a

“I do not care if you have to search for him in every inn in Flea Bottom or if you have to scour the entirety of the Street of Silk, find him, for fuck’s sake”. 

The prince storms through the never-ending halls, yelling commands to the knights of the Kingsguard to find his son at once. Of course he had to be missing today of all days, mere hours away from their departure from King’s Landing to Storm's End. 

In Daeron's defense, he had not failed to communicate his wishes beforehand — to stay at the keep and drink his nights away, that is. The young prince was nowhere to be found in the keep, the guards told Prince Maekar once they were sent to fetch him, only to find his chambers devoid of life, with three empty bottles of Dornish red lying carelessly by his unmade bed.

These are not my usual dreams. 

Daeron thinks to himself as he lies unconscious on the wooden table of an inn he frequents, confused once again by the contents of his usually tortured mind. There is no fire now. In its place, pouring rain and thick fog. He feels his cloak weighed down by the rainwater he’s currently drenched in. He does not know where he is, though the place is familiar, and he finds himself looking around for something. Anything. 

Everywhere he looks seems the same: black rock, covering anything and everything. Focused on the bleak landscape, the prince fails to notice the rainwater beginning to turn blood red, and by the time he does, it seems to be entirely too late. The water continues to rise at an alarming pace, surrounding him completely. There’s nowhere to go. Daeron knows that looking around for a way out, will once again prove fruitless, but he does so anyways and —

Was that here before?

A stag. A dark brown stag with fierce eyes, covered in blood. Pretty, Daeron thinks. It makes its way over to him through the fog, and the prince squints to see it better, shielding his face with his hands from the blood rain. It’s coming closer and as it opens its mouth–

“My prince”.

He wakes up with a gasp.

“My prince, your father is calling for you. We are to take you to the Keep at once”. He looks around in a daze as he spots the two kingsguard, then he notices his wet strands of hair and his now completely drenched cloak. 

“Did you throw water on me?” He asks as he sits up and his mouth hanging slightly opened in offense, entirely baffled at the new situation he finds himself in. The kingsguard share a look, though they do not answer. He goes with them anyways. He’ll get an earful from his father either way— probably more than an earful. 

Traveling along the Kingsroad does not make a trip that takes nearly half a moon’s turn any easier, especially when it’s on horseback. His father and his uncle, Prince Baelor, insisted that no wheelhouses were needed for such a short journey, as the princes were old and experienced enough to travel on their own horses, even his youngest brother, Prince Aegon. 

It did not stop them from complaining, though. Aerion had grown increasingly more irritated as the days passed and they had yet to reach the Stormlands, while Daeron was barely keeping himself upright on horseback, the wine leaving him uncoordinated but pliant enough to not enrage their father further. Egg’s excitement for adventure had faded after the first three days or so, as he now pestered their father every few hours, asking if they were there yet. 

“You will know we are there when you are able to see the castle, boy. ¿Do you see the castle?” Prince Maekar answered with a deep scowl on his face. 

“No”, said the young prince. 

“Then we are not there yet”, Maekar answered, raising his voice slightly as his patience withered. He would need to replenish his energies somehow, he had the feeling he would need it. Especially during the entirety of their stay at Storm’s End, and everything that entailed.

King Daeron II thought wise for the royal family to further strengthen its alliance to House Baratheon, as Lord Lyonel Baratheon celebrated his nameday with a feast large enough to feed the entire realm and a hunting trip to the Rainwood that would last for days, it seemed the perfect occasion for the dragon family to show a united front to all of the noble houses in Westeros. Prince Baelor, ever the dutiful heir, had accepted immediately thinking it would be a good idea to take Valarr in order to polish his diplomatic abilities as the next heir to the Iron Throne. It had also been so long ago since he had last seen Lyonel, a man he had come to consider his friend. 

They fared well on the travels, of course they did. Father and son conducted themselves with their usual composure and grace, much to Maekar’s dismay— Do they have to be so perfect all the fucking time? Maekar looked back at his own sons, and sighed. 

You opened your eyes as the sun shone brightly though the windows of Storm's End. Your fortress. It was the very place you called home. The place that rarely, if ever, remained quiet. Today was no exception, especially considering your father’s nameday celebrations were taking place.

“It is not only a day, my darling. It will last the whole fucking moon’s turn if I can help it!” he told you once, as you conjured the memory of his spirited face and bright smile from a few namedays ago in your mind. He seemed convinced by the idea that he would be a failure to himself and your house if he were unable to improve and upscale the celebrations year after year. Which resulted in you being woken by his shouting, which seemed to bounce off of every brick in the fortress. 

“No, no, no! You are doing it completely wrong! Again!” He yelled at the musicians, who had apparently been practicing your father’s favourite songs repeatedly and had yet to reach perfection, according to Lyonel.

You climb out of the comfortable silks of your bed and do not bother to call your maids to help with your dress. It was a particularly humid day in the summertime, so a light dress made with fresh fabrics would have to do. Hair still unkept and barely awake from your slumber, you march into the great hall determined to yell at your father for ruining a perfectly good morning’s sleep. As you make your way through the halls and reach your destination you see your father’s tense back and the musician’s tired faces. 

“Are you aware of the time, you absolute madman?” You yell at Lyonel, though no real anger is present in your voice, only slight amusement at his usual antics – and vague irritation. He turns around to face you with a big, stupid grin. 

“My darling girl! You are awake at last!” 

“The sun isn’t even up-” 

“Here, come. Tell these buffoons that this subpar so-called music has no place in my nameday celebrations-” 

“The songs sounded completely fine.” 

“-that their mediocrity will not be tolerated.” A small laugh escapes you. 

“I will tell them no such thing,” you say. Your father turns to face you, as if you had stabbed him in the back with your own dagger. He frowns down at you, as you fail to remain serious in the face of his dramatics. 

“You wound me, my girl.”

You laugh.

Halfway through the day, guests begin to arrive and you are forced to wear more appropriate clothing to greet the lords and ladies from different houses of the realm. Not that your father minds which dresses you wear, but someone has to be the face of House Baratheon while your father parties day and night. Someone who remains sober, at least. Or someone who keeps their clothes on. As the night approached, you noticed a certain dragon family had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps they enjoy being fashionably late, you thought. You were seemingly wrong, though. 

House Targaryen would not arrive on Storm’s End for yet another day, as they experienced a slight setback during their journey from King’s Landing. As in, the food from the night before had not settled well in Egg’s stomach, and caused the young prince to throw up all over his horse. And so, they had to stop for a few hours to clean Egg’s horse and wait until he felt well enough to ride again.

Daeron had thrown up as well, though for… different reasons. 

Truth be told, he could have escaped the guards once again and hidden long enough for his family to be forced to leave the Red Keep without him, but something about his dreams at the inn kept him curious enough not to resist wholeheartedly. Daeron had long since given up trying to understand his dreams, all of them horrid in nature, always featuring great fires, the putrid sight of black blood beneath the moonlight, and burning dragons. 

He tried with all his might to recall whether he had ever dreamt of stags before, but it proved fruitless. If he had ever dreamt of stags and lakes of blood before, then either the dream had been completely inconsequential, or the wine had managed to erase all memory of it. It was probably the latter.

As they arrive at their destination, Storm's End's surrounding walls stand tall and intimidating as the royal family approaches. While Baelor and Maekar remain indifferent to the sight, having visited the black fortress on political matters when they were boys themselves, the younger princes gape at the sheer sturdiness of its walls. All save Aerion, who is rarely impressed by anything at all—though even he has to admit that the stronghold looks more formidable than the Red Keep. 

The Targaryens follow behind, with knights surrounding them on all sides. The farther they move into the fortress, the more the sounds of laughter and music envelop them, and the younger princes exchange glances, instinctively looking toward their fathers, who already seem to know exactly what is about to happen.

"Baelor!"

Lyonel's booming voice carries across the courtyard as he emerges through the castle doors, with you trailing behind him while he practically runs to greet the royal family without any semblance of propriety whatsoever. As the princes dismount their horses, Baelor braces himself for the incoming assault, and Maekar sighs.

Lyonel laughs loudly, the sound echoing throughout Storm's End as he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around the heir to the Iron Throne in a crushing embrace.

Valarr remains rooted to the spot.

Of course, his father had told him stories of the Laughing Storm during their campaign against the Blackfyres, of how fiercely the Storm Lord had fought beside both him and his uncle Maekar. Still, hearing those stories was one thing. Witnessing Lord Baratheon all but tackle the heir to the Iron Throne before the horses had even come to a full stop was quite another.

Baelor, for his part, takes it in stride. He returns the embrace with the composure only a man raised in a den of vipers, where kindness is so often mistaken for weakness, could possess. He pats Lyonel's back before offering him a warm smile.

"Lord Baratheon. It has been too long."

Still laughing, Lyonel waves a dismissive hand. "What's with the formalities, dragon? As if I haven't seen your bare arse covered in rebel blood before."

Daeron has to fight the urge to laugh at the remark, while Valarr, Aerion, and Egg can only stare in bafflement. They had never seen anyone speak to their uncle with a familiarity usually reserved for, well, family. Lyonel's attention then shifts to Maekar, causing the prince to close his eyes in anticipation.

"Gods, you look even more brooding than the last time I saw you."

Maekar groans.

You watch the interactions unfold, thoroughly amused by your father's antics and Prince Maekar’s barely concealed irritation at the theatrics for which the Storm Lord was so well known. The young princes, meanwhile, seem absolutely bewildered by the spectacle, clearly unaccustomed to seeing their fathers interact in such a manner and not yet knowing what to make of it. 

Then, they glance at you. 

They had never met you before. Their fathers had always considered them too young to accompany them on the few visits they paid to Storm's End. As the years passed, the family had been struck by tragedy not once but twice, as both princes lost their wives, and the children their mothers. 

Your own mother had died in the birthing bed as well. Not that your father had ever allowed you to fully feel her absence, as he had made certain you lacked for nothing— be it love, friendship, or a shoulder to cry on. As you look upon the young princes, you become aware for the first time that they had not been afforded the same fortune. 

You set your eyes on Prince Valarr first. He is a difficult man to overlook, with his mismatched eyes and a striking white streak of hair on the side of his head. He looks perfect. Perhaps a bit too perfect. 

His posture is so impeccably straight to the point where you question if it pains him to maintain it  for a long time. His smile is equally flawless, not too warm yet not vain. His hands rest neatly behind his back as he inclines his head in greeting. Everything about him looks utterly exhausting. 

“Ah, yes!” Lyonel claps a hand against his own head, as if he had only now remembered that several people need to be introduced and especially, that the particular task is his duty. “Your Graces, this is my lovely daughter” Your father introduces you by name to the family, as you fought the overwhelming urge to glare at him for his complete lack of propriety. 

“Father”

“What?” He grins. “You are lovely.”

Deciding that glaring at your father—or pinching the bridge of your nose as you desperately wished to do —would only make matters worse, you dip into a curtsy before the princes of House Targaryen. 

“Your Graces, it is an honour to welcome you to Storm's End.”

Prince Baelor steps forward first, there is little about the heir to the Iron Thone that comes as a surprise to you; everything you had ever heard of him proves true at first glance. He carries himself with effortless confidence, his eyes filled with quiet wisdom, every movement experienced and measured without ever appearing rehearsed. His smile is warm and genuine, though restrained, a concept that strikes you as entirely foreign. 

“Lady Baratheon. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

As the introductions carry on, you properly greet the rest of the princes. Prince Valarr greets you in the practised manner of a chivalrous prince, one that must’ve taken ages to fully master. 

Prince Maekar appears to be a man of actions rather than a man of words, as he voiced nothing more than a simple, “My Lady” before fixing you with a steady stare. Right. 

Prince Aegon seems excited enough for the entire family, tummy ache completely forgotten, as he greets you without truly looking at you, his attention instead fixed upon the towering castle walls with open fascination. 

Prince Aerion neither smiles nor bows particularly deeply, he merely offers a curt Lady Baratheon as his gaze sets upon you. There is something restless about him. Something unnerving. It almost makes you want to look away first, but something tells you that doing so would read as a retreat of sorts, and you decide almost immediately that you would do nothing before him that could be perceived as weak. And so, you simply nod at him. You could swear he seems almost pleased by the gesture. 

Only one prince remains now. Curiously, he has not moved. And so, you look. 

He is already looking at you.

Lavender eyes find yours with an intensity that gives you pause. He stares unabashedly at you, his expression carrying something akin to recognition. As though, somewhere deep down, this is a meeting he had expected and was only now realizing so. The silence stretches a fraction too long, you are not the only one that seems to be aware that something deep stirs behind the heir of Summerhall's eyes.

