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oneshots | ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱᴏʀ!ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

KEEP TALKING, PROFESSOR!

SUMMARY: sucking off Professor Riddle while he's talking to a student. that's the summary. have fun. ;)

WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. nasty nasty stuff. messy blowjob. exhibitionism, rough oral m!receiving, teasing, slight dumbification, he watches you in the mirror, choking on it, MESSY blowjob again bc I MEAN it, wtf is wrong with me genuinely, reader LOVES gagging on it, cumming in mouth, face slapping, cockwarming

AUTHOR'S NOTE: sometimes I question my sanity while writing these. then I get horny. then I remember yall love me. then, I hit the post button.

wordcount: 3,1k

Your knees ache, dark bruises blooming beneath the thin skin above your joints as you scrape against the rough, worn-down wooden panels of his study. You`ve been here for no more than twenty minutes—not wasting time with unnecessary talking before you sank to your knees and crawled underneath his desk, eager fingers fumbling with the metal of his belt.

Whatever this is between you two—it has shifted into something more than originally intended.

Just once, he said. One time, to improve your grade—he'd sworn to it. To himself more than to you. But one time didn't just stay one time. After two weeks of trying to convince himself he didn't crave you as much as you craved him, his resolve finally shattered.

That very day, he ordered you to stay behind after class ended, and not two minutes later, you were bent over his desk at the front of the classroom, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a bruising grip as his cock slid inside you with one ruthless thrust.

•18+ Adults Only

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jacefiles

YOUR PROMISE | J.V

Synopsis: The third arrow strikes, sealing the fate of Jacaerys Velaryon… except he wakes up in a world without dragons, convinced it was only a dream. Or was it? Because there is one promise his soul never forgot, and somehow… yours remembers it too.

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader

Genre: reincarnation au, modern!jacaerys, established relationship

Warning: None tbh its just fluff (coping mechanism🥹), there is no specific description of reader so enjoy, no aegon or viserys, Rhaenyra is married to Laenor but its platonic, inaccurate description of battle of the gullet? (I tried-).

A/N: I recently got into HOTD and then I lost my favourite character aka Jace. I made this blog so I can be delulu about him 😭. Also half of this is me word vomiting🥴.

Word Count: 10.1k

- English is not my first language so / apologise in advance for any mistakes or typos!

The sea did not merely roll that day, it burned.

aerrions

could you perhaps do a aerion arranged marriage fic where he begins closed off but slowly warms up to reader 👀

♞ TO FORGE A FLAME / AERION TARGARYEN

aerion targaryen x peake!reader

SYNOPSIS: a disgraced lady of house peake is given to prince aerion targaryen as punishment for her family’s treason. forced into dragon colors and courtly captivity, she resists him quietly until cruelty, pride, and dangerous tenderness begin to blur...

WARNING: arranged marriage, power imbalance, aerion targaryen is his own warning...

WORD COUNT: 11k

NOTES: this story is canon divergent. i’m moving the peake rebellion/royal conflict earlier in the timeline so it happens while aerion targaryen is still alive!!!! i wanted to keep the political weight of house peake’s blackfyre history while giving aerion and lady peake their own very messy, dramatic version of events.

House Peake had once possessed three castles.

Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove...three proud black towers upon a field of burning orange, three dark teeth set into the golden mouth of the Reach. In old songs, men said those castles had stood like clenched fists against storm and sword. In older tales still, Peake lords had ridden beneath their banner as though the sun itself had been cut into silk for them, bright and brazen and impossible to ignore.

But songs were kinder than history. History remembered treason. It remembered Daemon Blackfyre. It remembered banners raised for a dragon that had not sat the Iron Throne. It remembered the long red harvest of rebellion, the broken men, the pardons given like knives with velvet handles. It remembered how House Peake had lost Dunstonbury and Whitegrove, and how Starpike remained not as a triumph, but as a warning.

One castle left. One daughter left. One price left to pay.

You stood in your father’s solar while rain worried at the narrow windows and the orange banner of your house hung limp upon the wall. Three black castles stared down from the cloth, though two had long since been stripped from your blood. They had remained in the sigil because pride was a stubborn thing. Pride was sometimes all a disgraced house had left.

Your father, Lord Gormon Peake, would not look at you. That was how you knew the worst of it before any word was spoken. He stood with his hands braced on the carved back of his chair, shoulders broad beneath dark wool, his face stern as the stone walls that had raised you. Wax from the royal seal lay broken upon his table. Red wax. Dragon wax. A dead little pool of command.

“They will not burn Starpike,” he said at last.

His voice was quiet.

You should have been relieved. Instead, the room seemed to narrow around you until the air itself had teeth.

“No,” you said.

A single word. Barely breath.

Your father’s jaw moved once. “The crown is merciful.”

You looked at the letter. You did not need to read it again. The accusations had already carved themselves behind your eyes.

Renewed correspondence with Blackfyre loyalists.

Refusal of a royal command.

Quiet mustering of strength.

Treason, treason, treason...the old word dressed in fresh ink.

“The crown is not merciful,” you said, and your voice did not shake. That surprised you. It surprised your father too, for he lifted his eyes then. “The crown is elegant.”

His expression hardened. “You will guard your tongue.”

“Why?” Your hands were folded before you, white knuckled in the sleeves of your gown. “Will they take me twice?”

The silence that followed was so complete that even the rain seemed to hush.

You were beautiful. You had been told so since girlhood, first by nurses with warm hands, then by ladies with calculating eyes, then by men who praised beauty the way merchants praised horses before asking the price. You had the kind of loveliness that made people pause before they remembered themselves. The Reach had shaped you generously...skin like cream warmed by candlelight, a mouth made soft by courtesy and sharpened by restraint, eyes that seemed too watchful for so delicate a face. Your hair, dressed that morning with tiny black pins in honor of your house, gleamed like something poets would have wasted half a page naming.

Beauty had been meant to serve you. Now it had made you suitable for sacrifice.

Lord Gormon looked older than he had the day before.

“You will go to King’s Landing,” he said. “You will be received at court. You will be betrothed to Prince Aerion Targaryen.”

Prince Aerion.

Even in Starpike, his name had reached you before his person had. Names had a way of traveling when attached to cruelty. Aerion Brightflame, some called him, with admiration or fear or both. A prince with silver hair, violet eyes, and the temper of a dragon half starved. A prince who thought himself more fire than flesh. A prince whose laughter was said to come most easily when another man flinched.

“You are giving me to him,” you said.

Your father looked away again. That was answer enough. Not marrying. Not offering. Not arranging. Giving. As one gave coin, grain, land, hostages.

“You will save Starpike,” he said.

And there it was...the softest chain in the world, laid around your throat by a familiar hand.

You thought of the castle beneath your feet. The servants who had carried you as a child. The septa who had taught you your prayers. The kennel boy with the crooked smile. The old cook who still made honeyed oatcakes when grief sat too long at the table. You thought of the smallfolk clustered beneath Peake protection, of children who knew nothing of black dragons or red, nothing of treason written before their birth.

You thought of the banner above you. Orange. Black. Three castles. Soon, you would be dressed in red and black. Not your black. Not your old mourning black, not your proud castle black. Dragon black. Dragon red. Fire and blood laid over you until no one could see what had been there before.

“Did you agree before telling me?” you asked.

Your father said nothing.

You smiled then. It was a small, terrible thing.

“You did.”

“It was the only way.”

“No,” you said softly. “It was the way that cost you least.”

His hand struck the chair so hard the wood groaned. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you wanted Starpike more than you wanted me.”

His face twisted. For one moment, he looked not like a lord but like a father wounded by his child. You might have pitied him, had pity not been too expensive a thing.

“You are my daughter,” he said.

“Yes,” you answered. “That is why you had something left to trade.”

He turned from you then, and perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps he did not wish you to see his shame. Perhaps he wished not to see yours. But shame was already in the room. It stood beside you like a fourth person. Shame wore your face. Shame wore your colors. Shame had your father’s seal beneath its nails.

You crossed to the banner and lifted the edge of it between your fingers. The orange cloth was old but well kept, bright despite the dimness, proud despite history. Three castles. Three losses. Three lies and one truth. You pressed the silk once to your mouth. Not a kiss. A farewell.

The court had received you as though you were honored.

That was the first cruelty.

King’s Landing rose before you in heat and stink and splendor, crowned by the Red Keep upon Aegon’s High Hill. Its walls were the color of old blood at sunset. Its towers stabbed the sky like spears thrust upward by dead conquerors. Dragons had made this city, and though dragons no longer darkened the heavens, their memory remained in stone, in banners, in the arrogance of every red clad guard who looked upon your escort and saw not guests, but spoils.

You arrived beneath Targaryen eyes.

There were no chains upon your wrists. There did not need to be. Your gown was fine. Your hair was arranged with care. A cloak of deep red had been placed around your shoulders before you crossed into the yard, its lining black as a raven’s wing. The ladies who came to receive you praised the richness of it.

“How splendidly the colors suit you, Lady Peake,” one said.

You lowered your eyes and curtsied.

“His Grace is generous,” you replied.

A lie, polished until it shone.

Whispers followed you through the Red Keep like little knives drawn from little sheaths.

There she is.

The Peake girl.

Starpike’s ransom.

A pretty price.

Does she look frightened?

Wouldn’t you?

Prince Aerion will tame that pride soon enough.

You had thought yourself prepared for fear. You had not prepared for being watched.

Fear in solitude was one thing. Fear beneath a hundred eyes was another. At court, even breathing became performance. You learned before the first evening bell that grief must be graceful to be forgiven. You must walk as though you had come willingly. Sit as though your chair were not a perch above a pit. Smile as though every courtesy did not have a hook beneath it.

You were placed among noblewomen whose hands glittered with rings and whose voices were soft enough to conceal malice. They asked after Starpike. They asked after your father. They asked whether the journey had been pleasant. One wondered aloud whether the Reach seemed smaller after one had been summoned to court.

You answered each question as you had been taught...gently, neatly, with no word loose enough to be used as rope. Inside, something in you paced. Anger, perhaps. Or terror. They felt much the same when caged.

You first saw Prince Aerion in the hall of the Iron Throne.

He did not enter loudly. Men like him did not need noise.

The court seemed to bend before awareness of him. Heads turned. Conversations thinned. A path opened with the obedience of grass before flame.

He was beautiful in the cruel manner of Targaryens, as though some ancient god had shaped him lovingly and forgotten to give him mercy. His hair was pale as moonlight, his eyes were a deep and venomous violet, and his mouth looked made for both poetry and ruin. He wore black chased with red, a dragon wrought in rubies at his throat. He was not broad like a warrior in old tapestries, nor plain like honest men in fields. He was slender, princely, bright as a blade drawn at dawn.

And he smiled when he saw you. Not warmly. Possessively. As if he had been shown a fine hawk, hooded and delivered.

“So,” he said, when you were brought before him. His voice was cultured, light, almost amused. “Starpike has a daughter.”

You curtsied. Low enough for obedience. Not low enough for surrender.

“My prince.”

His gaze moved over you with insulting leisure. Not the clumsy hunger of a drunken knight. Not even desire, precisely. Assessment. Appraisal. He looked at your face, your throat, the red cloak swallowing the last visible traces of your house, and understood at once what had been done. So did you.

To him, you were no bride. You were proof. House Peake made flesh. Treason dressed in silk. A living banner lowered before the dragon.

“How lovely,” Aerion murmured. “They told me you were fair, but men so often grow generous when describing hostages.”

The word landed softly. Hostage. No one gasped. No one corrected him. That was the second cruelty. You felt every eye in the hall turn sharper.

You lifted your chin by the width of a prayer.

“Then I am pleased not to disappoint, my prince.”

His smile deepened. There. Something kindled behind his eyes. Interest. Not affection. Not admiration. Interest, like a boy discovering an ant did not die when pressed beneath his thumb.

“Careful,” he said. “Courtesy becomes a dangerous weapon in the hands of traitors.”

“My hands are empty.”

“For now.”

A few courtiers laughed because he wished them to. You did not.

Aerion stepped closer, close enough that you could see the fine stitching at his collar, red thread biting through black.

“Little traitor,” he said, almost fondly.

The hall heard. It was meant to.

Your face did not change.

“My prince,” you answered again.

And for the first time, his smile flickered. A lesser man might have wanted tears. Aerion, you would learn, wanted the moment before them.

