fala⁽ᵃᵐᵒ⁾

portgas d. ace, who has always been handsy.

not that you’re complaining — how could you? especially since something has changed in recent months. something has become sticky, mushy, needy.

feelings. there are new feelings, but you both ignore the aforementioned sticky, mushy, needy feelings because you’re best friends, and best friends don’t have sticky, mushy, needy feelings for one another.

portgas d. ace is always hanging off you. his arm, freckled and strong, is always slung around your shoulders. he leans and slouches, pressing the full length of his body against your side whenever he can. he’s always there, in your orbit, tangling himself up in your space.

the crew knows that you, a vice-lieutenant shipwright, and the division commander are two peas in a pod; inseparable, indivisible, and integral. where his voice carries, your laughter is soon to follow. ace burns bright, like a star streaking across the sky, and you’re the moon he dances for. you call his name from high up on the mast, and he always calls yours back.

no one pities the fool portgas d. ace makes himself for the sake of your smile. no one pretends there isn’t something else there, either. marco thinks it’s gonna kill him — ace, with his longing looks, and you with your lingering smiles. always when the other isn’t looking, but for fuck’s sake, marco is looking. marco sees it. marco can’t unsee it.

feelings! sticky, mushy, needy feelings!

portgas d. ace, whose threshold for appropriate touching is quickly diminishing despite the whole best friend title. his newest, baddest habit is a sturdy kiss to your temple in passing — always paired with a murmured hey you. he’s recently started to tangle his fingers in yours during quiet moments up on deck. always during the setting sun, always when you’re off shift, and he’s avoiding whatever new responsibility pops throws him.

portgas d. ace, who starts sleeping in your bed — he blames the barracks. they’re too crowded. marco, his bunkmate, snores. you’re lucky, he says, you’ve got a tiny little cabin, with a tiny little bed, and a tiny little water room. a perk of being one of the few female crewmembers. the perk is stolen by ace, who starfishes out and runs hot. you start sleeping with less and less clothing, and ace chases the feeling of your skin against his in his sleep.

there’s a line. always. you’re best friends. best friends who touch and roughhouse and laugh. best friends who fall asleep in one another’s arms, best friends who knock foreheads together when they hug, best friends who daydream about kissing one another—

portgas d. ace is your best friend. best friends don’t kiss.

bonus:

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong. Can be read as a oneshot.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, Aerion is a little shit, attempted cheating? Aerion has a crisis, breeding.

a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because filthy smut sneaks in.

The first time you realize you have become a diplomatic tool, it is entirely by accident.

Aerion is insufferable that morning.

Truly, insufferable. More than usual.

He has decided, apparently for sport, that everything Maekar says is wrong. Not merely incorrect. Offensive. He contradicts him on troop numbers. On strategy. On whether the sun is properly positioned in the sky.

“It’s drifting south,” Aerion says lazily, sprawled in a chair like a cat daring someone to move him.

“It is not drifting,” Maekar replies through his teeth.

“It is. You simply lack the perception to notice.”

Baelor rubs at his temples like a man on the edge of martyrdom.

You are not even present.

Which is why, ten minutes later, a servant is dispatched.

“Fetch the Tyrell girl.”

By the time you arrive, Aerion is smiling faintly, chin propped on his hand, eyes glittering with deliberate provocation. Maekar stands rigid near the table, jaw tight. Baelor looks like he’s contemplating a vow of silence.

Aerion notices you immediately.

He always does.

His posture changes by a fraction, less languid, more alert.

“You look bored,” he says, as if he had not been the architect of the chaos. “Have they summoned you to admire me?”

Maekar turns his head slightly and gives you a look over his shoulder.

Long-suffering.

A wordless Please.

You suppress a smile.

“Aerion,” you say gently, stepping closer, tone smooth as silk. “Is this truly the best use of your time?”

His gaze sharpens at once.

You once told him privately, that acting like a petulant child in front of his brothers was beneath him.

You had not raised your voice. You had not scolded. You had simply looked disappointed. He has never quite recovered from it.

Now he straightens in his chair.

“I was merely correcting Maekar,” he says coolly.

Maekar exhales slowly through his nose.

“Of course,” you reply. “But correcting someone and baiting them are not the same skill. You are capable of the former.”

There’s a beat.

Baelor watches this exchange like a man witnessing sorcery.

Aerion’s mouth twitches in displeasure. He studies you carefully, as if weighing something.

Then, astonishingly, he stands.

“I find myself suddenly uninterested in this conversation,” he announces.

Maekar closes his eyes briefly in gratitude.

Aerion steps toward you instead, offering his arm with exaggerated courtliness.

“Walk with me.”

You take it.

Behind you, Baelor mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Seven blessings upon Highgarden.”

It becomes a pattern after that.

If Aerion is particularly unbearable, someone sends for you.

If you are already there, Maekar will shift just enough to catch your eye and raise one brow in silent appeal.

Once, Aerion is deliberately prodding Maekar about swordsmanship when Maekar interrupts himself mid-sentence, glances at a passing page, and says flatly:

“Go fetch Lady Tyrell.”

Aerion freezes.

“You would summon my wife like a nursemaid?” he demands.

Maekar meets his eyes.

“Yes.”

Later, in private, he is different. He paces your chambers at first, restless energy simmering beneath his skin.

“They provoke me,” he says, irritated. “They treat me as if I am some unruly boy.”

“You sometimes behave like one. Not because you truly are, but to provoke them,” you reply mildly.

He stops mid-step. Turns. Studies you.

Then, instead of snapping, he crosses the room and drops onto the cushioned bench beside you.

“I do not,” he says, but there is less fire in it.

You arch a brow. He huffs.

After a goblet or two of wine, the sharpness blurs at the edges. His posture relaxes. The anger drains into something warmer, heavier.

He leans closer. Then closer still. Until his forehead rests lightly against your waist where you sit.

It is almost absurdly domestic. If anyone else saw it, they would never believe it. He exhales slowly, arms sliding around you.

“My precious rose,” he murmurs, voice low and slightly slurred. “You are the only one who understands anything.”

Your fingers drift into his hair automatically.

He makes a pleased, low sound at that.

“They are all tedious,” he continues into the fabric of your gown. “They posture. They scold. They misunderstand me entirely.”

“You do give them reasons,” you say gently.

