an older version of me

he likes being a little mean.

** enough to make you sniffly. condescending praise and very sweet degradation. he teases you for being so needy. loves having you in his lap or tucked into him in bed, your back pressed to his front as he rubs you through your panties and purrs over your ear. “you’re so pathetic for being this worked up, baby— i wasn’t even gone for that long, only had one class.” he sighs, adding more pressure as he circles over your clit through the dampening cotton. your breath catches in your throat, your hips rut against his hand. he clicks his tongue with pity before pressing a kiss to the side of your face, feeling how hot your skin has become against him. “what the fuck am i gonna do with you?” it’s whispered, it makes you pout despite your building orgasm and the way you can feel your heartbeat between your thighs, “my needy girl.”

again, he likes doing things in places you shouldn’t.

** i.e the changing room drabble— beyond that, he’s fucked you into the carpet in the basement of the store a few times. clark blindly trusts you two to do inventory every few months … somehow it always becomes you with your shorts around your ankles and bobby’s hips rutting against the fullness of your ass while you claw at the carpeting. sometimes he films it, for your home video collection. he loves watching you lose yourself for him somewhere that isn’t the sanctuary of your apartment. “bobby, bobby— gonna get caught!” “shhh. relax, baby. you’re taking it so fuckin’ good already— don’t start whining now, not when you’re this close to making a mess for me.” it’s never enough. he’s fucked you on the beach, in an alley after getting jealous at the bar, and he’s tried the library many many times.

he likes making a mess of your pretty face.

The walls of Winterfell, as well known, were raised upon natural hot springs. Fires were seldom needed; the very stones breathed warmth, lulling one toward sleep.

Heavy tapestries, richly embroidered, barred the morning sun from entering, and the chambers lay steeped in a soft, muted gloom. You lay sprawled in lazy serenity, buried beneath thick furs that cocooned you in warmth. But not only they kept the chill at bay. A man lay atop you, heavy and solid as another blanket entirely — Cregan, his cheek pressed to your belly, his broad palm splayed across your side, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. His long and dark hair had tangled overnight; he never braided it before sleep, and come morning he would grumble (adorably, you thought) about the knots that always seemed to find him.

You smiled at the thought, your fingers threading almost idly through his tousled locks. He looked so peaceful now, so utterly at rest, though he had only returned from the Wall a single day past, pushing his horse hard the whole way.

"I missed you," he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm and startling, raising goosebumps in its wake. You twitched, not having expected either of you to break the silence for some time yet. His hand shifted higher, sliding just beneath your ribs, and he hitched himself closer. Closer hardly seemed possible, you thought.

His eyes were still heavy with the pull of sleep. Cregan could easily sink back into dreams, lie tangled with you for hours more, until some urgent lord came pounding at the door with talk of accounts and petitions and all the thousand petty matters that lordship demanded. No. No one will tear me from my wife for a single second longer, stirred in his mind.

Home. The word suddenly echoed in his chest, strange and new. The grey stone of Winterfell, so often grim and unyielding, now meant only you. Your smile, your eyes catching the firelight; your laughter, your sorrow. Everything now filtered through the heart of a man who had once been as cold and impassive as the walls he ruled.

You hummed softly, scarcely above a whisper. "You've already said that…about ten times now." Your fingers burrowed deeper into his dark hair. Your gaze drifted across the broad expanse of his back, the muscle that lay carved even in stillness, broad and powerful. Cregan's breathing was deep, almost a soft snore; your touch, soothing as it was, made him sway faintly, following the motion of your hand like a great beast seeking comfort.

Then, as if stirring from a dream, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. His lips curved into a faint, almost teasing smile. "I think one more time wouldn't hurt, my lady." A playful glint lit his gaze as he pressed a quick kiss to your stomach, the nearest of his sudden carnality.

You kindle something wild in him, a storm he couldn't always name. Some days you were sharp-tongued and impossible, and he half-wondered if some old crone had taken root inside his pretty wife. Other days you were light and sly as a vixen, and he feared he could never keep pace, that you would vanish into the snowy depths of the wood and leave him chasing shadows.