In the days that followed, he taught the court how to look at you.

That was his first art .

He did not rage. He did not shout. He did not drag you by the arm through corridors or break cups against walls. Such things were for coarse men, men ruled by appetite and weather. Aerion’s cruelty wore perfume and jewels. It came gloved. It sat beside you at supper and corrected your posture with a touch light enough to seem tender from afar.

When Lord Caswell asked whether you had found comfort in the Red Keep’s sept, you opened your mouth to answer.

Aerion spoke first.

“My lady-wife-to-be finds comfort wherever she is commanded to find it.”

Laughter, soft and obedient.

You lowered your gaze to your plate.

“His Grace’s sept is very fine,” you said.

Aerion leaned back, smiling. “See? She learns.”

When a lady of the Westerlands praised the embroidery at your sleeve and asked whether the pattern was of the Reach, Aerion lifted your wrist before you could move.

“Not the Reach,” he said. “Dragons. I had her old colors put away. Sentiment is how treason keeps its roots.”

His thumb pressed once against the delicate bones of your wrist.

Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.

You smiled at the lady, “Prince Aerion has been most attentive.”

His eyes cut to you. You had made the words too sweet. Just enough sugar to curdle.

That night, your maid found you kneeling beside your chest with a strip of orange silk in your lap. Not much. A ribbon torn from the lining of an old gown, small enough to vanish beneath finery.

“My lady,” she whispered, frightened.

“Hush, Betha.”

“If he sees—”

“He sees everything,” you said.

Your fingers did not tremble as you stitched the orange and black beneath the inner seam of your sleeve, where it would rest against your skin and no courtier could praise or mock it.

“Then why risk it?”

You drew the thread through cloth.

“Because there must be some part of me he has not been handed.”

There were judgments twice that week. Aerion made you sit beside him for both.

The first was a knight accused of carrying letters westward to men who still drank to the Black Dragon when doors were barred. The second was a household steward from a minor Reach house whose cousin had served your father. The hall was cold despite summer heat. The accused men stood below the dais, pale and sweating, while courtiers craned for a better view.

Aerion offered you his arm before the court.

You took it because refusing would be spectacle, and spectacle was always his chosen ground.

“How fortunate you are here,” he murmured as he led you to the raised seats. “You may learn what becomes of men who mistake old loyalties for living ones.”

“I have learned many things at court, my prince.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Name one.”

You sat beside him, hands folded, face still.

“That mercy is loudest when it wishes to be admired.”

His eyes found yours. For a breath, the hall seemed to tilt. Then Aerion smiled.

“Charming,” he said. “You must say such things more often. I do enjoy wondering whether to be pleased or offended.”

“Whichever serves you best, my prince.”

His smile did not fade, but something sharpened beneath it.

During the judgments, he watched you more than the condemned.

He watched when the steward begged. He watched when the knight denied knowing any Blackfyre sympathizers, though his voice broke over the lie. He watched when punishment was pronounced. Not death. Not that day. Mutilation for one. The Wall for another.

Your stomach turned itself to ice. You did not look away. That, too, displeased him. Or pleased him. With Aerion, the two were often twins.

At feasts, he made you ask permission.

“To leave, my prince?”

His goblet paused near his mouth. “Already?”

“The hour is late.”

“Is it? I had not noticed.”

The table listened.

You stood beside his chair, every inch the graceful lady, every inch the captive thing.

“May I be excused?”

Aerion looked up at you with lazy delight. “You may.”

A murmur passed down the table. As you turned, his voice followed.

“Little traitors tire easily.”

You stopped. Only for a heartbeat. Then you looked back and smiled.

“Then your mercy in allowing me rest shall be praised all the more.”

His goblet touched his lips. His eyes burned over the rim.

You refused wine from his hand once. Only once, and before too many witnesses.

He offered it during a supper where singers played beneath the gallery and heat pooled under the high windows.

“Drink,” he said.

The cup was his own. Gold. Dragon handled. Red wine dark as blood. You looked at it. Then at him.

“I thank you, my prince, but I am not thirsty.”

The hall seemed not to notice. Aerion did.

His fingers tightened on the stem.

“Are you afraid I have poisoned it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then drink.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough to become visible. Then you took the cup. But you did not drink. You lifted it, bowed your head slightly, and set it untouched beside your plate.

Aerion laughed. It was a beautiful sound. That was perhaps the worst of it. The court laughed with him, relieved to discover they were allowed. But after that, he watched your mouth whenever you drank from anything else.

You had not won. There was no winning in a cage. But you had denied him something small, and the denial lived between you like a candle refusing to go out.

Then came the dancing.

The court loved dancing because it could pretend cruelty was ceremony if music played beneath it.

Aerion chose you before the hall had grown warm. He crossed the floor with all the ease of a prince born beneath chandeliers, and every lady near you lowered her eyes in envy or pity. Perhaps both.

“My lady Peake,” he said, extending his hand. “You will dance.”

Not would you. Not may I.

You placed your hand in his.

“My prince.”

His fingers closed around yours and the music began.

He danced as he did all things...beautifully, precisely, with a violence hidden so deep in grace that only the person held by him could feel it. He guided you through each turn as though displaying a conquered banner. His hand at your waist did not bruise. It did not need to. Every watching eye understood the claim.

“You are very quiet tonight,” he said.

“I feared I might interrupt myself.”

His mouth curved. “Was that wit?”

“Only obedience, my prince. You so often speak for me that I presumed I should leave room for you.”

His grip tightened. There it was again, not anger, not quite. Interest, irritation, appetite.

“You dislike being looked at,” he said.

You turned beneath his arm, red skirts sweeping the floor like spilled flame.

“I dislike being mistaken for an object.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Yes,” you said. “For the object, especially.”

He drew you closer on the next step, too close for propriety, not close enough for scandal.

“You think yourself brave.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I think myself watched. There is a difference.”

Aerion stared at you. For one strange moment, his face altered. Not softened. Never softened. But sharpened inward, as though you had placed before him a puzzle he resented wanting to solve.

Then the music ended. He bowed over your hand and kissed the air above your knuckles.

“To be watched,” he said, low enough that only you heard, “is the first lesson of belonging to me.”

You wanted to say you did not belong to him. You wanted to say no vow had been spoken, no cloak placed, no bedding witnessed, no gods called down to bind you.

Instead, you curtsied.

“My prince.”

The tourney was held three days before the wedding. The court called it celebration. You knew better. It was rehearsal.

You were seated among noble ladies beneath a canopy of red and black silk, your gown chosen by Aerion himself. Black velvet, red sleeves, rubies at your throat like drops of conquered blood. Beneath the left sleeve, hidden against your skin, the little seam of Peake orange scratched softly whenever you moved.

A secret. A wound. A prayer.

“You look splendid,” Lady Mooton said beside you.

“Dragon colors do wonders for her,” another replied.

You smiled.

The stands were crowded bright with banners. Gold lions, green towers, purple grapes, silver trout, crimson dragons. Knights rode below in painted armor, lances raised, horses tossing plumed heads. Trumpets split the air. Sunlight glanced off helms and made every man seem briefly holy.

Aerion shone most of all...

He entered the lists in armor dark as polished night, chased with red and gold flame. His helm bore the three headed dragon. The crowd loved him because beauty and danger were easy to adore from a safe distance. He raised his lance, and applause moved through the stands like wind through wheat.

You clapped when the ladies clapped. You smiled when eyes turned toward you. You performed loyalty with hands that felt far away from your body.

Then Ser Duncan the Tall entered the lists. The laughter began almost at once. He was enormous, awkwardly noble in a way the court did not know how to forgive. His armor was plain and ill matched. His horse lacked ornament. No great house colors streamed behind him, no ancient blood announced him before his name could. He looked like a man who had walked out of the earth itself and been told, too late, that the sky belonged to princes.

“A hedge knight,” someone behind you whispered.

“Seven save him. Does he know who he faces?”

“Look at his shield.”

“Look at his boots.”

A lady near you laughed behind her fan. The sound scraped against your nerves.

You looked toward Aerion. You tried to keep your gaze there, where duty had placed it. He sat straight in the saddle, radiant, careless, adored. Born to be watched. Born to be praised. Born to turn the world’s gaze into a mirror and find himself glorious in it.

Below, Dunk adjusted his grip on his lance. Men laughed louder. And he did not answer to it. That was the first thing you noticed. Not his height. Not his plainness. Not the absurd courage of standing where everyone expected him to fall. His restraint.

The herald called and then the horses charged.

Aerion rode like a song of war. Swift, bright, terrible. His lance struck cleanly, and the crowd roared. Dunk swayed but did not fall. When he returned for the next pass, dust clung to him. Someone shouted that hedge knights were harder to knock down because mud loved its own.

The ladies laughed again. Your hands tightened in your lap. Another pass. Then another.

Dunk fought plainly, without flourish. There was no cruelty in him. No hunger to humiliate. When Aerion pressed him hard, sharper than sport required, Dunk did not answer with spite. When the crowd mocked him, he did not spend his strength hating them. He endured.

That was what undid you. Not admiration. Recognition.

You knew what it was to stand dressed for judgment before people waiting to see how well you would bleed. You knew what it was to be laughed at softly because open laughter would be indecorous. You knew what it was to be outnumbered by eyes.

Then came the moment. Aerion’s horse turned too sharply after a pass. Perhaps the ground betrayed him. Perhaps pride did. He slipped in the saddle, only slightly, but enough. Dunk had the angle. He could have taken advantage. He did not.

Instead, he checked his horse. A murmur passed through the crowd. It was nothing, perhaps. A small mercy. A little courtesy in a world that hoarded them. But to you, it seemed enormous.

Before thought could become caution, before fear could clap a hand over your mouth, you leaned forward.

“Well struck!” you said.

You did not shout it loud but clear enough. The ladies around you went still. One fan snapped shut. Someone gave a small, delighted laugh. You realized what you had done before the words had finished dying. The red and black on your body seemed suddenly brighter than flame. Every ruby at your throat became an accusation. You could feel the women near you looking from your gown to the field, from the field to your face.

Then you looked at Aerion.

He had heard.

His horse stood motionless beneath him. His helm was lifted. Across the lists, across banners and dust and sunlight, his face had gone completely still. No anger. No yelling. No visible wound. Only stillness. It was worse than wrath. Wrath had shape. Wrath could be prepared for. This was a door closing in a room you had not known you stood inside.

For one moment, Aerion looked not like a man, nor even a prince, but like the carved image of some beautiful god to whom a village had forgotten a sacrifice.

Then he forced a smiled. And you knew, with a coldness that began in your bones, that he had not forgiven you.

To you, the words had been pity. No. Not pity. Something cleaner than that. You had seen a man mocked and alone, and for one unguarded heartbeat, you had reached toward him with the only mercy available to you.

To Aerion, it was humiliation.

His betrothed, dressed in his colors, seated before the court as proof of his claim, had praised a hedge knight. A lowborn man. A man with no old blood, no dragon, no splendor, no fear coiled like incense around his name. Worse than praise, it was judgment. As though you had looked upon Aerion’s brilliance and Dunk’s plain honor and found the prince wanting.

You knew this before he spoke to you. You knew because he did not speak to you for the rest of the day.

After the tourney, Aerion grew cold. Not absent. Absence would have been easier. He remained everywhere...at meals , in corridors, in the breath held conversations of courtiers who waited for punishment like boys waiting for war. But he withdrew the sharp warmth of his cruelty and left you with courtesy polished to ice.

He sent notes instead of coming himself.

Lady Peake will attend supper at the hour of the bat.

Lady Peake will wear black tomorrow.

Lady Peake is excused from the gardens.

Lady Peake.

Not little traitor.

Not hostage.

Not even my lady.

It should have been relief. It was not.

His cruelty had frightened you, humiliated you, angered you until you lay awake with your hands clenched beneath the coverlets. But cruelty, at least, had seen you. His coldness passed over you like light over glass. You became an object again, but no longer an interesting one. That hurt. You hated that it hurt.

At dinner, he sat beside you and did not look at you once. When Lord Rowan asked whether the wedding preparations pleased you, Aerion replied before you could.

“Lady Peake is grateful for whatever she is given.”

His tone was mild. Perfect. Not a single person could call it cruel.

You folded your hands beneath the table.

“I am instructed daily in gratitude,” you said.

Aerion lifted his cup. His eyes did not move to yours.

“Not well enough, it seems.”

The words were soft. They cut anyway.

