You push the material up until it rests just below his chest, and you're able to catch sight of a mole in the center.
Taehyun's mouth has gone dry— he gulps, watching you handle him like he were a fragile doll, your eyes scanning his body with such heat it makes him weak. There's pure concentration etched in your features as you're finally able to take him in— you don't register yourself reaching out until your hands come in contact with his skin, able to feel the muscle flex under your fingers and your palm that smooths over his stomach.
"Wow," is all you can say; your hands sweep from the top of his abs down to his navel, feeling the ridges of the muscle and watching him crack a smile at the ticklish feeling— impulse takes control of your mind, your fingers splaying out until you've grasped his sides. "Your waist is so small, too."
"Fuck, you're crazy," Taehyun groans, pushing his hair back, only for it to fall forward once more. When you look up at him through your lashes, he gulps. "You have any idea what you're doing right now?"
You shrug, smoothing your hands up his waist and sending him a coy smile. "Appreciating art."
"Yeah?" he drawls, his hips shifting up ever so slightly, an attempt to ease the tension forming, "and what're your thoughts?"
"I like what I see," you hum, bringing your hands down his waist, stopping at his waistband, fingers pulling at his belt, "but I think I'd like to see more."
"Oh god— you can't say shit like that to me." Scooting a little closer, you rest your head on Taehyun's thigh, pressing your cheek against the denim as you look up at him. "I don't think you realize what you're getting yourself into."
"I think I do," you pout, nuzzling your cheek against his thigh. Taehyun lets out a shaky sigh, his resolve beginning to crumble at the mere sight of you.
"You're sure?" he's cupping your face, guiding you to sit up and lean toward him— he's meeting you halfway, leaning down and tilting your chin up to look at him properly. "You think you can handle me like this?"
His thumb caresses your cheek bones, and your eyes glaze over as you nod— it's not the answer Taehyun wants, because he's tapping your cheek and mumbling for you focus.
"Words, baby." His voice is low, a smile growing on his lips. "Say it. I know you can."
"I want you," you stutter out— his smile turns cruel, fangs on display and ready to sink into you. "I can handle it."
"You really think so?" he coos, laughing fondly when you nod, dazed and desperate. "C'mere."
Guiding your face toward his, you're both equally desperate to seal the space between you— the sheer hunger in your kiss is enough to have you lightheaded. You've thought about this more than you'd like to admit— speculations on what Taehyun feels like is nothing compared to this reality, your kiss desperate and impossible to keep up with; his lips are so soft, and you're all but drooling when his tongue parts your lips and enters your mouth, the lingering taste of smoke and ice cream flooding your taste buds as you whimper into his mouth. He smiles, pulling you closer until your lungs burn.
When you part, a string of saliva connects you two before it breaks off— heat rushes to your face, but Taehyun doesn't seem to be phased by it; instead, he's sitting up, taking a long hit from the joint before he's swooping down, his hand on your cheek squeezing your face so you open your mouth.
His lips hover over yours, his mouth parting as he exhales the smoke right into you— you accept it, placing a hand on his thigh to steady yourself; he holds you in place until you can't resist turning away to exhale the constricting smoke, tears pricking at your eyes as your brain scrambles for oxygen. Taehyun merely watches, caressing your head as you let out a weak cough.
"'m sorry, pretty," he says, reaching down to snuff the joint out against the ashtray on the coffee table, "was I too rough?"
You scramble to shake your head and ease any hesitation.
"No. I mean, kinda," you decide it's better to throw your pride out the window and be honest— Taehyun nods, ready to apologize once more when you beat him to it. "But I like it."
"You do?" he's tense, his hand freezing atop of your head— you're nodding, looking up at him with watery eyes, and his hand is sliding down to hold the back of your neck. "My baby likes it rough?"
It should be ridiculous, the way you have to swallow back a whimper as you nod; your head is spinning as you rest your cheek against his thigh once more, fluttering your lashes up at him and rubbing your cheek back and forth on his thigh absentmindedly. He watches with bated breath, caressing your hair and watching your eyes begin to wander— down his face, down his chest, and straight to the bulge that strains against his jeans.
Any shame you had is dissolving from your system as you feel your mouth water and your cunt clench— your body feels as though it were made of little stars, crashing into each other and spreading heat into your heavy limbs, waves of bliss washing over you and bringing a lethargic smile to your face; your hand reaches up to rest on his other thigh, feeling the muscle flex under you as it begins to trail up.
"Mm-hmm— I like when…" you're dazed, unsure if you're even making sense, "I like when you hold me down."
"Is that right?" he drawls, watching your hand rest at the top of his thigh, massaging it softly. You nod, nuzzling your face against his thigh— Taehyun feels dizzy at the sight.
Slowly, your hand makes its way up the waistband of his jeans, lazy fingers fiddling with the buckle of his belt— not enough to undo it, but just enough to loosen it. You can see the deep rise and fall of his chest, your gaze coy as you smile up at him, giving the buckle another testing tug.
"Can I?"
Taehyun's breath hitches, his voice tense. "Yeah."
That's more than enough for you to spring into action— your actions are eager and a bit clumsy, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans; that alone is enough to have Taehyun sighing in relief, his hips unconsciously bucking toward your touch.
You don't try to tease; you can see the need that clouds his eyes, but you're just the same as you're tugging his underwear down to release his cock— he's already so hard, the length bobbing up to slap against his stomach, his flushed tip already sticky with precum. Your eyes drink it all in, your mouth watering; he's not just big, he's thick too, your hand that wraps around his length barely able to grasp him— he's letting out a low hiss at the contact, his jaw clenching as your thumb traces curiously along the vein that runs along the underside of his cock.
When you let go of his cock, his hips chase for your touch— his brows furrows and he opens his mouth to complain, but before he can get a word out, you're spitting in your hand and grabbing his length again, pumping him slowly as you gauge what he likes.
A choked groan leaves him at your touch— you squeeze him a little tighter, and his eyes flutter shut, his head falling back against the couch as your thumb swipes over his tip, gathering the precum that continues to leak out. Slowly, you gather the courage to move between his legs, already spread open in invitation, your pace picking up speed as you lean down to his aching cock.
"Oh fuck—!" Taehyun's bucking forward at the sudden feeling of your tongue, running flat along his balls all the way to the tip before you're closing your mouth around it— peeking up through your lashes, you catch him running a hand through his hair, his chest flushed a slight pink. You take it as your sign to continue, running your tongue along his tip and sucking harder, rewarded with sighs of your name and praises on how well you're doing.
"Fuck, that pretty mouth of yours is so good," he groans, his hand returning to the back of your head, adding just the slightest bit of pressure, "can you take a little more?"
Humming around his cock, he lets out a choked laugh, cursing under his breath before he's beginning to push down on your head— slowly, allowing you to keep up as your mouth widens, his cock heavy and pulsing on your tongue as you continue to take him in.
You're only halfway through before he's hitting the back of your throat— you're swallowing around him, hesitant to accept the intrusion with a whine, and he's pulling back just enough in response. You're not sure when, but your eyes began to water, and his free hand is coming up to swipe tears from the corners of your eyes, cooing at you as he does.
"Poor thing," he murmurs, pushing his hips up ever-so slightly, the tip of his cock teasing your throat, "is it too much?"
His smile widens when you try to hum out a 'no', refusing to pull away from his cock for even a second.
"No?" He echoes, "then why're you crying, baby?"
You don't answer— it's not like you can, anyway. Instead, you try your best to keep his gaze, taking more of his cock and fighting against your gag reflex. You focus on breathing through your nose instead, tears welling in your eyes once again.
"You want more?" he asks, and he's instantly given a 'yes' from you, biting at his lip at the way you hum around him. "Can you take it? You promise?"
Despite your eagerness and your need to take him whole and prove yourself, he holds you in place— he allows you to pull of his cock, eyes falling to the string of spit that connects your lips to his cock before he's looking up at you.
"Please," your voice is a bit hoarse, "use my mouth."
You have a knack for leaving him speechless— Taehyun's staring at you like you're the most precious thing in the world, his cock twitching in your hands as he takes a moment to think it through; you're about to beg and whine when he's guiding you forward once more, your mouth opening in anticipation.
"How did I get so lucky, finding a perfect girl like you?" he says. Your mouth wraps around his tip, sucking harshly just to hear him moan. "Gonna fuck that perfect face just like you asked, okay? Tap my thigh if it's too much for you baby."
When you don't acknowledge his words, attempting to take him deeper, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls you off with such ease your mouth hangs open— he's leaning down, his face stern as he speaks.
"Did you hear what I said?" his voice is quiet and cold, his eyes narrowing when you meekly nod. "What'd I say?"
"Tap your thigh if it's too much."
His jaw clenches, and for a second, you wonder if you've made him angry— but he's leaning back once more, your head brought forward with such strength you don't have room to resist.
"Good."
Despite the ability to manipulate your head with ease, he's gentle to bring you down his length, testing the waters when his tip prods against the back of your throat and pulling back when you squeeze your eyes shut and whimper. Instead, he uses his grip on your head to guide you up and down his cock, letting out a groan of your name as you fall limp in his hold, only taking initiative to run your tongue against the underside of his cock and hollow out your cheeks.
You feel the head of his cock brushing against your throat, beginning to linger more and more— he's thrusting shallowly into your mouth, lips pressed tightly in concentration as he watches you take him.
"Such a good girl, letting me use you like this," he breathes out, "gonna make you take it all, okay?"
He's stopping his thrusts into your mouth to guide you to take more of him, his cock going deeper until he's met with the resistance of your throat tightening around him— slowly, he continues to push.
You feel like you might choke; your eyes are squeezed shut and your lungs burn, your hands on his thighs shifting so you can dig your nails into the denim as a way to ground yourself. More, more still, cock continues to push into your throat until your nose is snug against his pelvis and both his hands have found purchase on the back of your head. You remain still, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you fight back the urge to gag.
"Breathe." He mumbles, and it's only then that you're reminded to do so, trying to breathe through your nose until you finally feel your throat relax— he's in so deep, and he's yet to move, your brain going haywire from the lack of oxygen. His hand moves from the back of your head to caress your cheek. "C'mon baby, stay with me."
His fingers trace gingerly along your jaw, trailing down until they feel along the front of your neck, groaning when he feels the pressure from his cock— he thrusts gently into your mouth, barely an inch, just to feel the way you swallow around him. He's pulling you off his cock shortly after.
You feel delirious as oxygen floods your brain, your eyes fluttering shut and drool slipping from your lips, strands of spit connected to his length as you sputter and cough. Your hands slip from his thighs and onto your lap, and you hear him chuckle as he caresses your head.
"You did such a good job. You're perfect," he says, enamored with your dazed eyes that flutter open and your swollen lips that are slick with spit. "You still with me, angel?"
"Yeah," you barely breathe out.
"Fuck, you're so cute," his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, guiding your face up to kiss him— he takes his time despite his cock that throbs against your hand that's taken him again, pumping his length and twisting your wrist until he's panting in your mouth. Your hold on him tightens and you massage your palm against his tip, and when your other hand comes up, your touch curious as you massage against his balls, he sinks his teeth into your lip, forcing you to pull away with a yelp.
"Don't do that— I'll cum," he pants into your mouth, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to stop your motions, "I don't wanna cum like this."
While you're giggling at his comment, you find he's completely serious— he's tucking himself in before pulling you up onto his lap, earning another laugh from you— you straddle his lap as the Taehyun pulls you in for another kiss, addicted to your lips and the way you pant into his mouth. He's coy, running his tongue along your lip before pushing in, feeling against your tongue before pulling out and nipping your lip just to hear you let out a choked mewl; his move moves to kiss the corner of your mouth, before moving along to your jaw, peppering kissing along it until he's gotten access to your neck.
It feels like he's trying to stake his claim; he's biting and sucking along your neck, aiming for spots that have your hands flying to his shoulders, his name falling from your lips in broken whimpers. You can't help the way your cunt aches from the feeling, your panties sticking to you and the need pulsing inside you until you're searching for relief; your hips bring you down against Taehyun, feeling the hardness of his cock against your thin shorts and grinding against him until his groaning into your skin.
"Taehyun," you whine, your hips careless and your rhythm sloppy as you search for pleasure— you feel him hum against your skin, his hands on your hips as he lets you do as you please. "Taehyun, fuck— please, I need you."
"I can see that," he muses, "pretty girl can't control herself, hmm?"
Shaking your head, you grind against his cock a little harder— his grip on your waist tightens, and he's letting out a low groan, burying his face into your neck.
"Shit," he huffs, "stop— I won't last like this."
Your head is fuzzy and you seem to be lost in a world of your own; his voice feels far away in contrast to the overwhelming pleasure you feel, only amplified more by your high— every grind of your soaked cunt against the length of his cock is enough to have sparks going off in your brain, tuning out the way his fingers dig into your skin dangerously.
"Baby," Taehyun's voice is stiff with tension, "stop it."
"No— I can't," you're petulant, digging your fingers in his shoulders as you chase your own pleasure; your vision is blurry as you meet his eyes, pouting when you're met with a cold, harsh expression from Taehyun, his brow raising at you in warning— it only serves to make you even more restless, and you tilt your head at him. "Don't wanna. Feels… too good like this."
Taehyun's hands grip onto your waist, and he's stopping all your movements with minimal efforts— any protests and whines you were about to let out die in your throat the moment you look at him, your heart beginning to pound in your chest.
He's looking at you just like he had the night of the party; his brows are furrowed, tongue poking at his cheek in annoyance— his eyes are dark and angry, and when he meets your panicked, doe gaze, he merely scoffs.
"You really don't listen, do you?" his voice is dark, laced with emotion you can't quite place— is he fed up with you? Annoyed? You whimper, feeling his fingers push under your shirt, his nails digging into the skin beneath. "Is that cute little brain of yours no good for thinking?"
You frown, ready to defend yourself, but he doesn't give you a chance.
"Come on," his hands slide down to your thighs, and before can catch on, he's hoisting you up and standing; you yelp, scrambling to hold on to him, but he doesn't seem to care about your apprehension as he leads you two into the hall and toward his room. "I'll make you feel as good as you want."
He's kicking the door shut behind him, leading you to his bed before dropping you down unceremoniously by the edge— you try to compose yourself, attempting to shift back on the bed, but Taehyun is caging you in before you can, a hand falling on your waist and the other landing on your hip to keep you still, swooping in to kiss you once more.
"Thought you were gonna be good for me," he murmurs against your lips, "but you're just a needy thing, aren't you?"
His hands come up to your shoulders, and your back meets the mattress with a single shove— your head is spinning from the sudden impact, unable recollect yourself as Taehyun falls to his knees, undoing your shorts and pulling them off with a swift movement; he pulls your hips toward him until they're hanging precariously off the bed, throwing your legs over his shoulder and locking his hands around your thighs— you're rendered immobile in a matter of seconds.
"Cute," he says, eyeing your soaked, pink panties with lace trim and a bow— his gaze zeroes in on the wet spot you've made, a cocky smile pulling at his lips as he looks up at you. "Did you pick these out just for me?"