A startled gasp escaped you at his unforeseen movement, and the heat rose swiftly to your ears, flooded to your cheeks. You must have looked like a maiden again. Cregan chuckled, warm and low. "Forgive me, my wife. My long absence has clearly made you forget what it is to be surrounded by a man's attention, to be so affected by it," he intoned, droning voice of a maester reciting some tedious moral. Then laughter broke through, bright and boyish, and his lips descended again to your sensitive skin.

Lord Stark kissed you with life and fire, playful and fervent, as if he wasn't kissing you at all but rather tumbling like a wolf pup with its littermates. Your vibrant laughter filled the space, and the man’s heart pounded harder with very beat. In an instant, his hands braced themselves on either side of you, and he hovered above your frame, his chest rising and falling, his hair wilder than before. A smile spread across his face — the kindest, most genuine smile — and a faint dimple appeared on his cheek. You would never have guessed that this rugged, weathered man of the North could hold such lightness, such unguarded devotion. A man who had fallen for you utterly, who would move mountains or burn the world just to catch your smile.

You rolled your eyes, trying to deflect any suspicion that he was right and you truly had forgotten what it was to share a bed with your husband. But your nervous smile, the frantic beating of your heart betrayed you completely.

"I see," your husband said, with deliberate clarity.

His lips met yours in a tender, languid kiss. Palms cradled your face, rough and warm, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with unhurried reverence. The heat of his mouth settled on yours in a hungry, patient, full of all the longing kiss he had carried across the miles. You exhaled sharply through your nose, and he deepened the kiss, working on your lower lip, sliding his tongue inside with a slow, warm exploration that made your head swirl. You found your arms wrapping around the back of his neck, pressing him closer, craving more. Your cheeks flushed hot, your breath came short and ragged. It was only a kiss, one you had shared a hundred times before. Yet somehow, this one undid you entirely.

With visible effort, Cregan pulled back, just far enough to look at you. Cregan always wanted to look at you, your face was a miracle he could not explain, a mystery that stole his breath every time. His heart hammered as wildly as yours, his pupils blown wide, and in that very moment he looked less like the Lord of Winterfell and more like some adoring, awestruck pup.

He kissed you again, soft and brief. "You are so beautiful," the man murmured, and there was a tender sadness in his voice. "It almost grieves me that such loveliness must dwell in the cold North, tucked away behind these stone walls." He spoke with complete sincerity; soon after the Northman pressed another kiss to your lips, your jaw, the tender spot behind your ear, drawing out a fresh wave of goosebumps. You sighed, surrendering to his gentle ministrations.

He was here. Real, solid, warm — flesh and blood.

His kisses grew bolder, his open mouth trailing down your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones. Back up again.

Husband's large hands slid beneath your shift. You flinched, more violently than before, at the wave of warmth that washed over your body. Cregan's hands had always been warm, almost scalding. And he himself always seemed to burn with fire. He often complained that your chambers were too stifling, and so he would throw open the windows. Yet watching you burrow deeper into the furs with each passing night, he would think that he could endure the heat, if only his sweet little wife might sleep in comfort.

His palms traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. His eyes gleamed with something ravenous.

He hitched up the hem of your nightdress, baring you with immodest recklessness. Your gaze darted away, your lashes fluttering in a frantic beat.

His lips descended upon your tender skin, a new expanse he had yet to explore that morning in your lovemaking. The Northman was gentle, but unbearably impatient, as his mouth traveled lower, from your ribs down to your navel. His breath seared your flesh, and through your mind raced the thought: how could a man so cold harbour such fire within? You arched into those utterly honest kisses. If only you knew that Cregan had cultivated and nourished these feelings solely because of you. Because of you and your nature, which captivated him more with each passing day, with a force that was nothing short of staggering.

Cregan hooked your leg, lifting it onto his shoulder. You shuddered entirely, drawing inward, as though he were committing some forbidden act, some transgression against the honourable nature of the Starks. And yet it was nothing of the sort of an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment of a husband's surrender to his wife.

With kisses, he descended upon your thigh, and his breath raised an extraordinary host of goosebumps across your skin. Your lips parted, and from your mouth escaped an involuntary sigh, impatient and utterly inviting.