You tried to apologize the next evening.

Not because you believed yourself guilty of desiring another man. Not because you had meant insult. But because the court had sharpened your small mercy into a blade and placed it between you.

You found Aerion in a gallery where the sunset poured blood red through narrow windows. For a moment, with the light behind him, he looked winged.

“My prince.”

He did not turn.

“I wished to speak about the tourney.”

“How tiresome.”

You swallowed. “I did not mean to shame you.”

At that, he looked back. The beauty of him struck you again, as it always did, with unwilling force. He was almost too finely made for decency. Men should not be so lovely and so cruel. It confused the soul.

“No?” he asked.

“No.”

“You praised him by accident, then?”

“I spoke without thought.”

“A dangerous habit for a traitor.”

Your throat tightened.

“I was not cheering against you.”

Aerion crossed the space between you slowly. That was his way. He never rushed toward cruelty. He let dread arrive first and open the door for him.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. You were merely moved by the sight of your hedge knight.”

“He is not mine.”

His eyes flashed then, at last. There was the wound. There and gone again.

“Save your pity,” he said, voice low enough that no servant beyond the archway could hear. “You spent enough of it on your hedge knight.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Because they were wrong. Because they were almost right. Because how could you explain that it had not been Dunk himself, but the loneliness around him? How could you say, Everyone was laughing, and it was cruel, without naming Aerion chief among the cruel? How could you tell a dragon that you had flinched from fire?

“I meant no insult,” you said again, but the words were pale little things.

Aerion leaned close.

“I know what you meant,” he said.

But he did not. That was the tragedy. He did not.

The days before the wedding folded themselves into silence.

You continued as court required. You dressed. You sat. You smiled. You answered when spoken to and held your tongue when Aerion chose to speak over you. But something in you had gone quieter. Not broken. No, never that. Your pride remained, cold and bright, hidden like orange thread beneath dragon cloth. Yet the court had become heavier. The whispers more piercing. The future nearer.

Betha wept one morning while lacing your gown.

“Stop,” you said gently.

“I am sorry, my lady.”

“Do not give them tears on my behalf. They are greedy enough.”

She laughed once, miserably, and wiped her face.

You touched her hand. “I am not dead.”

“No,” she whispered. “But they are burying you.”

You had no answer.

That evening, Aerion noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything and pretended not to. He noticed when your replies shortened by a word. When you ate less fish than before. When you turned your wrist inward to hide the seam where orange silk laid beneath your sleeve. When your smile remained perfect but ceased to reach the place beneath your eyes where real feeling sometimes betrayed itself.

It irritated him. That was what he told himself.

Lady Peake was dull when subdued. Lady Peake’s quiet defiance had been more diverting than this careful, bloodless courtesy. Lady Peake had no right to change in any manner he had not commanded.

So he cornered Betha outside your chamber.

The girl nearly dropped the folded linens in her arms when she saw him.

“My prince.”

“Is your lady ill?”

Betha stared. “Ill?”

Aerion’s gaze was sharp enough to skin. “Do not repeat me like a trained bird.”

“No, my prince. She is not ill.”

“Then why does she wander about like a ghost in borrowed colors?”

Betha went very still. A wiser servant would have lowered her eyes and lied. Betha was frightened. But she loved you.

“She meant no insult, my prince.”

Aerion’s expression hardened at once.

“Did she send you to plead for her?”

“No.” Betha shook her head quickly. “No, my prince. She would be angry if she knew I spoke.”

“Then do not.”

The girl should have obeyed. She did not.

“She did not cheer because she favored Ser Duncan.”

Aerion’s mouth curved without mirth. “How loyal of you to explain your lady’s heart to me.”

“She cheered because everyone was laughing at him,” Betha said, voice trembling now. “Because he was alone, and they wanted him shamed, and still he tried to stand with honor.”

Aerion said nothing.

Betha clutched the linens tighter.

“My lady said she knew how that felt.”

There are some silences that fall. This one opened.

Aerion remained very still. He had remembered your voice as betrayal. Your praise as desire. Your pity as judgment. He had held the moment like a coal and fed it his pride until it burned hot enough to warm his anger. But now the memory altered. The stands. The laughter. Your face turned toward the field, unguarded for once. Not admiring. Not yearning. Stricken.

You had not looked at Dunk and chosen him. You had looked at him and seen yourself. And afterward, Aerion had punished you by making you lonelier.

His anger did not vanish.

Aerion’s pride was not a candle to be blown out by one servant’s trembling confession. The humiliation remained. The court had still heard you. The ladies had still laughed behind their fans. The wound still knew its own shape. But beneath it, something unfamiliar moved. Not remorse. Not yet. Something sharper because it had no name yet.

The wedding came beneath a sky white with heat.

The Sept of Baelor rang with bells and you thought they sounded like iron.

They dressed you in Targaryen colors. Red silk fell over your body in gleaming folds, black lace webbed your sleeves, rubies flashed at your throat and ears and wrists. Your beauty became a weapon in other hands. The ladies praised you until praise itself felt like mockery.

“No bride in the realm could rival you,” one sighed.

“How fortunate Prince Aerion is.”

“How fortunate Lady Peake is.”

That last one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked into the polished silver mirror and saw a stranger conquered in red.

Betha stood behind you, pale and silent.

“Inside the left sleeve,” she whispered.

You lowered your gaze. There, hidden where no court could see, she had sewn the smallest strip of orange cloth, crossed by black thread in the shape of a tower. It rested near your wrist. Near your pulse.

Starpike. Dunstonbury. Whitegrove.

One living. Two lost. All remembered.

“Thank you,” you said.

Betha bowed her head, and you pretended not to see her tears.

When you entered the sept, every face turned.

The walk to the altar was not long. It felt endless. Lords and ladies filled the sacred space in jeweled rows, their eyes bright with hunger for beauty, scandal, surrender. Your father stood among them, dressed in Peake orange darkened almost to rust. His face was carved from stone. You wondered whether he saw you as daughter or bargain fulfilled.

Aerion waited beneath the gaze of the Seven. He wore black. Of course he did. Black, slashed with red, a dragon brooch burning at his shoulder. His silver hair caught the light and made of him something unearthly, something too bright for human tenderness. When his eyes found you, they moved at once to your sleeve.

A flicker. He saw. Of course he saw. Your hidden colors might as well have been a banner unfurled from the sept roof.

For one moment, you feared he would expose you. That he would take your wrist before all the court and turn the seam outward, laughing as he stripped even that last private rebellion from you.

Instead, he smiled.

He leaned close when you reached him, his breath stirring the veil beside your cheek.

“Do try not to cheer for another man today.”

The words entered you like a needle. You looked ahead, face still.

“I shall endeavor to remember the occasion, my prince.”

“Not prince,” he murmured. “Not for much longer.”

The septon began. You heard very little. Words rose and fell above you like birds crossing a battlefield. Duty. Union. Loyalty. The eyes of gods and men. Cloaks. Houses. Peace.

Peace.

What a strange name men gave to a woman’s surrender.

Aerion placed the cloak around your shoulders. Targaryen red and black covered you completely. The court watched House Peake disappear.

When it came time for vows, your mouth obeyed because your body had been trained for obedience long before this day. The words tasted of ash.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Love.

The sept did not crack open. The gods did not strike anyone down.

Aerion’s hands were cool when they took yours. His face was close. Too close. Beautiful enough to grieve over, cruel enough to fear.

When you had to say the word husband, it caught. Only slightly. Only enough for him. His eyes sharpened. Then he kissed you. Not roughly. Not tenderly. Publicly.

The kiss was brief and exact and devastating because all kisses before witnesses belonged partly to the crowd. The court sighed as though they had seen romance. They had seen conquest and called it holy.

When Aerion drew back, his gaze remained on your mouth. For one moment, something passed through his expression that was not mockery. Then applause filled the sept like wings beating in a cage.

The feast was a mercy performed by executioners. Everyone toasted peace. Everyone toasted loyalty. Everyone toasted the wisdom of the crown, the humility of House Peake, the generosity of House Targaryen, the radiant beauty of the bride, the splendor of the groom.

No one toasted the truth.

You sat beside Aerion beneath a canopy of red and black. Your hidden orange thread scratched your wrist whenever you moved. You were grateful for the pain. It reminded you that you were still inside your own skin.

“Starpike has given its fairest jewel to purchase forgiveness,” Lord Costayne said, raising his cup.

A murmur of approval.

You smiled.

“Then may the jewel prove worth more than the debt, my lord.”

He blinked, uncertain whether he had been honored or rebuked. Aerion laughed softly beside you.

Later, a lady with pearls netted through her hair leaned forward.

“You truly do look better in dragon colors, my dear. Orange is such a difficult shade. So loud.”

You touched the stem of your goblet.

“Loud colors are useful, my lady. They make it difficult for history to pretend one vanished quietly.”

The lady’s smile thinned.

Aerion turned his head toward you and you felt his attention like heat. Then a young knight, too drunk on wine and his own courage, called from lower at the table, “How quickly traitor houses learn gratitude!”

Silence trembled.

Your father’s face darkened. You did not look at him. You looked at the knight.

“How fortunate, then,” you said, voice gentle, “that loyal houses are born knowing courtesy, lest they be forced to learn it from traitors.”

A few people coughed. Someone laughed before disguising it badly. The knight flushed scarlet.

Aerion’s fingers rested beside his cup. He tapped once against the table.

“You are bold tonight,” he said.

You turned to him.

“I am married now, husband. Surely I am permitted one virtue.”

The word husband landed between you. Not soft. Not at all willing. A blade wrapped in silk.

Aerion’s eyes darkened.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“Always,” you replied.

He watched you for a long while after that. Not with anger alone. Never that simple. Fascination had begun to eat at him, little by little. You were not what he had expected. You did not break loudly enough to satisfy. You did not plead prettily enough to amuse. You answered cruelty with such perfect grace that the cruel began, by comparison, to look vulgar.

Aerion hated vulgarity. He hated, too, that you could make him feel crude without once disobeying him.

The bedding was called for near midnight.

Voices rose, wine thick and eager. Men laughed too loudly. Women smiled with that peculiar cruelty women were taught to hide beneath custom. Someone shouted that dragons need no encouragement. Someone else called for the bride’s cloak to be taken.

Your whole body went cold. You had known it might come. Knowing did not lessen the horror. All day, you had been watched. Measured. Claimed. Now they wanted to turn even your fear into entertainment.

Aerion stood. The hall quieted by degrees. At first, a few men laughed, thinking him ready to play his part. Then they saw his face.

“No,” he said

One word. Flat as a drawn blade.

“My prince?” a lord ventured, smiling uncertainly.

Aerion looked at him. The smile died.

“No man here touches my wife.”

My wife.

You hated the claim. You hated the relief that followed it. It washed through you so swiftly you nearly swayed. You despised yourself for that, too. That mercy could come dressed as ownership. That protection could sound so like possession. That a cage door could remain locked and still keep wolves out.

Aerion offered you his hand. This time, you took it without delay. His fingers closed over yours. He led you from the hall through a silence richer than music. Only when the doors shut behind you did you breathe.

The wedding chamber was dark except for the hearth. Servants had filled it with flowers, as if sweetness could disguise fear. Roses, myrtle, lilies. Their perfume lay heavy in the air, too lush, too living. The marriage bed stood draped in red.

You looked at it once. Then away.

Aerion dismissed the attendants. Betha looked at you before she left. You gave the smallest nod you could manage.

Then the door closed. No court. No ladies. No father. No one to watch how well you endured. Only Aerion. Only your husband.

He stood by the hearth, removing his gloves finger by finger. The ordinary motion felt unbearable.

“You are trembling,” he said.

You clasped your hands before you.

“The room is cold.”

“No, it is not.”

You said nothing. He came toward you. Slowly. Always slowly. Your body remembered every public humiliation, every soft insult, every command dressed as courtesy. It remembered the wedding cloak. The feast. The laughter. The men calling for the bedding.

Aerion stopped close enough to touch you. He did not.

His gaze moved over your face. Whatever he saw there displeased him. Or perhaps it pleased him too much.

“I do not take trembling things to bed,” he said.

Cruel words. Merciful meaning.

Your breath caught. He saw that too.

His mouth twisted. “Do not look grateful. It makes you dull.”

“I would not dream of boring you, husband.”

The word came bitter this time. His eyes narrowed. Then, to your astonishment, he turned away.