"Maybe," a heat flushes through your whole body— because what was meant to be an arrogant remark is undeniably true, spending a ridiculous amount of time picking out a matching set, just in case; the way you shift under him is enough to answer, and he laughs.
"Thank you baby," he coos, and you cover your face in embarrassment— he bites teasingly at your inner thigh, just to chuckle at the way your hips jump in reaction; his fingers are hooking under the waistband before he's pulling them down, and you're lifting your hips to assist. He's placing kisses along your inner thigh as he goes, stopping at your inner knee before weaving your legs out. "So thoughtful."
His grip on your thighs tighten, and you're being dragged toward him until you can feel his breath on your skin, able to feel his stare on your dripping pussy; it feels vulnerable, having him stare at you like this, your hazy mind making you close your thighs in a weak attempt to hide away— it doesn't work, and you hear Taehyun let out a soft 'tsk'.
"Don't get shy on me now," he says, and you gasp as you feel him give your clit a soft kiss, "I thought you wanted this?"
"W-well, you're being a tease," looking down between your thighs, you find him already staring; your gaze jumps back up to the ceiling, the sight too intense for you to handle. "Stop staring and just get on with it."
He raises a brow in surprise, watching your hand come down to thread in his hair, tugging him closer to your cunt, your hips restless— he lets you lead him in closer, until his tongue licks a stripe along the seam of your folds, licking up the slick that dripped from your hole; you whine, pulling slightly at his hair and rolling your hips in search for more, and you feel his hand move from your thigh to your wrist, pulling it off his head.
"So bossy," he tongue darts out to prod at your entrance, feeling your legs twitch on his shoulders, "aren't you supposed to be all shy and cute?"
"Taehyun, please," you pant, feeling his tongue trace along your clit, lightly, the touch barely there— it drives you mad. "Just— give me more…"
He shakes his head, planting an open kiss on your clit, running his tongue all over your cunt before teasing the tip of it into your entrance. "I'll do what I want."
Your body feels like a live wire, desperate to feel more than the kitten licks and gentle kisses Taehyun continues to tease you with; he's lingering on your clit, running his tongue around it in circles and pulling back just to breath cool air onto your spit-slick skin— you're tense, grabbing a fistful of the bedsheets and squirming beneath him.
"Taehyun," you're on the verge of crying at this point— he's driving you mad, teasing you with the promise of pleasure but pulling away before you can really indulge, "c'mon…!"
You're bucking your hips up, pressing your cunt against his mouth desperately; Taehyun's nails dig into your thighs, and before you can pull away in shock, he's bringing you forward and attaching his mouth onto your dripping pussy. You're tensing, hands flying up to cover your mouth as Taehyun wraps his mouth around your clit and sucks the bud harshly, pressing his hot tongue against it and looking up at you through his lashes— his tongue slips beneath the hood of your clit, and he's breathing out a laugh against your clit as he hears you squeal.
"C'mon baby, I thought you knew better than that," he murmurs, refusing to fully part from your cunt— a mixture of spit and arousal drips down your cunt, but Taehyun is quick to lick it all up before it can fall to the floor; your thighs twitch around his head as he spits the slick back onto your clit, your head spinning from the impact. "You really think talking to me like that is gonna get you what you want?"
In the back of your mind, you know you're walking a fine line— the way Taehyun is looking at you feels cold and menacing, but you're too far gone to care; all you can pay any mind to is the need that makes your cunt throb and your dazed, hazy brain that tells you to keep pushing.
"I dunno," your words are a bit slurred, a shiver running through you as you feel Taehyun's spit dragging down your cunt, "seems to be working so far."
Taehyun's jaw clenches, his lips drawing tightly together. Before you can joke or apologize, he's bringing the palm of his hand against your cunt with a stinging slap!
"Ah!" A broken whine leaves you, the stinging sensation ebbing through your cunt. Taehyun massages his fingers along your slit in faux apology.
"Too much?" he asks— you remain silent, biting your lip to muffle a whimper. "You want me to stop?"
Through hot embarrassment that flushes through your skin, you screw your eyes shut and shake your head. Another slap lands on your cunt, a little harsher than the last— your back arches, the heels of your feet digging into Taehyun's back; he delivers another. Then another, and another, the final slap to your cunt ringing out into the air and bringing tears to your eyes.
"Fuck!" you sob, feeling Taehyun's fingers massage along your lips, landing another just to tease, "fuck… you…!"
Taehyun doesn't respond, but it's clear your outburst has pissed him off— his brows furrow and his lips close around your clit, sucking and licking at it until you're a shaking mess, yelping his name when you feel his teeth graze the sensitive bud teasingly. His tongue runs down your clit and to your entrance, prodding at your hole just to feel the way it flutters around the muscle— he's messy, drooling all over your skin and slurping up your juices, pushing his tongue past your tightening cunt and pressing into you as deep as he can, his nose digging into your clit as he fucks you with his mouth.
Your hands scramble to grab his head, the build up from his previous teasing making your heart pound against your chest and the coil tighten in your stomach— when you fingers scratch at his scalp and pull his hair, he moans, eyes closed in bliss as he shakes his head side to side against your cunt as if he could burrow deeper inside— you can feel the mixture of his spit and your arousal dripping down to your asshole and falling onto the floor, but it doesn't stop Taehyun from digging his fingers into your thighs and gluing his face to you, your orgasm building up so fast you have no way to warn him.
It feels like everything goes white for a second— it all crashes down at once, the tight coil in your stomach snapping and rendering you a puddle of bones, defenseless against Taehyun's continued assault on your cunt; his pace doesn't cease once, even as your thighs snap shut against his head and your body trembles, tears streaming from your eyes from the sheer intensity.
No, Taehyun doesn't falter for a second, prolonging your orgasm until it begins to twist to something nastier, something painful— the waves of pleasure that gently washed over you are now torrents, every brush of Taehyun's nose against your clit only making you wince and cry out from the sensitivity.
"Taehyun—" you gasp, watching as he slurps up your juices, pretending not to hear you, "Taehyun, it's too much! I just— fuck, I just came!"
"You'll take what I give you," he grumbles against your skin, biting your inner thigh, "it's what you wanted, no?"
"Not— not like this!" you're kicking at Taehyun's back as he returns to sucking and kissing at your clit, "I'm too sensitive!"
A particularly harsh suck against your clit has your body jumping, your heel landing against Taehyun's back a bit harder than you intended it to— hearing him grunt at the impact, you tense, about to apologize when Taehyun suddenly hooks his hands under your knees, pushing forward until you're folded in half, your cunt left on display for him— he's as much of a mess as you are, his lips and chin shining with your arousal, a soft blush coloring his face.
"Give me your hands." He doesn't give you a chance to comply, taking your hands in his, guiding them to the back of your knees and using them to pin your legs against your chest. You've been left completely helpless against him, and you barely have any energy left to protest the way he's latching onto your cunt once more.
He's eating you like a man starved— his tongue runs along your cunt as though trying to memorize you, massaging your clit and tracing along your slit before slipping back into your cunt, lapping at your entrance and fucking you with his tongue— he presses his face firmly against you, pining you into the mattress with his weight. You're a squirming, mewling mess, the painful sensitivity from your previous orgasm bleeding into pleasure. When he feels your hips beginning to buck against his face in search for more, he throws your legs over his shoulders once more, his mouth focusing solely on your clit while he teases two fingers against your entrance.
"Fuck, fuck— I'm close," you sob— it feels like your body has a mind of its own, chasing pleasure that only makes you dizzy; it's too much, it's overwhelming, but it's so, so good, and Taehyun is more than happy to bring you over the edge, inserting his fingers into your sopping cunt, groaning at the way you tighten around him— he curls his fingers, exploring your walls until he finds the spot that makes your moans break and your cunt drool, drilling into the same spot until you're crying for mercy and falling apart on his mouth for the second time.
"Taehyun, Taehyun please, slow down!" you're realizing with delayed mortification that Taehyun has yet to pull away— and at the sound of your pleas, he's going even harder, the wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you making you hot with shame— you try to plead for him to pull away, but it's all incoherent and broken, the overstimulation melting your brain.
"You cryin'? Again?" he coos, pulling away from your swollen clit just to laugh; his fingers curl inside you, and he licks at your cunt to clean up his mess. "Where's that mouthy brat I had here earlier?"
You try to bite back, say something that shows you still have some fight in you— but you can barely manage to blink away your tears, much less talk through your hiccuping moans.
"You look so pathetic," he says, "is this how you like it?"
Sniffling, you shake your head, attempting to mumble something about it being 'too much'— Taehyun doesn't care to listen, fitting in a third finger in your entrance instead; your eyes roll back at the stretch, feeling him slowly pump his fingers until you begin to adjust to him.
"No?" he's placing soft kisses on your clit, looking up at you from between your thighs, "you got yourself in this mess though. The least you could do is say sorry."
His fingers are precise and cruel as they thrust into you, your cunt begging for mercy as his mouth works perfectly together with his hands— while you try to squirm out of his grip, your nails digging into the back of his hand while your other hand slaps at his shoulder, Taehyun continues to pin you down against the mattress, slurping and licking your cunt's juices, running his tongue on your bruised clit and sucking it as though it were his favorite candy.
The pleasure that builds up inside you is something you've never felt before— it isn't the warm, addicting rise that crashes gently; it's a fire that runs through your body, it's violent, a surge of stimulation that makes you cry out for Taehyun to please, please slow down, this feels weird— all your words do is spur him on, as though he's attuned to your body better than you are.
His words echo in your mind— you vaguely recall your outbursts, all the things you did in search of a reaction— and you begin to say through broken sobs the last thing you think will make Taehyun go easy on you.
"I'm sorry! Fuck, fuck! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" You wail, that raw, uncontrollable pleasure beginning to loom over you— there's a pressure building in your stomach, and you feel your muscles beginning to tense. "Please, please please, it's too much!"
"You gonna cum?" Is all he says in response, "I can feel it."
"I can't," you're panting, your hips trying to cant backward in an attempt to run away— but Taehyun won't let you, dead set on making the impossible happen. "I can't, I already— Taehyun!"
It hits you suddenly, your limbs locking up and the pressure in your stomach releasing— your cunt tightens around Taehyun's fingers, trying to push him out to no avail. His pace slows down and you swear you hear him whine— when your ears filter out the sounds of your own pathetic moans to pick up the wet, dripping sounds of liquid slapping against skin and onto the floor, your eyes fly open; sure enough, you've squirted all over Taehyun's face, the liquid continuing to gush out as he helps you ride out your orgasm.
You're melting back against his mattress, equally spent and mortified.
"I'm… I'm sorry," you cover your face with your hands, peeking through the cracks of your fingers as Taehyun begins to crawl over you, entirely drenched from the chin down. Embarrassment licks a hot stripe up your spine, and you're scooting back on the bed to run away from the sight— Taehyun just continues crawling toward you, stopping you with a hand on your hip when you've made it to the center of the bed.
"Really? Now you're sorry?" he says, his knees on the sides of your hips caging you in. Your fingertips dig into your face as you watch a droplet from your release fall from his chin and onto his already wet shirt— you whimper, ashamed, but Taehyun laughs, straightening up and pulling the shirt over his head.
"Oh my god," you mumble, partly because the sight of Taehyun looming over you like this and stripping is a look straight from your wettest dreams, but also because he then uses that same shirt to dry off his face before tossing it behind him. "Oh my god."
"Getting shy on me again?" he smiles coyly, taking off his pants next— his cock is still hard and clearly neglected, his length twitching at the mere sight of you, his tip flushed a deep red. Rubbing your thighs together, you can still feel your cunt throbbing, attempting to recover from the sensitivity. Taehyun runs his hands up your thighs, tracing along your waist before landing on your baby tee. "Take this off for me, angel."
Despite your trembling hands, you still manage to do as he asks— he watches you pull the shirt over your head and unclasp your bra, his brows furrowing and a sigh leaving him when he sees your breasts; he's leaning in to kiss, you, his hands that come up to massage your breasts and play with your nipples so gently you think he'll finally go easy on you.
"I don't accept your apology, by the way."
It feels like you've become a paper doll under Taehyun's grasp; you're flipped over like you're weightless, and Taehyun is quick to grab your wrists in his hand and pin them against the small of your back— his other hand grabbing your waist and pulling you up until you're on your knees and your face is pressed in the mattress, your back arched prettily from where he presses down.
The head of his cock swipes through your slit, and you flat out shiver, nuzzling your face into the mattress— he's only running the tip of his cock along your cunt, but it already feels too much, his thick cockhead parting your lips and lingering at your entrance so you can feel the stretch.
"If you're really sorry, you'll make it up to me, okay?" Taehyun leans down, pressing his chest against your back— the weight of him is grounding, and you can feel his breath fanning on your skin as he whispers in your ear. "You gonna be good and let me use you like a doll?
He's grinding his cock against your entrance as he's speaks to you, and the feeling of his length running along your pussy is driving you mad— burying your face into the comforter, you nod. But truly, you should know better at this point— Taehyun is grabbing your hair and pulling your face out, leaning forward so he can see you.
"Look at me." He says; your eyes flutter open, glassy eyes meeting his stern ones, "Now use your words."
"Yes," his stare is so intense, you can barely hold it. "I want you to use me. I'll be your doll."
Taehyun's cock that was dragging along your cunt is finally aligned with your entrance— he lets go of your hair, letting you slump back into the bed and bury your face with a muffled whine. He straightens up, watching the way your cunt resists his cock— you hear him let out a deep groan behind you once he finally pushes in, his tip already enough to stretch you out. You could barely fit him in your mouth— it's no surprise you're struggling to take him now, the girth of his length filling you up so good, feeling him sink into you slowly until his hips are flush against your ass.
"So fucking tight— stretched you out for nothing," Taehyun gulps, his hold on your wrists tightening and drawing out a weak mewl from you, "you're squeezing around me like crazy."
You can't help the way your walls flutter around him— you just feel so incredibly good, your hips pushing back against him to feel his skin flush against yours, his balls pressing against your clit— your jaw is slack and you think you might be drooling against Taehyun's bedsheets once he starts moving, the slow slide of cock making you moan.
"Feels good?" he asks, letting out an airy laugh when you nod. "You feel good too baby."
He's picking up the pace gradually; what starts as slow, deep thrusts into your cunt, pulling all the way out just so he can feel you clench around his tip, is turning into something needier, something desperate— his hips begin to slam against your ass, his cock hammering into spots that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head; the sheer force of his thrusts is enough to have your body jolting forward, but he holds you in place, his grip on your wrists tight while he uses his other hand on your waist to bring you back into him.
"Perfect— pretty cunt, taking me so good," he groans, your cunt clenching down on him in response. He's so rough and deep, it feels like his cock is all the way in your stomach— you're breathless, gasping his name as he continues to use your body to fuck him back, your ass slamming against his hips and making your toes curl.