He found your pussy and covered it with open-mouthed, wet kisses. He did it with such fervent hunger, as though he had dreamed of nothing else during all those days he had spent at the Wall. He worshipped you as if he could think of no other thing in the world but your slick, aching cunt. And that was the plainest truth. He licked and sucked at your folds, feasting in that very moment. He needed no grand banquets thrown in his honour — leave him his wife with her legs spread wide in his chambers, and that would be the truest feast for the Lord of Winterfell.

You arched your back and moaned so lewdly that you would later feel the burning shame of it, utterly and without question.

Cregan, meanwhile, was drinking you in, savouring every last drop of you.

Your fingers sank into your husband's hair with a newfound fervour, pressing him closer still. Cregan smiled against your skin, and his tongue began tracing ever more intricate patterns upon your swollen, aching nub with renewed diligence. His thumb stroked your thigh in a slow, steady rhythm, as though encouraging you. What further encouragement could you possibly need, when his mouth was working so ardently between your legs, delivering such immeasurable pleasure and setting sparks alight behind your eyes?

You gasped and panted, your breath hitching with each flick of his tongue. "Cregan!" you pleaded, your eyes snapping upward in a silent, desperate prayer to the heavens.

In response, your husband merely hummed against you, drawing out your rapture with merciless precision. You trembled violently, and with a loud, broken moan, you shattered beneath him.

Cregan pulled back from you, wiping your wetness from his face with the back of his hand. He looked more than satisfied with his morning mischief. The formidable man offered you a tender smile, then pressed a kiss to your forehead, achingly gentle, impossibly soft.

He held your gaze, his palm coming to rest against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin in a slow caress. "I believe I must take my leave now, my lady," he uttered, his voice low and measured. "Else my wayward lords will have wrought some folly in my absence."

The man disentangled himself from the furs and rose from the bed with an effortless motion, shrugging into his robe. He dressed with soldierly swiftness, for that was precisely what he was. And then he left you, alone with your thoughts.

You lay there, flushed to the very roots of your hair, as the heavy door thudded shut, stirring a faint breeze across your heated skin. You bit your lip, still half-disbelieving of what had transpired only moments ago. A quiet giggle escaped you at the thought, and you burrowed yourself up to your nose beneath the blanket. Your smile lingered on your lips for a long, long while after.

It was only after his father had forced a horrible, gout-ridden psychiatrist on him that the dreams (nightmares, she insisted) were halting, the gaps between them stretching with frightening speed. His sleeps were becoming deeper, more restful. And he was starting to realise that his mother was not coming back.

The morning he met you he had slept for twelve hours the night before and the sun was shining a shade too bright for a world his mother was not alive in.

He had only partly scratched the sleep out of his eyes when he stumbled into the kitchen. The kids were all there. Daeron, half-baked even at the start of day. Aemon was beside him with his nose buried in an encyclopedia. Egg was pulling Daella’s hair with Rhae and Valarr was sitting, perfectly composed, amidst the roaring table as if it was the most natural thing.

Beside Valarr, pretty as a picture, sat you. Something lurched inside Aerion’s chest. It felt as if his heart, tired and unnaturally sleepy, had been shot with a bullet, kickstarting the day when he had no intention to do so.

He stood there against the door for a full five minutes before you noticed him. And then you tilted your head at him, lips pulled into a polite half-smile that was there for the whole time. Suddenly, he noticed the thing in your hand. It was a locket, his mother’s locket, with her miniature portrait of hers painted into the empty middle it. Everything warm in him left in an instant. 

“Hello, Aerion,” you said, as if you’d known him forever.

A wave of nausea welled under his skin. Your voice was light. Breathy… as if you’d just recovered from a cold. He pressed his lips, staring at the locket first and then at you. You wore a pale-blue sundress, hair down, smile open—the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. Aerion wondered, for a brief and terrible moment, what it might feel like to smile back at you.

But the moment snapped close and he squared his shoulders and answered, “Fuck you.”

You blinked. 

Aerion saw—with a burning, bruising sensation in the middle of his chest—as your cheeks lit up red. 

—--------------------

This is ridiculous. Aerion hisses at himself, which, truthfully, sounds more and more like a moan—a long overdue, aching, longing moan—than anger.

Fucking ridiculous. 