“...My prince?” You whisper to him. Unsure on how to proceed, you find you do not wish to startle him. 

He blinks. “Oh.” he speaks, his voice softer than you would’ve imagined. Softer than all the others’. “...Daeron.” Nothing more. Not Prince Daeron. Not a proper greeting, not even a Lady Baratheon. Simply his name, as though he had forgotten the rest. Prince Maekar clears his throat. Daeron tears his gaze away from you, and his eyes find the floor. “...My Lady.”

You incline your head. “My Prince.”

Daeron’s eyes snap back at yours.

Gods, you think, he’s an odd one. 

That was to say the least, unexpected. Back in high school, Steve had been practically untouchable, the popular type, confident and effortlessly charming. He always had people around him, always somewhere to be, always seemed completely comfortable in his own skin.

But you? You’d been the opposite. Not exactly invisible, but you certainly hadn’t been memorable. You didn’t go to parties, or hang around the popular crowd. You rarely spoke unless someone acknowledged you first.

You never had some massive crush on Steve like most girls did back then. There was never any point in entertaining the thought of you two together—you’d simply been aware enough to know that someone like Steve was never going to look twice at you.

So you went along with your life, and somewhere along the way, you grew into yourself. You figured out what you liked, what made you feel comfortable. You changed your hair, found your style, learned how to hold your head up without worrying about who was judging.

Most importantly, you stopped caring so much about being noticed, and ironically, that was when people started noticing you.

You picked up the pace, a copy of Dirty Dancing held in your hand, and your eyes set on the register. Steve glanced up, and his eyes immediately grew wide, straightening his posture. You held back a laugh, he looked at you like you had just walked in from another planet.

“Uh…hey.” Steve’s eyes flickered to yours as you placed the tape on the counter.

You gave him a small smile, and a beat passed as he cleared his throat. “So,” he started. “You come here often?”

You blinked, not expecting such a horrible line to leave the supposed ladies man's mouth. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, only a little giggle, but Steve visibly short-circuited.

“Wow,” you smirked amusingly. “Steve Harrington works the register at Family Video?”

His mouth practically fell to the floor. “Wait—what? You know me already?” When you tilted your head, he shook his own. “No I mean—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “You know me?”

“You don’t know me?” You stared at him, awaiting.

Steve’s expression changed instantly, you watched him desperately search through his memories, and you could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes.

He didn’t want to ask, he clearly didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of a pretty girl who already knew his name. But unfortunately, he had no idea who you were.

Deciding to finally put him out of his misery, you spoke again. “We went to high school together.”

His brown eyes darted over your face again, brows furrowing. “I wasn’t exactly as—well…” You gestured to yourself. “Noticeable back then.”

And then it clicked, you saw the realization hit him like a brick, his features freezing in place. “Wait, you’re—”

He said your name questioningly, and you nodded. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, the fading memories came flashing back to him. A girl he’d seen in passing, always with her head down in the hallways, sitting quietly in class, disappearing into the crowd before anyone could really notice you.

But the person standing in front of him now? She looked nothing like the image he remembered you by. And judging by the way you were looking at him now, you certainly weren’t the same girl.

“Oh, shit,” Steve spluttered. “I’m sorry, of course, it’s just—”

“I look different?” You gave a soft laugh, his mouth went dry. “Yeah, guess I didn’t really peak in high school like everyone else.” You said it lightly, jokingly.

Steve stared at you for half a second, then he laughed. “Yeah.” He agreed.

You raised your brows. “Yeah?”

“No—” he immediately shook his head. “I mean, yes, I mean, that’s not what I meant.”

You laughed again, as his face turned a deep shade of plum. He was making this worse, much worse, and somehow it was adorable. Steve looked at you for another moment, and the thought came almost immediately.

I should ask her out.

Actually, I need to ask her out. He opened his mouth, desperate not to mess it up this time around. “Listen, I was wondering if maybe—”

“Thanks.” His mouth snapped shut, because you were already picking up your movie. “It was nice seeing you.”

He stared in defeat, letting out a low exhale. “Yeah, you too.”

You gave him one last smile, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Bye, Steve.” The way you said his name shouldn’t have had any effect on him. It was just his name, but Steve felt it somewhere between his stomach and his knees.

Steve stared at the door you had walked through, for approximately only two seconds, then his brain caught up. What the hell am I doing? He dropped the magazine onto the counter, and sprinted.

“Hey!” You were already seated in your car, turning on the engine as he jogged after you, slightly breathless, but determined. He reached your window and knocked lightly, bending down once you rolled it down. “I was going to ask you something.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I gathered.”

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the tousled waves further. “Would you maybe want to go out sometime?” Steve tried his best confident smile, but it wasn’t working. Not even a little.

Everything had shifted now that he knew who you were. You weren’t the quiet girl who sat in the back of the cafeteria anymore, you weren’t someone he could casually charm with a stupid line and a crooked smile.

You were sitting there completely comfortable while he was the one nervously waiting for your answer. And for the first time in his life, Steve wasn’t entirely sure he was the one with the upper hand.

You looked at him for a long moment, slid your sunglasses back on, and smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

His eyebrows shot up, he was eighty percent sure his heart stopped beating for a moment. “You’ll…think about it?” Steve repeated dumbfounded.

“Mhm.” You hummed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Bye, Steve.” And before he could recover, you rolled the window back up.

Steve stood there watching you pull away, he didn’t move until your car disappeared around the corner. Then he exhaled, raising two hands behind his head. “Holy shit.”

He’d been rejected, sort of. But even though the tables had turned on him, he couldn’t stop smiling.

The next time you walked in to return the tape, Steve was already waiting. Not literally by the door, that would be embarrassing…he stepped a foot back. He’s spent the whole week doing that, and every time someone walked through the door, he’d look up. And every time it wasn’t you, he’d pretend he hadn’t been looking, it was getting pathetic.

You didn’t seem to notice either way, almost smacking him in the face from the swing of the door. He rushed to the counter before you could make it there, trying to seem casual.

“You came back.” Steve commented.

You gave him an amused look, sliding the tape forward. “That’s generally how returning a movie works.”

He scoffed, nodding. “Right, obviously.” He picked it up and set it in the returns pile, turning back to you. “So, did you like it?”

You nodded once, unsure if there was a single soul who didn’t like Dirty Dancing. “It was good.” Was the only thing you offered.

There was a pause, then Steve reached beneath the counter, and you watched him pull out a whole stack of movie tapes, placing them between you.

He gave you a small, proud smile. “I’ve got some recommendations.”

You were taken aback for the first time, examining the variety of genres before your eyes. “For me?”

He picked up the first tape, showing you the cover. “This one’s good, it’s a got a pretty interesting story.” He set it down and grabbed another. “And this one—it’s a little slower, but it’s worth it.” You ignored the cheeky wink he gave you.

You finally stopped him once he reached the fifth tape. “Steve, don’t you think it’s a little too much?” You asked.

He cleared his throat, pausing for the first time in three minutes. “I just figured since you liked the last one, you might want something else.”

The corners of your mouth lifted upwards, a real smile. “That’s nice of you.” You muttered.

Steve nodded, that was what he was going for, nice. Definitely not the fact that if he gave you enough movies, you’d come back to return them. Definitely not because he’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about what you’d like. And definitely not because he’d picked every single one himself after imagining the first time you’d walked up to him.

No, he wouldn’t admit that. “Actually,” you said, picking up the last tale he had been holding. “I’ve seen this one.”

His face fell for half a second, maybe mission-not-so-accomplished. ‘Oh.” He whispered.

“But I haven’t seen this one.” You rushed to pick up the first one, turning it to the back cover.

Steve quickly recovered again, moving onto another topic. “So, you still thinking about it?” He hesitated.

You knew exactly what he meant, you let your eyes drift towards the perfectly picked out movies, and back to him. “The date?”

“Yes,” Steve tried to hide how badly he wanted an answer, as you tilted your head, pretending to consider it.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Mhm.” He sighed, resisting the urge to drop his forehead against the counter.

“You’re really making me work for this.” He pointed out.

You bit your bottom lip. “I didn’t say you had to keep trying.” You reasoned.

“I’m aware.” There was something amusing about the way he said it, like he’d already decided he was going to, and you couldn’t change his mind.

“Well, thanks for the recommendation.” And like always, you were already walking away, leaving him wanting more. But before you could step out, you paused this time. “Steve?” You called.

“Yeah?” He perked his head, pretending like he hadn’t been watching you the whole time.

‘You’re very persistent.” You said.

A slow grin spread across his face, your eyes locking together. “I’ve been told.” He called back, and with a final glance as your gaze swept him top to bottom, you shut the door after you.

Steve realized how much of a loser he seemed like, but the surprising thing was that he didn’t even care.

It happened somewhere Steve definitely hadn’t expected. There was no stack of tapes between you, no excuse for him to pretend he was just doing his job.

He was walking down the sidewalk, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, when he spotted you coming from the other direction.

For a second, he wasn’t even sure it was you, then you looked up, your eyes met, and you smiled. Steve couldn’t hold back his exciting grin as he inched closer.

“Well, look at that.” You stopped in front of him. “I thought you only watched movies.”

You didn’t hold back. “I thought you only worked the register.” You shot back.

Steve laughed, a low rumble deep from his chest that sent waves through you. “Fair.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, there was something different about seeing each other outside your usual meeting place. Without a counter separating you, or Steve coming up with some dumb excuse to talk to you.

Steve glanced down at you, where your skirt grazed your upper leg, your top that barely reached the edge. “You look nice.” He spoke without thinking.

You smiled, unsure why his words made you blush the slightest. “Thank you.” You responded.

He nodded, as a small silence settled between you. Then you noticed something, one stubborn strand from his head had fallen across his forehead. You stared at it for a second, as Steve seemed to notice your new point of focus.

“What?” He asked.

“Nothing.” You stepped a little closer, his eyebrows lifted. You reached up on your heels and gently brushed the strand away from his face, feeling beneath your fingertip Steve go still.

You pulled back, looking at him. “I’ve always thought your hair was stupid.” You muttered, trying not to laugh.

Steve watched you, before his cheeks went pink, he looked almost offended. “It’s not stupid.”

“It really is,” you retorted. You’ve never seen Steve like that before. He used to be the boy who walked the halls like he owned the entire school, but now he was standing in front of you looking completely flustered because you’d touched his hair. It was almost too satisfying.

“I’ve been thinking.” You suddenly said, as Steve’s smile faded into something more attentive.

“About?” He asked, almost too eagerly.

You paused for dramatics. “That date.” You relished in the way his eyes widened, almost shooting out of his skull.

“You have?” Though his voice came out quieter than he’d intended.

You tilted your head, lowering your tone. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Steve grinned, keeping your eyes connected. “Very much.”

You didn’t answer instantly, instead, you took a small step backward. “Friday night. Seven pm. Don’t be late.”

Steve’s face went through several emotions at once, shock, realization, and pure happiness. “I won’t.” He promised, Steve watched you take a few steps before calling after you. “Wait.”

You glanced over your shoulder, he was still standing there, smiling like an idiot. “You’re really going out with me?”

“Don’t make me change my mind, Harrington.” You rolled your eyes. When his smile immediately left his face, you said one more thing. “See you Friday, Steve.”

steve harrington

one shots:

summer lovin’ (smut/fluff) , frustrations (smut), dreaming about you (smut), no title-high best friend steve (smut), no title- summer steve (smut), steve does your hair (fluff)

always a bridesmaid (series)

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

Around you the room moved the way it always did before a show, a stylist adjusting the back of your top, someone else running a comb through the ends of your hair one last time, your tour manager talking through the setlist changes you'd made that morning even though you weren't really listening. You caught pieces of your own reflection in the mirror between all of them: your face, done up in the kind of makeup that photographed well under stage lights, and underneath it, something tired.

Your phone lit up again. You didn't have to look to know what it was. You already knew, because you'd made the mistake of checking twenty minutes ago, and the picture was still burned into the back of your eyes, an old photo of you and Joe from over a year ago, laughing at something off camera, his hand resting at the small of your back like it belonged there. Someone had dug it up and posted it with a caption that had already been screenshotted and quoted a thousand times: bet she wishes she never lost him.

Under it, thousands of replies. You didn't need to read them again to know what they said, because you already knew the shape of them by heart. That you were the villain. That you'd used him. That you'd humiliated him publicly and were now writing an album designed to do it all over again. That you didn't deserve someone as good as Joe, and everyone was thrilled to remind you of it.