"S-so— deep—" you're turning your head to the side, your cheek pressed against the bed as you attempt to look over your shoulder; through the corner of your eye, you're able to see Taehyun, a sheen of sweat on his blushing skin, his teeth gritted together as he watches his cock disappear inside you— he catches you staring, raising a brow and leaning down to press his chest against your back.
"What'd you say baby?" he huffs, pressing kisses along your shoulders, sinking his teeth into your skin to hear the way you squeal— he's leaving bite marks all along your skin, licking up your neck and moaning directly in your ear.
"Taehyun— you're so big, m'so full..." your voice breaks, and Taehyun chuckles, planting a messy kiss on your cheek.
"Am I too big for you?" he asks, sitting up once more— his hand on your hip begins to wander, his fingers splaying out on your stomach. His hand is pressing down, and you jolt, the feeling of his cock slipping in and out much more intense. "Fuck, I can feel myself in that cute stomach."
His palm presses harder against your stomach, his hips snapping meanly into you— you're a sobbing, helpless mess, and when Taehyun is letting go of your wrists to play with your clit, pinching and slapping it teasingly, your hands fly up to push against his hips, a subconscious attempt to push him out of you— all he does in response is lean his weight against you more, his cock grinding so deep into you, you start to see white.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, watching your hands slap on the mattress helplessly, grabbing onto the sheets and trying to crawl forward— he merely watches for a moment, but you barely move before he's grabbing your hips and dragging your body back, his cock bottoming out inside you in a single thrust— your ears burn at the filthy squelch that comes from your abused cunt.
Taehyun has caged you in— his hands come down next to your head, his body pressing yours down until your face is pressed into the bed and your ass is in the air; he doesn't let you adjust when he starts fucking you, his hips snapping violently into you and drawing out a long, high pitched cry from you. He's panting into your ear, placing a sloppy kiss on your temple.
"Stay still and take it," your hands that were holding onto the sheets find Taehyun's hands, one reaching to lace your fingers with his while the other trails up, grabbing at his bicep to stabilize yourself— it's a short-lived attempt, because he's shifting to wrap his arm around your throat, locking your body in place for his cock. "There we go, such a good girl for me."
His muscles flex against your throat, and your mouth falls open, beginning to feel lightheaded, your hand holding onto his forearm— turning your head, your teeth sink into his bicep, and you hear him moan in your ear in response.
"Fuck— look at you, biting me like a cute little puppy," he grins, feeling your teeth sinking into his muscle again from the sheer overstimulation your mind is going through. "Feels good?"
Pulling away, you can't even bring yourself to be embarrassed at the spit that you've left on his skin— not when you're getting fucked this good. "Mh-hmm… t-too…"
"Too much?" he coos, his tone gentle and sickeningly sweet— his hold around your throat tightens, and he's using it as leverage to hoist the two of you up so that you're kneeling; the change in angle has your eyes rolling back and your head falling against his shoulder, feeling as though his cock is somehow even deeper.
"I know, I'm sorry baby," he says, beginning to piston into you from this new angle, "'m almost there, I promise."
Fuck, your mind screams at you, how the fuck is he still going?
Taehyun's hand is coy as it travels to your navel, pushing against your stomach to feel his cock plunging in and out of you before sneaking down to play with your clit once more— your thighs are trembling and if Taehyun weren't holding you up, you would've fallen in a boneless puddle against his bed by now. Instead, you're scrambling to hold onto him, grabbing his arm around your neck and holding onto his hips, your back arching away from him— only to create the perfect angle for him to fuck into you, that same, molten pleasure beginning to creep up on you.
"Fuck fuck fuck, Taehyun, oh god, I'm so— 'm so—"
"Yeah, fuck— hold on—" he's flipping you onto your back before pushing back in, holding your calves by his shoulders as he pushes in, "need to see you… cum on my cock, fuck. You're so pretty, baby."
It really feels like he might break you with this angle— your legs twitch and tremble as his holds them up, rolling his hips deep into your cunt, his eyes flickering back and forth from where his cock disappears inside you to your face, drunk on the sounds you make every time the tip of his cock brushes against your sweet spot.
God, the view is already enough to make you cum— your eyes are hungry as you take in his body, his tanned skin dripping with sweat, carving lines down his chest and dripping into the crevices of his abs, his stomach clenching every time you squeeze around him; there's a blush that runs from his pecs to the tip of his ears, his brows furrowed with pleasure and his mouth parted as soft moans of your name leave him, canines digging into his bottom lip as he wills not to cum too soon. His eyes meet yours, dark and lustful, and you can't help yourself from hiding behind your hands, entirely overwhelmed.
"No— don't hide from me now," he throws your legs over his shoulders and closes in on you, folding you in half and continuing his cruel pace— he pries your hands from your face, lacing his fingers with yours and pinning them beside your head, his mouth inches away from yours. "I need to see you cum on my cock."
The air between you is charged and heated, and you're craning your head up to catch his lips, whining and moaning into his mouth as he brings you close to your climax; your nails dig into his hands, hips bucking up and chasing that peak that seems so overwhelmingly close— you're losing control of yourself, lost in the feeling of Taehyun— his warm body against yours, his hands that hold yours a little tighter, his thick cock that splits you open— and you squeeze your eyes shut.
"Taehyun, I'm gonna— gonna cum."
"Do it angel, I've got you— lemme feel it, c'mon—" it feels like time has gone still for a moment; your body arches off the bed, your breasts pressing against Taehyun's chest as you cum with a soft cry of his name, your cunt sucking him in and begging for more.
"'Atta girl… so pretty when you cum," he helps you ride it out, rolling his hips against yours, reaching down to trace soft circles on your clit until you're a trembling mess. He's peppering kisses all over your face, thrusting shallowly into you, pouting when you begin to whine. "I know baby, I know— I'm— I'm so close, just hold on a little more okay?"
"M'kay…" you mumble, feeling him smile against your lips, "Taehyun— cum inside me."
He groans, tracing his lips along your jaw. "Fuck— you can't be serious."
"I am," you can feel him twitching inside you, his hips beginning to lose their rhythm, "I want you to."
"Y-yeah? Want my cum?" he's so close, you can feel him losing control as he fucks into you— you nod, tilting your head to give him better access, "say please."
"Can you cum inside me?" you whine, breathless, "please? Please, I want you to fill me up…"
"Fuck. Of course baby, so cute when you beg," his head falls to the crook of your neck, his hips stilling deep inside you— his cock twitches and his hips subtly rut into you as he cums, hot and thick and endless as he pumps it into you, a thick ring forming at the base— his weight sinks you into the mattress, and all you can do is lie there and let him use your body to ride it out, his teeth nipping at your neck as he nuzzles deeper into your shoulder; you're tilting your head to rest against his, the two of you a panting, sweaty mess.
His grip on your hands loosens, and you're slipping from his hold to snake your arms around him, your nails scratching along his back while your other hand tangles into his dark hair, scratching his scalp— you'd almost think he were about to purr with the way he leans into your touch, his hands sneaking under your back to pull you up and flush against him.
It's silent; your body is cooling down, and you're turning your head to the side to look out his window— it's gotten so late.
"Stay." He grumbles, "sleep here."
You let out a deep breath, nodding. "I will."
"Good…" he's trailing off, his voice softening as he nuzzles your skin. "I don't think i would've had the energy to drive you back."
You laugh softly, feeling Taehyun's hold on you tighten, as though afraid you'd slip away. But you remain still, dragging your nails along his scalp and feeling him melt against you. There's a calm bliss that washes over you, and you think what little high you had left is fading. Taehyun turns his head, kissing the crook of your neck to get your attention.
"You really are beautiful, you know that?" he says, and you roll your eyes and hum. "I don't want this to be a one time thing. I wanna get to know you better."
You can feel butterflies fluttering wildly in your stomach, pressing your lips together to stop a giddy laugh from escaping you. You take a moment to ensure your voice is even before you speak.
"Take me on a date then."
He nods immediately. "Deal."
It's quiet again— your touch is gentle on Taehyun's skin as the two of you catch your breath; slowly, you feel his breath even out, his head burrowing deeper into your neck. He's falling asleep, you realize, tapping his shoulder and watching him flinch.
"Taehyun…"
"Hmm?"
"You're still inside me… I'm so sticky," you say, hearing him mumble a soft 'oh'. "And I squirted on your face."
Silence.
"Oh yeah." Taehyun doesn't seem to be nearly as bothered by that fact as you are. "I'll draw us a bath."
Instead of acting on his words, Taehyun lingers in your arms, nuzzling against your skin— you catch him dozing off once more before he's finally getting up with a reluctant groan, as though the thought of leaving your side pained him; you're happily resigned to follow him, allowing him to pamper you for the rest of the night.
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"going out to get milk" is a common turn of phrase used to describe a man abandoning his family.
the "milkman" is a common figure in stories depicting a woman's infidelity and adulterous affair.
this implies that the ability to provide milk would both decrease the likelihood of a man abandoning his wife and children, as it would eliminate the need for leaving to get milk AND would secure that man's marriage, as his wife would have no need to seek milk from an extraneous source.
therefore, all men should produce milk, through various means such as:
- being a cow
- being an almond
- being a woman
- being a coconut
- being in the omegaverse
- being an oat
(list is exemplary and not finite)
in this essay, i will redefine the nuclear family and explain the seductive and inflammatory nature of the 1993 "Got Milk?" commercials.
He's told me before that it's like a knee-jerk for him. Something he doesn't consciously control. He sees two men behaving romantically, and his body reacts with mild discomfort.
In the 1960s, when he was in high school, most of the boys in his form thought he was gay on the simple fact that he wasn't homophobic. He wouldn't participate in insulting queer people, he didn't care if someone was gay, he wouldn't have a problem hanging out with gay people. So people thought he was gay. That's how prevalent homophobia was in his formative years.
When I was 10, my dad told me very seriously that Holmes and Watson were gay. That it was obvious from the literature and the time period that they were meant to be a gay couple. When I was 14 and I came out to my parents as bi, when my mum was upset my dad ripped into her for it. Told her that she was being stupid, that it was my life to live how I wanted to and that she needed to get over herself.
My dad formed my views on censorship: that being that it was completely ridiculous and thoroughly evil. He didn't believe in censorship of any kind. If I asked him a question about sex, he answered it honestly. When I was 12 and I asked him about homosexuality, still young and uncertain, he told me that there was nothing wrong with it. That it was just how some people were. That there was likely an evolutionary reason for it. And that for some people it was uncomfortable on an instinctual level.
He taught me that just because you're uncomfortable with something, doesn't make it wrong. He also taught me that most people don't understand this.
I see a lot of this on the internet as of the last few years. The anti shipping movement, the terf movement, the anti ace movement. It all stems from discomfort that people have crossed wires into believing means wrong. Really every -ism and -phobia out there stems from this same fundamental aspect of humanity.
The next time you see something and you automatically think it's disgusting, or wrong, or immoral, I invite you to ask yourself: is this actually wrong or does this just make me uncomfortable?
wordcount: 1459
summary: When working a case that might involve fairies, the Winchesters (and their trusty angel companion) summon a local fairy in search of help– Castiel doesn’t feel strongly for faes, apparently this fae doesn’t feel strongly for those who judge her either.
warnings: language (maybe?), supernatural themes, angels and such, fairies, sam & dean brotherly bickering, cas being a little judgy cause of course he is, reader and cas back and forth– think that’s all for now !!!
You blinked at the three men staring at you. Then, very deliberately– you looked over your shoulder. Nothing. You looked to your left– nothing there either. Finally, you pointed at yourself.
"Me?"
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. "Yeah, you"
"Oh…" A pause. "Well that's unfortunate"
The brothers frowned. "What is?" Sam asked.
You sighed dramatically, dropping your shoulders. "I was hoping somebody else got summoned"
The eldest brother barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, utterly dumbfounded by your behaviour. "Wow, rude"
"You kidnapped me"
"We didn’t kidnap you" Both of them retorted at the same time, their voices overlapping in the rush of excusing themselves.
You shoot them a deadpan, unimpressed look. "You performed an ancient ritual that forcibly dragged me across three state lines" Looked around the motel parking lot with visible disappointment. "To a motel"
"Hey" Dean protested, offended on behalf of Georgia's Finest. "This is a quality establishment"
You ignored him completely, your attention had shifted to the man standing slightly behind the hunters. No, not man– the angel. The moment your eyes landed on Castiel, something strange tightened in your chest. Not fear, recognition. The kind of recognition that lingered in old magic. Ancient things recognized other ancient things. Castiel stiffened immediately under your gaze– you noticed, he noticed that you noticed. The atmosphere became awkward. (Which wasn’t weird in any situation that involved him) "Right…" You spoke slowly, judgement dripping from your every word behind your sweet politeness. "One of those"
The blonde hunter looked between the two of you. "One of what?"
"The celestial types" You wave a hand vaguely, a butterfly fluttering off your shoulder from the movement.
Castiel's jaw tightened, retorting in a gravelly murmur. "You are a fae"
You blinked, honestly a bit surprised by his bluntness. Angels don’t usually lean into the banter, no matter how much anybody presses them. "Excellent observation"
Both Winchesters stifled a laugh at the forced interaction– Castiel however, remained fully serious in his usual stoic manner. "You are all unpredictable"
"And you're all judgmental"
His blue eyes narrowed slightly. "You all steal children"
You gasped. "I have never stolen a child"
The angel remained unconvinced, his piercing blue eyes glued onto you, a deep, confused frown to his face and head tilted slightly to the side. "Many fae do"
"And many angels start apocalypses" You immediately retort. It looked silly– a trenchcoated, gruff man and a barefoot, whimsy woman arguing about centuries old prejudice. Dean choked while Sam immediately turned away to hide a smile. For the first time since arriving, Castiel looked genuinely offended. You smiled sweetly. "Oh good, we are exchanging stereotypes"
The angel stared at you– you stared right back. Dean looked between the two of you like he was watching a magical tennis match. "I don't know why…" He muttered to his baby brother. "But I think they're fighting"
"They're definitely fighting"
Neither of you broke eye contact. Eventually, you sighed and turned your attention to the two taller men. (Now that you thought about it, they were all quite tall… Anyways). "Nevermind, why did you summon me?" Sam immediately stepped forward, grateful to move the conversation along. He explained the disappearances, the strange lights, the missing people, the stories of tiny creatures… You listened quietly, politely nodding along. As the details piled up, your playful demeanor faded and by the time he finished, your expression had grown serious. "That's not fae behavior"
The Winchesters straightened. "What do you mean?" The tallest one asked.
You folded your arms. "Real fae don't take people like that"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You literally just said you don't steal children, now you say there’s a method y’all follow?"
"Exactly" You pointed at him, all sweet seriousness. "When we take people, we borrow them. We don’t just… take them blindly" Dean groaned, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and Castiel simply kept glaring at you from behind them– you just smiled innocently. Then your expression softened into something more thoughtful. "But this?" You continued. "No games, no bargains, no gifts left behind…" A frown tugged at your brow. "This sounds all wrong"
The angel watched you carefully. Studying, measuring– trying to determine whether you were lying or not. You could practically feel his eyes on you, heavy and constant. Your gaze slid toward him. "Stop doing that"
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like I'm a suspicious animal"
He blinked, head tilting in confusion– he almost reminded you of a puppy. "I have never looked at an animal suspiciously"
You stared at him for a long moment before looking away and glancing toward the treeline beyond the motel. Your expression changed, something into something close to worried awe. "How long ago was the most recent disappearance?"