His one hand is wrapped around his cock, growing harder by the second as more undue memory flushes in, uninhibited. His other hand is clamped over his forehead, the elbow of it perched over the bathroom mirror, fogged by his breath. He sweeps his thumb over the head of his cock and a dribble of precum already sprouts from the intensity. He hisses again, a low curse. His hands work faster as the almost naked, slightly sweaty back of you comes in his mind.

Gods, he hates himself.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

—--------------

Aerion is planning to hide in the attic when he runs into you. 

Three weeks into the summer Maekar has decided that it’s time to ransack Aerion’s room for his hidden stash of weeds. As his room is getting ransacked by his father’s manager at ten am, he goes up to the attic to hide and finds you perched on one of the corners by the slim shaped window instead. His breath hitches at the sight of you. You don’t see him at first, entirely immersed in the magazine in your hand. From the short distance of the door and the window he can see your eyes scrunched in concentration, your ponytail lopsided as you slide against the wall. You look so lovely it feels as if something sharp has stabbed him in the chest.

Aerion wants to hit something. 

A sudden waft of wind from the broken window blows into the room and breezes against your hair. Your dress, a soft yellow thing with red flowers blossoming on top of the fabric, flutters. You sit with your knees to your chest, and below the dress your legs are long and smooth and naked.

It takes you fifty seconds exactly before you notice him. As your eyes snap to him, his naked feet and his short jeans and his old t-shirt, you look befuddled for a moment—just the fraction of a moment—and then the familiar knowing smile sets in.

“You missed breakfast,” you say non-committally.

Aerion feels his throat catching fire. 

“I wasn’t hungry,” he replies tightly.

Your smile persists. And Aerion doesn’t let his steps falter as he steps further into the room instead of backing down, going back to the garden or the basement or anywhere else where he might not be noticed like a peculiar insect you didn’t know if you should be interested in. It means nothing that you noticed he missed breakfast because that’s what you do, for everyone under the moon. And if he’s honest, it was infuriating, how you made simple politeness seem like a charm. Like the way your head tilted could mean that you were observing him closer, that your eyes lit at something he said could mean you listened when others scoffed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Aerion taps his feet on the floor. The musty old wood makes a creak. He stares at you, the lopsided ponytail, the magazine, the clip on your left toenail. The blood-red colour of your nails shine off the sunlight except for that chipped part of your left toe. Aerion wants to touch that spot.

“Aerion.”

His nose flares. You know what he is doing. Everyone except Maekar knows he hides his Oxys in the attic when the yearly ransack happens. And it’s alright, it was how it happened. People take him for what he is—a fucked-up heir who was at most bearable when he wasn’t mostly in his senses. They stare at the sight of his Valyrian features and his Valyrian madness and the ignorance of the rest of him was the most generous thing anyone could do. 

Except, for all your charitable portfolio, you are not doing that. You never do. You aren’t ignoring him. You step in front of him and tilt your head and stare in the all-encompassing, fixed, exulted way of yours and Aerion tries very very hard to stay still. To pretend the sharp shooting pain in his chest is anger and not hunger.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps. “Where’d your prince gone off to?”

“My prince?”

“You know it’s better for you to just leave now, don’t you?” he adds, biting on the words.

“Leave the attic and ignore the hand in your pocket that’s holding drugs?”

“Leave Summerhall and realise that Valarr would’ve already fucked you if he wanted to.”

Your lips flutter. There is a fraction of a second where your face dims, and Aerion doesn’t know if the pain in his chest meant he won or lost.

“That,” you say slowly, “was really mean.”

Aerion’s chest tightens. Mean, you said, a child’s word. A word no one used at him anymore. But it hurts, for some reason, it hurts that your eyes are softening, and your lips are slack in their smile and the flush in your cheeks have grown redder and all he can wonder is how many times he’s been mean to you this summer alone. 

It irritates him. Aerion Targaryen is used to biting people, he shouldn’t have to wonder about the bleeding afterwards.

“Just go away,” he finds himself saying. “It’s not like you have anything else to do.”

It means nothing. He knows it means less than nothing because that is what you always do with each other. You pretend to be nice to him and he bites at you as if you were something poisonous and somewhere in the middle of it, sometimes, it feels as if you are breaking something in him that was so well-adjusted that even in the attempt, it seems like a violent thing.