He tilts his head up just enough to look at you, silver hair catching candlelight.

“I do not need to give you reasons,” he says. “You already know.”

“I love you,” he adds suddenly.

It is blunt. Fierce.

Then, because he is Aerion, because he cannot leave sincerity untouched by something unhinged, he adds in a low murmur against your stomach:

“I love the way you feel. And you have the warmest cunt I've ever known.”

You press your palm gently over his mouth before he can spiral further into scandalous detail.

He laughs against your hand. But he does not pull away.

Instead, he nuzzles back into your waist like a spoiled, dangerous creature that has chosen you as its favorite place to rest.

And for a little while, the dragon sleeps.

You never meant to get drunk yourself. You had never allowed yourself. You'd drink a bit and then pretend you were tipsy to stop. But Aerion was away. For once, you didn’t have to measure every word, every breath, every expression.

It had started as one cup of wine, then another, poured a little too generously by a lady-in-waiting who was relieved to see you smile for once. For once, you let yourself loosen.

Your cheeks were warm. Your limbs felt pleasantly heavy. You laughed too loud at something that wasn’t especially funny and had to press your hand to your mouth, startled by your own sound.

It felt dangerous. It felt wonderful. You were halfway through convincing yourself that you deserved it when a servant appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and posture stiff.

“My lady,” he said carefully. “Prince Aerion has returned. He requests your presence in his chambers.”

The warmth in your blood vanished.

Now. Of course it was now.

You considered, just for a moment, sending word that you were unwell. The excuse sat on your tongue, ready.

But you’d already used it up. More than once.

Aerion would not like that pattern.

So you rose, smoothing your skirts, and made your way down the corridors with one hand brushing the stone walls, just in case. You walked slowly, carefully, counting your steps, focusing too hard on placing one foot in front of the other.

Don’t sway. Don’t laugh. Don’t slur.

By the time you reached his door, you had almost convinced yourself you were fine.

Almost.

He was already inside, pacing when you entered. He turned at the sound of the door, eyes snapping to you.

“You’re late,” Aerion said.

“Am I?” you asked, meaning to sound light.

It came out softer than intended.

He narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing, stepping closer.

“Come here.”

You obeyed.

At first, he didn’t notice. Not really. His hands came to your waist, his gaze intent in the familiar way, his attention fixed on what he wanted, not on how steady you were on your feet. He pressed his face to your chest and started tugging at the gown to take it off.

It was only when you spoke again that he paused.

“Aer...” You caught yourself too late. “Aerion.”

The name slid, just a little. He stilled.

Slowly, his eyes lifted to your face, studying you more carefully now.

“You sound strange,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”

“No,” you lied, immediately. Too quickly. Then, after a beat, you added, softer, “Only a little.”

His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“A little,” he repeated. “You choose interesting times to forget yourself, wife.”

You braced for anger.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his grip tightened.

“If you can walk, you can serve your purpose,” Aerion said coolly.

He didn’t send you away.

He took what he came for anyway, uncaring of your flushed face or unsteady breath, the world narrowing to heat and pressure and the familiar, consuming rhythm of being his. He was murmuring something about you not even being able to lift your hips for him as he thrusted into you, but you couldn't find it within yourself to care.

You let yourself go pliant, let the wine blur the edges of it, let the moment carry you through.

By the time it was over, you were boneless, sprawled where he left you, head heavy, thoughts loose and drifting.

He was satisfied enough to stay beside you. That was when he started asking questions, testing ones, as if he realized you'd be easier to toy with in this state.

“Who did you speak to tonight?” Aerion asked, propped on one elbow, eyes intent.

“My ladies,” you said, honestly. “And Lady Fossoway. She complained about her husband again.”

“Did you complain about me?”

You blinked slowly. “No. I said you were…very busy. Important.”

A pause.

“That was wise,” he said.

Another test.

“What did the smallfolk say when you passed the kitchens yesterday?”

“That you’re fearsome,” you answered, faint smile tugging at your mouth. “And that I’m pretty. They like me.”

He huffed softly. “As they should.”

Each answer, by some miracle, landed just right. Not too bold. Not too timid. Not dangerous.

Then he went quiet for a moment.

His fingers traced idly along your arm, slower now, more thoughtful.

“Did you ever dream of this?” Aerion asked suddenly. “When you were a little girl.” His eyes searched your face. “Did you dream of marrying a Targaryen? Of being a dragon’s bride. A princess.”

Normally, you would have known exactly what to say.

Normally, you would have lied beautifully.

But the wine was still warm in your veins. You were tired. You were loose. You were honest in a way you never were with him.

“No,” you said.

He stilled.

“No?” Aerion echoed.

You nodded, very seriously. “I wanted to marry a baker.”

Silence.

A long, baffled silence.

“A…baker,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes,” you said, as if it made perfect sense. “I thought that meant I’d have infinite cakes. Every day. I was very serious about it.”

For a heartbeat, you thought he might be angry.

Instead, he just stared at you.

Then, incredibly, he laughed. Short, sharp, disbelieving.

“A baker,” Aerion said again, shaking his head. “Seven hells. I marry a lady to find out all she wanted is bread.”

You smiled, drowsy and unapologetic. “Cake is very important.”

He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to be offended or entertained.

“…You are a strange woman,” he decided.

But there was amusement in his eyes. Real amusement.

He shook his head once more, then settled back against the pillows, pulling you closer by habit, by claim, by something that resembled affection.

“Sleep,” Aerion ordered, quieter now. “Before you say something that actually gets you in trouble.”

You closed your eyes, smiling faintly to yourself.

For once, drunk enough to tell the truth. For once, lucky enough that the truth was just ridiculous enough to save you.

Homesickness does not suit you.

It lingers in the way you stare too long out the windows toward nothing. In the way your laughter fades too quickly. In how your letters from Highgarden are folded and unfolded until they wrinkle.

Aerion notices. At first, he ignores it. He assumes it will pass. You are his wife. You live in King’s Landing now. That is the way of things.

But then you sigh too often. You grow quieter. You smile less at him. That, more than anything, irritates him.

“You mope,” Aerion says one evening, watching you from across the chamber. “It is tedious.”

You lift your gaze slowly. “I am not moping.”

“You are,” he replies coolly. “You look like a widow at her own funeral.”

You almost laugh at that, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I miss home,” you admit.

The words hang there.