The abrupt shift caught all three men off guard, either way Sam was the first to answer. "Last night"
You nodded once. "Take me there"
Dean blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it"
"You don't have some cryptic fairy wisdom crap first?"
"I do"
The hunter gestured dramatically, vaguely waving his arms around impatiently. "Well?"
You pointed toward the woods. "Whatever it is that’s doing this is still there"
Castiel's eyes narrowed, clearly he didn’t trust you yet– not even close. "How do you know?"
"Well the forest is screaming" You hummed simply, voice soft and honest as if it was a completely logical and understandable statement. You stepped past them before any of them could respond, bare feet brushing against the cracked pavement of the parking lot. "The trees are frightened"
The three men exchanged a glance. "The trees are… frightened" Dean repeated slowly.
"Yes" You nod simply.
"You say that like it's normal n’not some weird reefer crap"
You looked over your shoulder towards where they were all following suit behind your steps. "It is normal"
"Sweetheart, trees don't talk"
"Not to you they don’t" You huff under your breath, humming to yourself as you continue walking, gaze up ahead focused on the forest in the distance.
Dean opened his mouth– closed it, opened it again. "Y’know what? M’ not even gonna unpack that" Sam was already grabbing the keys to the Impala, the angel still half hidden behind his tall, broad frame. "Let's just go, man"
The woods were quiet– too quiet. Even Dean noticed it. (And that’s saying something from the guy that didn’t notice his own brother’s change in haircolor when they were twelve-year-olds) No birds, no insects, no nothing but the crunch of leaves beneath y’all’s feet. You moved ahead of the group without hesitation, fingertips occasionally brushing against rough bark as you passed. Every now and then you would stop– tilt your head, listen and then continue as if nothing happened. Neither Winchester commented on your behaviour. Castiel, ever the judgemental creature– did comment on it. "What are you doing?"
You glanced back. "Listening"
He tilts his head, eyeing you in confusion. "To what?"
"The forest"
The angel frowned. "The forest cannot speak"
You smiled. "See? There you go again"
"Again?"
"Being wrong"
Dean snorted while Castiel looked mildly offended. (You considered that a victory) A few yards later, you suddenly stopped. The change was immediate– One second? You were walking. The next? Every muscle in your body had gone rigid.
Sam noticed first. "What is it?"
You crouched beside a patch of disturbed earth, the patch of grass ruffled up and dirtied with lifted dirt. Your fingers hovered over the soil, the grass, the broken roots of plants beneath it– the movement was careful, reverent in the softness that came from understanding the pain of what these elements had just gone through. "Oh..."
The blonde man stepped closer, hunter instincts sharp and ready to react. "Oh what?"
You looked up at the three men from where you were kneeling on the ground, ignoring the hair that fell over your face. "This wasn't done by a fae" The lightness in your voice was gone entirely now, melted into something almost hurt at the revelation. "This was done by something pretending to be one of us" The words settled heavily between the trees– even Castiel's expression shifted from stubborn reluctance to confused worry. You brushed your fingers against the ground and a pulse of gold flickered beneath your skin– not quite similar to an angel’s grace, but still bright and seeping with warmth. For a brief moment, tiny flowers pushed through the dirt around your hand. Then they wilted, the beautiful plants dead within seconds. Your face fell at the sudden occurrence. "That's not good…"
Dean's stomach sank. "How not good?"
Slowly, you stood with your eyes fixed on something deeper in the woods. Something only you were seeing for now– something that was watching you back. “We should leave”
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Part six
Synopsys: In which you have dinner with his family
WC: 16k
reader info / note: yn is a targaryen dragonseed, but her parentage is completely unknown on purpose so you can project however you want the only fixed thing is that you have at least one valyrian feature so silver hair and/or purple eyes, because it needs to be obvious you’ve got targaryen blood everything else is up to you, if the reader blushes it's because she biologically blushes not because the other characters see her blushing
PLEASE READ; I AM REMAKING THE TAGLIST SO IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED YOU HAVE TO RE-COMMENT IT EVEN IF YOU'RE ALREADY IN IT
PLEASE check out these GORGEOUS fanarts of moonfyre 1 2
Daeron Targaryen, was not yet awake when the maester knocked upon his chamber door. He was, in fact, deeply and contentedly asleep, his face half buried in a feather pillow, his silver gold hair more silver than gold now, he noted with quiet resignation every time he glanced into a looking glass spread across the linen in disarray.
Beside him, Myriah stirred. She had always been a lighter sleeper than he was, a trait she attributed to her Dornish upbringing, where the heat of the midday sun made afternoon siestas necessary and nighttime slumber shallower as a result. Or perhaps it was simply that she had spent thirty years sleeping beside a king, and kings, as a general rule, did not get to sleep peacefully through the night. Messengers arrived at all hours. Ravens came and went. The realm did not pause its endless demands simply because the hour was inconvenient.
"Someone's at the door," Myriah murmured, her voice still thick with sleep, her dark hair spilling across her pillow like a river of ink.
Daeron made a sound that was not quite a word and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. He was sixty three years old. His joints ached when it rained. His eyes tired easily after long hours bent over correspondence and petitions and the endless, grinding machinery of governance. He had been ruling for nearly three decades, and while he liked to think he had done a decent job of it, certainly better than his father, though the gods knew that was not a high bar to clear, there were moments, and this was one of them when he wished he could simply roll over and go back to sleep and let the realm manage itself for a few hours.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Three sharp raps, deliberate and apologetic at once, the kind of knock that said I am sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I would not be doing so if it were not important.
"Enter," Daeron called, his voice emerging as a croak. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the protest in his lower back, and ran a hand through his tangled hair.
The door opened to admit Maester Gerold, he carried a rolled parchment in one hand, sealed with the dark wax of Dragonstone, and his expression was difficult to read in the dim light of the chamber. "A raven from Dragonstone, Your Grace," the maester said, his voice carefully neutral. "From Prince Baelor. Marked as urgent."
Daeron's heart gave a single, uncomfortable lurch. Urgent. That word always carried weight, especially when it came from Dragonstone, especially when it concerned Baelor. His eldest son was not prone to exaggeration. If he said something was urgent, he meant it, and a dozen unpleasant possibilities flickered through Daeron's mind before he could stop them. An accident. An illness. An attack. Something had happened to Valarr, or to Matarys, or to Baelor himself, and here he was, an old man in his nightshirt, receiving the news in his bedchamber while the sun was still dragging itself over the horizon.
"Leave it on the table," Daeron said, gesturing toward the small writing desk near the window. "And have someone bring tea. Strong tea. And something to eat, if the kitchens are awake."
"Yes, Your Grace." Maester Gerold set the letter down with careful precision, his chain rattling softly, and withdrew with a bow.
Myriah pushed herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes following the maester's retreating form before shifting to the letter on the desk. Even half asleep, with her hair tangled and her face creased from the pillow, she was beautiful. She had been beautiful for years, and Daeron had never grown tired of looking at her. It was one of the few things in his life that had never grown complicated or disappointing or fraught with political consequence.
"Urgent from Baelor," she said, her voice still carrying the warm, rough edges of sleep. "That cannot be good."
"Perhaps it is good news," Daeron said, though he did not quite believe it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his bare feet cold against the stone floor, his nightshirt hanging loose around his thinning frame. "Perhaps Valarr has decided to come home at last."
"If that were the case, Baelor would not call it urgent." Myriah sat up fully, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. "He would call it a relief."
Daeron could not argue with that. He crossed to the desk, his movements slow and careful, the way an old man moved when his joints had not yet warmed to the day. The letter sat where Maester Gerold had left it and Daeron broke it with his thumb and unrolled the parchment.
The handwriting was unmistakably Baelor's. Neat, controlled, the letters formed with the careful precision of a man who had been taught to write by the finest tutors in the realm and had practiced until his penmanship was beyond reproach. But there was something else beneath the neatness, Daeron thought. A slight tremor, perhaps. An unevenness in the spacing that suggested the hand holding the quill had been less steady than usual. Baelor had written this letter in a state of some emotion. Excitement, or fear.
Daeron began to read. Myriah watched him from the bed, her expression shifting from drowsy curiosity to something more alert as she watched his face.
"Well?" she asked, when he had been silent for a long moment. "What does he say?"
Daeron did not answer immediately. He was still reading, his eyes moving down the parchment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Then, quite suddenly, he let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and he lowered the letter to his lap.
"It appears," he said, his voice flat with disbelief, "that there is a dragon on Dragonstone."
Myriah stared at him. "What?"
"A dragon. A living dragon. Pale as sea foam, apparently, with purple shades. Discovered in the eastern caves of the Dragonmont by a village girl." Daeron's voice remained studiously even, the voice he used when he was reading aloud from some particularly dubious petition. "The girl healed its injured wing. The dragon bonded with her. Valarr has fallen in love with her. Baelor has given his consent for them to marry. He wishes to break the betrothal to Kiera of Tyrosh and offer Matarys as a substitute. And he writes all of this in a letter marked urgent."
A long silence filled the royal bedchamber. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside the window, a gull cried, its voice carrying across the rooftops of King's Landing.
Then Myriah laughed. It was not a cruel laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who had just heard something so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that she could not help but find it funny. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her dark eyes bright with amusement, and shook her head slowly.
"Matarys," she said. "It has to be Matarys."
Matarys. Of course. His younger grandson, the six and ten year old with his mother's hair and his father's sharp eyes and a sense of humor that had caused no end of trouble over the years. Matarys, who had once convinced half the servants that the Red Keep was haunted by the ghost of a princess. Matarys, who had sent a letter to his uncle Maekar claiming that the King had decided to abdicate and become a septon. Matarys, who loved jokes and pranks and mischief with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a boy who had never quite grown out of being a child.
"That little wretch," Daeron said, but there was no real anger in his voice. In truth, he was almost relieved. A dragon. A village girl. A broken betrothal. If Baelor had genuinely written such a letter, it would have meant his eldest son had lost his mind entirely. But Matarys—Matarys writing an absurd letter in his father's hand, using his father's seal, sending it to King's Landing in the middle of the night—that made a great deal more sense. It was exactly the sort of thing Matarys would find hilarious.
"Read it to me," Myriah said, settling back against her pillows, her dark eyes still sparkling with amusement. "I want to hear every word."
Daeron read about the girl approaching Baelor at the petitions, about Baelor's disbelief, about the shame he claimed to feel. He read about the dragon's name—Moonfyre, a name that sounded suspiciously like something Matarys would invent, poetic and slightly overwrought—and about the bond between the girl and the creature. He read about Valarr falling in love, about Baelor offering the girl silver to disappear, about Valarr abdicating his claim to the throne.
"Abdicated," Myriah repeated, when he reached that part. "Valarr abdicated. For a village girl with goats."
"Apparently so."
"That is quite romantic."
"It is quite absurd."
Daeron read on. The letter grew more elaborate as it went, weaving in details about Tyrosh and Kiera, about Matarys being offered as a substitute husband, about the political implications of a dragon returning to House Targaryen after seventy years. The final paragraphs were almost poetic, speaking of hope and fire and the blood of Old Valyria, of children who would be trueborn Targaryens, of eggs that might hatch and dragons that might fill the skies once more.
When he finished, he set the letter down on the desk and looked at his wife. She was smiling, a small, knowing smile that he had seen a thousand times before and still could not entirely interpret.
"Well," she said. "That was quite the tale."
"It was quite something," Daeron agreed. "Though I am not certain Matarys wrote it."
"No?"
"The handwriting is too good. You know Matarys's penmanship—it looks like a spider fell in an inkpot and crawled across the page. This is Baelor's hand, or a very convincing forgery."
"Then perhaps Baelor wrote it as a joke."
Daeron considered this. Baelor was not known for his sense of humor. He was a serious man, a dutiful man, a man who had spent his entire life doing what was expected of him without complaint or deviation. But perhaps that was precisely what made the joke effective. Perhaps Baelor, exhausted by months on Dragonstone and desperate to return to King's Landing, had decided to write the most ridiculous letter he could conceive of as a way of expressing his frustration. A dragon. A village girl. A love story. A broken betrothal. It was all so patently absurd that it had to be intentional.
"Perhaps," Daeron said slowly, "this is Baelor's way of telling me he needs to come home. He has been on Dragonstone too long. The petitions could have been handled in a fortnight, but he has been there for months. He is bored. He is tired. He wants me to summon him back, and this is his way of asking."
"That is a very elaborate way of asking."
"Baelor has always been thorough."
Myriah laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the cup of water on her bedside table. "What are you going to tell him?"
Daeron looked at the letter again. "I am going to write him back," Daeron said, rising from the desk and crossing to the door to call for a servant. "I am going to tell him that I have read his letter, that I found it very amusing, and that he is to return to King's Landing at once."
"That is all?"
"That is all. If he wants to tell me more about this dragon and this village girl, he can do so in person. I am not going to conduct a serious diplomatic conversation about imaginary creatures through raven post."
Myriah smiled, settling back against her pillows. "You do not think you are being too dismissive?"
"I think I am being appropriately dismissive." Daeron returned to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his hand finding Myriah's beneath the blankets. "There is no dragon, Myriah. There is no village girl. There is only my son, who has been on a dreary island for too long and has lost his patience, and my grandson, who has fallen in with some local girl and convinced his father to let him out of his betrothal. The rest is embellishment."
"And if you are wrong?"
"I am not wrong."
"But if you are?"
Daeron looked at her. Her dark eyes were steady, her expression unreadable. She had always been the one to see possibilities he overlooked, to consider angles he dismissed, to remind him that the world was stranger and more complicated than his logical mind wanted it to be.
"If I am wrong," he said slowly, "then there is a dragon on Dragonstone, and my son has written me a letter that will be studied by maesters for centuries, and I have just dismissed it as a prank. In which case, I will owe him an apology. A very large apology."
"A very large apology indeed."
"But I am not wrong."
Myriah smiled and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. "Of course you are not, my love. You are the King. Kings are never wrong."
Daeron snorted. "Now you are mocking me."
"I have been mocking you for years. You have only just noticed?"
He laughed, a warm sound that filled the quiet chamber, he rose from the bed, crossed to the writing desk, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. The reply did not need to be long. A few lines, perhaps. Enough to acknowledge the letter without taking it seriously, to summon Baelor home without indulging the fantasy. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
To my son Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone,
Your letter reached me this morning. I read it with great interest and no small amount of amusement. The attention to detail is commendable, and I must congratulate whoever composed it—whether that was you, which would surprise me, or Matarys, which would not.
I am pleased to hear that Dragonstone has been treating you so well that you have found time to invent elaborate fictions. However, your presence is required in King's Landing. The small council has been managing without you, but there are matters that require your attention, and I am too old to handle all of them myself.