“You know me so well,” you say, and he notices a rouge strand of hair sticking to your forehead. It’s so tiny, so small part of inconsistency with your appearance that it pulls at his lips. He bites them, and you raise your eyebrows. Your skin is softer now, a hint of flush on your cheeks. 

You say something.

“What?” he blurts out, blinking.

“I said I admire your talent to make words out of thin air just as I admire your talent to know me despite, you know, never talking to me.”

“We’re talking.”

“This is not talking. This is you using the one part of me that’s embarrassing and wielding it like a weapon. Why are you so mean to me? What have I ever done to you?”

Aerion could laugh. A question as absurd as this deserves a laugh.

You infected me, he wants to growl. The words never came out, but the scratch of them, the pitying, dizzying honesty in them, burns behind his throat. 

You come into his home and you get under his skin like mites and the feel of you on him—all over him—is a speed-rush that burns. He hates you. He hates that you have to look at him once to know when he’d spiral out of control. That even if you spared a glance at him it would lit a fire inside him lasting for days. That you would only make soft eyes for Valarr and prying eyes for him. That he’s never certain what’s the real you and the distinction, that difference shouldn’t matter to him at all yet this is all he thinks about when you’re around. Did you laugh at his joke? Were you slouching? Was he reading you wrong? You had known each other in sparse moments, in fractions between moments. One glance at him while you played badminton with Valarr, a coarse laugh at him at the breakfast table, the brush of your sundress against his calves while he rushed out of a room you entered because the sight of you with his cousin was nauseating, sometimes. Unbearable. The way you circle each other like the same ends of a magnet and how it rewires him, dizzies him, makes him want to reach out and touch you. Oh gods, he has never even touched you.

“Because you are fucking infuriating,” he growls. You flinch and the sight of it almost makes his chest inflate with pride. “Because you are so fucking afraid all the time that someone’s going to read you out. Because you pretend. You pretend to be this perfect, polite girl when all you want is someone to tear you apart. You want someone to wreck you and you’re too scared to ask for it. Too scared to do anything impulsive. When was the last time you did something impulsive, huh?

“I guess the last time was a decade ago. You probably painted your nice beige bedroom wall with pictures of the doom of Valyria and your father looked at it and lectured you on how stupid it was instead of praising it. And you probably went on with it because you fucking worship the man. And your mum probably enlisted you into those etiquette classes girls like you join to be refined and classy and absolutely without any propriety. Yeah, darling, I’m sure it’s something like that.”

“You don’t know me,” you say. The words are flat but your voice is weak. Your voice, the springy, cool cut of it cracks.

“Why don’t you prove me wrong, then? Do something impulsive. Do something you want to.”

“I don’t—”

“I dare you.”

And the word—dare—hangs between you like insanity. He can feel the electricity in the air, static and forbidden. He can see the break in your eyes, the doubt. And beyond that, beyond the glossy uncertainty there is something else, too. Something gritter, meaner. Something like intent. It feels like getting hit with cocaine for the first time. He stares at your parted mouth and the swirl of breath that comes out, sweet-smelling and intoxicating, ensnares his senses.

You’d never looked at him like this.

With a sharp, shaken interest. Almost, almost like want.

Somewhere far away, far down from where you both stood, lightning struck. 

And Aerion can swear to the old gods and the new that he knows—knows—what is going to happen.

You step forward and kiss him. 

And everything stops.

His eyes are wide open as yours flutter shut. Your hands are two fist at the collar of his t-shirt, remaining as motionless as the rest of your body. You press your lips against his and it’s just like when you were fighting. Something shakes inside Aerion and his hands skim across your arm to rest on your throat and he presses hard. 

And it fits. Your mouth seals on top of his and there’s no Is it really happening? Or can we do this? And this? And this? There’s no split second of confusion of what to do with your hands and where to put them and you do this and this and this. You part your lips and your tongues brush and one of his hands leave their place to grab on your hair. He tilts your head so your mouths are even deeper into each other and your hands move to his hair and he feels you messing it up. 

Aerion whimpers. 