He doesn’t like them.

Home is here. With him. It should be.

But you look smaller when you say it. Softer. Not defiant. Just lonely. It unsettles him in a way he refuses to examine.

“Then go,” he snaps abruptly.

You blink.

“Go to the Reach. Visit your precious roses and your fields and your tedious little songs.”

You stare at him, startled.

“Truly?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes. Go. Be done with this melancholy. I will not have a wife who looks as though she is being slowly poisoned.”

You hesitate. “I would not be long.”

“Good,” he says sharply. “Do not be.”

You promise it will be brief. You kiss him before you leave. He does not realize that the absence will begin the moment the carriage wheels roll out of sight.

The first night without you is…tolerable.

He tells himself so.

The bed is too large, yes, but he stretches across it like a king claiming territory. He tells himself the quiet is welcome. That your soft breathing is not something he has grown used to.

He sleeps poorly.

The second night is worse.

He wakes instinctively, reaching for warmth that is not there. His hand meets empty sheets. He scowls at them like they’ve betrayed him.

By the third night, the irritation has sharpened into something restless and unpleasant.

He prowls his chambers. He snaps at servants. He drinks more than usual. He imagines you laughing in gardens that are not his. Surrounded by people who knew you before him. People who might look at you too long. The thought coils low and ugly in his stomach.

By the fifth night, he is furious. At you. At himself. At the fact that the absence of your body beside him feels like a missing limb.

It is intolerable. So he does what he has done before you.

He goes to Flea Bottom.

The brothel keeper recognizes him instantly. She bows too deeply. Smiles too widely.

“What does my prince desire tonight?”

Aerion does not hesitate.

“A silver-haired girl,” he says coldly. “Valyrian blood. I know you have them.”

She does.

There is always some bastard with pale hair in King’s Landing. A remnant of conquest. A discarded proof of Targaryen appetites.

They bring one to him.

She is pretty enough. Silver hair, wide eyes, trembling hands. She smells heavily of perfume: sweet, cloying, wrong.

He barely looks at her face.

He takes what he wants. Or tries to. Something is off.

Her noises are too loud. Too practiced. Too eager. They grate on his nerves.

“Quiet,” he snaps.

She squeaks and apologizes.

Her hands cling too tightly. Her scent suffocates him.

It is not right. She does not feel right.

He withdraws abruptly, disgusted.

“Out,” he says.

She scurries away.

He sits there, breathing hard, cock aching, irritation rising like bile.

This has never happened before. He is Aerion Targaryen. He does not fail to perform.

He tries again with another girl. Still nothing. He feels nothing but annoyance. He leaves in a foul mood.

The next night, he returns. This time he does not ask for silver hair. He searches. He studies faces in dim candlelight.

Too tall. Too loud. Too bold. Too broken. Too knowing.

He finally finds one newly brought in, quiet, uncertain. From behind, in shadow, she resembles you enough.

She doesn’t know much. That suits him. You hadn’t either.

He positions her carefully, deliberately, as if angles alone might conjure something.

He closes his eyes. His thrusts are shallow. He tries to imagine your scent.

You always smell faintly of flowers, but never like roses. Something subtler. Something that lingers at the back of his throat.

He imagines your voice. Your small gasps. The way you tense, then melt. His pace increases.

But when he opens his eyes, it is not you.

It is a stranger. And again, he cannot finish. There's only frustration. Only a growing, humiliating fury.

He pulls away sharply.

The girl looks confused.

He barely tosses a silver coin to the brothel keeper on his way out.

“Your girls are either too broken in,” he mutters coldly, “or not broken in enough.”

He stalks back through the streets, seething. Because now he understands. It is not about silver hair. It is not about inexperience. It is not about resemblance.

It is you. It is the fact that you are his. That no one else has touched you. That he is the only one who knows the shape of you. The only one who has ever had you. The thought hits him like a blade through pride.

He prefers you.

Not merely because you are his wife. But because you are untouched by anyone but him. Because your body answers to him alone.

The realization is infuriating. And undeniable. He returns to his chambers in a temper. The bed is still too large.

Your pillow still carries the faintest trace of your scent.

He grabs it without thinking. Presses his face into it. Breathes in.

There it is.

Home.

Without allowing himself to examine the desperation of it, he drags the pillow beneath him and finally, finally, finds the release that eluded him all night.

Afterward, he collapses, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. The pillow is stained.

You have done something to him.

You must have.

When you return from the Reach, you look brighter. Healthier. There is color in your cheeks again.

You greet him warmly, stepping into his arms without hesitation.

He grips you too tightly.

You laugh softly. “I was not gone that long.”

“Long enough,” he mutters darkly.

That night, when the doors close and you begin to speak of Highgarden, of your cousins, of the gardens in bloom...

He cuts you off abruptly.

“You are a witch,” he declares.

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve broken something.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Broken what?”

He steps closer, eyes sharp, accusatory.

“My cock,” he says bluntly.

You stare at him, completely lost.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You leave for a handful of nights,” he continues, agitated, “and suddenly nothing works properly. It is unnatural.”

You gape at him.

“I do not...”

“You have bewitched me,” he insists. “There is no other explanation. Did you slip something in my wine?”

You try very hard not to laugh.

“I assure you,” you say carefully, “I possess no such powers.”

He narrows his eyes at you, unconvinced.

Then, without another word, he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bed.

“Aerion...”

“You were gone,” he says, voice low and heated. “You will remedy that.”

You blink at him, still bewildered.

He does not explain. He does not confess. He doesn't tell you where he had been.

He simply drags you down with him, urgency amplified by days of frustration and wounded pride.

And when he finally proves to himself that nothing is broken, when your body responds exactly the way it always has, when he finds exactly what he had been missing, when he groans at the familiar taste of your skin and cums with no difficulty, he exhales in blatant relief.

Afterward, he presses his face into your neck, breathing you in like something sacred.

“You are not permitted to leave again,” he mutters.

He does not tell you where he went. He does not tell you what he failed to do. His pride would not allow him.

He simply holds you closer, possessive and vindicated, as if daring the world to try separating you again.

And the dragon, once deprived of his rose, does not care to sleep alone again.

He is still half-draped over you. Still flushed. Still breathing hard. Still in that dangerous, heightened state where pride and pleasure blur together.

Your fingers drift up into his hair almost absently.