You reached over and flipped your phone face down without reading a single new comment.

"You okay?" your stylist asked, catching your face in the mirror.

"Fine," you said, and even you didn't believe it.

You stood, smoothed your hands down the front of your outfit, and let them lead you toward the stage, toward the song you'd be singing in exactly eleven minutes that was so obviously, painfully about him that you didn't know how you were going to get through it without your voice shaking.

It hadn't always been like this.

There had been a version of this, of you and Joe, that had nothing to do with headlines or comment sections. You met him through mutual friends at a party you almost didn't go to, and from the first ten minutes of talking to him you noticed the thing that made him different from almost everyone else you'd met since you'd gotten famous: he wasn't intimidated by you. He teased you before he even knew your last name. He asked you normal questions, what you actually liked, not what your PR team wanted people to think you liked, and he laughed, easy and unbothered, when you gave him an answer he didn't expect.

You fell for him slowly and then all at once, the way people always say they do and you never quite believed until it happened to you.

For the first several months, almost nobody knew. You liked it that way, the two of you meeting in the corners of each other's lives where nobody was watching, where you didn't have to perform anything for anyone. He'd come and sit backstage before your shows, half-hidden behind the curtain, mouthing the words to songs he'd learned just from hearing you practice them in your kitchen. You'd sneak onto his sets between takes, and the crew had learned to stop pretending they didn't notice the way his whole face changed when he saw you.

When you finally went public, a single photo, someone's lucky angle outside a restaurant, the internet lost its mind in the way it always did, and for a while it felt almost fun, watching people theorize and gush and build an entire narrative out of your hand on his arm. You tried to keep the actual relationship private even after that. The version people saw was never the real one. The real one was quieter. It was him stealing the last bite of your dessert every single time even though he claimed not to like sweet things. It was you wearing his hoodies until they smelled more like your perfume than his cologne, and him pretending to be annoyed about it while never once asking for them back. It was late nights on his couch with takeout containers balanced on your knees, him complaining that you left your makeup wipes on every surface in his apartment, you complaining that he never refilled the ice tray.

It was easy. For a long time, it was so easy that you forgot easy wasn't guaranteed to last.

Your careers pulled you apart before either of you noticed it happening. You were recording, then promoting, then touring, flights and time zones and hotel rooms that all started to blur together. He was filming on location for months at a stretch, disappearing into characters, coming back changed in small ways you didn't always know how to talk to him about. You told each other you were fine. You believed it, mostly, right up until you weren't.

The fights that came were never about anything real. They were about who forgot to call when they said they would, about him sounding distracted on the phone, about you snapping at something small because you were exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the last four cities. You felt like he didn't understand how much pressure you were under. He felt like you were shutting him out, retreating somewhere he couldn't follow. Neither of you was entirely wrong.

After one particular fight, the kind that left both of you saying things you didn't mean, voices raised in a hotel room that suddenly felt too small, you agreed, quietly, exhausted, that maybe you both needed space. No dramatic breakup. No public statement. Just an agreement, soft and sad, to give each other room to breathe.

You told yourself it wasn't the end. You wanted to believe that.

And then the pictures happened.

You'd been in the studio late with your producer, an entirely platonic, entirely professional relationship that had nothing romantic in it whatsoever, and someone had caught the two of you leaving together, his hand briefly on your shoulder as he said goodnight. The angle made it look like something it wasn't. A gossip account posted it within the hour, captioned with something that implied you'd already moved on, and within a single evening the internet built an entire story out of nothing.

You watched it happen in real time, powerless to stop it. People combed through old interviews for evidence you'd been unhappy for months. Clips of you looking tired or overwhelmed, originally posted with no context at all, got reposted with captions insisting they proved you'd been miserable in the relationship the whole time. Every lyric you'd ever written got picked apart as a confession. People who had never met either of you were suddenly certain they understood exactly what had gone wrong between you and Joe, and the story they'd decided on made you the villain of it.

You expected Joe to say something. Not to the press necessarily, just privately, a reassurance, some acknowledgment that none of it was true. Instead, he asked you not to say anything publicly. He didn't want to make things worse, he said. He thought staying quiet was the safer move for both of you.

You agreed, because you still loved him, because you didn't want another fight, because some small hopeful part of you still thought this could all blow over if you just waited it out.

His silence ended up costing you more than you expected.

Every interview he did afterward included a question about the breakup, and every time, he gave some version of the same careful non-answer, that he valued his privacy, that he and you weren't really in touch anymore, that he'd rather not get into it. He never said anything unkind about you. But he never defended you either, and the absence of it started to feel louder than anything he could have said.

You took the full weight of it alone.

People started saying things to your face , outside restaurants, outside venues, shouted from crowds that used to just scream your name and now screamed something else entirely. Fans who'd followed you for years suddenly decided they'd never really liked you. You stopped reading comments. You stopped opening the apps that used to feel like a place you belonged. Every public appearance became a calculation , what could be twisted, what would become tomorrow's headline, what smile might get picked apart as fake.

You didn't tell anyone how badly it was getting to you. You were a popstar. You were supposed to be able to take it, smile through it, keep going. So you did what you always did when you didn't know how to say something out loud.

You wrote.

The new album became the only place you could actually be honest. You wrote about him, yes, you couldn't have avoided that even if you'd wanted to, but you also wrote about what it felt like to become a stranger's villain overnight, to have people who'd never met you decide they understood your life better than you did. You wrote about the specific, lonely cruelty of being hated for loving someone. One song became the emotional core of the record almost without you meaning it to, a slow, aching thing about being punished simply for having fallen in love.

When the tracklist leaked, everyone assumed exactly what you'd known they would: a breakup album, a Joe album, built entirely around resentment. The song became the one everyone talked about before they'd even heard it, theorized about, picked apart in advance.

Joe heard it before it released. You didn't send it to him, someone else must have, but you found out later that he'd sat with it alone, headphones in, expecting something angry.

What he found instead undid him.

He heard you describing the isolation, the way the internet had rewritten your entire relationship without either of you agreeing to it, the specific loneliness of being blamed for something you hadn't done. He recognized details in it that nobody else could have understood, a conversation you'd had one night, exhausted, asking him why everyone seemed to hate you, and him telling you, easily, thoughtlessly, to just ignore it.

He remembered how thin his answer had been. How little comfort it had actually offered.

He knew the truth the whole time. He knew you hadn't cheated. He knew the photos with your producer meant nothing at all. He knew the relationship had been complicated in private long before any of it became public. He knew, better than anyone, that you weren't the person the internet had decided you were.

And he'd let you face all of it by yourself.

He texted you first. You didn't answer. He tried calling, you let it ring out, watching his name on the screen with something that felt less like anger now and more like exhaustion. Eventually, he showed up at your door.

You weren't expecting him. You opened it out of habit more than anything, and there he was, looking like he hadn't slept, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn't know what to do with them.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

You didn't step aside right away.

"I don't need you to fix anything," you told him, arms crossed, voice steadier than you felt. "I never needed you to go fight the entire internet for me, Joe. I just needed you to tell people the truth."

"I know," he said quietly.

"Do you?" The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn't take them back. "Because every single time you dodged a question instead of just saying it wasn't true, I started wondering if you actually believed it. If some part of you thought maybe I had done something wrong."

"I never believed it. Not for a second."

"You couldn't have known that," Joe admitted, and you finally stepped back from the door, letting him in. "You weren't defending me. How was I supposed to know what you actually thought?"

He sat down slowly on the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, and for a long moment neither of you said anything.

"I was scared," he finally said. "I thought if I said something publicly it would just make everything worse, give people more to talk about, more to dig into. I thought staying quiet was protecting us both."

"It didn't protect me," you said, and your voice cracked slightly on the last word, the first honest crack you'd allowed yourself in weeks. "It left me standing there by myself while everyone decided I was the reason it ended."

He didn't try to argue. He just nodded, slow and miserable, like he was finally hearing it the way you'd needed him to hear it all along.

The conversation that followed wasn't a fight, not really, it was something closer to grief. He told you he was sorry, properly, not the careful non-apology he'd been giving reporters for weeks but something that actually cost him something to say. You told him how it had felt, every part of it, the venues and the comment sections and the strangers screaming things at you like they knew you. He listened. Really listened, in a way he hadn't quite managed to before all of this happened.

A few days later, Joe addressed it publicly. Not a statement about the relationship itself, not private details splashed out for consumption, just a short, plain acknowledgment that much of what had been said about you wasn't true, that he knew what had actually happened, and that you'd never deserved any of the hate you'd gotten. He asked people to stop treating something they weren't part of like it was theirs to pick apart.

The reaction split, the way it always does. Some people apologized. Some doubled down, insisting he was only saying it because of the song. But something in you had already shifted by then, you noticed, almost with surprise, that you didn't need the internet's approval to feel like the version of the story you'd lived through was real.

The album released a few weeks later. The song became the biggest thing you'd ever put out, playing everywhere, sung back to you by thousands of people every night on tour, most of whom had no idea how much of it had actually happened exactly the way you'd written it.

Months after that, an interviewer asked you, gently, whether you regretted the relationship, whether, looking back, you wished it had never happened at all.

You smiled, and you meant it.

"I don't regret loving him," you said. "I regret letting other people make me ashamed of something that used to be really beautiful."

You and Joe didn't get back together right away. There was no dramatic reconciliation, no headline moment. It started small, a text here and there, then coffee, careful and a little awkward, then long conversations about everything that had happened, the kind you'd never quite managed to have while you were actually together. He learned to listen instead of trying to immediately fix things. You learned that you didn't have to perform being okay for him the way you'd learned to perform it for everyone else.

Then, one night after a show, you came off stage still buzzing from the crowd, makeup half-melted under the lights, and found him waiting for you backstage.

No cameras. No fans crowded behind a barricade. Just him, leaning against the wall near your dressing room like he'd been there a while.

"Hey," you said, stopping a few feet away.

"Hey." He pushed off the wall, hands in his pockets again, the same nervous habit as before. "Want to get dinner?"

You raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile you didn't quite let show yet. "You can't just assume I want to go home with you anymore."

He laughed, actually laughed, the sound easing something in your chest you hadn't realized was still tense. "Okay," he said. "Can I ask you properly, then?"

You looked at him for a long moment. The hallway was quiet. Nobody was watching. For the first time in longer than you could remember, it felt like it was just the two of you again, the way it used to be before any of this started.

"Maybe," you said.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you cared what anyone else thought.

a/n: i don't think i've ever loved writing a story quite the way i've loved writing this one.

nothing good grows here has lived in my head for a long time now, long before i everrr posted the freaking hcs or the first part. there is so SO much behind these characters, even if aerion is ooc sue me!!!!, that you'll probably never see all at once. this has been, without question, one of my biggest passion projects.

Maekar heard about the comments about you, never spoken in his presence, but the whispers ran rampant in a court that didn't hesitate to slaughter a woman. Deep down he knew it was Aerion's fault; he'd lived with his idiot son long enough to know that a woman like you would make him feel obligated to hurt you somehow. As soon as Maekar had thought enough about what he could do, he summoned Aerion for an "urgent" conversation.

As soon as he found himself in his father's presence, Aerion knew what would be said. His wife's failure to produce an heir. "Why do you insist on humiliating your wife?" Maekar asked.The tone of his voice, along with the unexpected question, made Aerion's face frown. "What are you talking about, father?" Maekar clenched his fist. "Don't act like I'm an idiot. I know you don't sleep with your wife, and given the number of times you've been seen in brothels I know you know how that works." He continued pointing his finger in Aerion's face, "I don't know what kind of diabolical things you're up to, but I can't act like I can let you ruin this poor woman's reputation in front of the whole court because of your idiocy. Give me an heir, Aerion, put an end to the rumors being spread about your wife, be a man." Aerion blinked several times as if what his father had said was in another language. "But—" He received a look that made him shut up immediately. "I don't want to hear your excuses, I want something done" Maekar murmured as he withdrew.

After that conversation with his father, Aerion's day passed in the blink of an eye; before he knew it, he was lying in his chambers. The only thing on his mind was you. He knew he had been detestable from the start for no reason and when you showed indifference to his comments, it only motivated him more to make you show something. But you didn't care what he said, and when he asked you something, you were utterly honest.

But a lady's reputation is something shaped from childhood, and yours was being tarnished by lies, and the blame lay entirely with him. Even with the limited knowledge he had of you during your months of marriage, he knew that no matter how malicious the comments became, you wouldn't ask for help, you wouldn't cry, and you certainly wouldn't let anyone know what you were feeling behind that mask of indifference.