“Sleep.”

You stared.

Aerion crossed to a chair near the fire and sat as though the matter were settled.

“My prince—”

He looked back sharply.

“Husband,” he corrected.

The word burned. You lowered your eyes.

“Husband,” you said, and hated the tremor in it.

Something moved across his face. Not triumph, though he might have made it so. Not tenderness. Something uncertain.

“Sleep,” he said again, quieter.

You did not understand him. That frightened you almost more than cruelty. Cruelty had rules. Terrible rules, but rules. Aerion’s restraint was a door opened onto darkness. You did not know what waited beyond it.

Still, you slept. Poorly. In your wedding gown. With orange thread hidden against your skin and a dragon seated awake beside the fire.

Marriage did not soften Aerion. Not in the way songs might have begged it to. He remained cruel.

He still called you little traitor when the mood took him, though less often before those whose laughter displeased him. He still corrected you in public when he wished to feel the shape of his power. He still made you wear red and black to court, still watched every room understand that you had been claimed.

But the cruelty changed. It turned inward. Grew intimate. Complicated itself.

He sent gifts. A necklace of garnets dark as old wine. Gloves stitched with silver thread. A comb of carved ivory. A gown so fine the fabric seemed made from midnight poured over flame. No notes came with them. No tenderness. Only objects laid before you like offerings from a god too proud to kneel.

“What does he expect me to say?” you asked Betha one morning, looking down at a pair of earrings shaped like dragons biting their own tails.

Betha hesitated. “Thank you? ”

“I have thanked executioners for cleaner cuts.”

Yet you wore the earrings and Aerion noticed.

At supper, he looked at your ears once and said nothing. But for the rest of the evening, his mood sharpened into something dangerously bright, as though your obedience had pleased him and his pleasure offended him.

He protected you, too, though never sweetly.

When a lord who had drunk too much leaned close enough for his breath to touch your cheek, Aerion appeared at your shoulder.

“Step back,” he said.

The lord laughed nervously. “My prince, I meant only—”

“I did not ask what you meant.”

The man stepped back.

Later, you had said, “I did not need rescuing.”

“No. You needed better enemies. That one was beneath you.”

You looked at him, startled. Aerion’s face closed at once.

“Do not preen. It was not praise.”

“Of course not, my prince.”

“Husband.”

You turned away.

“My prince.”

His silence followed you for the rest of the corridor.

You continued your small rebellions.

You called him my prince when no ceremony forced otherwise. You kept Peake colors hidden in seams, ribbons, underthings, once even a black thread braided through an orange ribbon tied beneath your hair where only Betha could see. You refused to cry where Aerion might witness it. You answered insults with courtesy so fine it cut the hand that received it.

And Aerion continued to notice contradictions in himself with mounting disgust.

He noticed when you were tired and ordered you to bed as though annoyance, not concern, moved him. He noticed you preferred pears to figs and had them placed near your plate, then mocked you for looking surprised. He noticed you lingered near windows facing west. He noticed you did not sing, though once, passing your chamber, he heard you humming very softly through the door. He stood outside for longer than he should have. When he realized it, he left angry. Not at you.

That was new and intolerable.

Something had begun in him, something he had no language for except possession. He wanted your attention and called it obedience. He wanted your smiles and called it vanity. He wanted your trust and had no idea what name to give such a foolish, defenseless thing.

Aerion knew fear. He knew how to summon it. How to feed it. How to wear it in another’s eyes like a jewel. He did not know how to be wanted without command. So he tried to purchase softness. Jewels. Silks. Protection. Power displayed at your feet like severed heads. You accepted none of it the way he wished. That made him want more.

The first time you realized he cared, he did not say it.

Aerion was not a man made for confession.

It happened at a feast held for visiting lords from the Reach, where every cup was filled too often and every courtesy had a second meaning. You sat beside Aerion in black velvet, a red girdle at your waist. Beneath it, hidden against your ribs, lay a scrap of orange silk.

Lord Ambrose, a cousin to some house that had never risked enough to be punished for anything, raised his cup with a smile too broad to be kind.

“To Lady Peake,” he called. “Who has traded orange and black for worthier colors. A wise exchange. Some houses must lose honor before they learn taste.”

Laughter pricked the hall.

Your face remained still. Inside, something old and tired folded around itself. You had answered such insults before. You could answer this one. A graceful phrase. A little blade. A pretty smile over a bleeding thing.

But before you spoke, Aerion stood. The laughter thinned and you turned to him. At first you saw only his face, pale and remote, terrible in its calm. Then you saw his sleeve. At the cuff of his black doublet, worked so finely one might miss it until the light found the thread, was a line of orange embroidery.

Your breath stopped.

A black castle pin rested near his heart. Not a dragon. A castle.

The lining of his cloak shifted as he moved, and there, unmistakable, hidden until he chose to reveal it, burned orange silk. Peake colors. On Aerion Targaryen.

The hall understood by degrees. Silence spread outward, table by table, lord by lady, smile by dying smile.

Aerion lifted his cup.

“An odd thing, Lord Ambrose,” he said, voice silken, “to speak of honor while displaying so little of it.”

The lord went pale.

Aerion continued, almost lazily, “My wife’s colors are not yours to mock.”

My wife.

This time the words did not sound only like a cage. They sounded like a shield. A dangerous shield. A possessive shield. A shield with a blade on its rim. But a shield still.

You stared at the orange thread at his cuff.

He sat again as though he had not just overturned the hall. You could barely speak.

“You should not have done that.”

Aerion looked at you. “Do not look so stricken. They are only colors.”

“No,” you said softly. “They are not.”

His face changed then. Only a little. Enough.

“No,” he said. “They are not.”

An almost confession. No sweeter words could have undone you so thoroughly.

After that, wanting became a thing with weight. It entered rooms before you did. It stood between you at windows. It sat beside you at feasts. It found you in silences when Aerion looked at your mouth too long and you forgot, for one dangerous breath, every reason to hate him.

You did not forgive him. Not then.

Memory remained. The sept. The cloak. Little traitor. The feast where he made you ask permission to leave. The tourney wound. The wedding night fear. The many small humiliations he had offered the court like entertainment.

But beside memory, another truth had taken root. Aerion could choose restraint. Not easily. Not naturally. Not always. But he could. And sometimes, for you, he did. That frightened you more than cruelty because it asked something of your heart.

Then Starpike rebelled.

The raven came before dawn.

By noon, the Red Keep rang with it.

House Peake had broken faith. Men loyal to your father had stirred in the Reach. Letters had been intercepted, bearing promises to those who still dreamed of a Blackfyre return. Riders had been sent toward Starpike. There were whispers of men mustering beneath old banners, of lords who spoke of rescue, of stolen daughters and dragon tyranny.

Rescue.

The word made you ill.

They had given you away. Now they named the taking theft because rebellion required prettier language than regret.

Your father’s message reached you by secret hand, hidden in the binding of a prayer book.

Daughter,

You were taken from us under threat. Blood remembers blood. Starpike has not forgotten you. Endure a little longer. You will be brought home.

Home...

You read it three times. Then once more. Each time, it grew colder. Not one line asked what you wanted. Not one.

You sat by the window until the light faded, the letter open in your lap.

Aerion found you there.

“Is it true?” you asked before he could speak.

He did not pretend confusion. “Yes.”

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“And they claim it is for me?”

Aerion’s mouth curled. “Men love noble motives. They dress treason in them whenever possible.”

You looked down at the letter.

“They gave me to you.”

Aerion went still. You had never said it so plainly before.

You lifted your eyes to him.

“They gave me to you when it saved them. Now they want me back because it serves them. They call that love.”

His expression was unreadable. Perhaps because he heard the accusation beneath it. You too...you also treated me as something to be possessed.

Aerion crossed the room. “I will burn their rebellion to ash.”

“No.”

His eyes flashed. “No?”

“Punish the guilty. Not Starpike.”

“Starpike raised banners against my house.”

“Starpike has children in its walls. Servants. Smallfolk. Stable boys and washerwomen and cooks who have never written to a Blackfyre in their lives.”

His voice cooled. “You ask mercy for traitors.”

“I ask justice for the innocent.”

“You ask me to spare those who would take you from me.”

You rose then. Fear moved through you, but pride moved with it.

“I ask you not to become the monster they call you.”

The room darkened around his face. For a moment, you thought you had gone too far. Perhaps you had.

Aerion stepped close, violet eyes bright and terrible.

“You think I fear that word?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think you have worn it so long you no longer know where it ends and you begin.”

Silence.

His hand lifted. Not to strike. You knew that before it reached you. Yet your body flinched from old expectation, from court, from marriage, from men and power and rooms without witnesses.

Aerion saw.

His hand stopped in the air.

Something broke across his face so swiftly you might have missed it if you had not been watching him for weeks, learning the language of his smallest cruelties and rarer restraints.

He lowered his hand.

“I will punish the guilty,” he said.

Each word seemed dragged from him by iron hooks.

“Starpike will stand if it yields.”

Relief nearly took your knees.

“Thank you.”

His laugh was harsh. “Do not thank me. Mercy tastes foul enough without gratitude.”

But he had listened. That was the beginning of the end of one thing, and the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Prince Maekar summoned him two days later.

You were not meant to attend. You went anyway.

Perhaps you should not have. Perhaps a wiser woman would have remained behind tapestry and rumor, waiting for men to decide the shape of her life as they always had. But you were tired of being absent from rooms where your fate was discussed.

You entered quietly enough to hear Maekar’s voice before either man saw you.

“She has made you weak.”

Aerion stood before his father in the solar, spine straight, face pale with fury held on a leash. Maekar was hard where Aerion was bright, iron where his son was flame. A prince made of discipline and expectation, with a soldier’s contempt for softness.

“The Peakes defied the crown,” Maekar said. “Your wife was meant to remind them of obedience, not teach you hesitation.”

“My wife asked that Starpike be spared if it yields.”

“Your wife,” Maekar repeated, and the word was scorn. “A traitor’s daughter.”

Aerion smiled. It was the kind of smile you had once feared most.

“Choose your next words carefully.”

Maekar stepped closer.

“You dare warn me? You wear her colors before court. You let lords see you marked by a disgraced house. You speak of restraint while rebels gather courage from the thought that Aerion Targaryen can be softened by a pretty face.”

Your breath caught.

Aerion’s head tilted.

“Do you imagine beauty is all she has?”

Maekar’s hand twitched.

“You were always vain enough to mistake possession for strength.”

The words struck Aerion. You saw it, though he hid it well.

Maekar saw it too.

“That is what this is,” his father said. “Not love. Do not flatter yourself with songs. You have found a toy that resists you, and because it does not break when pressed, you have mistaken frustration for feeling.”

Aerion said nothing. His silence was terrible.

Maekar’s gaze moved to the orange thread at his cuff.

“Take those colors off.”

“No.”

The word was quiet. The room seemed to draw breath.

Maekar struck him. Or would have.

You moved before thought.

There was no courage in it. Not the kind songs praise. No shining calculation. No noble speech. Only the sight of his father’s hand rising, and the sudden unbearable knowledge that you did not want the blow to land.

You stepped between them and the slap caught you across the face.

Sound vanished. Everything vanished in that room.

Your head turned with the force of it. Pain bloomed hot along your cheek, bright and humiliating. For a moment you saw nothing but white light and the edge of the table and your own hand gripping it to remain upright.

Then stillness.

Maekar stared at you.

Aerion did not move and you looked at him.

Whatever had been in his face before was gone. He was utterly silent. Shattered into stillness. You had seen Aerion angry. You had seen him amused. You had seen him wounded, proud, vicious, fascinated. You had never seen him afraid. Not for himself. For you.

His hand rose, slowly this time, as if approaching some wounded bird that might die of fright. He did not touch your cheek. Not at first. His fingers hovered near the mark his father had made.

His voice, when it came, was almost unrecognizable.

“Leave us.”

Maekar’s face darkened. “Aerion—”

“Leave.”

There was dragonfire in that word.

Maekar looked from his son to you, then back again. Something like understanding passed over his face, grim and displeased. Then he left and the door closed.

Aerion turned to you. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, with care so fierce it looked almost painful, he took your wrist and led you from the room.

His chambers were quiet.

He sat you before the hearth and stood over you as though guarding a battlefield after the slaughter had ended. His fingers flexed once at his side. Then again.

“Let me see,” he said.