You’ve learned the exact spot at the back of his head, where the tension gathers. The place he pretends not to care about. The place that makes his eyes go half-lidded when you scratch just right.

You rake your nails lightly over his scalp.

“My dragon.”

He inhales sharply.

It is subtle but you feel it. The way his body tightens again against you. The way his grip on your waist falters for half a second before tightening twice as hard. His cock lengthens and twitches against your thigh.

Whores in Flea Bottom say it differently.

They lean into the word 'dragon' like it’s a performance. A crown they’re polishing. Something to inflate him.

You don’t. You emphasize the other word. 'My'.

As if him being a dragon is simply a fact. As if the extraordinary thing is that he belongs to you.

It almost undoes him.

He presses his face into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to hide the reaction, which only makes it more obvious. His hand clenches in the sheets beside your hip. He swears under his breath, breath hot against your skin.

“I was going to punish you,” he says suddenly, as if remembering himself. “For leaving.”

You blink at him mildly.

“You told me to go.”

“That is irrelevant,” he replies flatly.

Of course it is.

He traces his thumb along your jaw, gaze narrowing.

“I thought about taking out my knife,” he continues, voice turning dark, theatrical in the way he sometimes gets when he wants to shock you. “Fuck you with its handle. Bleed you a little. Thought I might teach you not to abandon me again.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve learned better.

Instead, you tilt your head and say sweetly, “How merciful of you to reconsider.”

He stares at you. Then laughs, sudden and bright.

“You are either very brave,” he says, “or very clever.”

“Both,” you reply calmly.

His grin widens.

“Perhaps I am feeling generous,” he decides. “You have returned. You remembered your place.”

You lift your brows slightly at that but say nothing.

He slides his fingers along your lips instead, testing, playful in that sharp-edged way of his.

“Prove your gratitude,” he murmurs.

You know exactly what he wants.

You part your lips without hesitation, gaze steady on his.

He watches you like a hawk. He draws circles your tongue, then pushes his fingers a little too far, testing your composure.

You bite him.

He jerks back with a startled laugh.

“You little rose,” he says, shaking his hand slightly, more amused than hurt. “You dare.”

“You shoved,” you reply, smiling lazily.

He studies your face for a long moment.

Then, suddenly, he smirks.

“Tell me,” Aerion murmurs, brushing his thumb along your lower lip, “have you ever wanted to ride a dragon?”

You blink at him, confused.

“I beg your pardon?”

His grin widens, dangerous, playful.

“Up,” he says, shifting back onto his heels and tugging you gently with him.

You go willingly, though uncertain, heart pounding as he guides you to straddle him. He settles back against the pillows like a king granting audience, hands sliding to your hips.

You freeze there, perched above him, unsure what to do with your hands, your legs, your entire body.

He tilts his head, silver hair spilling across the sheets.

“Is my rose afraid?” he croons mockingly. “You climb into a dragon’s lap and do not know how to sit?”

You flush.

“I don’t...”

“Of course you don’t,” he interrupts softly. “You’ve always lain there so prettily. Letting me do the work.”

He squeezes your hips.

“I’ll teach you,” he murmurs. “My pure little rosebud needs to know how to satisfy her husband.”

Your breath catches.

His hands begin to guide you, slow, purposeful movements, coaxing rather than commanding. At first you move awkwardly, uncertain, stiff with self-consciousness.

He chuckles.

“Relax,” he says. “You’re not made of glass.”

You glare faintly at him. He likes that.

“Better,” he murmurs when you shift again, finding a rhythm. His hands loosen slightly, giving you space.

Something changes then.

For the first time, you are not waiting. Not anticipating. Not lying still and hoping he will notice where you need him most.

You can feel the difference in control, subtle, intoxicating.

You adjust experimentally.

He inhales sharply. His fingers tighten.

“Careful,” he warns, though his voice is thick with approval.

You tilt your chin up just slightly and try again.

This time, he lets you.

You imitate the movements he taught you, then alter them, chasing the sensation that sparks lower in your belly. Testing what pleases you instead of waiting to be granted it.

His gaze darkens.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

There’s pride there. Possessive and unmistakable.

When you find a rhythm that makes you gasp softly, he laughs low in his throat.

“My proper little whore,” he says, pleased rather than cruel. “Learning so quickly.”

You should bristle at that word.

Instead, heat floods your cheeks, and you move again.

He leans back further, watching you like you’re a performance crafted solely for him. His hands drift to your waist but do not control you, not yet.

It changes something between you. After that night, something shifts in private.

You are no longer content to wait.

He has never been restrained, Aerion’s hands were never idle to begin with, but now, sometimes, you approach him first.

One evening, when he sits reviewing letters, you step between his knees without a word.

He glances up.

“Bold,” he observes.

You don’t answer. You simply climb into his lap.

He watches you settle there, skirts rustling, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

“You’ve grown ambitious,” he murmurs.

“Have I?” you reply softly.

His grin is slow and approving. He does not stop you.

When you move against him, unhurried, he exhales through his nose like a man trying to maintain composure.

“You are drawing this out on purpose,” he accuses.

You give him an innocent look.

He lasts longer than most men would. But not forever.

Eventually, his patience snaps in that familiar way. His hands grip your hips and he lifts you slightly, setting the pace himself, snapping his hips up into you.

“I taught you,” he reminds you darkly. “Do not think you outrank the dragon.”

You laugh softly but don’t retreat. You’ve learned something important: he likes being wanted almost as much as he likes being worshipped. And when you lean in, brush your lips against his ear, and whisper, “My dragon,” in that same tone that makes him shudder, he is utterly, completely yours in that moment, and he doesn’t mind at all.

a/n: These scenerios wouldn't leave my head hehe. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist.

Growing Familiar

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong and Married Life, but set before Deep in the Meadow. Can be read as a oneshot.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle, manipulation, emotional control, breeding.

a/n: I had drabbles about this question and didn't know where to place it in the timeline. This is somewhere before the Ashford tourney, so before she becomes with child. Enjoy fluff and smut because y'all are not ready for what happens after the Ashford tourney with her pregnancy! I don't think anyone will guess correctly but I'd still love to hear your predictions!

When Aerion and Maekar left, the Red Keep breathed easier.

Baelor smiled more. Valarr laughed openly. Daeron sang without being glared into silence. And little Aegon followed everyone around like a puppy finally allowed out of a kennel.