He wanted to convince himself that he didn't care, that he wanted to see you suffer because of the way you treated him. Until he came to the conclusion that he had given himself the excuse he needed. He wasn't going to sleep with you because he wanted to; he was going to do it because a Targaryen couldn't have a wife with the reputation you were acquiring. Aerion Targaryen should be described as the prince who gave several heirs to the throne, not as the one with a flawed wife who couldn't give him a son.

You were in your room gazing at the view from the window when suddenly the door opened. You turned quickly, as no one visited you at this time of night. To your surprise, it was your husband, the same man you hadn't spoken to in almost a whole month. Aerion seemed a little embarrassed, an expression you hadn't yet seen on his face, since he only ever gave you disgusted looks and mocking smiles. For a few seconds you both just stared at each other, until he slowly approached, almost as if he were afraid you would run away.

"I came here so that we can fulfill our duties as husband and wife," he said in a tone different from usual, one you almost didn't recognize. The man in front of you didn't seem like the same idiot who called you ugly the first time you met. "I'm sorry, but didn't you say you wouldn't sleep with me?" His face hardened into a serious grimace as he remembered the words he'd said to you when he was angry. He knew you wouldn't give in easily; you weren't as proud as him, but you weren't stupid either.

"I know what I said. But the court has been spreading rumors about why you haven't gotten pregnant yet." You slowly inclined your head at his words, "I know what they say about me, my prince. But do you care?" Aerion pondered for a few minutes before replying, "I don't care what they say about you. But I don't want to be known as the prince who had no heir." You didn't answer him immediately returning your attention to the window you were looking at before he arrived.

"Before I met you, I was nervous about what people said about you, but I tried to convince myself that you would be different with me." You sighed before continuing, "Imagine my disappointment when your first words to me were that you'd like a prettier wife." A low chuckle escaped your lips. "But I still tried; ignoring you and your comments would make it all easier. And until a few minutes ago, I didn't think you were a complete idiot, but now?" You turned to him before continuing, "Even when the only reputation that gets tarnished is mine, you manage to turn it into something about yourself. Who would have thought my husband would be the biggest idiot of them all?"

Aerion stood silently with an unreadable expression, but his clenched fists confirmed what you already knew before you turned around: he was angry, your words had struck him. He moved even closer to you, his imposing figure towering before you. "I know I'm an idiot, darling, but unfortunately you're stuck with me forever, and after I deliver my heir into you maybe you'll be absolutely certain of that." He spat out the words as he raised one hand to cup your face and the other to pull you by the waist, pressing your body against his. "And guess what? Now I intend to put several of them on you so that every time you put one out into the world, the certainty that you're mine get even bigger"

Before you could say anything, he pressed his lips to yours, his mouth looking hungry. He nibbled at your lips, thrusting his tongue into your mouth in a way you didn't know was possible. As soon as he noticed you relaxed a little in his arms, he slowly pulled your body until his legs touched the edge of the bed. He let his body fall and pulled yours down with him.

As soon as he ended the kiss, he pushed your body until you were leaning against the pillows. He stared at your body with an inexplicable hunger, his dilated pupils and swollen lips only giving him an even hungrier look. Suddenly you felt shy closing your eyes and trying to dispel the redness that was spreading across your face. "Feeling shy now? Weren't you being cheeky a few minutes ago, darling? Where did your attitude go?" His lips curved into a mocking smile.

His hands moved up to remove the dress you were wearing, leaving you completely naked, illuminated only by the moonlight. Before you could reach to cover yourself, he grabbed your hands and held them above your head. He brought his mouth to your neck, where he began to distribute wet kisses as he moved down towards your breasts, making you tremble all over. Your sensitivity to his touch only confirmed to Aerion the certainty he already knew: you were still a virgin.

"You hate me so much and yet you remained a virgin to me, darling?" You wanted to answer, you really did, but the way he was sucking on one of your breasts was a level of pleasure you had never experienced. You let out a moan that made him lift his head to look at your face; the expressions you were giving him were driving him crazy. If he had to see you like this every day, with your eyes full of tears of pleasure, your mouth swollen from his kisses, and your breasts full of the marks he was leaving, he would swallow his stupid pride every time.

His free hand slowly slid down your body, reaching your pussy. When he felt how wet she was, he couldn't help but smile. "Already this wet for me, darling? I think your pussy likes idiots like me, huh?" He said those words without even looking at your face; he was staring directly at your pussy. Your instinct was to close your legs, to deny him that pleasure, but unfortunately you were enjoying it just as much as he was.

Aerion began rubbing his fingers against her clitoris, making you unconscious hips move forward toward his fingers. The sensation was overwhelming, completely different from any pleasure you had ever experienced, and when he inserted his fingers inside you, the knot in you stomach completely broke. A shiver ran through her entire body, her lips parted in an "O" as your thighs trembled against Aerion's hand.

"So beautiful coming for me, you know you're beautiful, don't you? What I said that day was a joke, you know that, right?" When he realized that her senses were still very disoriented, Aerion slapped her thigh. "Answer me when I ask you something." The slap made her whole body wake up from the trance she was in. "I don't know if you were joking." He let out an audible sigh. "Darling, you're a beautiful wife to me, remaining a virgin for me, drawing those beautiful sounds from your lips, and of course letting me get you pregnant."

When you realized it, Aerion was already naked, his member fully erect for you. Your beautiful eyes looking at him as he prepared to penetrate you only gave him one certainty: this was no longer an obligation. Aerion was already completely obsessed with the idea of possessing you solely for himself, constantly getting you pregnant so that no one else would whisper lies about his wife.

As soon as he was fully inside, you both let out a moan together. At first it stung a little, but as Aerion continued to kiss your neck, the pain slowly turned to pleasure. And when he realized you had relaxed enough, he began to move slowly. He was mesmerized, your soft moans as he thrust harder, your arms gripping his as if you needed it to breathe. He couldn't help but blame himself for taking so long to do this.

When your breathing became irregular, he knew you were close. "Let's come together, huh?" he whispered in your ear as he increased the pace and moved his hand to rub your clitoris. The combination of sensations made you have an even more intense orgasm than the previous one. Aerion didn't take long to come too, whispering that he was going to fill you with his seed and make you a mommy.

When you finished, Aerion collapsed on top of you, his breath ragged, making it clear to you that it had been as intense for him as it had been for you. When Aerion turned his face towards yours, he was surprised to see your face with the same expression as always. He had a long way to go if he wanted you to start putting up with him.

Author's note: I really don't know how to write adult content and I get lost. Maybe I strayed a little from the character at the end. Do you want anything more from these two? Like them having children or her starting to tolerate him?

Sidney started to realise that deciding to catch up on her missed schoolwork in the medical room was a bad idea. Sure it was her safe space, and one of the few places on campus to block out the noise... the noise that was suffocating today.

Logan hadn't spoken to her properly since he left her crying in her room.

It had been a day, and now she was back from her family's home, still rattled by her constant overthinking and regret. Her parents noted something was wrong, and her dad even asked about Logan, to which she lied and acted as if all was well.

But it was far from it.

She had avoided the gaze of the players as she walked up the bleachers, past Coach Jensen who unusually had little to say and tried to focus on the words blurring across her notebook.

It didn't work.

The team was loud.

Usually they were, but this was anger.

This was hate and resentment, every clash or hit against the shielding, felt targeted.

And each time it was John Logan.

And on the receiving end, it was Dean Di Laurentis.

Until Coach Jensen, sent Logan to the penalty box, and Dean to be seen too, by Matlin, who bandaged him up pretty well, noting how Dean barely reacted, just sighed.

After Matlin went on his break, Sidney abandoned her work and slowly approached the drained hockey player.

“Jesus Christ.” Her eyes widened in shock, making him breathily laugh at her expression. “He does realise that the more he messes you up the more —"

“I’ll get checked up,” Dean nodded, as he plucked up his thermal and stiffly slipped it on.

Sidney's brows furrowed, “What does he think something's gonna happen?”

Dean cocked his head to the side, curious, “He hasn’t talked to you?”

“No. He just stares into the back of my head in classes.”

Sidney's voice quietened toward the end, making him wince.

Dean knew he should never have gone to her dorm.

Dean should've accepted that it was over and done with.

Dean should've left it alone, even though it gnawed at his conscience and weighed on his chest.

Dean sighed, staring sadly at her, "I'm sorry."

Sidney lightly shook her head and looked down.

"You're right, you told me he was gonna find out."

Dean tsked, "He shouldn't have the way he did. That's on me."

Sidney hummed, and then she sighed.

Those days away made her think. Think about how harsh she had been, how abruptly she had pulled away from him and scarred him like nothing. Was it out of fear? Maybe, but even a year ago, she didn't allow herself to sit in those feelings for too long.

She just acted like it didn't happen.

She just acted like Dean didn't happen.

"You deserved closure, you did." Her words startled him; they filled his uncharacteristically sullen expression. "I was wrong for how I handled the situation. Our... relationship. I'm sorry. I think it’s because I felt like I couldn’t control the situation. I went into… us thinking it wouldn’t be serious. That we wouldn’t catch feelings. It was unsafe, and that feeling only grew when I started catching feelings and so did you.”

Sidney gulped.

She continued, “I feel safe with Logan in ways I didn’t with you. And that’s not on you. I just went into my relationship with him with a different mindset. And I’m sorry.”

He glanced away, wondering if that was what he wanted to hear, what he had needed to hear for the last year.

An apology was good.

Maybe a Time Machine would've been better, especially to combat with the mindset she didn’t have back that.

Unsafe.

Unpredictable.

It hurt to hear, but now he understood.

He couldn’t fault her, even if he tried.

"It's okay," Dean said, slowly smiling, prompting a small one from Sidney. "And there she is."

"Shut up and make sure you ice those bruises, they looked yucky," She remarked, making him chuckle.

He said, "Great terminology for a future sports therapist."

"Gonna make them add it to the textbooks," Sidney innocently shrugged.

"Watkins et al."

"Watkins et al."

Their laughter died down when the door swung open.

Logan's glare was unwavering, when he first spotted their closeness and, second falling smiles.

“Seriously?” He scoffed, drawing an eye roll from Sidney.

“Don’t John." She strutted over to her belongings and began packing, "I’m serious. You’re the one who’s getting rough. I’m just studying.”

“And I’m just practising.” Logan clicked his tongue, then expectantly faced the blond who simply stared at him. “You got something to say?”

Dean shrugged, “Nothing that I can’t show you on the ice.”

“Okay big shot,” A humourless laugh escaped Logan.

“Can you both just get the fuck out? Stop messing around and just practice," Sidney snapped, shutting the pair of them up.

The silence they all sat in was heavy and harrowing.

So Dean started to walk toward the exit, "Bye Sidney."

"Bye Dean."

He didn't even shoulder bump Logan when he left the room, which irritated Logan more than it should've. He still had all this indignation that was waiting to be burst.

But the second he turned to see his girlfriend, his anger began to waver and his glare eased.

She wasn't looking his way, which only made him want to catch her eye.

Logan knew leaving her many texts on read, even snaps unopened cut deeper than he intended, but he couldn't put his thoughts into words and instead let her feel what he hadn't wanted.

Suddenly, Logan decided to strip off his gear and his thermal shirt.

He shamelessly did it, uncaring of whether she looked his way or not, or if their chiropractor, orthopaedic doctor and physiotherapist returned.

In her peripheral, Sidney noticed his slight winces, whenever his movements were too fast or too rough.

And before she knew it Logan was stood shirtless in front of her.

Immediately she scowled, noted his bruised shoulders, glowing from anger, and animosity.

Naturally, her hand would trace his skin, caressing and even kissing the discolouration.

But her hand remained occupied with her pens, pencils, and papers.

“I have classes to get to.” Sidney rapidly shook her head, “And you haven't been icing or taping your bruises well at all. Jesus.”

"I know, my head's been elsewhere," He retorted, eyeing her, noting her exhausted demeanour.

Logan swallowed the guilt before stepping closer.

Sidney murmured, "You know that's not an excuse."

"Well, I'm using it as one."

Her gaze dropped back to her bag, making him grimace.

Logan said he wanted space, but he couldn't really take it, not really.

“Did you do well on that quiz?”

His question made her sigh, “I did fine, you know that, I saw you staring from the back.”

Social Psychology was something Sidney adored, but didn't perform her best at in their last assessment.

“I got an A minus.”

Sidney tensed, “I got a B.”

Usually they’d study together, sit next to each other, in their unofficial assigned seats that no one dared to sit in.

But not this time.

“I... uh, wanna talk.”