You lifted your face. The mark had risen red across your cheek.

Aerion stared at it. Violence meant for him, written upon you. That was the thing he could not bear. Not because you belonged to him. Because you had chosen it.

You had stepped between pain and him with nothing to gain. No court had watched to praise you. No father had commanded it. No vow had required it. You had protected him not because he was gentle, not because he deserved it, not because you had forgotten what he had done.

You had done it because somewhere in the ruin between you, he had become yours too.

Aerion understood fear. He understood obedience. He understood taking, breaking, possessing, punishing. He did not understand this. So it broke him open.

“Why?” he asked.

A prince, a dragon, a cruel and beautiful creature of fire and pride, reduced to one bare word.

You could have lied. You did not.

“Because I did not want him to hurt you.”

His throat moved.

“He has struck me before.”

“I know.”

“Then why would you put yourself in the path of it?”

You looked at him, cheek burning, heart worse.

“Because knowing does not make it right.”

He laughed once, but it was not laughter. It was a broken exhale.

“I am not good.”

“No.”

“I have been cruel to you.”

“Yes.”

“I frightened you.”

“Yes.”

His face twisted. Perhaps he had expected denial. A mercy he had not earned. You gave him truth instead.

“You humiliated me,” you said softly. “You made my wedding feel like a sentence. You called me traitor until the word followed me into sleep. You made me wear your colors so everyone would know I had been conquered.”

Aerion closed his eyes, only briefly. When he opened them, they were bright with something more dangerous than tears because he did not know how to shed them.

“And yet?” he asked, bitterly.

“And yet,” you said, “you wore mine.”

The silence after that was not empty. It was full of every unsaid thing pressing its hands against the walls.

Aerion knelt before you. The sight of it startled you so deeply you forgot to breathe.

He did not seem to know what to do once there. Gentleness was foreign country to him. His hand lifted again, and this time, with terrible care, his fingertips touched the unmarked edge of your jaw.

“I will kill him for this,” he said.

“My father?”

“My father. Yours. Anyone who places a mark on you and calls it duty.”

“You cannot kill every man who has hurt me.”

His mouth curved, humorless. “I can try.”

Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Almost.

“Aerion.”

His name changed the room. You had not used it often. Names were intimate things. Dangerous things.

He looked at you as though you had touched him.

“Punish the guilty,” you said. “Spare Starpike.”

His jaw tightened.

“You ask again.”

“Yes.”

“You know what they did.”

“I know what they did to the crown. I know what they did to me. I know my father traded me, then called for my return when I became useful again.” Your voice trembled, but did not break. “I am not asking because they are innocent. I am asking because I will not let the innocent burn for their pride.”

Aerion looked at the mark on your face. Then at your eyes.

“My mercy will not be gentle,” he said.

“I did not expect it to be.”

“No. You never make that mistake.”

He rose.

When judgment came, it came with teeth. The men who had plotted rebellion were seized. Lords who had written treason in careful hands found those hands bound. Ravens flew. Riders rode. Starpike’s gates opened before dragon banners, and because they opened, the castle did not burn.

Lord Gormon Peake was brought to heel. Not slain, for you had asked that much with a face still marked by another prince’s hand. But stripped of command. Sentenced before witnesses. His lands watched, his household divided, his pride cut down to a stump.

Aerion stood before court in black and red, with orange at his cuff and a black castle near his heart.

“Starpike stands,” he declared, “because my wife asked it of me.”

The hall listened, breathless.

“If House Peake mistakes her mercy for weakness, I will correct them. If any man claims her name as excuse for treason again, I will teach him the difference between a woman’s compassion and a dragon’s patience.”

No one laughed. No one whispered this time.

You stood beside him, still in Targaryen colors, but not swallowed by them now. Beneath your sleeve, Peake orange rested against your skin. At Aerion’s wrist, it burned where all could see.

For the first time since leaving Starpike, you felt not displayed, but witnessed.

That night, he found you in the garden.

Moonlight silvered the leaves and turned the fountains pale. The city below muttered in its sleep. For once, there were no courtiers. No ladies with fans. No fathers. No banners raised like accusations.

Only you and him him.

Aerion wore no crown, no courtly smile, no easy cruelty. His black cloak was lined in orange. You saw it at once. He saw you see it. This time, he did not mock you.

“Your city wanted you back badly,” he said.

There it was...the cruelty he reached for when fear came too near.

His voice was light. His eyes were not.

“Go, then,” he said. “If that is what you want. Starpike stands. Your father lives. The bargain has been remade prettily enough for singers to choke on. Go home.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You do not mean that.”

His smile cut. “Do I not ?”

“No.”

“How fortunate that you know my mind so well.”

“I know when you are trying to bleed before you can be wounded.”

The smile vanished.

A breeze moved through the garden, stirring the orange lining of his cloak like a small, secret flame.

“I frightened you,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I humiliated you.”

“Yes.”

“You hate me.”

You could have said yes. Once, it would have been simple. Now truth had become harder.

“I hated what you did to me,” you said. “I hated the way you made me small. I hated that everyone watched and you let them. I hated that my wedding felt like the end of myself.”

Aerion stood very still.

“But House Peake made me small too,” you continued. “They gave me away when it saved them. Then they tried to reclaim me when it served them. They called both duty. They called both love. Neither time did they ask what I wanted.”

“And what do you want?”

No command or mockery.

You stepped closer.

“I want to choose.”

His face changed.

You wondered whether anyone had ever offered Aerion a choice that was not also a test, a weapon, or a trap.

“Then choose,” he said.

His voice was rough.

You looked at him...beautiful, cruel, wounded, dangerous. A dragon who had burned you and shielded you with the same fire. He was not redeemed. Not purified. Not made gentle by the shape of your hand. Some part of you would always remember the girl in the sept beneath the red cloak, the hostage in silk, the bride led to the dragon’s mouth.

But you remembered other things too. A bedding refused. A cup left untouched. A black castle near his heart. A prince kneeling before you, undone by the sight of your pain.

You chose yourself first. That was the vow no septon had given you. Then you chose him.

You touched the orange lining of his cloak.

“These are my colors,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You should not wear them.”

“No,” Aerion said. “I should not.”

“You do anyway.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Yes.”

You kissed him first.

It was not like the kiss in the sept. That had belonged to gods and lords and hungry witnesses. This belonged to no one but you. Aerion went still beneath it, as though struck not by force but by wonder. Then his hand rose to your face, careful of the fading mark on your cheek, and he kissed you back with a restraint so fierce it trembled.

He wanted. You felt that. But more than wanting, he waited. That was what broke your heart open.

When you drew away, his forehead nearly touched yours.

The garden was quiet around you.

“My prince,” you whispered.

His mouth tightened.

Then you corrected yourself.

“My husband.”

Aerion stopped breathing. The word hung between you, no longer sentence, no longer surrender.

Choice.

He looked at you as if the whole court, the crown, the war, the old stains of blood and treason had fallen away, leaving only one impossible mercy he had not known how to ask for.

“Say it again,” he said.

Not as an order. Almost as a plea.

You touched the orange thread at his cuff.

“Husband.”

And this time, when Aerion closed his eyes, he looked not conquered, but saved from conquest. Only a little and only with you.

mariposium

➶ : THE LOST PRINCE — jacaerys velaryon

summary — while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)

featured — jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader

content — spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (reader’s deceased father), dead vermax ☹, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby

a/n — am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!

(cross-posted on ao3)

The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrow’s breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.

You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.

You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.

darktargslut

PRINCESS READER AND CREGAN INFIDELITY PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Like what would Ormund think or how would he react when his innocent little wife is getting dicked down 24/7 and she’s a willing participant. Let alone she got fucked by a northener lol

The Letter

Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader

•18+ Adults Only

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magicalbats

The Servant of Two Masters (Part 4)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 31,147

Warnings: Afab!reader, fem!reader, not gender neutral, BIG age difference, segment shenanigans;

With 25 - noncon, bondage, medical exam, pelvic exam, speculum usage, vaginal fingering, squirting, anal thermometer, anal fingering, overstim, forced orgasm (2), general science/medical fuckery, there is blood and a brief bit of gore (not our own, I'm not into that), dehumanization/objectification/degradation, humiliation

With Zandik - nonconsensual spanking, spanking punishment, over the knee (my fave), spanking while someone else watches (Dottore), anal fingering, slight infantilization, humiliation, degrading dialogue, slut shaming (don't take this too seriously)

Webttore - masturbation with an object (slipper), him being a little freak, yes, that needs to be its own warning

Part 1 & 2 Part 3

A/N: Please make sure to pay extra attention to the tags from here on out, guys! We're kicking it up another notch, I fear. I want everyone to be safe and in a good headspace when they read my fics, so that's why I decided to give the individualized breakdown for warnings like this. Please feel free to skip if its too much!🙏🥹

⭐

Dear mama,

darktargslut

With how insane our favourite religious zealot was imagining their first time, how did Ormund and reader's first time go? Also, how does his toxic gaslighting translate in bed?

I just know reader couldn't walk straight for a good while after 🙏

The Marriage Debt

Dark!Ormund X Targaryen!Reader

TW: explicit sexual content, dub-con, non-consensual sex, marital rape, sexual coercion, power imbalance, manipulation, loss of virginity, psychological distress, degradation, rough sex, alcohol consumption.

The wedding had been everything a princess could dream of, and yet you had felt like a stranger in your own body throughout all of it.

The High Septon had droned on for what felt like hours, his voice echoing through the vast, vaulted space, and you had barely heard a word of it. Your eyes had been fixed on Ormund, on your husband, on the man you had chosen, on the man who had courted you so tenderly and written you such beautiful letters. He had looked at you throughout the ceremony with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the world. His eyes had never left your face, and every time you met his gaze, something fluttered in your stomach. Anticipation. Nerves. Something that felt very much like love.

slutdier

𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑻 You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension you’ve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.

alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader

word count : 17,9k

warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss

author’s note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? that’s actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all… since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic 😩😩

Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Bucky’s truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.

There’s one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your “enormous” weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.

cosyravenclaw

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑’𝖘 𝕷𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝕯𝖔𝖛𝖊

Pairings: Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary: In the underworld of 1900s London, feared mob boss Tom Riddle rules the East End with a brutal hand. But when the blood dries and the city quiets, he always finds his way to you—his favorite indulgence in a brothel full of painted smiles. You’re naive, streetwise, and far too willing, but when he visits after a deal gone bloody, you begin to realize that you’re more than just his favorite stress relief. You are his little dove.

Words: 6.0k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content: oral sex (f. and m. receiving), penetrative sex, light choking, mild degradation/praise kink, D/s dynamic. Power imbalance. Age gap. Non-magical AU, set in 1900s London.

vigil-mort

All Mine by Vigil-mort

minors dni!!!!

Summary: Tom wakes you up in the middle of the night to "talk about your paper" ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Tags: nipple play, munch tom, magic theory I made up, gf stealer tom, Legilimency, parseltongue lisp, bondage, probably voyerism,

Word count: 4.7k

a/n: posting this so im motivated to finish pt 2 !!

We weren’t betrothed but it didn't make our relationship any less real.

After months of being potions partners, murmuring encouragement and advice to each other, Malfoy finally took the next step. When Abraxas Malfoy greeted you in the great hall with a bouquet of roses, you were completely bewitched. Now, he guides you by the arm classroom to classroom. The perfect gentleman. His courtesy, confidence, and respectfulness was always extended to you. Even if his parents didn't approve of you as a final match, they still welcomed you to the manor and treated you befitting to a Malfoy heiress.

Snuggled up in your emerald green silken nightgown, you studied Abraxas’ profile. As he lays on his back and unleashes his burdens to you, the candle light highlights his blonde eyelashes and pointed nose. Hoping to soothe his worries, you drape yourself across his chest, you trace the embroidered ABM on the pocket of his matching pjs.

“Dont lose sleep over the future, Brax.” You reach for his pale fingers and grasp them. “Everything will work out for us!” With a sleepy smile, you try to coax him from his anxiety and go to bed.

“I know, darling, but with the ministry-”

You never meant to, but you snapped back at him. “The ministry doesn’t matter! Are we graduated? Do you suddenly need employment? Please, Brax, it’s late!”

“Sorry darling, you’re right. Let’s just go to sleep.” Abraxas sighs, obviously miffed that you cut off his nightly rant. Silky yet strong arms wrap around you as you get situated. He turns so that you may spoon, his left arm under your pillow while the other tucks under your chest and pulls you tightly against him. Abraxas buries his face into the crook of your neck and takes a deep breath.