You noticed it within the first day. The halls felt lighter, voices warmer. Even the meals were quieter, less edge, less anticipation of a sharp remark cutting through conversation.

They were kinder to you, too. Not that they had ever been cruel. But now there was a softness to the way they addressed you, a careful gentleness that made you feel strangely fragile.

Baelor asked after your comfort with almost excessive concern. Valarr made sure you had the best seat near the fire. Daeron kept you entertained with ridiculous stories that made you laugh harder than you expected. Aegon, still small, still earnest, crawled into your lap without hesitation, as if sensing you were safe.

It didn’t take long for you to understand why. They pitied you.

The realization came one afternoon when Baelor watched you quietly over tea.

“You are…holding up well,” he said carefully.

You blinked. “Holding up?”

He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Marriage can be an adjustment.”

You almost laughed.

Valarr, overhearing, added softly, “You deserve peace when you can find it.”

The sympathy in his voice was impossible to miss. You wondered what they imagined your life with Aerion to be. Torture, perhaps. Unrelenting chaos. Fear.

They never saw the private moments. You didn’t correct them. It was easier not to. You walked the gardens with Aegon holding your hand. You listened to Daeron’s songs. And, if you were honest, you enjoyed the peace.

But when word came that Aerion had returned…your heart lifted anyway. You tried not to show it.

They arrived in a rush of noise: hooves, shouted commands, the clatter of armor. The courtyard filled with movement.

You stepped forward instinctively, skirts gathered, eyes searching.

Aerion dismounted first. Windblown. Alive with restless energy.

His gaze found you instantly. And despite yourself, you smiled.

Behind you, Baelor and Valarr exchanged baffled looks. Daeron blinked like he’d misread something.

Aegon whispered loudly, “Why is she happy?”

You ignored them.

Aerion strode toward you and caught your hands as if claiming you back from the world.

“My pretty rose,” he said, pleased. “You didn’t forget me.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “I heard you were returning today.”

He smirked. “Of course you did.”

Behind him, Maekar sighed the deep sigh of a man exhausted. The others watched the exchange like it made no sense at all.

You could practically hear the question in their silence: How is she happy to see him?

That evening, after the welcome feast, Aerion pulled you away the moment propriety allowed.

His chambers felt smaller after weeks apart. He paced as he talked, animated, triumphant.

“You should have seen it,” he said, gesturing wildly. “The puny lord tried to claim he could outdrink me. Fool.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, smiling faintly. He boasted about skirmishes, about horses, about arguments he had won and men he had humiliated. Eventually, he stopped pacing and turned toward you, grinning.

“You missed me terribly,” he concluded.

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I suppose the castle was quieter.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. You laughed softly and reached for him.

“I did miss you.”

His expression brightened instantly. “I knew it.”

He dropped several bundles onto the bed beside you: silks, jewelry, small carved trinkets.

“I brought gifts,” he announced proudly. “Everyone else was bringing things back for their wives. I would not be seen returning empty-handed.”

You touched the fabric, surprised by the care in the choices. “These are beautiful.”

He shrugged, pretending indifference, though the satisfaction in his eyes betrayed him. “I have good taste.”

Later, when the candles burned low, the distance between you vanished completely. He clung to you with an urgency, having become expert by now at unlacing your dresses, never one for patience. He didn't tease for long, only rubbed and flicked your pearl, holding your waist with one hand to keep you still as you squirmed and jolted in response. Once he deemed you wet enough for his satisfaction, he pulled off his breeches and sheathed himself inside you.

He didn't last long, seemingly pent up. He finished twice inside you before deciding to be gracious enough to pay more attention to you and helped you reach your peak, curling his fingers as you liked, pushing his spend back inside you with his movements.

Aerion had never, not once, told you to be quiet when he was fucking you, enjoying your desperate moans and whimpers, even crooning mockingly to you as you whined at the overstimulation once you came down from the height of pleasure.

When he finally settled, bare-chested and heavy with sleepiness, he draped himself over you. He reminded you of a large, possessive cat more than a dragon in that moment.

His voice dropped to a soft murmur against your shoulder.

“I told them about you,” he said drowsily. “Said my wife is prettier than all of theirs.”

You smiled into his hair.

“Did you?”

“They were jealous,” he mumbled with satisfaction.

He pressed a lazy kiss against your skin.

“My pretty rosebud,” he murmured. “You belong with me. Everyone knows it.”

The words were half nonsense, half sincerity. He rambled on, unhinged little declarations that made no logical sense but sounded deeply romantic to him alone.

“You’d hate traveling,” he said sleepily. “Too dusty. Better here. Waiting for me.”

You hummed in agreement. His arms tightened.

“I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the honesty slipping out only when exhaustion softened him.

There it was. The real thing. You stroked his hair gently.

“I know.”

He sighed, content.

Night in the Red Keep was never truly quiet.

There was always something, distant footsteps in corridors, the low murmur of guards changing shifts, wind sighing against stone, but the sounds were far away enough to blur into background noise.

You should have been asleep. Instead, you drifted in and out of uneasy dreams.

Fragments chased you: Highgarden paths twisting into endless hallways, dragon shadows passing overhead, voices that spoke your name but never quite sounded right. Each time you slipped deeper, something sharp would pull you back, a sense of falling, of losing something you couldn’t name.

You turned again, tangling the sheets around your legs.

Beside you, Aerion made a faint sound of annoyance.

You froze, hoping he would settle again.

He didn’t. His arm moved abruptly, sliding around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. The heat of him surrounded you instantly.

“Stop wriggling,” he muttered into your hair, voice thick with sleep. “You’re shaking the bed.”

“Pardon,” you whispered automatically.

He only grunted, tightening his hold.

You tried to relax. Tried to let the steady weight of him anchor you. But your heart still beat too fast, your breathing uneven, the edge of the dream clinging stubbornly to your skin.

You shifted again without meaning to.

Aerion sighed dramatically.

“What is wrong with you tonight?” he murmured.

“Nothing,” you said softly.

He didn’t believe you. You could feel it in the way he went still, listening.

You didn’t tell him. You wouldn’t have known how. Aerion was many things but comfort was not a language he spoke easily. You had learned long ago not to expect softness from him when you were fragile.

So you kept quiet.