Her shoulders sank a little when she grabbed her bag, “You sure, or do you want to keep blanking me and taking it out on everyone else?”

“Well I’m not gonna take it out on you," he said in disbelief.

"You are, just indirectly. And that's understandable." She argued, despite herself. “But I’m the one who’s in this relationship right, with you? I’m the one who withheld information.”

Logan scoffed before his reply, “He still has feelings for you.”

“They’ll pass.”

“It’s been a year and you’re irreplaceable Sidney.”

Sidney huffed, “You’re still corny, I guess that’s a good indicator. I'll drop by before I hit the weight room. No arguing, yelling. We can just talk.”

“As I said," he said nodding.

“Yeah, but you’ll probably wanna kiss me. And that’s not talking.”

Logan's face softened, almost moulding into a bashful smile, “Like you don’t wanna kiss me.” Had he been blinking he wouldn't have caught her lips curving upward, “Just talking. No more secrets.”

“No more secrets," she repeated, “And despite the roid-rage, you're looking good out there.”

“Thanks.”

She started strutting over to the door, passed him as he grabbed his things, no longer wanting to stand there shirtless for no reason. She could feel his gaze on her, so she turned as she reached for the handle.

“I really miss you.” I love you, baby, she wanted to add but it was still too sore.

“I miss you too.” I love you, gorgeous he said the quiet part with his eyes before she left the room.

a/n:

taglist:

@dina2223 @starsnfireflies @kinetictyrantwizard @harrysnovia @05gwyn @basiec13 @syraxnyra @hteusefam @missmaddyline @hannahufflepuff @secretlyloudkingdom-blog @xoxo-moonlight @wintermoonly @clarkbarnes @falloutdunes @antobooh @kahhorri 

The doorbell rang.

You glanced toward the hallway. From where you stood you could see the edge of the entryway, the console table, the bowl for keys, the warm light of the sidelights pooling on the hardwood. The bell rang again, two short bursts, impatient.

"I'm coming," you called, already moving, bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. You passed through the living room, past the hallway table with its fresh-cut peonies leaning heavy in their vase, and reached the door pulling it open.

Before you could say a word, before you could get out "be patient," a small body collided with your legs. Tiny arms wound around your knees. A face pressed into your thigh, white-gold hair slightly damp, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen and something warm underneath that was distinctly him.

"Mommy!"

Your hand came down to the back of his head automatically, fingers threading through the fine, silky hair, so much like his father's. "Hi, baby! Are you excited to see me?"

"I missed you." His voice was muffled against your shorts.

"I missed you too." You crouched down, knees on the hardwood, and pulled him into a proper hug. His little arms tightened around your neck as you held him close, your chin on the top of his head. He was bouncing slightly even while you held him, vibrating with the kind of energy that only children had. You pulled back, hands on his shoulders, and looked at him at eye level. "Did you have fun at daddy's house?"

He squealed, a high, piercing, delighted sound. "Yeah! Daddy let me swim every day!"

"Every day?" You raised your eyebrows, making your face wide with mock astonishment. "I bet you swam soooo fast."

"Mommy, I'm faster than a shark. Daddy says so."

You heard the chuckle before you looked up. A low sound, warm in the throat, familiar in a way that still affected you. You raised your gaze.

Aerion leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed to the dark trim, the light above him throwing amber light across the line of his jaw. He was in all navy, a color he knew looked fantastic on him. He held Maegor's weekender bag in one hand, hanging from his fingers like it weighed nothing, the leather strap swinging slightly. His violet eyes moved over your face, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

Maegor turned to look at his father. "Daddy, tell mommy I'm faster than a shark."

Aerion moved forward and bent to scoop Maegor up in one fluid motion. The boy went to his shoulder like he belonged there, like there was a groove carved specifically for him. Aerion pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"That's right. You're the fastest swimmer I've ever seen."

Maegor beamed. You looked at him and then at Aerion. "You must be exhausted. Say thank you and goodbye to daddy."

The smile dropped. Maegor's lower lip came out, and he laid his head against Aerion's shoulder.

"I don't want to."

You watched the way Aerion's hand came up to cup the back of the boy's head, fingers spreading across that small skull.

Maegor turned his face toward his father. "Daddy, why don't you live here again? Then I could see you every day."

Aerion pressed another kiss to his son's temple. His eyes did not leave the boy's face. "I'll see you next weekend. We'll do whatever you want, okay?"

Maegor's head lifted. "Promise?"

Aerion nodded. "I promise."

He looked at you. Violet eyes, cloudy and unreadable. The guilt was already there, sitting heavy in your throat.

Aerion set Maegor down. The boy's sneakers hit the hardwood with a rubbery squeak. He handed him the bag. "Can you carry that on your own?"

Maegor nodded, gripping the strap with both hands, the bag nearly as big as him. He looked up at his father. "Bye Daddy. Love you."

Aerion crouched, one knee on the floor. "Love you more."

You watched him rise. You reached out and ran your hand through Maegor's hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Put your stuff away and then go wash your hands for dinner. I made lasagna."

His whole body jerked with excitement. "Lasagna!"

He spun and took off down the hall, sneakers pounding on the hardwood, the bag dragging behind him with every step. You watched him go. "What did I say about running?"

"Sorry, mommy!"

He was not sorry. You could hear him still running, the sound of his feet moving through the hall and up the stairs.

You turned back to Aerion.

He was already looking at you. His gaze started at your face and moved downward slowly. The black tank top, thin cotton, fitted enough to show the line of your waist. The white shorts, hemmed high on your thigh. Your hair was down and your makeup was done. You felt exposed.

"Thank you for dropping him off." You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, not knowing what to do with your hands.

"That's my job." He stepped forward.

"Right." You tucked a lock behind your ear. "Well, still. Thank you. Was everything okay? Is there anything—"

"You look good, baby."

"Aerion."

He stepped forward again. You took a step back. He was fully in your doorway now, his shoulders filling the frame. "What?" Another step. "I can't tell you you look good anymore?"

He gave you a smile. The lopsided one, the left corner of his mouth lifting higher than the right, the one that had gotten you into this mess, into the marriage, into the divorce, into the bed over and over again.

"We're not doing this anymore."

He tilted his head. The violet eyes held yours. "Alright." A pause. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

He nodded, but something behind his eyes sharpened. He shifted his weight. "Can I stay for dinner?"

"Aerion."

"What?" The word came out innocent. He was not innocent. "There's no food at my house."

You stared at him. "That is concerning to me, considering you just had our child for three days."

"It would make him so happy." His voice dropped. "Dinner with daddy."

You opened your mouth to say no, but at that exact moment you heard the pitter-patter of small feet. Fast. Coming down the stairs. Maegor rounded the corner, hands washed, shirt changed, hair somehow even more disheveled than before.

"Oh, daddy, you're still here!"

Aerion looked at you. His hand came to your hip, warm, heavy, as he moved you gently and stepped past. His hand stayed on your hip for one beat longer than it needed to.

"I'm staying for dinner." He turned his head and looked down at you. Daring you to say otherwise, to be the one to disappoint your son.

Your lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. You pushed the door shut.

Maegor grabbed his father's hand and tugged him toward the dining room. "Come on, daddy, mommy made lasagna, it's my favorite—"

His voice, speaking a mile a minute, echoed down the hall. You watched them go.

"It's just dinner," you muttered to yourself.

Three hours later, you were underneath him.

His cock was buried to the root. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your swollen walls clung to him and then released.

"I fucking love this pussy." The words came out against your mouth, his voice wrecked. He kissed you. His tongue pushed past your lips, messy and wet, and you kissed him back. Your walls clenched around him and his hips stuttered.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You did not know what you were asking for. The words came out before you could shape them. "More! Please, Aerion, oh god!"

He pulled back enough to look at you. "More?" A breath of laughter. "You can't get enough of my cock, can you?"

He fucked into you faster. Your hips tilted to take him deeper as you tried to match his thrusts. You cried out, the sound high and uncontrolled. Your nails dug into the muscle of his back, fingers curling, leaving crescents in the skin.

His hand came over your mouth.

"You don't want to wake him, do you?" He grunted out between thrusts, his jaw tight. He snapped into you again, harder, and your eyes squeezed shut. "Is this what you want?"

You nodded. Desperately.

"Yeah, baby." His voice dropped. "So fucking good for me."

Your tongue darted out, dragging across the center of his hand. His eyes narrowed. The violet went dark, the pupil swallowing the color, and he pulled his hand back just enough to push two fingers into your mouth. They slid past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. Your cheeks hollowed, and he watched your mouth, the way you sucked him as he drove into you with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Dirty slut."

Your eyes went heavy-lidded, the warmth in them darkening. You moaned around his fingers. The sound vibrated through his hand.

"I've got you." The bed frame knocked against the wall. You were right on the edge. Your thighs trembled against his chest. Your walls squeezed him. "Fuck, Aerion! Fuck!" Your voice broke on the words, muffled around his fingers, and you sucked harder, your eyes rolling. "Fuck me like that—"

His thrusts went erratic. No rhythm now, just the desperate chase of his own pleasure, each stroke grinding his pelvis against your swollen clit. The friction was relentless, maddening, and you could feel it building, the tight coiling heat in your lower belly.

Aerion cursed again, said your name, and came deep. His hips slammed forward, burying himself to the root, and his body shuddered. You felt it, the hot pulse of him inside you, flooding you, the wet warmth of it spreading through your core. You followed in spasms that would not stop.

You were still shaking when he kissed you. Your hands came up and tangled in his hair, his weight settled onto you, pressing you into the mattress.

Aerion pulled out slowly, his hands still framing your waist. He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm folding behind his head, his chest rising and falling in long measured breaths.

You lay still for a moment beside him, thinking of how you had once again ended up like this. Then you pressed your palms flat against the mattress and pushed yourself upright, your arms trembling. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet finding the soft rug as you stood. Your thighs ached, your knees barely held as you made your way toward the bathroom.

You stepped into the glass-walled shower and turned the brass lever, flinching as cold water hit your skin before warming. Your hands moved mechanically, rinsing, clearing yourself of him, of the evening, of the thing you had sworn the last time would be the last time. The water ran warm between your thighs, and you pressed your forehead against the glass, breath fogging a small circle on the surface. Steam curled around you as you stepped out.

You dried yourself with a towel, wrung the water from your hair, and pulled an oversized T-shirt from a hook on the back of the door. It fell to mid-thigh, soft and worn thin from washing.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, the lamp on the far side was on, casting a low amber glow across the rumpled bed. Aerion was standing by the nightstand on your side of the bed, boxers and his shirt on. He was holding your phone, the screen's blue-white light washing across his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the hard set of his mouth.

You came to stand beside him, close enough to smell the salt and warmth still on his skin. Three texts sat in your notification bar, all from the same name. Looking forward to Thursday. I made reservations for 7:30. Can't wait to see you.

"Excuse me," you said, taking the phone from his hands and moving to sit on the edge of the mattress, pulling one knee up beneath the hem of your shirt.

Aerion turned to face you. His brows drew together, a deep crease forming between them, his eyes went dark. "Who the fuck is that."

You looked up at him. "A friend."

"A friend." He repeated it without inflection.

You stared hard at him and said nothing.

"How long have you been 'friends.'"

You moved away from him, rounding the foot of the bed to the opposite side, putting the wide expanse of tangled sheets and mattress between you. He reached down and pulled his pants from the chair where he had dropped them, stepping into them quickly, tugging the waistband into place.

"That's not any of your business anymore, is it?" Your arms folded across your chest.

He ignored that entirely. "I don't want all these guys here around my kid."

"Oh my god." Your head snapped toward him. "You are so ridiculous. It's one guy. He's never met Maegor."

Aerion did not blink. "Does he fuck you."

Your mouth opened, closed. "Excuse me?"

His gaze did not waver. "Are you fucking him."

"Get out."

"So that's a yes." He reached for his watch on the nightstand and buckled it around his wrist with a sharp click.

"I don't ask you about your girlfriends," you said, your voice rising despite yourself.

"I don't have any." He adjusted the watch face. "Because you are my wife."

You rolled your eyes so hard your head moved with the motion. "I'm your ex-wife."

He crossed to one of the armchairs near the window and sat down, pulling on his socks one at a time, tugging them up over his ankles. "I don't know why. This whole waste of time was your idea."

"Waste of time? Aerion, we're divorced because we're not a good couple."

"And I apologized for my shit." He stood. "What more do you want from me?"

You were momentarily too stunned to speak. Your lips parted, and nothing came.

"What more do I want from you?" You repeated it back to him, not as a question but as a kind of discovery.