“Father is pushing me too hard. A perfect heir would bend and strengthen under the weight.” His grip tightens. “I can’t let it break me…” When his voice cracks, so does your heart. Grabbing his right hand from your chest, you bring it to your lips.

Kissing his thumb you whisper, “You are strong!”

Another on his knuckle, “Worthy.”

“You shall bring your family a most promising future, my love.” And you kiss the center of his palm before settling it on your heart. Abraxas’ body relaxes just a tad.

“Goodnight my love.” Within minutes, he's fast asleep. Listening to Abraxas night after night, when he shares his frustrations and fears with you, is frankly, heartbreaking. At least, you have to pretend it is.

Behind you, Abraxas is asleep and unaware. As you lay awake, like most nights, you ruminate about your relationship. How being connected to him opened so much of the world to you. Yes, you were pureblooded, just as he was, but not of the sacred 28. Your blood had bought you status, not riches. But on the arm of Abraxas Malfoy, you had both. People actually acknowledged you as more than chattel, not another pureblooded princess, ready to breed. It may have been cruel to use him… Actually you knew it was. But the way people were forced to listen to you! Even as a date to the Slug Club Christmas party, you got a chance to make connections. A chance to show off that you were a witch with a brain. The conversation you had with the Head Archivist of the Library of Alexandria was mind opening!

More than proud to be the second in your class, you took life very seriously. There was no way you could settle for the future society believed you to be on track for. Thinking of the marriage mart, birthing heirs, and being a doting mother put a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t for you.

Merlin, sometimes you could only hopelessly wonder why you weren’t a man. It was so unfair that they automatically were accepted, promoted, and respected. Like always, you can’t help it as you roll your eyes at the thought that Tom Riddle is top of the class thanks to his dick and balls. He didn’t have to parade around in dead-end relationships to get people to even look at him. He was also insufferable.

One of the main reasons you loved being potions partners with Malfoy so much was because it prevented the routine pairing of you and Tom. Being the top two students in the class, the most vocal in class, and often debating with each other and baffling professors - you always got paired up. Beery clearly tried to push you and Tom together. Slughorn, Merlin, he was a force. Slughorn probably thought that you and Tom would create the next generation of genius wizard babies, and wasn’t very subtle about it. So, yes, having to explain every potion to Malfoy like he was 5 was a small price to pay.

While on the subject, your brain couldn’t resist bringing up the years of being desk buddies with Tom Riddle. How at twelve, you thought he was so smart and so charming. When you were first years the two of you talked about everything - magic, spells from the library, stories, gossip. Well, actually he was more of a good listener.

And he was so handsome. Honestly, the most annoying thing about Tom is that he refused to date anyone, so you got stuck with Malfoy. Merlin, what an obtuse prick he was. Tom was such a more powerful wizard than Malfoy. Better in every way.

Wait, what? You shake your head in confusion. Squeezing your eyes tight and exhaling, you wiggle a little before sinking back into Abraxas’ chest. He hums in his sleep and buries his face in your hair. He talks a lot, but you cannot deny how cute he is. Deciding to try to turn your brain off and go to sleep, you think about your usual bedtime thoughts.

Mentally, you peruse Hogwart’s library, reading titles as you walk down the aisle. History of Ancient Magick catches your eye. Grabbing it, you continue until you find Dead but not forgotten: A Wizard’s Guide to Obsolete Magick. You always managed to work out your papers before you fell asleep, it was calming, categorizing and organizing information into paragraphs. Professor Binns was horribly boring, but that didn’t dampen your love for History. As he droned on in the background, you read and annotated the textbook. You found that the curriculums were oddly similar - as each was only a brief overview of history chopped into 7 sections. The only difference being the level of analysis and allowance of “darker” themes.

Anyways, your fingers close around a particular scroll named Unseen and Unheard: How Ancient Wizards Utilized Silent Magick. Tucking it away into your elbow, you turn on your heel and head for the study tables in the back of the library. Picking your table by the window, you sit down and crack open the first book you grabbed. Before you read it, you check the card, a habit of wanting to know who had checked the book out before you. The first name is dated from 1866 and the last was Tom M. Riddle, 1944. Even mentally, you can’t help but groan and roll your eyes. He’d probably read every book in the entire library by now. Of course Tom had gotten his hands on this one. His big hands. Those fingers of his, the way they were always covered in ink, like he was too impatient to let it dry before tracing back over his words. How the only color on his skin was a fine spattering of freckles, giving him the most elegant and perfect complexion. Oh, and how those freckles landed so perfectly on his face, drawing attention to his mouth and cheekbones.

The sound of Malfoy’s curtain opening makes you jerk awake. It’s been pulled back maybe a foot and Tom is standing there, peering down at you.

“What did you do for your conclusion on Binn’s paper?” He whispers down at you.

“What?”

“About the analysis of the adaptation of magick.” You try to get your eyes open and stare at Tom confused.

Tom rolls his eyes and tries again, “Get up, tell me what sources you’re using.” He extends his hand to you. Feeling a bit more awake, you try to get up, but remember that Abraxas is still lovingly wrapped around you. Tom stands by and watches as you try to remove Abraxas’ arm, but he holds you tighter. Forcing you to kind of pry him off of you…

Finally free of his loving grip, you grab Tom’s hand and slip out of bed. The dorm is dark and all the curtains are shut tight besides Abraxas’ and Tom’s. Impatiently, you are pulled across the gap into Tom’s bed.

At first, you just sit against the headboard, mirroring Tom. But, after he reaches around you and ensures his curtains are shut, he readjusts until he is simply laying on his side and facing you. He’s comfortably under his covers, only his upper half is visible. You sit there confused, looking at Tom, in his small white undershirt, seemingly tucked into bed, with one arm bent and propping his head up, the other resting on top of the blanket.

“Your paper…?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, right.” Accepting that you are awake, you answer him. “I’m looking into the research about the connection of accidental magic with silent magic. Did you know it is just as likely to complete a task you do habitually with accidental magic as it is with silent? Like, the only difference is that its almost completely opposite amounts of effort. Silent requires so much effort, years of practice and a lot of self-discipline. But accidental is primal, it will save you, it can give you what you really need. Let’s say it’s 15,000 years ago and you’re cold. No one waved a wand and said, ‘Inscendio!’” You paused for a deep breath and realized how much you’ve been talking with your hands. Tom follows your gaze and catches your train of thought. A low laugh rumbles from his chest as he just examines you.

“You know it isn’t due ‘til May?”

“So what? You say that as if your’s isn’t finished!” you shoot back. Tom considers this.

“True. I guess I just forgot that you never shut up about History.” You can see the mischievous glint in his eye.

Poking him in the chest, you knowingly ask, “Like you don’t do the same about DADA?”

Tom stares at you and gently grabs your prodding finger. “So, what?” The glint is gone and you are surprised at the shift in his tone. You’re used to him trying to agitate you, push you into some debate. This is almost daring? As you pull your hand back, Tom doesn’t let go. His hand follows yours back to your hip and rests there. Just as gently as before, his hand moves to your hip then squeezes.

“I think Binn’s is going to give you a recommendation when we graduate. I heard Slughorn talking about it.” Tom reveals. This news is crazy - Professor Binns was known for never writing professional recommendations. Even if his curriculum was lazy, he still was well renowned for simply teaching everyone for the last 200 years. A good word from him was extremely rare, but valuable.

In your excitement, you leaned towards Tom and got more comfortable. Accidentally mirroring him again, you also failed to notice how his hand shifted to your knee as you got talking.

“If he does that I can work in any fucking archive I want!” Disbelief painted your face. “You know when I asked Slughorn if he would do it at my career counseling last year, he said it was impossible.”

“Something must have swayed him.” Tom smiled and drank in your expression, just as much as he enjoyed sliding his hand up your thigh.

“Yeah,” you softly respond. A soothing silence washes over the two of you. Somehow, it isn’t awkward as you watch Tom just as intensely as he watches you. Remembering before, your eyes catch on the freckle under his left eye, then automatically dart to his mouth, where another freckle sits just to the right of his bottom lip… His angular face becomes amused while you take him in. The hand on your hip pulls a little, inviting you to come closer to him. So you scoot, grabbing his arm to help pull yourself along. Under the thin material of his sleep shirt, Tom’s arms are lithe and smooth.

Inches apart, no one says anything as hands slowly explore. Typically, you were elbow to elbow at your desks, or elbow to ribs when he was annoying. But now there’s no need for the intellectual contest, both of you are learning in silence. Tom’s left hand trails up your side until he is able to caress your face. And again, when he gently pulls, you move towards him. His chocolate brown eyes are pouring into yours. When your noses touch, he tilts his head just slightly to the right and closes in to brush his lips against yours. Suspended in the moment, you intimately examine Tom’s irises. How they’re ringed in black, with tiny golden ridges. Long black eyelashes that are to die for frame them perfectly, and his eyebrows are perfect, just like his whole face, and I bet even his-

You flinch, feeling a little dizzy. A small headache throbs behind your ear and you catch a small smirk on Tom’s face. He rubs his thumb across your cheekbone assuringly before pulling you in for a real kiss. Melding your lips together, a sigh escapes when you feel something deeper. As he goes from kissing you tenderly to insistantly running his tongue along the seam of your lips, you respond in earnest. When your tongues touch, you open your eyes and find Tom admiring you. He takes your shock and doubles it, sucking on your lip and biting it. A small sound leaves you and he swallows it, keen on making it happen again. In between heavy kisses, he peppers your lips with pecks.

Feeling weakened, you let him cradle your head in his hand and lean further into his flurry of affection. You push your tongue into his mouth until your teeth click. Tom clutches your cheek and kisses you feverishly. All you can perceive is the cycle of swollen tips, his tongue, and teeth against yours. When you pause and take a breath, the fog breaks and you consider each other.

Now, Tom’s eyes are darker, the brown encroached by his pupils. “Kiss me more,” he orders. His hand pulls your lips back to him and his arm tucks around you. It’s easy to melt into his embrace, letting him lead you. His heated kisses make you go limp in his arms, overwhelmed by the touch. Giving you a breather, Tom draws back and plants kisses down your throat. They’re hard and Tom sucks just enough to where you know your skin is marked. Arching your back and pressing into him, you turn into his kisses, begging him to go harder and harder. Once Tom’s lips have reached the spot between your neck and shoulder, he bites down. While you are gasping and shuddering under him, he tugs the collar of your nightgown aside, and continues to your chest.

It doesn’t take much for you to snatch Tom’s hand from your collar and guide it to your breast, encouraging him to massage at his will. He takes the cue instantly. His large hands are able to cup your entire breast, pushing it up so he may leave wet kisses at your cleavage. Your other hand sinks into his curly brown hair, grasping it while holding him closer and closer. Tom briefly releases you, only to push at your shoulder so you can lie on your back. He moves with you, shifting so his leg is draped over yours and he is on top of you. One of his hands is massaging your breast and the other is rubbing your nipple all while Tom dutifully worships you. Through the silk, his touch is cloying, almost giving you a buzz. You ache for more.

All you have to do is grab his wrist and whine and Tom stretches the collar of your nightgown and pulls your breasts out. Before gravity can settle them, he presses his thumbs over your nipples and brings them together. Flicking back and forth, as if your nipples were light switches and he wanted you on, he collapses into your bosom. Soon, his lips are replacing a hand and instead of the increasingly rough flicking, his tongue is now swirling around your nipple. Sometimes he breaks away with a pop, his swollen lips no longer holding suction to your breast.

You squirm under his ministrations, smother him in your chest, and try not to moan so loud.

“Merlin, Morgana, and fucking Mordred!” you try to pull Tom back by his hair but he refuses to unlatch. Trying again, you yank him back, and Tom looks at you dumbly. His lips are red, swollen, his face is smeared with his own spit. When you don’t say anything, his eyes drop back to your breasts and he bites his lip. Seeing as he’s gone stupid, you grab him by the hair again and bring him in for a fierce kiss. You force your tongue into his mouth and swirl around him, until he awakes from his daze and returns your effort. He pushes back into your mouth and you suck on his tongue, drawing a groan from him. This encourages you, sucking a little more before biting his lip and finally pulling back.