Yet, he noticed anyway. His hand slid along your arm, slow, absent strokes over your skin, as if testing whether you would settle. The gesture was clumsy, not quite gentle, driven more by instinct than intention.

He liked touching you. That much was obvious. But he wasn't much for affection that didn't lead to anything more heated. His palm drifted lower, resting on your hip, thumb drawing slow circles.

When you still didn’t quiet, he huffed softly and gave your backside a firm, rhythmic pat, almost absentmindedly.

You blinked, startled.

He did it again. It reminded you absurdly of the way someone might soothe a nervous horse.

“You’re fussy,” he muttered. “Lie still.”

You bit back a laugh.

He kept stroking your skin, long lazy passes that were probably more for his own enjoyment than your comfort, but the warmth helped anyway. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly.

“There,” he murmured, half asleep. “Better.”

You hesitated.

“Aerion…”

“Hm?”

“I keep having bad dreams.”

The admission slipped out before you could stop it.

He was quiet for a moment. You braced for impatience. For dismissal. Instead, his arm tightened around you.

“Well,” he said finally, voice low and rough with sleep, “stop it.”

You almost snorted.

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

He made a small, displeased sound.

“You are my wife,” he said firmly, as if this explained everything. “Nothing touches you without going through me first. So stop being afraid.”

The words were awkward. Blunt. Not comforting in the way another man might have tried to be.

Yet somehow they were. Because he sounded so certain. As if it were simply fact.

His fingers resumed their slow path along your arm. Another absent pat to your hip.

You could feel him fighting sleep, stubbornly staying awake because you weren’t resting yet.

“You worry too much,” he murmured. “No harm will come to you.”

You exhaled slowly, letting your eyes close again. For a moment, it worked.

Then another restless shiver ran through you.

Aerion groaned softly.

“That’s enough,” he muttered.

Before you could ask what he meant, he rolled you over beneath him, pinning you gently against the mattress. His hair fell forward, silver strands brushing your cheek.

You blinked up at him, startled.

“Aerion...”

“You’re not sleeping,” he said simply. “So I will fix it.”

His mouth brushed your temple, not quite a kiss, more a press of reassurance.

He hitched your legs over his waist. His hips moved with familiar confidence, not hurried. The rhythm was steady, repetitive, drawing the tension from your body piece by piece until your thoughts blurred and softened.

Your breathing slowed. Your limbs grew heavy. The nightmare haze melted into warmth and exhaustion.

By the time he settled back beside you, you were already drifting, eyelids heavy, body loose against his.

He pulled you close again automatically, his chin resting near the top of your head.

“There,” he murmured, satisfied. “Quiet now.”

His hand found your waist again, holding you in place as sleep finally claimed you.

a/n: Donate on Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.

a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because it's filthy smut.

You had been taught since girlhood that a Tyrell maiden did not survive by strength of arms, but by knowing when to bend, when to bloom, and when to let thorns show only in shadow. Still, no amount of lessons in smiles and silks had prepared you for being traded like a piece on a Cyvasse board to a prince whose name was spoken in half-whispers and sharp warnings.

Aerion Targaryen.

Brightflame.

Mad.

The words followed him like smoke.

In Highgarden, your protests were received with gentle hands and firm voices. Your father spoke of duty. Your mother spoke of alliance. Your grandmother spoke of survival and said that roses learned early how to grow around stone.

“He is Maekar’s problem no longer,” one of your uncles said with forced humor. “He will be yours.”

Yours.

You had wanted Valarr. Everyone knew it, though no one had said it aloud. Gentle, courteous Valarr, who bowed and smiled and spoke kindly to squires and smallfolk alike. But Valarr was too valuable. He'd probably be betrothed to a Baratheon. An Arryn. A better match. You were to be used to bind a wound no one else wished to touch.

So you went to King’s Landing with your head high and your stomach knotted, wearing green and gold, a rose thrown into dragon fire.

The Red Keep smelled of salt and old stone and power. You were brought before Prince Maekar first, a man carved from stern lines and disappointment. His eyes lingered on you only briefly before flicking away, as if already weary.

“You ought to be patient,” he told you, not unkindly, but without warmth. “My son is…difficult.”

You almost laughed at the understatement.

Aerion did not come to that first meeting. You were told he was training. Or breaking something. Or both.

When you were finally presented to him, it was in a long gallery lined with banners and the bleached skulls of dragons, vast and terrible and beautiful in their dead silence.

He did not bow.

He looked you over the way one might inspect a horse.

“So,” he said, voice sharp and bright as a drawn blade. “This is the rose they mean to bind me with.”

You curtsied, low and perfect, as if he were already your king.

“My prince,” you said softly. “I am honored to meet you.”

His mouth twisted. “Honored,” he repeated. “Do you know what I am?”

“A Targaryen,” you said, lifting your gaze just enough. “Of the blood of the dragon.”

That pleased him, you saw it instantly. The smallest shift in his eyes, the straightening of his shoulders.

“And you?” he pressed. “A pretty little Reach flower. Soft. Common.”

You smiled anyway. “Roses have thorns, my prince.”

He barked out a short, humorless laugh. “You will learn your place quickly. I will give you children. That is your purpose. I suppose you're pretty enough, I can imagine enjoying bedding you. But they will not be brown-haired little gardeners. I will not have it.”

You did not flinch.

“I would never wish to disappoint you,” you said. “Valyrian blood is…otherworldly. To think that my body might carry even a spark of it is more than I ever dreamed.”

That was a gamble.

It paid off.

His eyes sharpened with interest. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“Of dragons,” you said. “Of Old Valyria. Of fire made flesh.”

He turned then, abruptly, stalking down the gallery. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are to bear dragon blood, you should know what it comes from.”

He dragged you from skull to skull, gesturing with restless energy. Balerion’s massive jaws. Vhagar’s curved horns. He spoke of conquest and fear and how men had once trembled at the sound of wings.

“They forget now,” Aerion snarled. “They look at us and see only men. They should see gods.”

“They should,” you agreed quietly. “It must be…infuriating. To be born to such legacy, only to watch it fade.”

He stopped and turned to you, studying you anew. “You understand.”

You tilted your head. “I try.”

From that moment, he talked more. Too much. About dragons. About bloodlines. About how his father did not see him, how the realm did not respect him. You listened. You nodded. You validated every grievance, every simmering fury, as if they were reasonable and righteous.