Bring Valarr with you. Bring Matarys as well, if he wishes to come. If the village girl exists—and I remain skeptical on that point—you may bring her too, though I cannot promise I will believe a word of this story until I see proof with my own eyes.
As for the betrothal, we will discuss it when you return. I am not inclined to break an alliance with Tyrosh on the basis of a letter that reads like a bard's tale, but I am willing to hear you out. If Valarr has genuinely fallen in love, there may be other ways to address the situation that do not involve inventing dragons.
Come home, Baelor. You have been on that island long enough.
With affection and considerable skepticism,
Your father,
Daeron
—
The morning light through the narrow windows of Dragonstone's eastern corridor turned the stone to smoke and honey, and you were still not entirely certain how Valarr had managed to get you here.
No—that was untrue. You knew exactly how he had managed it. He had woken you at dawn with a kiss pressed to the hinge of your jaw, and then another to the corner of your mouth, and then another to your forehead when you had tried to bury your face in the pillow and pretend you were still asleep. Marta had grumbled from her corner of the cottage that if the two of you did not stop whispering and giggling like children she would throw her medicine pot at your heads, and Valarr had muffled his laughter against your shoulder and held you tighter, his arm a warm weight across your stomach.
He had whispered that the tailor was waiting, that your grey wool dress had a tear in the sleeve that Marta had mended three times already, that if you were going to keep flying Moonfyre you needed proper clothes and not garments held together by hope and old thread. You had grumbled that you liked your grey dress. He had kissed you again, this time on the tip of your nose, and said he liked it too, but he would like it even more if it did not disintegrate the next time you climbed onto a dragon's back.
You had told him he was being ridiculous. He had agreed amiably and continued kissing you, your cheek, your temple, the corner of your jaw, until Marta had actually thrown a slipper at him and told him to get out of her house if he was going to behave like a lovesick boy instead of a prince. He had apologized with exaggerated formality, but his eyes had been laughing, and when he turned back to you he had whispered, "The tailor. Please. For my sanity," and you had finally agreed, if only to make him stop looking at you with those mismatched eyes that made you feel as though your bones were turning to warm milk.
So here you were, walking the corridors of the castle that had loomed over your village your entire life, your hand tucked into the crook of Valarr's elbow. The tailor had been efficient and terrifying an old man with pins in his mouth and spectacles perched on his nose, who had clucked over you like a hen with one chick and complained that you had the posture of someone who spent too much time hunched over goats. He had measured everything. Every span of your arms, every width of your shoulders, every length from hip to ankle and elbow to wrist. He had draped fabric over you in shades of deep purple and storm blue and a particular dark red that Valarr had picked out himself, holding it up to your cheek and nodding as though he had just solved some important political crisis.
Now the measuring was done, and Valarr was leading you through the castle instead of back toward the village gates.
"I received another letter from Matarys this morning," he said, his voice carrying that particular mixture of exasperation and fondness that only his younger brother seemed able to provoke. "The third one this week. He has taken to sending them by raven, which is absurd—he could simply walk send a servant, but he claims a raven carries more dramatic weight."
You smiled. "What does he want?"
"The same thing he has wanted since you came back. To meet you. To meet Moonfyre." Valarr sighed, his free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "He writes that he is perishing of neglected curiosity, and that if I do not introduce him within the fortnight he will be forced to take drastic measures. What those measures are, he does not specify, which I find deeply unsettling."
"He sounds very dramatic."
"He is insufferable," Valarr said, but his voice was warm. "Father has forbidden it, of course. He does not want you overwhelmed, and he knows Matarys has all the subtlety of a battering ram. When you meet him, and you will meet him eventually, he wants it to be on your terms, not because my brother has ambushed you in some corridor."
"I appreciate that," you said, and meant it. The thought of meeting more of Valarr's family made your stomach tighten, but the thought of meeting them when you were prepared, when you had warning and time to steady yourself, was easier to bear.
"He will adore you," Valarr said quietly and his hand tightened over yours where it rested in the crook of his arm.
They turned a corner, and the corridor changed. The stone here was older, rougher hewn, the torches fewer and farther between. You slowed, glancing up at Valarr in confusion, but he only tightened his arm against his side, pressing your hand more firmly into the crook of his elbow.
"There is something I want to show you," he said.
"More tailors?"
"Nothing so dire, I promise."
He led you down a narrow flight of stairs, then another, the air growing cooler and damper with each step. The walls dripped in places, dark with moisture, and the torches were spaced so far apart that you walked through pools of shadow between each one. The steps were worn smooth in the center, grooved by centuries of feet, and you found yourself wondering how many Targaryens had walked this same path, and what they had been going to see, and whether any of them had been village girls with no name and no family and a dragon who purred when scratched behind the eye ridge.
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy door of iron-banded oak stood slightly ajar. Valarr pushed it open with his shoulder and ushered you through. The chamber beyond was not large, but it was full. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with objects draped in oilcloth and dust. The air smelled of old leather and metal and something sharper beneath—the faint, acrid tang of dragon, though you did not recognize it at first. It was only when Valarr crossed to the center of the room and pulled away a heavy canvas sheet that you understood.
They were saddles. Dragon saddles. They rested on great wooden stands, three of them arranged in a loose semicircle like ancient thrones awaiting occupants who would never return. The leather was cracked and dark with age, the metal fittings dulled by time, but the shapes were unmistakable. Not the light, simple saddles that horses wore, these were massive, built like siege weapons, all deep seats and high backs and heavy straps that looked more suited to anchoring a ship than securing a rider. The buckles were iron, some rusted, some wrapped in remnants of what might once have been decorative tooling. One saddle still bore faint traces of gilding along its pommel, the gold flaking away like autumn leaves.
"This one was Sunfyre's," Valarr said, touching the edge of a saddle that gleamed dully in the torchlight, its leather the color of old coins. "Or so the records claim. It is difficult to be certain—so much was lost during the Dance. Saddles burned with their riders, or were broken apart for leather and metal when the dragons died and no one thought to preserve anything." He moved to the next, and his voice softened. "This one belonged to Syrax."
You stepped closer before you meant to. Syrax's saddle was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Even beneath the dust and the cracks and the slow decay of years, you could see it, the intricate patterns worked into the leather, the fittings that looked almost like gold, the delicate filigree along the backrest that must have taken someone months to complete. It was opulent and feminine and utterly unlike the heavy, warlike saddles beside it. It looked like something a queen would ride.
"Rhaenyra's dragon," you said quietly.
"Yes." Valarr's hand hovered over the pommel without touching it. "She rode Syrax when she took King's Landing. And later—well. You know the histories."
You did. You had read them in the book he gave you, sounding out the words while his shoulder pressed warm against yours. Syrax had died in the Dragonpit, torn apart by the smallfolk who rose against Rhaenyra. The saddle had outlived the dragon. That seemed wrong, somehow. That leather and metal could endure when fire and wings could not.
"There is more," Valarr said, turning to face you. The torchlight caught the silver streak in his hair, made his pale eye gleam like a coin. "That is not why I brought you here. I brought you here because—" He stopped, and for a moment he looked almost uncertain, which was such an unusual expression on his face that you felt your heart clench. "Because I want to commission a saddle for you. For Moonfyre."
You opened your mouth, but he was already speaking again, the words tumbling out faster now.
"I cannot watch you fly anymore without one. Every time you climb onto her back with nothing but your hands and your legs and your stubbornness, I feel as though my heart is going to stop. You hold on with strength alone, and you are strong—stronger than anyone I have ever met—but strength fails. A saddle would not. A saddle would keep you secure through dives and climbs and whatever else Moonfyre decides to do. A saddle would—"
"Valarr—"
"—mean that I could watch you fly without feeling as though I am going to be sick from terror. A saddle would mean that if something happened, if she banked too sharply or you lost your grip, you would not—"
"Valarr."
He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into loose fists, and his chest was rising and falling too quickly. He looked at you with those eyes and you could see the guilt there, the fear, the thing he still carried from the weeks when he had not believed you. It had not gone away. You were not certain it ever would.
"You are frightened for me," you said.
"Of course I am frightened for you." His voice was raw at the edges, scraped clean of princely composure. "I am frightened for you every moment you are in the air. I am frightened for you when you are on the ground and Moonfyre is not with you and I think about all the things that could happen, all the people who might want to hurt her or take her or use you to get to her. I am frightened for you when you are asleep and I am watching you breathe and I think about how close I came to losing you before I ever truly had you." He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through your new grey dress. "So yes. I am frightened for you. And I am asking you—asking, not commanding, I would never command you—to let me do this one thing that might make you a little safer. Please."
The word hung in the dusty air between you. A prince, begging. For you. You looked at the saddles again and tried to imagine yourself sitting in something like that, strapped into leather and steel, secured against the sky. Moonfyre was warm beneath you when you flew. Moonfyre was solid and alive and always, always careful with you, even when she dove or climbed or twisted through the air like a ribbon in the wind. The thought of putting something between you, something hard and unyielding, made your stomach clench.
"It might hurt her," you said quietly. "The straps. The weight. She has never carried anything but me. What if she hates it? What if it rubs her scales raw or catches on her spines or—"
"Moonfyre," Valarr said, and his voice was gentler now, some of the urgency draining out of it, "is a dragon. She carried you across the sea and back. She fought off infection and crooked bones and months of pain. A saddle will not hurt her. A properly fitted saddle, made by craftsmen who know what they are doing—she will barely feel it."
"You do not know that."
"I do not know that," he agreed. "But I know that the old riders saddled their dragons, and the dragons did not suffer for it. I know that Sunfyre carried Aegon through battle after battle with a saddle on his back, and it did not slow him down. I know that Syrax bore Rhaenyra for years, and the saddle was part of them, part of the bond, not a barrier between them."
You traced your fingers along the edge of Syrax's saddle. The leather was cold and brittle, flaking slightly beneath your touch. You thought of the craftsmen who had made it, the hours of careful work, the pride they must have felt when they saw it strapped to a dragon's back. You thought of Valarr, standing beside you in this dusty chamber, pleading with you to let him keep you safe.
"Moonfyre might like it," Valarr said softly. "If it means you can fly longer. Fly farther. Go places you have never been without your arms giving out halfway across the bay."
That was unfair. He knew it was unfair. You could see it in the slight quirk of his mouth, the way his pale eye caught the torchlight. He was appealing to the part of you that wanted to see the world from dragonback, that had tasted freedom on that unknown island and wanted more of it, that dreamed sometimes of flying west until you reached the edge of the map and saw what lay beyond.
"You are manipulating me," you said.
"I am reasoning with you."
"You are manipulating me with reasoning."
"Is it working?"
You wanted to stay cross with him. You wanted to hold onto your uncertainty, your fear for Moonfyre's comfort, your stubborn village-girl conviction that you did not need fine things or special treatment or princes who commissioned saddles for you. But he was looking at you with those eyes and you could feel your resolve crumbling like the gilding on Syrax's pommel.
"If Moonfyre hates it," you said slowly, "I will not make her wear it. Not even if it is the finest saddle ever made. Not even if you beg."
"Agreed."
"And if it hurts her—if there is even a single scale rubbed raw, a single moment where she seems uncomfortable—it comes off and I do not put it back on."
"Agreed."
"And you stop hovering every time I fly. You let me go without looking as though you are about to be sick."
He hesitated at that, his jaw tightening, and you knew you had found the limit of his willingness to negotiate. But after a moment he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head that was more concession than agreement.
"I will try," he said. "I cannot promise I will succeed."
"That is all I ask."
He reached for you then, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently toward him. You went willingly, letting yourself be drawn into the circle of his arms, letting your forehead rest against his collarbone. He smelled of salt and leather and something else, something warm and clean that you had come to associate with him alone. His chin came to rest on the top of your head.
"Thank you," he said, and the words vibrated through his chest into your bones.
"You are very difficult to refuse," you mumbled into his tunic.
"I know. I have been practicing."
You laughed despite yourself, a small huff of air against the fabric of his shirt. His arms tightened around you.
"The leatherworker will want to meet Moonfyre," he said, already planning, already thinking ahead to measurements and fittings and all the practical details that would make this real. "To take her dimensions. I will send word to him today."
"He will have to approach her slowly. She does not like strangers."
"I will tell him."
"And he cannot stare at her. She thinks staring is a challenge."
"I will tell him that too."
"And he should bring her something to eat. A goat, or a sheep. She likes people better when they come bearing food."
Valarr stopped in the doorway and turned to look at you, and there was something in his expression wonder, perhaps, or gratitude, or simply the overwhelming relief of a man who had been forgiven for something he could not forgive himself.
"I love you," he said. "You know that, don't you?"
You did. You had known it for longer than you had believed it, had felt it in every kiss and every gentle word and every moment when he looked at you as though you were the only real thing in a world made of shadows. But hearing him say it still made your heart stutter in your chest, still made you feel as though you were standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful.
"I know," you said. "I love you too."
He kissed you once more, soft and brief and full of promise, and then he led you back up the stairs and into the light.
At the top of the stairs, instead of turning back toward the main corridor and the way you had come, he steered you left. Then right. Then through a narrow archway you had not noticed before, into a hallway lined with old tapestries whose threads had gone dull and grey with age.
"What is this?" you asked.
"The east gallery. It connects the residential wing to the great hall without going through the main courtyard. Useful when it rains."
"It is not raining."
"No," he agreed. "But you have never seen it, and I thought you might like to."
You walked a little further. He showed you the small sept tucked into an alcove off the gallery a quiet, shadowed space with carved dragons twining up the pillars and a septa's crystal catching the light from a single high window. He showed you the library, which was not grand like you imagined the one in King's Landing must be, but still held more books than you had ever seen in one place, their spines cracked and faded and smelling of dust and old paper. He showed you a narrow window that looked out over the eastern meadows where you and Moonfyre had first learned to fly, and he pointed to the distant smudge of the village and said, "Marta's roof needs new thatching. I noticed it yesterday. I'll send someone."
You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the window's light, his mismatched eyes fixed on the village below, and there was something deliberate in the way he spoke, something careful and measured that you could not quite name.
"Why are you being so thorough?" you asked.
He turned from the window. "Thorough?"
"All of this." You gestured at the corridor behind you, the library, the sept, the gallery with its faded tapestries. "You are showing me every corner of this castle as though you expect me to be tested on it later."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was a softer smile than before, less teasing and more tentative. "Perhaps I am."
"Valarr."
He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry some weight you could not see, and reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before lowering them again.
"I am showing you your future home," he said. "Or one of them, at least. The Red Keep will be yours as well, when the time comes. I thought you ought to know your way around before—" He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your hand. "Before everything changes."
The word echoed in the quiet corridor. Home. You had a home. A small cottage with a sagging roof and a hearth that smoked when the wind blew from the east and a narrow pallet where Marta had tucked you in every night since you were small enough to be carried. That was home. That had always been home.
"Home," you repeated, and the word felt strange in your mouth, too large and too small at the same time.