Tom’s eyes are not only nearly black, but heavily lidded. Tom Riddle would never slur his words but it was very close when he whispered, “I want you to list the knights of the round table next.” Then he dove back down to your breasts and pressed a knee in between your legs. This time, when he sucked and bit and you rolled your hips, there was friction. A strangled cry left your lips and Tom rocked his knee into you, making it harder to keep quiet. His mouth was marking your skin with prayers, eternally grateful to pay homage to you. The sweep of his tongue combined with grinding on his knee made you see stars. Feeling your body tensely arch into Tom, your deep breaths bury his face into your chest. Mean fingers clench your nipples, the pain pushing your head back in ecstasy. His knee follows the pace of your shudder until it stops and he is just softly kissing you everywhere.

“You never listed them,” he reminded you. Your already weak body sunk deeper into his arms as you sighed with dismay.

Turning away from him, “Don’t make me think, Tom.” The knee pressed against your center twitched, making you whimper.

“If you’re going to make a mess on my pants, at least do what I say.” You feel his nose dig into your cheek, but still ignore him. Tom continues to rock his knee against your center and you jump, not being able to hide your reaction.

One of his hands turns your face until you are cheek to cheek and he can whisper in your ear, “Just lissten.” A shudder runs down your spine but you still resist.

His irritation is palpable.

“You know it, slut, list them for me.” Your head whips towards him at the insult.

“Excuse me?”

He leaves small kisses on your cheek, all the way to your ear, and whispers, “The knights of the round table my love, lissst them.” The tingle of his breath on the shell of your ear makes you flush. With a stuttered breath, you do as he says.

“Sir Lancelot.” He rewards you with a kiss under your ear.

“Sir Galahad.” His teeth run across your collar bone and you take a sharp breath.

“Sir Percival.” With his open mouth, Tom sucks the swell of your breast until it hurts.

“Sir Bedivere,” you whimper and he blows cool air on the bruise.

“Sir Kay.” Swollen lips engulf your puffy nipple and suck.

“Sir-” a moan breaks your recitation and when you halt, Tom tenses. He appears back in your face and gets close. Sweaty foreheads collide and you study each other. His hair is a right mess, his cheeks are so wonderfully pink, and his skin is shining with sweat. You want to keep thinking about how beautiful he is but he interrupts you, rather bossily.

“Say it again.” he orders.

Confused, you start again. “Sir-” his mouth muffles the rest. It takes a second for you to realize what he means. You can’t help the small laugh.

“Well then, sir, shall I continue?” you inquire, smiling cheekily. Tom graces you with a smile and kisses your cheek. Then he scoots back down to continue where you had left off.

It’s hard to talk with his mouth back on your nipple, but you manage. “Sir Tristan.”

“Sir Bors.” Tom gives you a chase kiss on your stomach.

“Sir Gareth,” comes out as a gasp because Tom is kissing in a sinful line from your hip to the soft curls between your legs.

He stares up at you and says, “Good job, now thank me.” And with him looking so angelic with his mouth so close that his breath is sending a chill over your center, you do. Tom doesn’t react the way you want though. He draws back and bites your inner thigh. When his eyes pan back to yours, they’re irritated and you recognize where you went wrong.

“Thank you, sir” you purr. Tom’s arms wrap around your thighs until his hands are splayed across your hips. His nose bumps into your pussy and you can feel his body inflate as he breathes in. When he breathes out, he dives in.

Tom moans when he tastes you. He teases your slit before pushing past your lips and finding your clit. He laps at it eagerly and you have to grab his hair in your desperation to get him to slow down. Dark eyes zero in on yours and watch as you melt in his mouth. The eye contact only breaks when he slides his face down into your cunt. Using his tongue to penetrate and his nose to nudge against your clit, Tom goes to town. His hands grasp your hips as they buck and try to redirect them so he can get deeper.

If you had a single sane thought in your brain, you would feel bad about smothering Tom in your pussy as you ride his face. But he must be as stupid as you are, because he obviously loves it. Apart from the wet sounds of him being completely engulfed in your wet heat, he's moaning and muttering to himself. It's all incomprehensible under the moans leaving your own mouth.

One hand leaves your hips and replaces his tongue. Fingers glide into your pussy, the only resistance being your walls clenching around him. As your body reacts, Tom goes still, and gives you a knowing look.

“Thank you, sir,” and his fingers curl inside of you. They push at just the right spot to make you almost scream. The back of your hand barely conceals it. Suddenly in tandem, his tongue and fingers fuck you perfectly, causing your body to practically float off the bed. Genuinely having to hold you down now, Tom keeps kissing your clit and pumping his fingers in and out of you. Stars reemerge in your vision and he works you through the pleasure. After your orgasm, Tom rises back into your vision.

You beat him to the punch, “Thank you, sir.” And just cause, you pull him in for a kiss.

However, Despite that, Tom doesn’t look pleased. You cannot fathom why.

“I’m sure you’ve done all that with Malfoy already.” He sneers at you. Tom’s games are tired, so you just cross your arms and wait for him to get it all out. Of course, an indignant addition was coming along.

“I deserve a new experience.” As the idea appears to process on his face, you aren’t so sure you’re happy to let this pass. Tom has a wicked smile as he quietly opens his curtain and ushers you out of his bed. He leads you around the side, near the end of Abraxas’ bed.

And he opens the curtain.

Looming over you, Tom asks a question that you know only has one answer, “Are you a good girl who listens?”

Unsure of what will happen next you swallow, “Yes, sir.” Tom’s eyes flash and he flourishes his wand. He casts silencing spells, a notice me not, and something else, who knows. Tom’s hands grab you at your neck and waist and pull you in for a kiss. You can feel his hard length pressing into you and you’re hoping you know what’s coming next. Giddy, you follow his guiding hands and spin for him. He walks you up until your hips are against the foot of the bed, steers your hands until they are wrapped around the bed posts. Wiggling your ass, you hope to tempt him to tear your clothes off already, but he has other plans.

Tom whispers, “Incarcerouss.” Phantom ropes bind your wrists to the bed posts. Tom pushes your back forwards, until you are bent over the bed. Then he grabs your hair and pulls your head back until your eyes focus and you realize you are staring at Abraxas’ sleeping form, sweetly clutching your pillow.

Anxiety kickstarts your heart and when you tug at the ropes, panic sets in. Tom watches this and his only consolation is, “As long as we’re quiet, we’re fine, my love.” You feel his fingers grab the hem of your silken nightgown and slide it slowly until its bunched around your waist.

Closing your eyes, you try to forget that Abraxas is right infront of your face. In the darkness, your body relaxes. The heels of your feet inch farther apart as you spread your legs.

A dark chuckle comes from Tom. “You were mad I called you a slut and now you’re doing this…” A finger runs along your slit, he finds it dripping wet. He takes his time teasing your already sensitive pussy. Lazy fingers sit there while you grind against him. The word slut echos in your mind. You could hear the smile on his face when he said it. Something thicker than his finger bump into your pussy and your mind goes blank. All you can think of is the cool wood biting into the front of your thighs and Tom’s throbbing head dipping into your cunt.

A hum of contentment leaves Tom’s lips as he slides his cock through your folds.

“I bet you’ll love this,” he promises. Hands grip your ass while he snaps his hips into yours. He buries himself to the hilt and your pussy barely manages to stretch with him. The bed shakes with his thrust and there is no holding back your small scream. Both you and Tom stop, watching Abraxas, waiting for a reaction.

He’s still asleep. Tom watches you tense up, remembering all over again the consequences of moaning. The dread of waking Abraxas up, getting fucked by his best freind, is too much. Before you can start pulling at your wrists and protesting, Tom unburies himself and sets a nice pace. The newfound pleasure of his hard cock finally fucking you just as you needed it makes you completely forget about Abraxas. All over again.

The bed is rocking but you can't find it in you to care. Tom’s hand is pushing your face into the blankets, maybe trying to muffle you, all while slamming his hips into yours. Drunk on the pleasure from the rhythmic pounding, you dont notice the scene before you until Tom pulls you up by your hair again.

Abraxas is awake, clutching the blanket to his chest and watching you in horror. It’s plain on his face. Before your brain can process the damage you must be doing to him, Tom says, “Don’t be so upset about this Malfoy, you’ll love it.”

if you enjoyed lmk so i can finish the next part !! ( its tom x abraxas x reader !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! )

•18+ Adults Only

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tomriddlehyperfixataion

The dark lords nanny - Part 9

Tom Riddle x Nanny! Reader

Summary: After Christmas, things shifted just a little — hardly noticeable to you or even Tom, but a certain blonde certainly noticed and tried to nudge things in the right direction.

hi! im back!! @helloamalien gave me a wonderful idea for a Tom and mattheo tidbit and it helped me finish writing this part! enjoy!

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P10(wip)

The lord had been gone for a few months now, on some sort’ve of recruiting mission—as far as you knew.

That didn’t matter to you, as long as it didn’t affect your duties to Mattheo.

Speaking of the little lord.

saintnoxia

𝟎𝟎𝟑: 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 . . . the beauty of forgotten love. pairings: tom riddle x fem!reader. words: 557. warnings: growing up together at wool's. muggle reader. pre hogwarts years. pretend they're both teenagers in this. bittersweet love. simply two broken souls trying to cling to each other as much as they can. you love him and you'll never be in the same room again.

astertoria

tom riddle x reader, gloryhole!au

w/c: 2.8k

tags: 18+, smut (piv, oral, fingering, anonymous sex)

tom sits at the head of the dining table, looking at all of his followers: the knights of walpurgis.

lestrange, black, avery, rosier, and malfoy. . . who is staring at him with a stupid little smirk on his face.

“you are all dismissed,” tom says, clasping his hands together.

one by one, they all file out of the room - all of them except malfoy. again, what could he possibly want?

“can i help you, abraxas?” he asks coldly.

“no, not at all, my lord.” abraxas grins. tom is smart enough to see something foolish lingering beneath his follower's expression. “you see, i am in no need of assistance. it is not about what you could do for me, but what i could do for you.”

“what could you possibly have to offer me, abraxas? other than your gold - but must i remind you there are five other purebloods whose vaults i have access to?”

abraxas puts his hands in his pockets, letting out a sigh. “it is just you seem rather - tense, my lord. i only say this out of concern for your health and well-being. us - all of your dutiful followers have noticed it.”

tom clenches his jaw as he tries not to cast a crucio. “tense - how?”

abraxas purses his lips and shrugs, “i mean, lestrange and rosier can barely walk after their latest punishment - and that was not even their fault. you used to be far more lenient.”

tom feels a wave of anger wash through his mind, “are you questioning your lord's decisions?”

“no, my lord.” abraxas looks down sheepishly.

“then do not bother me about such nonsense again, lest you would like to join lestrange and rosier.”

“of course, my lord. i apologize for overstepping.” he then pulls something out of his coat pocket: a slim, vibrant pink business card. he places it on the table and slides it over to tom.

abraxas gives him sly wink, “but, just consider it,” he smirks, “thank you for your time, my lord.” he then saunters out the door with his stupid gait.

as soon as tom hears the door click shut behind him, he hesitantly picks up the card.

the sinful witches lounge! no disillusion spells needed ~ your secrets are safe with us.

ten galleons for door entry, twenty galleons to relax with our lovely witches ;), and fifty galleons for a private room.

prices are non-negotiable, and the usage of magic inside our establishment is strictly prohibited.

1445, knockturn alley.

he scoffs under his breath. did abraxas just give him the business card to a brothel? he should have expected nothing less from a malfoy - promiscuity was in their blood.

tom casts an inferno towards the card, watching the paper disintegrate into small pieces of ash.

he was going to be the most powerful wizard in the world. he does not care about being tense, and he has no time for frivolous activities such as sex. abraxas deserved an hour of torture for even having the confidence to suggest such a thing. and besides, tom’s reputation was far too high to risk being seen there.

his brain fumbles for a second, but abraxas is a malfoy, coming from generations of aristocrats, and he is presumably a frequent customer, so clearly there was no risk of sullying his reputation - no, no, he would not disgrace his dignity by going to such a place. . .

☆

tom stares up at the dingy building in front of him. to be fair, it looks inconspicuous - just another dark building in knockturn alley. he has his cloak covering his head, but he doubts anyone who frequents these streets would care about seeing him here.

he pushes the front door open, and the inside looks just like the outside: dark, dingy, and dilapidated. nothing like the obnoxious pink business card.

he sees a young witch sitting at a reception desk, prices are listed on the wall behind her, like it is some sort of cafe.

she’s smacking on muggle gum, flipping through a magazine.

tom clears his throat.

her eyes slowly trail up, and when they meet his, a large smile grows on her face. “well, hello there, handsome.”

he gives her an awkward nod as he pretends to look at the prices behind her.