When he spoke of how he had wanted a sister-wife, you did not recoil. You said, gently, “It is a tragedy, to be denied purity by fate. But perhaps the gods mean to test you. To see if your fire can burn even through lesser blood.”

He liked that.

When he spat about small lords growing bold, you said, “They forget who conquered them. It is your right to remind them.”

He liked that too.

He informed you, bluntly, that he would not be gentle on your wedding night.

You lowered your lashes and said, “Dragons are not gentle creatures.”

The courtship, if it could be called that, was a strange dance. Aerion did not bring you flowers. He did not write poetry. He prowled around you. But you made it into something else.

You let him drag you through the gardens, your skirts gathered in your hands as you laughed and ran, letting him chase you like a predator playing with prey. When he caught you, he would grip your arms, breath hot, eyes bright, and you would laugh into his shoulder and murmur, “The dragon has captured me.”

He liked that more than he should have.

He liked when you watched him train. You sat in the shade with your ladies, clapping softly when he struck true, praising his strength, his form, his speed. Other knights noticed. So did he.

He liked that smallfolk began to recognize you. You made certain of that.

You had bread and coins handed out. You stopped to listen to old women’s stories. You let children touch the embroidery on your sleeves. Soon, whispers followed you through Flea Bottom and the markets.

The Golden Rose. The Dragon’s Lady.

When people spotted you, they bowed and blessed you, and Aerion noticed.

“They love you,” he said one evening, watching a group of women murmur prayers as you passed.

“They love House Targaryen,” you corrected lightly. “Through me.”

That pleased him immensely.

You prayed in the Sept, if only briefly. You never tried to bring him. You knew better. Instead, you let word spread that you were devout enough to soothe the Faith, but not so devout as to shame a dragon prince.

You made friends with your ladies, learning what they heard, what they whispered. You learned which courtiers feared Aerion, which resented him, which flattered him. You stored it all away like weapons hidden in silk.

In private, he began to call you his little rose. At first it was mocking. Then it was possessive. Then it was almost fond.

“You will give me sons,” he told you one night, pacing as you sat at a small table with embroidery you did not truly need. “Strong ones. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. The gods favor giving your line sons, don't they?.”

“So they say of Tyrell women,” you replied smoothly. “We give the realm sons. They grow strong and healthy.”

He stopped pacing. “Good.”

He stood too close then, invading your space, eyes scanning your face, your mouth, your throat, your waist, your hips.

“At least you are well-proportioned,” he added bluntly. “Your body has merits.”

You smiled sweetly, as if it were a compliment. “I am glad to be of use to you, my prince.”

He did not touch you then but his eyes lingered.

At night, alone in your chambers, fear crept in. You had heard enough. You knew enough. Aerion was cruel. He was unpredictable. You suspected he would not be gentle. You suspected he would not be kind.

So you prepared in the only way you could. You made yourself indispensable.

You became the one person who did not flinch from his talk of dragons and fire. The one who agreed that the world had wronged him. The one who looked at him not with fear, but with admiration carefully measured. You laughed at his jokes, even when they were sharp. You praised his lineage, even when it edged into madness. You let him feel powerful in your presence.

And slowly, dangerously, he began to seek it.

He would send for you. He would ask where you were. He would grow irritated if you were with your ladies too long.

“My rose,” he said one afternoon, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. “Come walk with me.”

You rose at once. “Of course.”

As you walked, he spoke of the wedding. Of the feast. Of the bedding.

“They will cheer,” he said. “They will watch. They will see that the dragon has taken his bride.”

Your heart leapt to your throat, but you kept your smile soft. “It will be a night to remember.”

He glanced at you sideways, eyes dark. “For you.”

You did not look away. “I hope to make you proud, my prince.”

Something in his expression shifted. Not softened but sharpened with intent. Ownership. You saw it. You felt it. You also knew you had no choice now but to keep playing.

Three moons later...

It is the hour of the owl. The fire has burned low. His chambers smell of burnt wood, iron and wine.

Cold is beginning to creep in. Or perhaps it is merely your nerves.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the low light. He's downing another goblet of wine. You had forgotten to keep count. Foolish of you, usually you were aware when to coax it out of his hand.

“Ten days,” he says, not looking at you.

You still.

“Ten days late,” Aerion continues, voice controlled in that way that means it isn’t. “You let me think.” His hand tightens slowly into a fist at his side. “You let me hope.”

You swallow. “My prince...”

“Don’t.” He turns then, violet eyes bright with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it. “For ten days, I counted. I imagined. I told myself it had finally taken.” His mouth twists. “I thought you were carrying my child.”

The words land heavy between you.

“And now,” he goes on, stepping closer, each stride eating away at your space, “your moon blood comes. As if to mock me.”

You keep your face soft. Careful. “These things...”

“Spare me septa nonsense,” Aerion snaps. “We have been wed for months. You promised me an heir, precious rose.” The endearment is sharp now, almost cruel. “You swore Tyrell women give sons easily.”

His gaze drags over you, taking in your face, your body beneath thin silk. Ownership. Disappointment. Hunger, all tangled together.

“I wanted to bury my head in your lap tonight,” he admits bitterly. “Let you stroke my hair and tell me it will come, like you always do.” His jaw tightens. “But I am tired of being soothed, wife.”

Wife.

The word is not gentle.

“I am tired of waiting.”

His hand comes up, catching your jaw, tilting your face up. His grip is warm, firm, inescapable.

“You will make it right,” he says quietly. “You will remind my body, and yours, what it is for.”

You don’t pull away.

You never do.

“My precious rose,” he murmurs, and then his voice hardens. “My wife. My only whore.”

The words hit different when he’s like this. When frustration twists them into something darker.

“You were late,” he says again, quieter now. “You let me believe. I was patient as a priest. I was faithful as a knight. I didn't let another get my cock wet, not wanting to waste a single drop of my seed.”

“I didn’t mean to...”

He cuts you off by unlacing your robe, fingers rough, impatient. Silk slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet.

“On the bed,” he orders. “On your back.”

You obey.

He strips quickly, efficiently. When he’s naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, anger and need driving it.

He kneels between your legs, grips your thighs, spreads you wide. His gaze is unflinching.

“This is how you make it right,” Aerion says. “You take me. You take all of me. Until your body remembers its purpose.”