"Yes. When you marry me, Dragonstone will be yours. Not just the caves and the village and the meadows, but all of it. The castle. The library. The sept and the gallery and every dusty corner you have not seen yet. And King's Landing, too, when—" He stopped, his jaw tightening briefly. "When the time comes."
Your heart was beating very fast. You could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the place where his thumb was still tracing circles over your skin.
"I do not recall accepting any proposal," you said.
It came out steadier than you felt. His eyes met yours, and there was no teasing in them now. Just him. Just Valarr, looking at you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"You will," he said. "One day."
"That is very confident of you."
"Not confident. Hopeful." He lifted your hand again and pressed it flat against his chest, over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm, quick and strong and slightly uneven. "I told you I would spend the rest of my life making up for the weeks I did not believe you. That was not a promise I made lightly. I do not expect you to forgive me tomorrow, or next moon, or even next year. I will wait. I will keep showing you libraries and septs and the best windows for watching the sunrise, and I will wait, and one day—when you are ready, when you have forgiven me as much as you are able—I will ask you properly. And you will say yes, or you will say no, and either way I will still be here. Still waiting. Still yours."
You stared at him. His heart was still hammering beneath your palm, belying the calm of his voice, and the silver streak in his hair caught the light from the window, and his eyes were full of something so raw and tender that it made your chest ache.
"You are a fool," you whispered.
"Probably."
"A complete and utter fool."
"I have been told."
You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss, or a careful one. His words had been too earnest, too tender, too full of that quiet certainty that made your chest feel too small for everything inside it, and kissing him seemed the only way to make him stop before he said something else that made you want to weep in the middle of a dusty corridor. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he made a sound low in his throat and kissed you back.
The corridor was silent except for the soft sound of your mouths meeting and parting and meeting again, and for a long, suspended moment there was nothing in the world but his hand in your hair and his heart still hammering beneath your palm and the warmth of him pressed against you in the narrow space between the tapestries and the wall.
A throat cleared behind you. Not loudly. Politely, even. The kind of throat clearing that was meant to announce a presence without making a scene, the kind that belonged to someone who had walked in on something he ought not to have seen and was determined to pretend otherwise.
You pulled back from Valarr so quickly you nearly stumbled, your face flooding with heat. Valarr's hand fell from your jaw, but his other arm remained around your waist, steadying you, and when you looked up at him his expression was caught somewhere between mortification and the particular irritation of a man who had been interrupted at a crucial moment.
Prince Baelor stood at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his expression impeccably neutral but he carried himself with the easy authority of a man who did not need a crown to be recognized. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his jaw strong, and his eyes were fixed on a point just above your heads, as though the ceiling had suddenly become fascinating.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was warm, warmer than you expected, as if he had not just witnessed his eldest son kissing a girl in a secluded corridor. "I did not expect to find you in the castle today. How fortunate."
Your face was still burning. You dropped into a curtsy—a little clumsily, your legs still unsteady from the kiss—and kept your eyes on the floor. "My prince. The fortune is mine."
Valarr's arm tightened around your waist, a small, reassuring pressure. "Father," he said, and his voice was even, though you could hear the strain beneath it. "I was just showing Y/N the castle. She has not seen much of it beyond the great hall and the tailor's chambers."
"So I observed," Baelor said, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, though his face remained carefully composed. He looked at you then, directly, and his expression softened. "Valarr tells me you agreed to riding clothes. I am glad. The dresses are charming, but I suspect they were not designed with dragonflight in mind."
You did not know what to say to that. Your hand found Valarr's sleeve and held on. "The tailor was very thorough, my prince."
"He is a tyrant in human form, but his work is excellent." Baelor smiled, and it transformed his face, made him look less like a prince and more like a man who told jokes and laughed at them. "Since you are here, you must stay for supper. I will not hear any argument—it is late, the sun will set soon, and there is no sense in walking all the way back to the village on an empty stomach. My wife has been asking to meet you properly. She will have my head if I let you slip away without an introduction."
Your stomach dropped. Supper. With the prince and princess of Dragonstone. In the great hall, or some private dining chamber, with servants and candles and more forks than you knew what to do with. You looked down at your dress, the dress of a village girl who spent her mornings mucking out goat pens and her afternoons scrubbing dragon scale from beneath her fingernails.
"My prince, I am not—" You stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I have nothing suitable to wear to a royal supper. And I would not wish to impose on your household without any warning, I am sure the kitchens have not prepared for an extra guest, and Marta will be expecting me back before dark, she worries when I am gone too long, and I should really—"
"Nonsense." Baelor waved his hand as though shooing away a fly. "Valarr, see that a bath is drawn for her in the guest quarters. Your mother has many gowns she will not mind if Y/N borrows one until the tailor finishes her commission. Send a servant to the village to inform Marta that Y/N will be dining at the castle tonight and will return in the morning."
"Father—" Valarr began, but Baelor was already turning, already walking back down the corridor with the unhurried stride of a man who was accustomed to having his instructions followed.
"This will be good," Baelor said over his shoulder, and his voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "A proper family supper. It has been too long since we had one of those. I will inform the kitchens. Bring her to the dining chamber when she is ready."
He disappeared around the corner, his boots clicking against the stone, and then there was silence. You stood frozen, your hand still clutching Valarr's sleeve, your heart beating somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. A bath. A borrowed gown. Supper with the heir to the Iron Throne and his wife and his sons and—gods, how many forks were there going to be? You had eaten at Marta's table your whole life. You owned one spoon.
Valarr turned to you, and his expression was a complicated mixture of apology and barely suppressed amusement. "I am going to kill him," he said.
"Your father?"
"My father. Yes. That is the one I meant."
"He did not seem to notice the—" You gestured vaguely at the space between you, where moments ago there had been no space at all.
"Oh, he noticed." Valarr's mouth twitched. "He was looking at the ceiling. My father only looks at the ceiling when he is pretending he has not seen something. He did it when Matarys pushed me into the fountain during his nameday feast. He did it when my mother asked him if her new gown made her look fat. And he did it just now."
You closed your eyes. "I am going to die."
"You are not going to die."
"I am going to embarrass myself so thoroughly that I will wish I were dead. I do not know which fork to use. I do not know how to address a princess. I do not know—"
Valarr took your face in both his hands, gentle and steady, and pressed his lips to your forehead. "You will use whichever fork feels right. You will address my mother as 'my princess' and she will tell you to call her Jena, and you will not call her Jena because you are too polite, and she will like you all the more for it. My father already likes you. Matarys will talk so much that no one will notice if you use the wrong fork." He pulled back and looked at you, his pale eye catching the light. "And I will be beside you the entire time. You will not face any of it alone."
You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that he was a prince and you were a bastard and that no amount of borrowed gowns would change the fact that you did not belong in a castle dining chamber with people who had been raised to rule. But he was looking at you with those eyes, and his hands were still warm on your face, and you could feel your protests crumbling before they reached your tongue.
"If I faint," you said, "you will have to carry me out."
"If you faint, I will carry you out and tell everyone you were overcome by the excellence of the roast lamb."
"That is not funny."
"It is a little funny."
You pushed his chest, but you were almost smiling, and he caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.
"The guest quarters are this way," he said. "The bath will take a little while to fill. In the meantime, I can show you the north tower—it has the best view of the Dragonmont, and there is a particular window where the light hits the stone in a way that makes it look like fire. If you want."
You took a breath. Let it out. Squeezed his hand.
"Show me," you said.
He led you through corridors you had never seen before, the guest quarters, when you reached them, were not as grand as you had feared. The chamber was small but warm, a fire already crackling in the hearth, a canopied bed pushed against one wall with hangings the color of heather. Servants were already moving in and out, carrying copper tubs of steaming water, laying out cloths and jars and things you did not recognize.
Valarr spoke to them in low tones, giving instructions you could not quite hear, and then turned back to you. His hand found yours and squeezed once, briefly.
"The bath will be ready soon," he said. "I will leave you to it."
"You are not staying?" The words came out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended, edged with something that sounded uncomfortably like panic.
Valarr paused. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not the polite smile he wore in public, but the smaller, more private one that meant he was trying not to laugh at you.
"It would be somewhat improper," he said, "for me to stay while you bathe. Unless you are insisting. In which case I suppose I could be persuaded."
Your face went hot. You could feel the blush spreading from your cheeks to your ears to the base of your throat, and you were suddenly very interested in the pattern of the rug beneath your feet. "I did not mean it like that."
"I know." He stepped closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I was teasing you. The servants know what they are doing—all you have to do is stand there and let yourself be treated like a doll for an hour or so. Can you manage that?"
"I have never been treated like a doll in my life."
"Then it is long overdue." He pulled back and looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft. "Trust them. I will be back before you know it."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were alone with the servants and the steam and the copper tubs and the frightening array of jars and bottles and strange instruments laid out on a side table.
What followed was one of the most mortifying hours of your life.
The servants were efficient and utterly unbothered by your nakedness in a way that only made your nakedness feel more acute. You had bathed yourself your whole life this was nothing like that. This was hands in your hair and warm water poured over your shoulders and something that smelled of lavender massaged into your scalp. This was a rough stone, a pumice stone, one of the women called it, though you had never heard the word, dragged carefully over your elbows and knees and the soles of your feet, scraping away calluses you had earned over years of climbing and kneeling and walking barefoot through the village. This was oil rubbed into your skin until you gleamed like polished wood, and then more oil, a different kind, something that smelled of jasmine and made your skin feel impossibly soft.
They cut your hair. Not much—just the ends, just enough to make it fall evenly down your back instead of straggling in uneven lengths the way it always had. You watched the pale strands drift to the floor and felt a strange pang in your chest, as though they were cutting away some essential part of who you were.
Then came the dress. You had expected something simple. Something modest, in a muted color, appropriate for a village girl who had been invited to supper out of politeness rather than any real desire for her company. What the servants lifted from the wardrobe was not simple.
The gown was lilac a pale, shimmering shade that seemed to shift between purple and silver as it caught the light. The neckline dipped low across the chest, lower than anything you had ever worn, and when you looked down at yourself after it was laced you saw your own body as though for the first time. The cut of the bodice lifted and shaped in ways you had not known were possible. The waist was tight, the sleeves long and fitted, and silver embroidery traced delicate patterns across the whole of it, flowers, you thought, or perhaps vines. The skirts fell in soft folds to the floor, and when you moved they whispered against the stone like a secret.
The girl in the mirror was a stranger. She was beautiful. You could admit that, even if it felt like admitting something shameful. Her skin glowed, soft and luminous from the oils and the pumice and the careful attention of hands that knew how to transform a body into something ornamental. Her collarbones were visible above the neckline, her waist impossibly narrow, her hands usually chapped and reddened from work resting soft and pale against the lilac silk. She looked like a princess. She looked like she belonged in this castle, in this chamber, in this gown. She looked like someone who had never mucked out a goat pen or scrubbed dragon scale from beneath her fingernails or woken before dawn to haul water from the well.
She looked nothing like you. This was what they did, you thought. This was what nobles did every day of their lives. They stood in warm chambers while servants oiled and polished and dressed them, while hands they did not have to thank transformed them into something beautiful enough to be looked at. They wore silk while you had worn patched wool. They ate from silver plates while you had eaten from wooden bowls. They had never once wondered if they belonged at the table because they had never once sat anywhere else.
And here you were, dressed like one of them, looking like one of them, as though a lilac gown and some jasmine oil could erase everything you were and everything you came from.
The door opened behind you. You did not turn. You were still staring at the stranger in the mirror, your hands clenched at your sides, your heart beating too hard against the boning of the borrowed bodice. Footsteps. Then silence. Then Valarr's voice, low and rough and stripped of all composure.
"Gods be good."
You turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand still on the latch, his cloak gone and his dark hair slightly damp as though he had bathed and dressed in haste. He was wearing a deep blue tunic you had not seen before, silver thread at the collar and cuffs, and his mismatched eyes were wide. His lips were parted. He looked at you the way you had seen villagers look at moonfyre as though something impossible and beautiful was happening in front of him and he did not know whether to speak or kneel or simply stand there and let it burn itself into his memory.
"You look," he said, and stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "You look like the Maiden herself. Reborn. Walking the earth. In my father's guest quarters."
"That is blasphemy," you said, because you did not know what else to say.
"Then I will do penance tomorrow." He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching you, his hands hovering at your elbows as though he was afraid the gown might dissolve if he made contact. Up close, you could see the faint flush rising along his jaw, the way his throat moved as he swallowed again. "I mean it. You are—I do not have the words. I have read poetry. I have read a great deal of poetry. None of it is adequate."
Your cheeks were warming again, but the resentment was still there, coiled beneath the fluster. "It is the dress. And the oils, and the—the stones, and my hair, and—"
"It is you." His hands found your elbows at last, gentle and steady. "It is you in the dress. It is you with your hair like moonlight and your eyes doing that thing where you are not certain whether to be pleased or to run. It is you, Y/N. The rest is just trimming."
"I do not look like myself," you said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "You look like the person you have always been, only now the outside matches the inside. That is what fine clothes are supposed to do, I think. I have never understood it until now."
You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything to say. So you stood there, in your borrowed lilac gown, with his hands warm on your elbows and his eyes full of something that looked a great deal like worship, and you let yourself be looked at.
He was still holding your elbows, his thumbs tracing small arcs over the silk, when his expression shifted. The wonder in his face dimmed slightly, replaced by something more careful, more searching.
"You are uncomfortable," he said. "If the dress bothers you, I will find you another. There are a dozen gowns in the wardrobes here—my mother's, my cousins', ones that have been left behind by visiting ladies over the years. Something with a higher neckline, or heavier fabric, or—"
"No." The word came out faster than you intended. You shook your head, your hands smoothing over the lilac skirts almost without your permission. "No, it is not the dress. The dress is…" You struggled for the right word, and failed, and settled for the truth instead. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever worn. I have never worn anything like it. When I was small, I used to dream about dresses like this."
You had not meant to say that. The confession slipped out before you could catch it, and once it was free you could not pull it back. You remembered those dreams now, sharp and sudden, lying on your pallet in Marta's cottage while the fire burned low, imagining yourself in gowns of silver and gold and deep Targaryen red, imagining a life where you walked into a room and people looked at you not with pity or curiosity but with respect. You had always woken from those dreams feeling foolish. A bastard girl with patched wool and callused hands, dreaming of silk. It was like a goat dreaming of flying.
Valarr's hands tightened on your elbows. "And now you are wearing one."
"Now I am wearing one," you agreed. "And I feel like I have stolen something. Like I walked into a room I was not supposed to enter and put on a gown that belongs to someone else and at any moment someone is going to realize the mistake and send me back where I came from." Your voice was steady, but only just. "I feel like I do not deserve this."
"Y/N—"
"I know what you are going to say."
"You do not," he said quietly, "because what I am going to say is that you deserve this more than anyone I have ever met."
You looked at him. His face was earnest and open and so desperately sincere that it made your chest hurt. And beneath that sincerity, beneath the warmth and the love and the way he was looking at you as though you were the answer to some question he had been asking his whole life, something else stirred. A thought. A question. A splinter of doubt that you could not quite dislodge.