“you look awfully nervous, are you a first timer?”

tom swallows his pride and nods. “yes.”

“mmkay.” she raises a brow and leans over the desk. “so, for starters: no face concealments.”

tom reluctantly pulls his hood back, holding back a scowl.

“was there something specific you were looking for today?”

tom did not even know why he came here today. he supposes he just wants to see if the recommended methods of stress reliefs were accurate, but how did that translate to picking a public or private dance?

the woman takes his silence as answer, “private room it is then. you look a little too conservative for all the public stuff.”

too conservative?

“sixty galleons, please.” she smiles, sticking out her hand. “and absolutely no refunds, obviously.”

tom grumbles, fishing through his pockets for his satchel of gold. he pulls out a handful of galleons - more than enough - and places it on the table.

the woman grins happily, pocketing the gold.

she sits up from behind the desk, gesturing for him to follow her. she leads him to a plain oak door, but once she mutters an incantation with her wand, it transfigures into a ruby red entryway.

when she swings it open, a loud bass immediately reverberates through his entire body. tom hesitantly follows, and is surprised to see how much larger the space is.

it is absolutely packed with people. various men and women are sitting at tables - laughing, dancing, drinking. and of course there is a large stage in the centre, with more than enough strippers on poles.

the woman laughs when she notices his ogling, she motions for him to keep coming.

she brings him to the furthest corner of the building where there is a beaded curtain leading to a hallway.

there are multiple doors, and she brings him in front of the first one on the left. there is a name card on the door - he reads your name out mentally, it sounds unfamiliar.

“a few rules: one, no magic, if that wasn’t obvious. if even a lumos is cast, you will automatically be hexed and ejected from the building. two, be respectful of that lovely lady on the other side of the wall or you will be cursed.” she hums for a moment, thinking. “i believe that’s all.”

“enter whenever you’re ready, and have fun, of course.” she winks at him before departing.

tom clears his throat as he enters the room. his mouth immediately goes dry when he sees you.

the only part of you thats visible is your lower half - but you are entirely bare and open. there’s not a single inch of skin that is not visible to his eyes.

you are on your back, and both of your legs are hoisted in the air, spreading you wide. tom nearly groans when he sees the condensation collecting between your legs.

well, this was not what he was expecting. he finally understands how men get away with coming here, the intimacy rooms are entirely anonymous.

“hello.” he says because he is a respectful young man.

“hi.” you reply, your voice is slightly muffled from the other side of the wall.

tom takes a tentative step forward, only a foot away from you. he feels like an idiot, he does not even know where to start or what to do.

“can i touch you?” he asks softly.

you giggle, "isn't that why you're here?’

he huffs out a laugh; he supposes that is true.

his shaking hands come to rest on the back of your thighs, trailing up to your calves, feeling the smoothness of your skin.

“your hands are so cold.” you whisper.

“sorry,” tom reluctantly pulls his hands away.

“i can warm them up for you. . .”

“i thought magic was prohibited?”

“it is,” you say slyly, “i want you to warm them up in my cunt.”

tom freezes, it is like your words had some sort of spell on him, because all of a sudden every single ounce of blood falls straight to his groin, where he can feel himself rapidly hardening.

his hands slowly come down to the back of your thighs once more, trailing them down once they meet the crevice of where your thighs meet your hip.

he leans down to get a closer look, and he does not know what possesses him, but he parts his lips and lets a glob of saliva drop from his lips. it lands directly on your clit, and tom brings his thumb to follow, rubbing his saliva into your wetness.

you let out a surprised gasp in response, and he takes that as an invitation to start rubbing firm circles on your clit.

“is this what you meant?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“yes,” you moan out.

he then lowers himself to his knees in front of you. he is grateful for the wall, because he would never be caught dead on his knees for someone.

tom opens his mouth slightly as he just stares like a stupid virgin. he watches your cunt twitch as his hot breath fans across your folds.

he leans forward and hesitantly licks your clit, groaning when the taste of your arousal hits his tongue. he is immediately hooked. his second taste is an open mouthed kiss on the entirety of your cunt, his jaw flexing as he keeps licking.

you are anything but silent on the other side of the wall, loud moans of yes, please, yes, fill tom’s ears.

he is not stupid, so he takes that as motivation to keep going. he moves his hands to your hips, using them as leverage to pull you closer to his face.

his tongue does not rest, and his continues circling it around your clit, once in a while flicking down to your hole. your wetness slowly starts to increase, and your cunt has really just turned into a mess. tom cannot believe that he did not do this sooner, he might have just found a new hobby, because it truly is better than simply fucking a witch.

your moans increase in volume, and tom takes that a sign you are getting close. he lowers his tongue to your hole, entering it with a firm push, and the same time, he brings his thumb back to your clit rubbing in a delightful pressure. his tongue goes in and out and in and out, and you clench down as you scream, finally climaxing.

but, tom does not stop, he keeps fucking your hole with his tongue, and his thumb refuses to stop abusing your clit. he is absolutely entranced, and he does not think he could stop if he wanted to.

finally, when your legs begin shaking, and your words turn into a blabbering sob, does he finally pull away.

“was that good for you?”

“yes, yes, please fuck me now.”

tom bites his lip as he rises to his full height once more. his hips are perfectly aligned with yours. he stares down at the obvious tent in his slacks, as he comes forward to press himself against you once more.

as soon as your cunt comes into contact with his clothed erection, you begin using your hips to eagerly grind yourself against him. the mess between your legs is surely soiling his expensive trousers, but tom cannot find it in himself to care.

he lets out a choked gasp as your hips roll against his.

“you feel so good.” you moan.

tom loses himself in the sensation of you giving his cock attention, it has been months since tom has indulged in anything remotely sexual, and he’s not sure how much longer he will last if you keep this up - and he has not even properly fucked you yet.

“wait,” tom whispers.

his hands drop to his belt, immediately undoing it, before tugging down his pants and boxers together. his cock springs up, flushed red at the tip. he has never been this hard before.

he strokes himself once before dragging his tip between your folds, purposefully applying pressure to your clit, before dragging it down to your entrance. yet, he still does not push inside, instead repeating his ministrations, dragging himself up and down.

“stop teasing.” you murmur.

and before you can say anything else, tom slips into you fully. with how wet you are there is practically no resistance as he rests his cock balls deep inside of you.

you gasp at the sudden intrusion, and tom has to stop himself from groaning at the sensation. his hands come to your hips, gripping your flesh so tightly his knuckles turn white. he needs some form of leverage - something to hold onto and ground himself so he does not immediately cum.

“move.” you say.

“you are quite bossy,” tom laughs, shaking his head.

you whine, “please.”

begging does seem to always do it for tom. he slowly retracts his hips, waiting until only his tip remains before entering once more with a deep thrust.

you both moan at the same time, and tom continues with his slow and deep thrusts. with every movement of his hips, he hears the squelch of your arousal and his precum mixing together.

when your legs start twitching, he increase his pace, beginning to fuck you in earnest.

“your cunt is worth so much more than sixty galleons.” he whispers, bringing his thumb to your clit once more.

you moan in response, as he begins to rub circles on your clit, continuing to thrust into you, pushing your body backwards with the roughness of his movements.

“i’m close,” you whisper, feeling the precipice of your orgasm approaching.

“fuck,” tom says.

he does his best to restrain his orgasm, as he fucks you harder and resumes his movements on your clit. your wanton noises increase in volume, and before he knows it he feels an intense rush of liquid coating his cock, and your cunt clenches down on him firmly, nearly trapping him in place.

he refuses to stop his movements, elongating your pleasure while chasing his own orgasm.

“are you going to cum in me?” you ask innocently.

“do you want me to?”

“yes, please.” he nearly moans at that. “i want you to fill me up.”

again, it is like your words have some sort of magical effect. his balls tighten and he feels like he is floating when he finally releases in you. his hips continue moving absentmindedly, stuffing you with more of his cum.

you are both breathless for a few seconds, and tom reluctantly pulls back. this is what he had paid for after all. he tucks himself back into his pants, and watches your swollen, red cunt begin to drip with his seed.

his hand comes to your folds once more, you flinch in response, but he ignores your protests of being too sensitive as he rubs his cum into you.

“how much do i have to pay to see your face when i fuck you?” he murmurs.

☆

abraxas attends the next meeting with a buzz of anxiety.

he realizes now that he was possibly being a bit too overzealous when he suggested the witches lounge, but it truly did come from a place of honest concern for someone he cares about.

his throat bobs as he enters the formal dining room. he is not entirely sure what he is expecting: perhaps tom will crucio him, hex him, or even send an avada his way.

but, his eyes nearly widen when he sees tom smiling at a joke rosier makes. and it was not one of those polite, strained smiles tom often did, abraxas could actually see his dimples.

what the bloody hell. . .

“abraxas,” tom says, still smiling, “it is nice to see you have joined us today.”

“of course, my lord.” abraxas tentatively sits down, trying his best to conceal his bewilderment.

he sits awkwardly at the table, his hands folded in front of himself. he is far too nervous to engage in any sort of conversation.

“abraxas,”

“yes, my lord?” he swallows a breath, trying his best to appear collected. he is waiting for the crucio, or the punishment. tom is surely about to send him on another terrible mission to moscow.

“thank you,” tom says casually, lifting his glass of whisky.

the rest of the wizards around them look perplexed as the all exchange confused glances - but abraxas knows. tom really did take his advice. and it seemingly worked because he does not think he has seen tom look this relaxed since first year.

before he can stop himself, he laughs. “any time, my lord.”

a/n: i’m so sorry this is just a horny mess

maybestrid33

Bedrest

Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon (spoilers for s3 ep1!!)

Summary: Jacaerys survives the Gullet, so naturally the maesters have opinions about what he should and should not be doing during his recovery. Unfortunately for them, Jace has opinions too.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT hurt/comfort, handjob, oral (blowjob), eventual smut, near-death aftermath, medical treatment, injuries/blood, married couple shenanigans, excessive flirting, Jace Velaryon lobbying campaign

A/N: this works as a standalone or sequel to Saltwater, except this fic is significantly less angsty and significantly more "what if jace spent a month trying to argue with medical professionals." :) must admit i cracked myself up a lil writing this and also PLEASE send in reqs im running out of ideas

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.0k

the-moons-kiss

i think if multiple of the slytherin boys had a crush on you, they would have a conversation as soon as they found out and say that a silly crush shouldn’t divide them and they should all play fair. whoever gets you, gets you and the rest should respect that. may the best man win.

its maybe an hour after that when blaise catches mattheo telling you what a horrible dating history theodore has. the next day draco overhears enzo telling you how all his friends are brutes that you should stay away from, except for him of course.

turns out “playing fair” only means no magic to influence your decision. everything else is fair game, no matter how dirty they may play.

•18+ Adults Only

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yanderenightmare

♡ TW: noncon, toxic relationship, misogyny, chauvinism, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, other toxic traits, sorta spineless reader, but not really

♡ FEM reader

♡ PS: sorry to anyone named Franny or Carrie. The story required a couple of girl names.

You're on your way home in the dark.

It rained while you were at the club, having power-washed the asphalt now glittering under the moonlight. It's pretty when it's like this, but as a woman you can't help but feel a little on edge.

Your heart isn't entirely in your throat, but it’s definitely somewhere up there. Heels moving hurriedly, unbothered about splashing in shallow puddles as you stomp decidedly in a pathway straight home.

Drunken groups loiter around as the clubs all close up for the night, some hollering about grabbing a bite, others about grabbing some ass, and all you can think is hopefully, not your ass.

You could have gone home with a friend instead—it would have been smarter maybe, and by smarter you mean safer—but you’re getting older and the older you get the more the urge to sleep in your own bed at night becomes a necessity more than a preference.

Footsteps are all over the place, walking in different directions. Pat, pat, pat, pittering just like the rain. Aside from a few icky stares thrown your way and a handful of catcalls you’re not sure were for you or for some other poor girl, you’re starting to rest easy, knowing you’re nearly there.

But then you single out a pair. Pat, pat, pat, just behind you.

aisatsaa

pt.2 dark fantasy au

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