There’s a soft moan at the back of your throat that sends shivers down his spine.  Aerion could feel them tremble, could feel the desperate ache in his to be even closer, hastier, sloppier. Your whole body is enfolding in his and he wants gravity, needs it to be closer to you, to press more firmly, with more intent. So he rushes your bodies to the closest wall and you let him. You encourage him. You wrap your legs around his hips, letting him hoist you up and your back meets the dusty wall.

You let out a loud, shivering moan as he snatched his lips apart to trace the line of your throat. He leaves a trail of kisses, wet, urgent to your pulse and the slight splotch of lighter skin that had ruined his nights is here, in his reach and he takes the chance like a dog in heat. 

He finds a spot he likes and bites onto it.

Your legs shake. It’s catastrophic. It’s everything. He can feel you giving in. You fall lighter and he hikes you up more urgently, because you’ve decided, you’ve decided that there’s no gravity. Aerion is the only thing that’s keeping you straight. He smirks against the spot, licking where his teeth had been before running them again. He grinds into you, rutting his hard length in the wet hot spot between your thighs. You moan and the sound could sustain him for days.

And then…

“Valarr…” you gasp.

He stops. His entire body, the muscles and the bones and the blood stutters. His grip on you, one hand at your throat, the other at your hip tightens. Instead of backing away and staring at you, watching your face register the moment you said his cousin’s name, Aerion stops because suddenly he’s afraid. Afraid of the moment ending, afraid of making it all real.

But then you move and he feels the shift in the room. Another person standing in the vicinity. “Aerion,” you are saying now. “Aerion.”

His body is nothing. You push him and he backs away and his heart knows who would be standing in front of him even before his head did.

He turns and finds Valarr Targaryen, the young prince, the pride of his family, staring back at him as if someone had punched him. Aerion stands, bleakly fascinated at how wrong his cousin looks. Valarr in his Sunday shorts, his white shoes and his dark watch immaculately nauseating. Still, under the cool pink colour of his oxford shirt, an ugly splotch of red is there. He is livid.

Aerion still has his hand on your hip and that under that, under his hands, you are trembling. With a surprising warmth, he realises that he is shaking too.

He stared back at you to find you pulling the strap of your dress up. Something twists inside him. He doesn’t remember pulling it down.

You blink at him, your face flushed all over. Your eyes are dazed, glossy as if you can’t quite believe where they were. And your lips… your lips are wet. He can see his spit on you.

“Oh,” you breathe, glancing at Valarr. 

Oh, indeed.

He can’t look away, offer any explanation, or even blink. His eyes—he hates himself—falls to your breasts straining against the bust of the dress. Momentarily. Unnoticeably. Aerion takes a gulp to find his voice again, bite back some explanation, anything really, but you’ve already turned back, feet unsteady as you left both him and Valarr without a word. It takes  you exactly two seconds to reach from the middle of the room to disappear through the door.

It takes Aerion ten seconds to find his voice at all.

“What the fuck did you do?” Valarr hisses.

Aerion runs his tongue over his lips and tastes the orange in your chapstick.

“You mean what we were doing, cuz? Because I sure as hell wasn’t making out with myself.”

Valarr takes a step to him, the wood creaks devastatingly loud in Aerion’s ear. “What did you do?”

Aerion tilts his head defiantly. “She kissed me. On her own will.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Why?” Aerion growls. “Because she’s so busy wanting you?”

Valarr looks as Aerion struck him. Aerion can see an answer, twisted and feral, simmering on his lips. But it never comes out. “Fuck you,” his cousin spits out finally. “She’s important to me and if you think you can just—”

“What?” Aerion takes a step, the rush from your kiss is unbearable. It’s the most alive he’s felt in years. “She doesn’t need your permission to kiss me.”

Valarr’s face twists in disgust. His mismatched eyes darkening, possessive. There is nothing soft in him at this moment, none of that pretty-boy bullshit he pulls at family gatherings. There’s only hate. “Why would she want someone like you?”

Aerion is pretty sure he won’t quite remember what happens after that. There’s no perfect, linear narrative in his head. He shoves Valarr and Valarr punches him and after the white in his head dims down and he registers that he’s at the bathroom bleeding from his nose, he realises that he’s also still hard.