Why?
Why did you deserve it more than anyone? Why did any of this, the dress, the oils, the servants, the castle, the prince who looked at you like you were the Maiden reborn, why did any of it have to be deserved at all? Marta had worked her whole life, her hands gnarled and aching, her back bent over poultices and potions and the bodies of the sick and the dying, and she had never once worn silk. The fishermen who went out before dawn in their leaking boats, the baker's wife who rose at an hour that ought not to exist to knead dough for bread she would never have time to eat warm, the village children who ran barefoot through the mud because shoes cost coin and coin was for food—why did none of them deserve pretty dresses? Why did decency have to be earned? Why was beauty a reward for the few instead of a gift for everyone?
You did not say any of this. You were not certain you knew how to shape the words, or whether Valarr would understand them if you did. He had been raised in a world where some people deserved things and others did not, and he was kind but kindness and understanding were not the same thing.
"Y/N." His voice pulled you back. He was watching you carefully, his head tilted slightly, his pale eye narrowed. "You went somewhere just now. Where did you go?"
"Nowhere." You shook your head and forced a smile. "I am here."
"You are lying. But I will not press you." He lifted one hand from your elbow and offered it to you, palm up. "Come. I told you I would show you how the soup is supposed to go, and I meant it. Father will have told the kitchens to prepare something elaborate—he always does when there are guests—but I can at least warn you which course comes with which implement and when you are supposed to nod politely instead of speaking."
You stared at his outstretched hand. A prince's hand, clean and uncallused, offered to a girl whose palms still bore the faint roughness of work despite the pumice stone's best efforts.
"I am a little scared," you admitted. The words came out small, smaller than you wanted them to.
"I know." His hand did not waver. "You do not have to pretend you are not. I will be beside you the entire time. And if anyone makes you feel unwelcome, I will—"
"What? Challenge them to a duel?"
"I was going to say I would glare at them meaningfully. But a duel is also an option."
Despite everythin you laughed. It was a small laugh, barely more than a breath, but it was real. Valarr smiled, and his hand was still there, waiting.
"Alright," you said, and placed your palm in his. "Show me."
He led you not to the dining chamber to a small room just off the corridor, one you had not seen during his earlier tour. It was not grand. A modest table, two chairs, a sideboard bearing a modest collection of plates and bowls and an array of cutlery that seemed excessive for a room this size. A single window looked out over the darkening sea, the sky going violet at the edges where the sun had begun its slow descent.
"A practice round," Valarr said, pulling out one of the chairs and gesturing for you to sit. "Before the real battle. Every knight drills before a tourney."
You sat. The lilac skirts pooled around you on the chair, and you spent a moment arranging them so you would not trip if you had to stand suddenly. "Is supper a tourney now?"
"Supper with my family can be a trial by combat if you are not prepared. Fortunately, the rules of etiquette are simpler than swordplay. There are only six forks to worry about instead of seven, for instance, and no one is trying to unhorse you."
"Six forks," you repeated, your voice flat.
"Only five, actually. I was exaggerating for dramatic effect. There are three." He pulled the other chair close to yours—close enough that your knees nearly touched—and sat down, reaching for a spoon from the sideboard. "This is the soup spoon. You will know the soup course has arrived because someone will place a bowl of soup in front of you. At that point, you may use this spoon. You dip it away from yourself—so—and you sip from the side, not the front. Like this."
He demonstrated with an imaginary bowl, his movements exaggerated and faintly ridiculous, and you felt some of the tension in your shoulders ease.
"Away from myself," you said. "Side of the spoon. Not the front."
"Exactly. You are already better than Matarys, who once drank his soup directly from the bowl during a formal banquet because he was thirteen and wanted to see what would happen. What happened was that our mother did not speak to him for two days."
You laughed despite yourself. Valarr's eyes crinkled at the corners, pleased.
"The fish fork," he continued, picking up a smaller implement with slightly curved tines, "is for fish. The meat fork is for meat. If you are ever uncertain which to use, watch me. I will use the correct one, and you can follow half a heartbeat behind. No one will notice."
"They will notice."
"They will be looking at Moonfyre's rider. They will be looking at the girl who brought dragons back to House Targaryen. They will not be looking at which fork you are holding. And if they do, they are boors, and their opinion is not worth your concern."
You picked up the fish fork and turned it over in your fingers. It was heavier than it looked, the silver cool against your skin. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. You are the one making it complicated."
"I am not—" You stopped, because he was looking at you with that particular expression he wore when he knew he was right and was waiting for you to admit it. "Perhaps I am making it a little complicated."
"Only a little." He reached over and gently extracted the fork from your fingers, setting it back on the sideboard. His hand lingered on yours. "You are also gripping that fork as though you expect it to attempt an escape. Try to hold it more like a writing quill and less like a weapon."
"I have never held a writing quill."
"Then hold it like you hold my hand. Gently. As though you trust it."
Your eyes met his. The room was quiet except for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, the soft crackle of the torch in its sconce. His thumb traced a slow line across your knuckles.
"You are flirting with me," you said.
"I am always flirting with you. It is one of my defining characteristics." He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "Is it working?"
"A little."
"Only a little. I shall have to try harder." He released your hand and reached for a small plate, holding it up between you like a shield. "Bread. You will tear it with your fingers, not cut it with a knife. Tearing bread with a knife is considered uncouth, though I have never understood why. Bread does not care how it is divided."
"Bread does not care about anything. It is bread."
"Precisely my point. And yet the rules persist." He set the plate down and leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. "You are still nervous."
"I am always nervous."
"I know. But this is a different kind of nervous. You are thinking about forks and soup spoons and whether my mother will like you, and you are forgetting that you have already done something braver than any of them have ever done."
You looked down at your hands, at the faint calluses the pumice stone had not quite managed to erase. "I do not feel brave."
"Bravery is not a feeling. It is an action. You saved a dragon. You flew across the sea. You came back." He tilted his head, catching your gaze and holding it. "What is a soup spoon compared to that?"
"A soup spoon is smaller."
"Much smaller. And less likely to bite you."
"Moonfyre tried biting me once."
"And you survived. You will survive the soup course as well." He smiled, and it was the private smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his mismatched eyes and made him look less like a prince and more like the boy who had sat beside you in a meadow and taught you to read. "If you become overwhelmed during supper, I have a plan."
"What plan?"
"I will feed you."
You stared at him. "You will what?"
"Feed you. Lift morsels to your lips with my own fork. It will be very romantic and deeply inappropriate for a formal dinner, and my father will stare at the ceiling again and you will be so distracted by your embarrassment that you will forget to be nervous about the cutlery."
Your face was hot. "That is the worst plan I have ever heard."
"It is an excellent plan. I have been refining it for hours."
"You have not."
"You are correct, I invented it just now. But I am committed to it. Say the word and I will feed you every course from soup to sweetcake."
"Please do not feed me at your father's table."
He sighed with theatrical regret. "Very well. But the offer remains open. If you find yourself paralyzed by the weight of silverware, simply look at me. I will know what it means."
"You will know what what means? I do not even know what it means."
"I will know." He stood and offered you his hand, the same gesture he had made in the guest quarters, patient and steady and sure. "Are you ready? The soup is waiting, and I have it on good authority that it is leek and potato. My father is very fond of leek and potato. He will talk about it at length. You need only nod and make appreciative sounds."
You took his hand and rose, the lilac skirts settling around you with a whisper. "Appreciative sounds I can manage."
"I never doubted you for a moment." He tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow and led you toward the door. Just before you reached it, he paused and leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are the rider of the first dragon in seventy years. You are stronger than anyone in that dining chamber, and kinder, and braver. The forks are irrelevant. The soup is irrelevant. You could eat with your hands and my mother would still adore you."
"She would not."
"She would. She told me so."
You did not trust yourself to speak. So you tightened your hand on his arm and let him lead you into the corridor, toward the dining chamber and the soup and whatever lay beyond.
The small dining chamber was not what you had expected. You had imagined something vast and echoing but this room was intimate, almost cozy, its walls hung with tapestries in warm shades of gold and russet, its hearth fire casting dancing shadows across a table set for five. Candles flickered in iron holders. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread drifted from somewhere nearby. It was, you realized with a jolt, a room meant for family.
The family was already there. Baelor stood near the hearth, a goblet in his hand, his dark beard catching the firelight as he turned toward the door. He smiled when he saw you and inclined his head in greeting. Beside him, a woman had risen from her chair.
She was not tall. That was the first thing you noticed. Princess Jena Dondarrion was small and fine boned, with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes the pale, clear blue of a winter sky. She was not beautiful in the way the songs described princesses. Her face was too sharp for that, her nose slightly aquiline, her mouth set in a line that suggested she spent more time thinking than smiling. But there was something striking about her nonetheless, a quiet intensity, a sense of coiled intelligence behind those pale eyes.
The young man sprawled in the chair beside her could only be Matarys. He had his mother's coloring, though on him the hair curled wildly around his ears and the eyes held a restless, mischievous gleam. He was handsome, you supposed, in a way that was less polished than Valarr's careful composure. Where Valarr was stillness and duty, Matarys seemed to be barely contained motion, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair, his leg bouncing beneath the table. He was watching you with undisguised curiosity, and when your eyes met his, he grinned.
You dropped into a curtsy before you could lose your nerve, gripping the sides of your borrowed skirts the way Valarr had shown you in the practice room. "My prince's. My princess. I am honored to be received."
The words felt stiff in your mouth, rehearsed and foreign, but Jena's expression softened slightly at the edges, and Baelor raised his goblet in a small toast. "The honor is ours," he said. "Please, sit. You are not a petitioner tonight, Y/N. You are a guest."
Valarr's hand found the small of your back, a brief, steadying pressure, and he guided you to the chair beside his. The table was round, not long, and you found yourself seated between Valarr and Matarys, directly across from Jena. Baelor took the chair beside his wife, setting down his goblet with a soft clunk.
Servants appeared as if conjured, pouring wine into your goblet—a pale gold, not the deep red you had expected—and setting down bowls of soup. Leek and potato, just as Valarr had predicted. Steam curled upward, fragrant and warm.
"So," Matarys said, before anyone else could speak. "You are the dragon girl."
"Matarys," Jena said, her voice quiet but carrying a warning.
"What? I am only stating a fact. She is a girl, and she has a dragon. That makes her the dragon girl." He leaned forward, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it true she sleeps curled around you like a cat? Valarr said she sleeps curled around you like a cat."
"Matarys," Valarr said, in a tone that was considerably less patient than his mother's.
"I am only asking what everyone is thinking. You cannot blame me for being curious. There has not been a living dragon in seventy years, and now one is napping not half a league from where I sleep, and I am not allowed to see her." He turned to you, his expression plaintive. "Do you know what that is like? It is like being told there is a feast in the next room but you are not permitted to leave your chair."
You picked up your soup spoon, remembering Valarr's instructions. Away from yourself. Sip from the side. The soup was hot and creamy and rich in a way that village soup never was real cream, you thought, and butter, and herbs you could not name.
"Moonfyre does not curl around me like a cat," you said, after you had swallowed. "She is much larger than a cat."
"But she does curl around you?"
"Sometimes. When she is cold."
Matarys looked at Valarr with an expression of profound vindication. "She does curl around her like a cat."
"I never said she did not," Valarr muttered into his soup.
Baelor chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Let the girl eat, Matarys. You can interrogate her after the fish course."
The conversation eased after that, settling into something that felt almost natural. Jena asked you about the village how long you had lived there, whether the fishing had been good this season, if the storms had damaged any of the cottages. Her questions were practical, straightforward, the questions of a woman who had learned to manage a household and was genuinely interested in how other people managed theirs. You answered as best you could, and when you stumbled over a word or forgot to address her as "my princess," she did not correct you. She only nodded and asked another question.
Baelor asked about Marta, how long she had been a healer, what remedies she used for winter fever, whether she had ever trained with a maester. You told him she had learned from her mother and her mother before her, that she knew every herb on Dragonstone and what it cured, that she had never lost a mother in childbirth. Baelor listened with genuine interest, his eyes thoughtful, and when you finished he said, "She sounds like a remarkable woman. I should like to meet her properly one day."
The fish course came and went. You used the fish fork without incident, though you caught Valarr watching you with a small, private smile when you picked it up. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table, a warm point of contact that anchored you when your nerves began to fray.
It was Baelor who raised the question you had been dreading. "Y/N," he said, setting down his knife, his voice gentle but curious. "You have the look of our house, it is unmistakable. Have you any idea who your Targaryen parent might have been?"
The table went quiet. Not the awkward quiet of people who were embarrassed for you, but the attentive quiet of people who were genuinely interested. Even Matarys stopped fidgeting. You took a sip of wine to buy yourself a moment. The goblet was cool against your fingers.
"No, my prince," you said. "I was found abandoned. Marta took me in when I was only a few days old, or so she says. There was nothing with me—no note, no token, no clue to who my parents might have been. I do not even know if it was my mother or my father who had the Targaryen blood."
Jena exchanged a glance with Baelor, something unreadable passing between them. "That is a hard beginning," she said quietly.
"It was not so hard. Marta was good to me. I had food and a roof and someone who loved me." You paused, your thumb tracing the rim of your goblet. "I have wondered, of course. Every child wonders. But after a while, I stopped. It did not matter who my parents were. What mattered was who I was."
Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers lacing through yours and squeezing once.
"That is a wise perspective," Baelor said. "Wiser than many who have had easier beginnings." He did not press further, and you were grateful.
The conversation shifted, turning toward lighter things, the upcoming harvest festival in the village, the quality of the wine from the Arbor, a horse that Matarys had tried to ride and been thrown from. Matarys told this story with great enthusiasm, describing his ignominious fall into a mud puddle with the kind of dramatic detail that made even Jena's stern mouth twitch toward a smile.
Then he turned to you, his blue eyes bright with renewed curiosity.
"Valarr told us something else about you," he said, and something in his tone made you wary. "He said you admire the late Princess Baela. The rider of Moondancer."
You blinked. "He told you that?"
"He tells me many things. I am his favorite brother."
"I am his only brother," Matarys said, unperturbed. "But yes. He said you are fascinated with her. That you named your dragon after hers. Moonfyre, Moondancer. It is a tribute, is it not?"
You glanced at Valarr. He was looking at his plate, his jaw slightly tight, as though he had not expected Matarys to bring this up at supper and was already regretting ever telling him anything.
"It is," you said, turning back to Matarys. "Marta used to tell me the old stories when I was small. The Dance of the Dragons, the conquest, all of it. But I always liked Baela best. She was not the heir or the queen or the one the songs were written about. She was just—brave. Fierce. Loyal to the people she loved. She rode Moondancer against Sunfyre even though she knew she would lose. She did it anyway."
"That is why you like her? Because she lost?"
"Because she fought." You had not meant to say it so forcefully, but the words came out steady and sure. "Because she did not wait for someone else to save her. Because she made her own choices and she stood by them, even when they cost her everything, reading it myself with Valarr's help only made me adore her even more."