Aerion stepped toward you, his hand extending, reaching for your wrist. "That's not—"

"No." You cut him off, pulling back from his reach. "That's exactly what you meant."

A hard laugh broke from your throat, ugly, involuntary, the kind that comes before tears. "You are still the same selfish, controlling, narcissistic man you were while we were together." Your voice cracked on the last word. You swallowed hard. "And I'm the idiot who keeps letting you back into my bed."

He scoffed. The sound was quiet, dismissive, a single exhale through his nose as he looked away. "Were you always so dramatic."

The tears spilled over, tracing a slow line down your cheek, before you wiped it away with the back of your hand. "I'm going to pick up and drop off Maegor at yours from now on. You're not welcome in my house anymore."

"It's actually my house." He said it without hesitation. "I pay for it. I pay for everything."

You nodded once, saying nothing further to him. What was there left to say? You walked to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and stood beside it.

Aerion stood by the bed, looking at you. His mouth opened. "Let's talk about this."

You refused to meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on a point on the wall.

He crossed the room and reached for you again, his hand settling on your hip, fingers curving over the thin cotton of the oversized shirt. "I love you," he said. His voice carrying something desperate, the thing he only showed when he was afraid you would actually close a door and mean it.

Your lips pressed together, trembling at the corners. Your eyes filled again, and you blinked, and a single tear caught the lamplight as it fell.

"Get home safe," you whispered.

His hand lingered, then fell to his side. He stood there a moment longer, the hallway light catching the edge of his jaw, and then he turned and walked past you through the door. His footsteps were quiet. They slowed as he passed Maegor's room. You heard him stop, push the door open a crack, long enough to see the small shape under the blanket, the stuffed shark clutched to his chest. Then the footsteps resumed, continuing down the stairs.

You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, one hand still gripping the handle of the open door, and listened to the silence that followed. The house settled around you. You closed the bedroom door, leaned your back against it, and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up beneath the hem of the oversized shirt.

Every shift is the same. Stroll in when day is starting, find the bathroom and change into the dreaded uniform. Force on fake smiles before stepping into the dining area. Keep the kind and energetic girl in check. Try desperately not to shiver and glare at the leering men. Focus on positives and don’t count down each hour as it goes by. It doesn’t make it faster and as you become conscious of each passing second in your head, you become more aware of your surroundings, the people, the heat and the constant bell of the door as a new customer walks in. It’s like you’re waiting for him. The moment you step into your car, and realise you’ve escaped another day without seeing him, you feel like you can breathe again

He’s not visited since.

Possibly his routes have changed, maybe he’s grown bored and he’s keeping his distance. But your mind tells you otherwise and your body knows better. Your body remembers. The bruising grip on your hips, the hand in your hair as he yanked you back to him. His awfully beautiful face, deep purple eyes and white hair.

The sight of him isn’t what scares you, you barely saw him in the darkness of his truck. It’s his voice, the low tone as he tells you to relax over and over again as he assaults your body. The memory is so vivid, you relive it over and over again.

Relax.

You hear him still, in the darkness of your bedroom when you're home. When you’re wrapped between sheets, and you can faintly see a street light just at the corner of your window, peeking out the curtain. Your knees up, shoulders lifted by a few pillows, hand between your parted thighs and fingers deep in your pussy.

That’s the worst part. In the day you seek to forget and in the night, in the comfort of your room, you're desperate to remember.

Awful girl, you think. To be treated in such a way and to derive pleasure from the memory. For your body to betray your mind, to find yourself damp between your thighs and for a part of you to want to recreate it. To find pleasure in your trauma, and to only find that pleasure when you think of that. To force your fingers together, and try to reciprocate the thickness and length he filled you with, and to fail miserably. To weep after and lie in the bed, thighs still aching and slick still dripping onto the sheets below you.

It’s sick. You’re sick.

You don’t want to work this job anymore and yet there’s nothing that’s close enough to home that is hiring. Nothing that offers you the same hours and promises that they’ll give you the extra shifts. You need the money as well. You can’t do without it.

How to get out of this vicious cycle?

How to not open your eyes after every restless night and be back in that parking lot again?

Working is bad, being at home is worse. It’s never ending.

“Maybe some time off can help,” Rollo offers up suggestions, flipping the bacon on the grill. He looks over his shoulder for a second, gives you a shrug and that warm boyish smile, all a boy that’s recently dropped out of school can offer. “Or change of scenery.”

“Yeah,” you nod, looking down at your shoes and scuffing them against the floor.

You don’t offer a reply, just simply nod like you do with the rest. —Because it’s all you can do. The suggestions come from everyone in the diner that crosses your path, noting the same tired expression and offering you the same ideas. Time off. More sleep. I’ll cover your morning to let you have a lie in. A holiday. Something big to fill you up. The list goes on and on and you smile and pretend to consider it.

How do you explain to them that you want to leave this place but you can’t? How do you say you wake up back in this place? How to say even when you're home alone at night in the darkness of my room you’re still in the parking lot with him?

You don’t truly understand it yourself. The parking lot is a maze of cars and trucks, a long road that cuts off to dead ends and new turns. You reverse, make another turn and there’s something else standing in your way.

How to explain you’re waiting? You’re stuck in limbo looking for distinctive violet eyes in a sea of brown and grey. How to explain that you can’t rest until you see him again?

You don’t see him though. Days blend into weeks and weeks blend into two months.

He’s forgotten about you but your body, even though healed, still holds the memory of him, underneath the skin, deep in the tissue. The feel of his hands as he tears the clothes from your body. The weight of his body pressed down on you. The shape of him inside your walls as he splits you open.

Haunting in ways that make you sick and paralysed in fear, but also make you shiver in some sort of disgusting delight.

Aerion has always been one to bore easily. Even as a child he found himself growing restless, surrounded by his brothers and cousins, endless things to do and finding no amusement in them. He punched, kicked and bit till he got an adult’s attention, or even better when one of the other children would fight back. He’s always been the same, finding everything unappealing and seemingly lacking.

He learned to suppress that side of him for a while. Learned to fill the void of endlessly picking and prodding for his own amusement with other ordinary things. Like every other teenager he played video games, joined sports clubs and dabbled in an abundance of drugs. Then he became an adult —a man is what his father wanted him to be. A man can’t make a sustainable living by shoving people to the ground or beating them up. Aerion played dirty and dirty, didn't get him a scholarship and none of his coaches wanted to keep him on past the ripe age of eighteen.

He needed a job.

He tried a few things, working for his dad as a mechanic was fun but apparently screwing the girls his age didn’t pay the bills. He stopped that. Got another job behind the grill at some fast food place, ended up holding the manager by the scruff of his worn down polo shirt and threatening to use his name tag to pierce his nose. He was fired and luckily enough didn’t get any charges. Aerion had enough evidence in his month of working there to sue that manager anyway.

This gig fell into his hands, literally speaking. 

Some old dude managed to have a heart attack in his brother’s diner while he’d been there and coincidentally when the dude’s boss phoned to ask if anyone could haul his truck all the way back in his direction, he’d been the only one with the license required to drive it. 

Money is good with this job. He didn’t really socialise with people long enough to get himself in trouble. The only problem that came was keeping himself entertained and any truck driver knows that hours behind the wheel can become mind numbly boring. 

That’s when he met the girls, in every stop they were lingering around, standing under the low red lights of the parking lots, offering him the finest entertainment money could buy. If you enjoy that sort of thing, and a few years ago Aerion really did enjoy it. 

He enjoyed it up until around eight months ago. Up until the boredom came back and his tendencies grew darker. 

Aerion thought about biting them, choking them, forcing their mouth down on his cock till they couldn’t breathe and they were slapping his thighs for air. But not them, not really. He only thought about them when their faces were turned towards him, and they were underneath him waiting to be fucked. 

He thought awful things. He thought, maybe if he just let it play out, he’ll be satisfied. But he tried that as well, but they never really reacted, just asked for more money afterwards and gave him a smile that said, we’ve seen worse. 

He never wanted them anyway. Never really fantasied about doing it to them anyway. No, how fucking could he when all he fantasied about was you? 

Because eight months ago oblivious to him you had served him at the diner. 

You.

He remembers nursing a black eye and hiding in the corner booth, cap on his shoulder covering his eyes and his hair. He didn’t even mean to watch you, but it was pretty much impossible to do anything else. 

You strolled over to his booth, wide smile asking in that sickly sweet tone if you could get him anything. You nodded at his curt answers and didn’t once stray to remark on his rude attitude. You who carried that same kindness across the rest of the diner, slightly forced and fake, but never faltering. It amazed him how you could put up a facade just like that. Just pretend that nothing ever bothered you. 

A part of him admired it, and the other part… well, it wanted to break it. He wanted to break you. 

By the time you came back to refill his coffee he had a cigarette dangling between his lips. You told him he couldn’t smoke it, and he returned back with something snide but clearly funny because you had laughed. Not some fake giggle that waitresses do before they awkwardly tell you that it’s the rules. No, you snorted— tried to stifle it even with a bite of your lip before the laugh took over and your chest shook with it. 

Gorgeous, he thought. But what he said was he knew the manager, and you replied, so do I and I know he wouldn’t be happy with you smoking in here. 

He smirked and he raised his head so you could see him underneath the cap. 

You didn’t shiver, you just smirked back before walking away. 

His lips curled upwards further, because he’d found it cute and he couldn’t wait to tear that smile off that face. 

Eventually he did, after trying to fight back his fantasies with other women, he finally decided it wasn’t enough and he had to have you. Six months later. 

—And from what he hears from his brother, you’re still not quite the same. 

You force that pretty smile on your face, try to feign every bit of confidence around that diner but it’s not the same. The amount of times Daeron’s seen you jump, or take a five minute breather to cry in the bathroom, has gone beyond worth counting. Your eyes are heavy, and there’s times where you’re found gazing out the window into nothing. Like you’re not really there at all. 

He did that and yet he doesn’t even get to reap the rewards of what he’s done. He doesn’t get to see it play out in real time. 

Keep your distance, Daeron tells him. Give her time. 

Give you time for what?

Oddly enough in the time you’ve been separated only hearing about you over the phone, on the days his brother bothers to pick up his phone, makes him feel empty. Him. 

He’s picking again at that boredom, it’s like a weed in a garden that he pulls out but there’s still part of it stuck in the dirt. Some part of the root he can’t pick at and instead of digging, he picks at it, sitting in the back of his truck at different stops licking over his wounds. He wishes he videoed you, or something— anything to stop this constant numbing boredom from coming to an end. 

He could find a girl— any girl really. The pit stops are full of them and he has the money. But each time one girl passes by the truck, his body freezes before he can call out and he’s stuck watching the girl go past onto another truck. 

Each night he’s left with his hand and the thoughts of you. 

These girls are endless, empty voids that he can pour money into. You have a beginning and an end. Pieces of you he can break and build up again.

They are a temporary solution. You are the root he needs to dig out. The answer. His answer. 

He can’t keep his distance anymore. Can’t keep listening to his older brother to be patient and wait. 

He has to see you. 

You thought you could do this. 

You thought if you just kept pushing through shift after shift you’d snap into place. Or at least the pure exhaustion from it would weigh you down and you’d finally have one peaceful night's sleep. 

But you were wrong. 

Daeron gave you all the shifts you wanted, even reluctantly calling you in when it got too busy or another person had called in sick. You took every shift with a pep in your step, forcing that over the top smile on your face and ran around the diner like nothing could touch you. 

Till your legs burned. 

Till your eyes drooped over. 

Till all the noises in the diner began to jumble together. 

Until you crashed. 

You planned to crash at home, to just reach the very last long shift and crash in the comforts of your bed. But booth twenty-two had been your destruction, a family of five with a new born screaming at every interaction they were given. The screaming made your ears ring, the over demanding dad made your head spin and the next thing you knew you were stumbling with another sent back order, only to find yourself on the sticky tiled floor. 

To say Daeron wasn’t pleased was an understatement, the man might not get angry, might not raise his voice at you but you could tell in the sheer disappointment laced in each word. 

You need to get help, or you’re going to have to find another job. 

Sleep came easy, not even in your bed, but on the cushions of your couch. The background noise of some lame cartoon on your tv had you dozing off in no time. 

It’s the after that sucks. The long night, after sleeping for over eighteen hours and finding yourself more awake than you’ve ever been before. 

You need water, it’s the first that comes to mind. You part your lips, finding them crusty and your mouth awfully dry. Only when you move, you feel the stiffness of your joints as well and struggle to make your way to the bathroom. 