So here he is now, groaning as his palm stretches along his length. Trying hard, so hard to not think about just how the fuck everything lead him to this. He looks at the mirror, exasperated, and dejected and—horny. He snaps his eyes to his jeans and—oh Gods— the outline of his dick through the fabric makes him want to gouge his eyes out. It’s impossible to get rid of it, because even as he pursed his lips in exasperation, he could taste your chapstick again. And the taste lit inside whatever embers you’d left open.

So he pulls down the zipper, brings it out, letting out a moan of relief as his fingertips brush over the head of his dick, almost red now. He fists himself to quickly do it over, and the image of your knees flash before his eyes. And even though his cock twitches in his hands, even though he can’t help but think about sliding his hand up your knees, your thighs and then your—

And then the image of something else entirely comes to his mind. Scenarios. What if you are also in another bathroom? What if the argument and the warm attic and the bloody kiss that you started affected you as well? What if you are thinking about him? Thinking about his hair and how you clutched it, your hand on his chest—

His hands are sticky, he is trying so so hard to get it done as fast as he can.

He whispers your name into his smudged reflection, stares at the darkened violet of his own eyes before he screws his eyes shut. His hand works faster. 

He can’t think straight enough, blood rushes to his ear. All he has in his head is you. Breasts straining against the bust, the straps he’d moved. Just how strong were they, he wonders. Were they keeping the dress hoisted up on your body? If he snapped them off with his fingers, hooked below one of the yellow stripes, or used his teeth instead, would it fall at once? Aerion imagines his mouth on your shoulder, smooth, inviting shoulder, one hand on your stomach and—lower and lower and he could wrench out the half echoed moan from your throat if he dipped his fingers into

Oh god yes yes Aerion, baby, yes.

Faster.

He could do that. Get you off while standing. He could fall to his knees, he could taste you. And something, something about the way you’ve watched him curse and pillage for ten summers—the dark in your eyes, the steady attention—makes him sure that you’ll like that too. You could like that. He could do that. Make your squirm for more of it, more of him. He could push your thighs apart to get more of you, as much as he’s ever wanted.

With a choking moan, he comes to the image of you getting off.

Aerion is my tormented noodle. love him love him,, let me know if you liked the update..

tagging: @mary-1237 @sunshineandarrows @autumnevanescence @pixel-pixie-xo

more of my akotsk stories

the silence in cregan’s solar was shattered by the crash of a silver goblet hitting the floor. dark wine splashed across the expensive myrish carpet, the stain spreading like blood.

you stood there, chest heaving, your face flushed with rage. he had dismissed your suggestion about the northern trade routes with a simple we’ll discuss it later, and something inside you had snapped.

“later?” you hissed, the broken pieces of the goblet shattering even further as you stepped on them. “you always say later, cregan! you treat me like an incompetent child, not your wife, not the lady of this castle! i’m no fool, stark, do not treat me like one!”

cregan’s face, usually patient and stoic, tightened. his grey eyes, which could be as warm as southern summer skies or as cold as winter ice, were now the latter. he rose from his chair behind his oak desk, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge.

his voice was low as he spoke. “i have been patient. i have overlooked your outbursts, your tantrums and your blatant disrespect. i thought time would temper the anger within you, but it seems you need a more.. direct lesson in your place.”

cregan was across the room before you could retort. he wrapped his hand around your upper arm with an undeniable firmness that brooked no argument. he led you not towards the door but to the high backed chair he had just vacated.

“cregan, what are you—?” your question was cut off as he sat, pulling you down with him.

in one fluid motion, he had you draped across his thighs, face down, your silk dress bunching up around your waist. your face grew hot — the position was humiliating, undignified, and yet a traitorous heat began to pool low in your belly.

“this is how unruly women are taught manners in the north,” he spoke, one of his large hands tenderly stroking your lower back. “perhaps it will work on a willful lannister girl as well.”

his other hand came down on your upturned bottom with a sharp smack. the sound echoed in the quiet room.

it wasn’t as hard as you had expected, but the shock of it made you gasp anyway. the sting was immediate, a bloom of heat that spread through the thin silk of your gown.

“you will not throw things,” cregan grunted as he brought his hand down once again.

smack!

“you will not raise your voice at me.”

smack!