His fingers stroke through you without ceremony. One finger, then two, stretching you open. You gasp despite yourself, hips shifting, seeking friction.

He watches your face closely, smirking faintly when you can’t stop the sound that escapes you.

He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, tasting you while holding your gaze.

Then he positions himself, hooking your legs up, folding you open.

He pushes inside you in one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out, the stretch sharp, the depth overwhelming. He doesn’t pause. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The wet, obscene sounds fill the chamber as he uses you, thrust after thrust, deep and deliberate.

“You’ll take it,” he grits. “You’ll take my seed until it takes root. I will not be denied.”

Your body betrays you, growing slick, opening for him. The pressure builds low in your belly, tight and relentless.

His hand slides between you, thumb finding your most sensitive place, circling rough and insistent.

“Come,” he commands. “If you’re going to fail me, you’ll at least come properly.”

Your body obeys. The release tears through you, clenching around him, and he hisses, thrusts turning harder, erratic.

He buries himself deep and stills, spilling inside you with a guttural sound.

He doesn’t pull out.

He keeps you there, shifting you onto your side, holding you tight.

“Don’t move,” he orders. “Every drop stays where it belongs.”

His hand splays over your lower belly.

“We will try again,” he says. “And again. Until it works.”

He hardens again sooner than you expect.

“Stay laying on your back, you spoiled, soft petal. You can't even lean on your arms and knees long enough for me,” he murmurs darkly.

He drags your hips up and enters you again, deeper, rougher. Your cry is muffled by his fingers in your mouth as he grips your hip with the other. You bite down. He never minds.

“You will carry my child,” he pants. “I don’t care what your blood did tonight. Your body will learn.”

Then he is filling you again, fingers shoving his spend back inside you when it spills.

“Can’t waste it,” he growls. “Not when you’ve already disappointed me once.”

He props your hips up afterward, keeps you still, keeps you full, watching you like you’re something fragile and infuriating all at once.

“Stay,” he orders. “Let it settle.”

Aerion lies on his side behind you, his chest pressed to your back. His arm is draped over your waist, hand warm and heavy against your belly. His breathing is slower now, deeper, the edge taken off by exhaustion.

His palm moves in slow, absent circles over your stomach, almost tender. Almost thoughtful. As if he’s trying to imagine something there by force of will alone.

“There,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where my heirs will grow. Inside my precious rose.” His thumb presses gently. “You feel warm there. Like fire under skin.”

You say nothing.

His nose brushes your hair. He exhales against your temple, eyes already heavy.

“They’ll have my hair,” he goes on quietly. “My eyes. They’ll be unmistakable. No one will ever doubt them.” His fingers spread. “And you’ll be their mother. You. Not some courtly fool, not some empty pretty thing. You’re the only one worthy to raise my children.”

It almost sounds like love. Almost.

“I won’t abandon you,” Aerion says, sudden intensity sharpening his voice even through the sleepiness. “Even if your body fails me. Even if you never give me what you promised.” His hand tightens briefly on your waist. “I won’t take another wife. I won’t replace you. You’re mine.”

His lips brush your knuckles when you shift your hand near his.

“I would keep you,” he continues, words drifting, unguarded in a way they never are in daylight. “I would keep you with me, always. You’d raise my children. You’d teach them. They’d call you mother.”

Then, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, he adds:

“If you can’t give them to me yourself…I’ll take a whore with Valyrian blood. Some bastard girl from Flea Bottom. Silver hair, violet eyes. They’re there, if you know where to look.”

Your stomach turns, but you keep your face still in the dark.

“I’d take her somewhere quiet,” Aerion murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Somewhere no one watches. I’d breed her. Just long enough to get what I need. I'd have to send you away somewhere as well, around that time.”

His thumb resumes its slow, idle stroke over your belly.

“And when she gives me a child,” he says, voice soft, almost fond, “I’ll kill her.”

The words settle into the room like ash.

“Then you and I will raise the child as our own,” he finishes. “No one will ever question it. No one will ever know.”

Your face twists in a way you’re grateful he can’t see in the darkness.

Aerion brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, gentle as a lover, tender as a husband.

“So,” he murmurs against your skin, “give me an heir, petal. Save us both the trouble.”

His grip loosens slightly, fatigue finally winning.

“Sleep now,” he says. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll start again in the morning.”

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

masterlist

PART I. 5.5k words

The dream was always the same: a blur of silver-gold hair and the scent of strong, spiced wine.

In the darkness of the nightmare, Aerion’s face was a masterpiece of Valyrian cruelty. He was eerily handsome, his violet eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire. You felt the suffocating weight of him, and then the sharp, rythmic throb of pain that made the world tilt. Your lungs seized; you began to hyperventilate, the air in the room turning to ash.

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

married to the most volatile man in the Seven Kingdoms, you have committed the ultimate sin: being too human for a dragon’s blood. now, you must find a way to be useful to the cruel prince, or risk a war that will leave the kingdom in ashes.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

taglist. OPEN (comment on this post!)

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART V

disgusting fratjo headcanons (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

fratjo does NOT follow you on instagram, but he has your username and follower count memorized. 

fratjo is not afraid to fuck you in the corner of an ongoing sweaty party. 

fratjo records you while he’s deep inside of you and holds the recordings over your head. 

fratjo ghosts you for a week and then texts you, telling you to send a video of you playing with your pussy.

fratjo would rather have you suck him off than eat you out. 

fratjo is the first guy to ever teach you how to suck dick and played with your hair the entire time. 

fratjo who spits in your mouth and on your face even outside of sex. 

fratjo who has a soft spot for you and lights up whenever you walk into the room. 

fratjo who gets super offended when a brother ranks you low when playing “who’s the hottest?”

fratjo is super intelligent but can’t be bothered to actually do any of his assignments. 

fratjo who gets off on watching you and his best friend suguru hook up. 

fratjo who constantly gropes you in public. 

fratjo who does your homework for you if you suck his dick under the desk. 

fratjo who does shots from your mouth and/or bellybutton.

fratjo who purposefully leaves his door cracked so anyone can walk in while you’re in doggy. 

fratjo tried to get you blacklisted from the fraternity’s parties because you fucked his brother and he got jealous.

fratjo who accidentally caught feelings for you and is irritated that he did. 

fratjo has a tongue piercing and two jacob's ladders.