You shower, letting the steam untangle all the knots of your body before stepping out to chug a glass of water. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognise the person staring back at you. Still a bit rough around the edges, but the sleep has brought life back into your body that you desperately needed. 

Some food would do you good. Possibly some more rest, if you could manage to get to sleep again. You pull yourself out of the bathroom, stepping into the kitchen with the towel wrapped around your body. Something easy— 

Your feet stop, ears picking up to a shuffling sound close by. 

It could be your neighbour, possibly upstairs with their cats. But then you hear it again, the soft padding of feet against the floorboard— creek— the wooden flooring of your bedroom. 

Your body freezes, eyes shifting over to look at your doorway, it’s ajar, only slightly but enough you can see a shadow in the room. Your eyes flicker to the front door, measuring out the distance between your feet and the doorway. You could run for it, drag your ass out onto the street and scream bloody murder. You're half naked though and on this side of town, you’re certain people have heard worse. 

Your eyes find your knife stand, all five of them slotted into the wooden holder. 

You’re sick to your stomach at the thought, but it’s you or them, right? You or whatever mass murderer has decided to take occupancy in your home tonight. 

The knife comes out louder than you thought it would, scraping against the wood and before you can even pull it out, a hand drops over yours, pushing it right back in. 

“You don’t want to do that,” He hums, and you feel his breath on the back of your neck. It’s warm on your damp skin. 

You can’t think, your words catch in your throat and you feel paralysed all over again. That fight response that was in you once has gone, and all that is left is this quivering mess. 

Lips press to your shoulder, cold and oddly familiar before they move, gliding all the way up your neck. 

He wasn’t like this before, he was rough and mean but as his hands fall onto your hips in a bruising grip, your body remembers him. 

Aerion, that’s what Daeron had called him. 

“And here I thought you’d be kicking and screaming.” His tongue clicks against the side of his mouth before you feel his teeth, sharp canines running along the point where your neck meets your shoulder. “But you’re shaking at least.” 

You should run, jam your elbow into his torso and break free from him. Should have called the police as soon as you realised who he was. Guess you can only blame yourself that this is happening. 

He presses his chest into your back and you fall forwards into the countertop, trapping yourself between him and the marble. You can feel him like this, and he’s exactly like he was that night, hungry. His cock is hard already, and you tense at the feel of it, rubbing up against your back side. 

“Not going to run,” Aerion asks, hands coming to your arms and running along your damp skin. “Thought we could play a cat and mouse game.” 

His lips move, and so do his hands, grabbing your wrists and pulling you flush against him. The movement jolts you, head snapping back and your eyes finally get to see him in proper light. 

“Miss me?” 

It takes you a second, but the word bubbles in the back of your throat and as small as it is you manage to force it out. 

“No.” 

He chuckles at that, a low rumble pouring through his chest before smiling with his teeth. “But you’ve been waiting for me though.” 

No, you could lie but you swallow, and the realisation hits you, tears clinging to the back of your throat like tar as you shake your head. 

Liar. Liar. 

You don’t miss him. No. But you have been waiting for him. 

In the faces of each of your customers you look for him. Each time the door opens in the diner you’re looking back for him. In the maze of cars and trucks in the parking lot you search for him. Even in this home that he’s only just stepped into, you’re looking for him every time you shut your eyes. 

Your eyes flutter, holding back tears that you can’t contain and your lips tremble. 

He’s right, and the moment he realises his eyes widen and his lips fall open in awe. 

“Fuck,” the word rings out, and he pulls you into him more. “ —and here I thought I was going to have to force you down into that bed all night.” His finger falls to your chin, turning your face to look back at him and his smug smile. “But I can already sense you’re going to be all pliant for me.” 

He’s exactly right, and you hate it. 

He doesn’t even need to grab a handful of your hair to snap your body back into his. His hand finds the back of your neck, a firm grip as he guides your body in the direction he wants you to go. 

Your bedroom. 

You should will your feet to move— to run in the opposite direction. Your feet move on their own accord, almost like they’re leading him into the confines of your room, inviting him in. 

You can’t understand it. Maybe some part of you wants this over with, maybe the other part knows that you’ll lose in a cat and mouse game. 

It becomes increasingly harder to understand when your back is pressed on the bed and his head is positioned between your thighs. Not just yourself, but him. 

The man that forced himself on you two months ago, that forgot about you, is now licking and nipping at the skin of your thighs, like he’s teasing you— like some part of him wants you to enjoy this— and it’s working. 

He sucks at the skin between the crevice of your thigh, licking the area before his teeth bruise and make a puncture. You wince, biting down on the inside of your cheek before you feel the blood spilling from the wound. It’s not the only thing spilling out of you though. You feel your slick, building between your thighs, oozing out of your when he begins to suck, cleaning up the blood. 

The same wetness between your thighs that only grows when he looks up at you, purple eyes almost black, pressing soft kisses over the marks on your thighs until his lips, painted with your blood, are placing themself over your pussy. You sigh at that, lips barely over your folds and he chuckles before licking a tender swipe across your soaked clit. 

You shouldn’t be this wet and yet when his tongue parts your slick folds, you can’t help but get wetter, a whimper falling from your throat that you can’t hold. 

You cry, pathetic and weak. You’re not certain what you’re really upset about anymore, the pain, the humiliation of not fighting back or the fact you’re growing to enjoy this. 

You waited for him didn’t you? You looked for him in every face in that diner. Day in. Day out. An endless cycle, aren’t you just glad that this can be some sort of end? Some sort of pinnacle in your endless misery. 

Your hips buck up as his tongue circles your clit, slow in its movements, dragging the tip around lightly before pressing it down with a pressure that makes your eyes roll back. He’s barely even doing anything to you, taking his time in working you up and you’re enjoying every bit of it. By the time that he circles it the second time, your hips are being forced down by a firm hand and you snap out of your daze long enough to look down at him. 

“I’ll give you what you want. Just relax.” 

The word drips from his tongue like honey and you hear it repeated in the back of your head just like that night. 

Relax. 

It’s the only thing you can’t do, hips wriggling as his tongue slides down until he reaches your whole. 

THWACK. 

His hand comes down quickly against your pussy, tips of his fingers aiming at your clit and you cry out at the impact. 

You look down but this time he’s not smiling smugly up at you, there’s a nasty look in his eyes as frowns at you. 

“Behave,” he almost growls, face diving back down. “I want to enjoy this.” 

His tongue licks at you, gathering bits of your juices and swallowing them with a loud groan. It honestly might be more enjoyable if it isn’t for his hands that have found your thighs, fingers wrapping around them to hold them in place and nails digging into the soft skin. 

At least you don’t wriggle anymore, but you can’t help the whimper that escapes you when his tongue slides back up to your clit, licking feverishly at it before wrapping his lips around it. 

He sucks like your clit is the end of a straw to his favourite milkshake and he’s struggling to get anything out. It’s mean and nasty, and you force your hips deeper into the bed to stop yourself from bucking up into his touch again. His mouth chases you, and his nails bury themselves deeper into your skin to stop you from moving, to keep him latched onto you. 

Somewhere between all the moans that escape you as your toes curl and your stomach tenses unnaturally, you say something and you think it might be his name. You’ve not heard it on your lips before but as your orgasm washes over you, his name comes out of you. 

“Aerion.” 

“Mmm,” he lets out between a sharp breath, tongue slowing its movements to gentle circles. “You taste so good, doll.” He kisses then, pecks against your sensitive clit that has your thighs quivering with the remains of your orgasm. “Been waiting to taste this.”

“Waiting.” You barely register the word as you say it, eyes half lidded as you look down at him. The word floats in your mind and you can’t possibly comprehend that he’s been waiting. 

“Yeah, doll,” he replies, and you feel the bed dip as he crawls over you. “Been waiting, doll.” 

“No,” you mumble out, hands reaching out to push against him. None of this makes sense. “No.” 

“Yes,” he whispers, lips descending over yours. 

“Yes.” 

He repeats as he tears off his own clothes as your hands finally try to shove him away. 

“Yes.” 

As he falls on top of you and cages you in. 

His naked body is hovering above you before you can make sense of it and when he finally presses it against yours, he’s still whispering yes over and over again between pecks on your lips. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he answers, and the almost whiny tone in his voice makes it sound truthful. “Waiting and watching.” His hands wrap your legs around his hips, pulling you flush against him until your bodies are practically one. “And after all that waiting I’m going to get what I fucking want.” 

You hiss at the intrusion of his tip at your entrance, no chance or warning as he slides within you. The first time felt so similar, and even with your walls soaked, there’s still an undeniably painful stretch to accommodate him. One that makes you bite back a sob, and one that makes him moan in your ear from pure delight. 

Your body adjusts to it quicker this time, and the sob at the back of your throat turns into a pitiful moan as tears spill down your cheeks. It’s like your body registers him as he thrusts against you, pace not even giving you a chance to breathe. It’s been waiting for him, you think, like your mind. All those lonely nights in the darkness of this room, fingers delving into your hole, unable to reach the place that his cock reaches, it’s been waiting for this. For him. 

“Kind of like you like this, doll,” he chuckles, the throaty noise being felt across your damp skin. “All pretty and pliant for me. Could mold you into any position right now and I think you’d take it?” 

You want to bite back, to throw an insult that only you can think of but the feel of his thick cock dragging out of your walls slowly has you mumbling out, “Please.” 

What are you pleading for? For this to be over, or for him to carry on. 

You’re not completely certain yourself, toes curling as he slides all the way back into your walls. All you know is the intensity slowly growing in your stomach, the feeling that has you fluttering around his length, unable to do anything but wait for it to take you. 

“I’ve barely been inside you for a minute,” he whistles lowly, pulling himself up so his lips sit directly by your ear. “And you’re already clenching around me like this.” 

He doesn’t say it outright but you hear it in his tone and feel it in the way he smirks against your skin. Pathetic. A pathetic mess underneath your rapist, gasping into his mouth as he places his lips on top of yours, and making an embarrassing wet mess of your bed sheets beneath you both. You tense in horror at the realisation, and your hands come out to push against him. 

—But Aerion’s quick to catch your wrists, pinning them above your head and deepening the kiss further before pulling away for just a second. 

“Just relax.”

For the first time you do, losing yourself in the feel of his tongue circling your own and his cock sliding in and out of your walls with a pace that borders on brutal. You whimper into his mouth, and your name slips out from his tongue as your walls strangle him. It’s the first time you’ve heard him say your name, and it’s odd hearing the way it falls off his tongue so easily, as if it’s been sitting at the back of his throat for days on end. He says it again, and you come undone completely, eyes squeezing shut as his lips descend down to your chin, letting your lewd moans fill the quiet room. 

After you ride out your high, it doesn’t stop though. There’s still a sensation that feels like your teetering around the edge again, like one push more of his hips could send you toppling over the edge again. It’s good in some ways, the overstimulating feeling of each thrust making you cling to him desperately, leaving you so fucked out that you can’t really think. But there’s a part of you that knows you’ll hate yourself afterwards, a part you can’t really bother to listen to now. 

You can think about that part when the sun comes up, and the blonde man on top of you is long gone. For now this is the only bit of solace you’ve managed to find in months, and you’ll gladly be the subject of his perversions if it means being able to surrender your mind and find peace. 

Who knows when you’ll get it again?

a/n: i want you to know that aerion is not done with you yet

please comment and reblog if you like my post, i like to hear what you think.

You smiled sadly looking around, the frown carving deeper into your face the longer you thought about your father. You hoped that he truly did not believe the three of you were dead, as the hedge knight had told you earlier. You wondered if you should present your—

"I did not mean to say that to her," a voice declared, pulling you from your thoughts.

You blinked slightly in confusion, turning toward Duncan. You sat smooshed in between both the large man and your youngest brother, "Huh?" you questioned.

"Tanselle. I did not mean to insinuate," he made a motion with his hand expecting you to fill out the rest of his thoughts. You nodded, knowing exactly what he was trying to say, but deciding to poke his buttons trying his patients further nonetheless.

You brought the ale to your mouth, taking a long sip, "You are free to do as you please, Ser. I am only glad we have discovered a woman you have interest for."

Duncan's eyes immediately widened, as he began spluttering on his ale, "No!" Heads snapped toward you at the loud outburst causing the tips of his ears to turn a bright red, "I just mean she was nice yes, but I do have that interest in her. I mean you are…" his words immediately died in his throat as he stared at you, eyes wild.

You smirked slightly, "I am?" you asked. He did not answer, instead shaking his head and looking back out to the chaos that took place around him.

Egg's eyes flickered between the pair of you, "Do you think I'll ever make a knight one day?" he then asked, changing the course of the conversation more for the knight's sake then your own.