"Valarr taught you to read," Baelor said, breaking the silence. It was not quite a question.
"Yes, my prince. He has been lending me books from the castle library. Histories, mostly. Some legends."
"That is impressive," Baelor said, and he sounded as though he meant it. "To learn so quickly, and to read well enough to tackle the histories. You have a sharp mind, Y/N."
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I had a good teacher." Valarr's hand tightened on yours beneath the table.
"Valarr is many things," Jena said, her voice dry, "but patient is not usually among them. He must have made an exception for you."
"I am very patient," Valarr said, with a touch of indignation.
"You once threw a book at your septa because she corrected your High Valyrian pronunciation."
"I was eight."
"And you missed. Your aim has never been good."
Matarys let out a bark of laughter. Baelor hid a smile behind his goblet. Valarr looked at his mother with an expression of profound betrayal, and you found yourself laughing too, a real laugh, startled out of you before you could stifle it.
Jena's pale blue eyes shifted to you, and her expression was no longer unreadable. She was smiling, a small, private smile that softened the sharp lines of her face and made her look almost warm.
"I am glad to finally meet you," she said. "Truly. I have wondered what kind of girl could make my son sleep in a peasant's cottage."
"Mother—" Valarr began, but Jena continued as though he had not spoken.
"Do you know, when he was a child, he used to follow his father on hunting trips. He insisted he wanted to be a knight, wanted to learn woodcraft and survival and all the things a future king ought to know. And then he would come back after three days in the forest and cry to me because the bedroll was lumpy and the ground was cold and his tent had leaked in the rain." She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving your face. "He was a fastidious child. Very particular about his pillows. I had to have special ones made for him—goose down, with silk covers, because the wool ones gave him a rash."
"Mother," Valarr said, and his voice was pained.
"And yet now he sleeps every night on a straw pallet in a village cottage, with a roof that leaks and a hearth that smokes and an old woman who apparently throws slippers at his head." Jena set down her goblet. "He has not complained once. Not a single letter home lamenting the accommodations. So you must be something quite extraordinary."
You did not know where to look. Your face was burning, and Valarr's hand had gone rigid in yours, and Matarys was grinning like a fool.
"I do not think it is me," you managed. "Marta's cottage is very comfortable. The straw is fresh, and she keeps the hearth clean, and—"
"And you are there," Jena said simply. "That is the difference. He would sleep on a stone floor if you were beside him."
"Mother," Valarr said again, and this time his voice cracked slightly.
Jena smiled at him—a real smile, full of affection and amusement and something gentler beneath. "I am not mocking you, my son. I am glad. It is good to see you sleep somewhere willingly. You were always a restless child. You used to wake in the night and crawl into our bed because you had dreamed of dragons."
The word hung in the air for a moment. Matarys opened his mouth, probably to make some joke, but Jena silenced him with a single look.
"I am glad you found your dragon," she said to Valarr, and then her pale eyes shifted back to you. "And I am glad you found her."
You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything adequate. So you simply met her eyes and said, "Thank you, my princess. I am glad too." Beneath the table, Valarr's hand turned in yours, his palm warm and steady.
The meat course arrived a tender cut of lamb, pink at the center, dressed with rosemary and garlic and some kind of dark wine reduction that you did not know the name for. You used the meat fork. Valarr's knee remained pressed against yours beneath the table, steady as a heartbeat.
It was Baelor who brought the subject around, setting down his knife with a soft clink and folding his hands on the table before him. His expression was thoughtful, the same expression he had worn in the corridor when he told you to stay for supper, warm, but measured. A prince making a decision.
"I wrote to my father," he said. "The King. I told him about Moonfyre."
Your hand stilled on your fork. The lamb was suddenly very difficult to swallow. King Daeron the man whose word was law, whose temper you had never seen, whose opinion could change everything. You had known this moment would come. You had known, in some way, that the King would have to be told. But knowing and hearing it spoken aloud at a family supper were two very different things.
"What did he say?" Matarys asked, leaning forward with undisguised eagerness. "Did he believe you? Is he coming here? Does he want to see the dragon?"
Baelor held up a hand, silencing his younger son with the gesture. "He did not believe me."
The silence that followed was not shocked. It was confused, uncertain, the silence of people who had been expecting one answer and received another entirely.
"What do you mean, he did not believe you?" Valarr's voice was careful, but there was an edge to it. "You wrote to him yourself. In your own hand. With your own seal."
"I did. And he read the letter, and he concluded that it was not from me at all." Baelor's mouth twitched. "He thought Matarys had written it. As a joke."
Matarys blinked. Then his face broke into a grin of such pure, delighted mischief that he looked about twelve years old. "He thought I wrote it?"
“He complimented the attention to detail.”
You pressed your napkin to your mouth, but it was too late. A laugh had already risen in your throat, sharp and sudden and entirely inappropriate for a formal supper with the royal family. You tried to swallow it. You failed. It came out as a strangled sort of cough, and then another, and then you had to take a long drink of wine to keep from laughing outright.
Valarr looked at you with concern. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," you managed, your voice slightly strangled. "Perfectly fine. I was only thinking—" You set down your goblet and met Baelor's eyes. You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching. "He did not believe you."
"No."
Baelor's dark eyes were steady on yours, and there was something in them, recognition, perhaps, or wry amusement, or the shared understanding of two people who had learned the same lesson in very different ways. "That is precisely what he decided."
You took a breath and folded your hands in your lap, composing yourself with an effort that felt almost physical. "I cannot imagine," you said, very carefully, "how that would feel. Truly. To tell someone the truth, something you have seen with your own eyes, something you know to be real—and to have them smile and nod and think you are making it up. To have them be so certain they know better that they dismiss you without even bothering to investigate." You met Baelor's gaze and held it. "I cannot imagine that at all."
Baelor looked at you for a long moment. Then he let out a breath that was not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and lifted his goblet.
"Well played," he said quietly.
Jena was watching you with those pale blue eyes, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Matarys was looking between his father and you with the air of someone who had just watched a very entertaining joust and was not quite sure who had won. Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table again, and when you glanced at him, his mismatched eyes were bright with something that looked a great deal like amusement.
"He will believe you eventually," you said to Baelor, your voice softer now. "When he sees Moonfyre for himself. When she is standing in front of him, real and solid and breathing fire. He will have to believe you then."
"Yes," Baelor said. "He will. And when that day comes, I intend to remind him of this letter. Frequently. In great detail." He paused, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the same smile you had seen on Valarr a hundred times, rueful and self deprecating and entirely genuine. "I suspect you may understand something of that impulse as well."
"I might," you said. "A little."
—
The guest chamber was too quiet. You had been lying in the dark for what felt like hours, the canopy above you a deeper shade of shadow against the ceiling, the fire burned down to embers that pulsed faintly in the hearth like a heartbeat made of light. The bed was soft, softer than anything you had ever slept on, goose down and fine linen and pillows that smelled of lavender. It should have been wonderful. It should have been the most comfortable night of your life.
You could not sleep. Your body was exhausted, heavy with the weight of the evening, the soup and the fish and the lamb, the wine and the candles and the way Jena had looked at you when she said I am glad you found her. But your mind would not stop turning. It circled the same thoughts over and over, a crow picking at old bones. King Daeron did not believe Baelor. The King thought the letter was a joke. The King would have to be convinced, would have to see Moonfyre with his own eyes, and what if he believed and was afraid, or what if he believed and wanted to take her—
A knock at the door. Soft, hesitant, barely audible over the distant crash of the waves. You sat up, your heart lurching. "Who is there?"
"Only me." Valarr's voice, muffled through the wood. "I saw the light beneath your door. You are not sleeping."
"I am sleeping. This is a dream. You are speaking to a sleeping person."
"May I come in? Or shall I continue this conversation with the door?"
You hesitated. It was late, very late, the hour when respectable girls were asleep in their beds and respectable princes were asleep in theirs. But you were not a respectable girl, not really, and Valarr had never been a particularly respectable prince. He had slept beside you in Marta's cottage for nights now, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your hair. The servants would talk. The servants were probably already talking. What was one more transgression?
"Come in," you said. The door opened just wide enough for him to slip through, and then it clicked shut behind him. He was dressed for sleep a loose tunic, soft breeches, his feet bare against the stone floor. His dark hair was rumpled, the silver streak catching the firelight, and his mismatched eyes found you in the darkness without difficulty.
"You could not sleep either," you said.
"Your chamber is next mine. I could hear you thinking."
"That is impossible."
"Nevertheless." He crossed the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at you with an expression that was half affection and half exhaustion. "Would you like some company? I find that thinking is easier to bear when there is someone else to share the weight of it."
You did not answer with words. You only shifted over, making room, and pulled back the edge of the blanket in invitation. He climbed in beside you with the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and then his arm was around your waist and your head was tucked against his shoulder and the lavender-scented pillows were forgotten because there was nothing in the world that smelled quite like him salt and leather and something warm and clean that you had come to associate with safety.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly. The waves crashed against the cliffs below. His hand traced slow, idle patterns on your back through the thin fabric of your borrowed nightgown.
"Do you like it here?" he asked quietly. "Staying in the castle, I mean. Is it comfortable?" You considered the question. The bed was comfortable. The bath had been mortifying but the results were undeniable. The food was richer than anything you had ever eaten. The chamber was warm and dry and did not smell of goat or herbs or the particular mustiness that crept into Marta's cottage when it rained.
"It is comfortable," you said. "Very comfortable."
"And Moonfyre would be comfortable here too."
You tilted your head back to look at him. His profile was sharp against the firelight, his pale eye gleaming, his mouth set in the careful line of someone who was trying very hard to sound casual and not quite succeeding.
"What do you mean?"
"The castle and the caves are one and the same," he said. "The Dragonmont runs beneath Dragonstone like a web of veins. You have seen the eastern tunnels—they connect to the castle cellars, to the old hatcheries, to chambers that were built for the express purpose of housing dragons. If Moonfyre lived here, she would have a proper resting place. Warm stone. Hot springs. Room to grow. She would not have to sleep in a cave that is also a thoroughfare for goats and curious village children."
"Moonfyre likes the cave."
"I am not saying she does not. But she has grown, Y/N. She is larger than she was when you found her, and she will keep growing. The cave will not fit her forever. And—" He hesitated, his hand stilling on your back. "And she has knocked things over. In the village."
You winced. That was true. Moonfyre had knocked things over. The baker's fence, for one, when she had decided she wanted to follow you into the village and her tail had swung a little too wide. Old Tom's drying rack, which had been laden with salted fish and had gone crashing to the ground in a shower of scales and splinters. No one had been hurt, but people had screamed. People had run. People had grabbed their children and looked at your dragon with terror in their eyes, and Moonfyre had hissed at them because she did not understand why they were screaming, and you had spent an hour calming her down and another hour apologizing to everyone in the village and another hour after that sitting in Marta's cottage with your head in your hands.
"The villagers are afraid of her," you said quietly.
"Some of them. Not all. But enough." His hand resumed its slow pattern on your back. "It is not their fault. They have never seen a dragon before. They do not know her the way you do. They see teeth and claws and fire, and they are afraid, and fear makes people do foolish things. I do not want anyone to do something foolish and force Moonfyre to defend herself."
You closed your eyes. The image was too easy to summon, a frightened villager with a pitchfork, a dragon who did not understand the threat, fire where there should not be fire. "Neither do I."
"Dragonstone is called Dragonstone for a reason," Valarr said, and his voice was gentle but insistent, the voice of someone who had been thinking about this for a long time and had finally found the courage to speak. "It is the seat of dragonlords. It was built by my ancestors for this exact purpose—to house dragons and their riders, to be a place where both could thrive. The old hatcheries are still warm. The Dragonmont is full of caves and tunnels and chambers that have not been used in seventy years but are still there, still waiting. Moonfyre could have the run of them. She could fly from the mountain and return to the mountain, and no one would scream or run or grab a pitchfork. She would be safe here. You would both be safe here."
You were quiet. His words settled into the space between you, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.
"I do not want to leave Marta alone," you said finally. The words came out smaller than you intended.
Valarr's arm tightened around you. "You would not have to."
"She would never agree to leave the village. That cottage is her home. She has lived there since before I was born—before she found me. She knows every creak in the floorboards and every crack in the hearth and exactly where the roof leaks when the wind blows from the east. She would never leave it."
"Then we will not ask her to leave it." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The firelight caught the silver streak in his hair, turned it to molten moonlight. "I will take care of her. Servants to fetch her water so she does not have to haul it from the well. Guards to keep her safe. A girl to help with her herbs and her remedies and whatever else she needs. She will be treated like a lady of the castle, even if she chooses to stay in her cottage. She raised you. She kept you safe when no one else would. The least I can do is make sure she never has to work herself to the bone again."
Your throat was tight. "She will throw a slipper at the servants. She does not like people fussing over her."
"Then the servants will learn to duck." He reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "You are not choosing between Marta and the castle, Y/N. You are not abandoning her. You are simply moving a little further up the mountain. She can visit whenever she likes. You can visit whenever you like. The distance is not so great that you cannot walk it in an afternoon."
You looked up at him. His face was open and earnest, his mismatched eyes soft with concern, and you could see the care he had put into this, he way he had thought through every objection, every fear, every reason you might say no.
"And what would I do here?" you asked. "In this castle. What would my life be?"
"You would learn," he said. "How to be a dragonrider. A true dragonrider. Not just someone who clings to Moonfyre's back and hopes for the best, but someone who knows how to fly and fight and command. There are books in the library—old books, from before the Dance, written by dragonriders for their children. There are records of techniques, of commands, of ways to bond with your dragon that have been forgotten for generations. You could learn all of it. You could become something the realm has not seen in seventy years."
"And beyond that? When I am not flying?"
He smiled, a small, private smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Beyond that, you could learn whatever you wished. History. Languages. Music. Statecraft. You have a sharp mind—my father said so himself. You could put it to use. You could become a lady who impresses the King when he finally arrives and sees Moonfyre for himself. You could become someone who does not feel out of place at a supper table with six forks."
"There were only three forks."
"Three forks tonight. There will be more at the Red Keep."
You laughed despite yourself, a soft huff of air that was half exhaustion and half something warmer. "You are very good at this."
"At what?"
"Making me feel as though the world is not quite so terrifying as I thought it was."
His expression softened. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I am only telling you the truth. You are not alone in this. You never have to be alone again. Whatever you decide—whether you stay in the village or move to the castle or fly off on Moonfyre and never come back—I will be there. I will take care of Marta. I will take care of you. That is not a negotiation. It is a promise."
You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the place where his dark hair gave way to that single silver streak. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like a cat seeking warmth.
"Stay," you said. "Tonight. Just stay."
"I was not planning to leave."
"Good." You tugged him back down to the pillows, settling yourself against his side with your head on his shoulder and your hand over his heart. His arm wrapped around you, solid and steady, and his lips pressed once more to the top of your head.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he murmured.
"Goodnight, Valarr."
The fire crackled. The waves crashed. And somewhere deep in the mountain, a dragon slept in a warm cave, dreaming of the sky.