"Sure why not. You're a likely lad," Dunk answered.

"I'm a bit puny," the boy countered.

"You'll grow," the large man assured him.

"Even for my age. Everyone's always told so," the younger continued, ignoring his assurance.

"Everyone's always told me I was stupid," Duncan then said.

You both turned toward him awaiting for him to continue, but he never did. "And?" Egg asked, trying to prompt him.

"Hm? What?" he questioned.

"What?"

You began to laugh, as the man clearly did not understand what was going on, "What did you do when people said you were stupid, ser?" the younger asked.

"What business is that of yours? My problems are my own."

Your brother looked to you, seeing if you could explain what was going on, but you only continued to laugh, "Aren't you trying it me help me?" he questioned.

"Help you what? Grow?"

The conversation was not given a chance to further on as then Lyonel Baratheon came stumbling toward you all. , "Yes! Hedge knight, you." He grabbed Duncan's ale throwing it, causing you to lean back to avoid getting splashed, "What is this piss froth? I need muscle. Will you head my call to war?" he questioned clapping the man's neck.

Dunk turned toward both you and Egg with wild eyes, to which cause the Baratheon's gaze to turn toward you both, "Oh, and both your boy and woman too! We need all the power we can get!" he then declared.

Egg grabbed your hand, excitedly pulling you down toward the rope, the knight following behind you with his large strides. The youngest made his way down toward the front of the men, as you helped to tie the rope around Dunk.

"You are essentially the anchor," you informed him. Your eyes stare at the rope in your hand, as you went into a sort of daze, "You hold everything down so everyone else can succeed," you muttered.

He stared at you a moment, "You seem to know a thing or two about that."

Your eyes flickered up toward him, as you smiled at him, closed lip, "Hey! Dry there palms, you clam-handed cunt. We're not in your sister's chambers," Lyonel then yelled out, causing you to turn back away from him.

You wrapped your hands around the rough material, clutching it tightly.

"Ready?" the Baratheon then yelled back, to every in preparation. Then suddenly the game started. You attempted to plant your feet into the muddy grown, but without boots your new shoes did not do much, to help you sliding toward the other side.

"If we lose this, I'll be drowning your firstborn!" the Baratheon continued, you let out a loud laugh, shaking your head.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere he stepped out, assuring the men he'd be back. "Lyonel!" Dunk yelled in protest.

"I'm thirsty!" he argued, sounding more like a child than a full grown man.

"Baratheon!" you screamed, as you continued to slide against the ground, the rope burning slightly into your hand, "Get your ass back here!" you added, as Egg's legs went up in the air, quickly thinking to wrap them around the ropes, to prevent himself from touching the ground.

Lyonel, unphased, grabbed his drink taking a sip from it before discarding it off to the side. He moved back, tapping Duncan's butt, muttering praise before joining back in behind Egg. Once more he instructed all to pull, as if they had been doing something other than that.

Less than a full minute victory had been secured, causing you to immediately drop the rope, though it did nothing for the start of the ache in your hand, but your mind did not linger on it. You let out a hoot of excitement, before you watched Dunk grab ahold of Egg launching him into the air, as his boyish laugh flowed.

Once the boy was back on the ground Dunk moved toward you, looking as if he wanted to do the very same. You smiled at him stepping back, "I am most content on the ground," you assured him.

His grin did not lessen as he stared at you, "I am most content as well."

Duncan had told you, with the saddest look on his face about how he had to sell his horse, Sweetfoot in order to pray for his armour, and even with the added coin this only gave him the ability rent it rather than buying it outright.

So, this had caused you to set out on a mission.

It did not take you long before you had stumbled across the bald bearded man working on a chest plate to know you had found the right place, "Are you Steely Pate?" you asked, your head swiveling around to make sure no one lingered near.

He turned looking toward you, a clear curious expression on his face, "I am he confirmed.

You nodded, before pulling out your pouch of coin, counting out the correct amount, "This is for the big bastard that came earlier. Sad eyes, makes you feel a little sorry for him," you explained, placing the coin in his out stretched hands.

He stared at the coin in his hand, then looked back to you, "I thought he could not afford to pay in full?" he asked, clearly knowing exactly who you spoke of.

"He cannot. I can," you smiled at him slightly, before nodding your head, "His squire will come get it when he enters the lists," you added, turning away from him. You then made a mental note to attempt to buy back his horse at the end of the tourney. Well…or whenever you come manage to get more money from your father.

You quickly made your way through, the people back toward the Pavilion where you brother sat alone waiting, "I cannot believe I beat him back," you said, shaking your head slightly noticing Dunk's absence still, "Armour is taken care of," you whispered to the younger, as you noticed the man finally coming back with two ales in each hand and one tucked into his shoulder.

"No turning back now, I suppose," the knight said handing them each their drinks. Egg looked at his own drink with a look of disgust, flicking it slightly. "You know, the old man lived nigh on 60 years and was never a champion," Duncan told them.

"There's a bug in my cider," Egg declared, ignoring him.

You reached forward trading his cup for your own, causing him to smile at you in appreciation, "If I could call myself a champion of Ashford Meadow...even for an hour maybe some great house might take me into its service. Perhaps even House Targaryen."

You both turned toward him, as you let out a laugh slip past without meaning too, "You suppose the dragon house employs many hedge knights, Dunk?" you questioned, a smirk still on your lips. Trying to think of one current knight who hadn't been trained by a master of arms in some degree.

"I'll have you know Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard is but the son of a crabber," he then informed you.

You turned toward Egg who already stared back at you, both your confused looks mirroring the other, "Ser Donnel? Of Duskendale?" the boy questioned, as the man confirmed, "His father owns half the crabbing fleets in Westeros," he then continued.

You watched the knight carefully for a moment, waiting to see if he would question just how your brother knew that. "What?! How would you know?" Duncan then asked.

"I like fishing," he answered, another half truth coming, off his tongue with ease. Luckily for your sanity, a horn sounded through the air, "It's time!" Egg exclaimed excitedly.

Your hand immediately, moved holding your brother's, hoping to prevent him from getting lost in the large crowed, as Dunk instructed you both to hurry, "Wait for us!" the boy screamed, but the knight unable to hear him over the notice, continuing forward. "Duncan! Ser Duncan!"

You held tightly to the brother, as the sea of people kept pushing you froward, but no where near the knight, "Dunk!" you finally yelled, as loud as your lungs could muster.

The large man finally, stopped, he stood at least a head taller than everyone else allowing him to easily overlook the people spotting you both. He waited for a moment, allowing you both to reach him before he reached down, grabbing Egg and placing him atop his shoulders, as you wrapped your hand around his bicep, You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," the boy confirmed, as the knight then looked down for your own assurance, causing you to nod. You then continued forward, pushing through the crowd until the three of you were at the front of the wooden railing, giving you all a good view.

Your smile then faltered, as you noticed who then entered inside the Royal Box. Your father, uncle, and younger brother sat a mere few feet away from you, all completely unaware that both you and Aegon, where right within their view.

Your gaze lingered on Maekar, until a man with a Tully sigil, holding a fish in his hand obstructed in now standing in front of you, "For the new gods and old!" he examined, before biting the fishes head off throwing the remains into the crowd.

Your nose crinkled slightly, as your brother cheered out in excitement, "That was odd," you whispered to Dunk who nodded in agreement.

Your eyes moved over the knights, recognizing the sigils with the practiced ease as a young woman who had spent most of her life learning and knowing the histories of the Lands that your family ruled. Tully, Hightower, Tyrell, Lannister, Barethon.

Though you were really searching for the familiar black armour of your cousin, when he appeared riding in with his matching black stallion. Duncan's eyebrows furrowed together at another member of House Targaryen appeared, "Hey, who's that?" he asked looking up to the small boy on his shoulders.

"Prince Valarr, Baelor's son. Second in line to the throne," you then answered, instead of your brother, and if the man thought that was odd he did not voice it nor appear to think it based on his facial expression.

Valarr placed his helmet on his head as he called for his shield. "He's the favorite, I'd wager," he replied.

"I'll take that bet, ser," Egg replied.

The entire field went quiet as everyone waited in anticipation. "Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!" suddenly a man from the crowed yelled out causing other's to laugh.

The loud horn sounded through the air, signaling the start as the knights were then off, with their lances out stretched in front of them. Your gaze stayed locked onto your cousin as a lance crashed against his shield, though the young prince did not fall.

Valarr made it to the end, requesting another lance from his squire, to which he was quickly provided. Less than a full minute later he was off once more, readying for yet another tilt.

Egg watched all the squires before looking to his little hand, "Ser put me down. Ser," the young boy instructed. He moved in front of the pair, climbing onto the fence, as your hand moved gravitating to hover over his back just incase he fell.

You let out a cry of joy as Valarr successfully knocked the Hightower to the ground. Both men beside you cringed though as Leo Tyrell went flying to the ground. Though he did not remain their low as he quickly stood, grabbing the next moving horse, while snagging a discarded shield off the ground

Dunk's breathing next to you then began to pick up, sounding more shallow then it was suppose to. You turned looking at him concern, "Are you alright?" you asked, but he did not muster any words, only nodding, while swallowing harshly.

You all stayed til the very end, which was an entire ten tilts, ending with Lyonel Baratheon, victorious over Robert Ashford.

Egg once more made a fire, as Dunk sat, clearly lost in thought as he sharped a stick with his knife. You sat next to him, turning to check on him every so often. Your brother, who held his own stick in his hand currently played his favorite game. Reenacting the Blackfyre Rebellion, and playing the role of non-other than the Anvil.

He finally stopped, noticing the knight's sullen mood, "Splendid riding tonight. Mm, the part with the fish was disgusting," he said.

"Are you alright, Dunk?" you then asked.

"Do great knights in love in the hedges and die by the side of a muddy road? I think not. Ser Alan wasn't gifted with sword or lance, and he drank, and he whored, and he was a hard man to know. He made no friends either. He lived neigh on 60 years and never was a champion. Mm, what chance do I have? Truly?"

Neither of you spoke watching, listening to his every word he, "But he was good to me. I wasn't his family...but he kept me like we were. He raised me to be an honorable man. And all these nobles lords can't even remember his name. His name was Ser Arlan of Pennytree. And I am his legacy. On the morrow...we will show the what his hand wrought."

Finally, Duncan added a final round of timber to the fire, before you all moved to lay down. Egg had fallen asleep quickly, his small snores filling, as the events of the day left him exhausted,

You turned then, looking up at the hedge knight, the fire still flickering allowing it to illuminate up your face, and he could not help, but think your eyes looked a purple, and the longer he stared the thought simply would not go away.

"Dunk?" you questioned, causing him to hum in reply, "You're worth more than any of these lords, simply because you are a good man."

You sat up slightly, to hover over him staring down at him. His eyes then flickered down to yours lips, the action not discreet at all, having you see exactly what he was doing. With an unknown surge of courage you then leaned down pressing your mouth to his.

He froze, for an entire minute, as feeling your lips against his own. He waited, and then once you did not pull back did he finally close his eyes and allow himself to kiss you back. He sat up with ease, as you moved to straddle him.

His large hands moved cupping your cheeks, as your hand gripped tightly holding his shirt. You both finally pulled away for a minute, when the burning in your lungs began to be to much, and you both stared at the other. You leaned down, ready to attach your lips once more when, "Are your eyes purple? Like a violet?" he suddenly asked.

Your mouth parted slightly in shock, as you froze, pulling back away from him as if he had just struck you. He stared at you, his eyebrows pulling together in his confusion awaiting to see what you would do next.

You decided this would be a good time to tell him, that he was in fact right. That your eyes were violet, but then that would lead to more questions, and then everything come crashing down for the small boy that slept soundly a few feet away from you.

Egg. Aegon. Your youngest brother slept a few feet away from you, and you sat atop his knight kissing him. He wanted to squire for a good knight, and Dunk at his core was a good man. Egg deserved this, and Duncan deserved better than the drama that would eventually unfold with your last name.

This was wrong.

You then rolled off him, turning over on your side facing the small boy, muttering countless apologies in your head at the improper thoughts running through your head while he rested beside you, blissfully unaware. "Go to sleep, Dunk," you muttered.

He stared at you in confusion, wondering what the hell he could have possibly done that was wrong. Mayhaps he should not have kissed you? Wait! You kissed him and had seemed to enjoy it in his opinion. His mind did not calm until very later, when you were already fast asleep, you turned unknowingly and curled into his side.

For a moment everything felt right in the world, and he allowed himself to close his own eyes.

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