“you will remember, once again, that you are the lady of winterfell now, my lady, not a spoiled brat in casterly rock.”

smack!

each blow sent a jolt through you, a mixture of hot pain and something else, something dark and thrilling that you tried pushing away. you struggled against his hold, but his grip was like iron, refusing to let you squirm away. you were completely at his mercy.

“stop it,” you whined, your face burning with shame. “let me go!”

“when you’ve learned your lesson,” cregan replied calmly. he continued, his hand large enough to cover most of your ass with each strike. the heat in the room was building, a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time with the growing wetness between your thighs.

you bit your lip to keep from wailing, refusing to give him any satisfaction. but as the spanking continued, your resolve began to crumble. the pain was blurring into pleasure, each sharp slap against your skin sending a jolt straight to your core. you could feel his growing hardness stiff against your side, and you knew he was just as affected as you were.

“are you ready to behave?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

you hesitated, and his hand came down harder than before, making you yelp.

“yes!” you finally cried out. tears of frustration and shame welled in your eyes. “yes, i’ll behave! i’m sorry!”

“good girl,” he murmured, his hand pausing to softly knead your tender flesh. his fingers traced the curve of your bottom, then dipped lower, right between your thighs. you moaned as his fingers found your slick folds through your small clothes, his touch knowing and sure.

“all that fire and defiance, yet your body betrays you. you enjoy this, don’t you? being put in your place.”

you couldn’t answer, couldn’t deny his words. the pads of his fingers circled your clit, making you squirm in his lap. the lingering sting from the spanking and the pleasure of his touch were too overwhelming.

“please..” you breathed out, not even sure what you were pleading for.

“bad girls don’t get rewarded,” he reminded you, echoing the same words he’d spoken to you a few moons ago. this time, he slid two fingers into you as he spoke, groaning at the feeling of your pussy clamping down on his digits.

you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. he began to move his fingers in a rhythm that mirrored the spanking — slow at first, then faster and harder. the pleasure built quickly as you’d already been worked up from his strikes, your body tensing as you approached your peak.

“not yet,” cregan commanded as he withdrew his fingers before you could find your release.

you cried out in protest, squirming on his lap. “no, no.. please, cregan..”

“tell me you’ll be a good wife,” he said, his hand coming down on your sore bottom once more, lighter this time, more of a caress than a punishment. “tell me you’ll behave. no more lashing out.”

“no more,” you agreed, your voice ragged with need. “i’ll be good, cregan. i won’t- i’ll be good. please.. just please!”

his fingers found your clit once again, rubbing slow, teasing circles. “please what?”

“please let me finish,” you begged, shame forgotten in the face of your overwhelming need.

cregan obeyed his lady and he slid his fingers into your wet cunt once again, resuming his relentless rhythm.

it didn’t take long for you to finally find your release. you cried out as your orgasm crashed over you, so intense you saw white.

when you finally came back to yourself, you were still draped across his lap, heaving as he inserted his own fingers into his mouth to taste you. your skin was tingling, your entire body humming with satisfaction.

cregan gently helped you up, arranging your dress properly before pulling you onto his lap, facing him. your cheeks were still flushed and hot, but now it was with embarrassment and arousal rather than anger.

“these walls have seen enough of your outbursts, and they will see no more,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “understood?”

you nodded, leaning forward to rest your cheek against his warm shoulder. “understood.”

he held you so tenderly that he barely even resembled the man he’d been mere moments ago. one hand brushed along your spine in a soothing manner as you passed out right against his shoulder, all your anger and frustration melting away to contentment in his arms.

won't bed reader either!! you're buzzing, like bouncing down the hall. when you settle in his (very private) chambers all that he'll do is kiss you. very hesitantly, slowly. he reads your excitment for anxiety — pulling away, taking your shaky hands in his. he pecks your knuckles, pushes the hair out of your flushed face, and tells you to leave his chambers.

hes trying to be thoughtful!! you're nervous, you're afraid of him, you don't want this!! of course, its quite the opposite and you're heartbroken.

he's sooooo chivalrous. he only calls you "wife," he doesn't touch you in public, doesn't sleep in the same room as you, his kisses are short and chaste.

you consumate the marriage about a week after the wedding. consumate. he's sweet and gentle, but its like. really cut and dry. very scientific. yes, this is how you have sex! not that its bad, not at all!! he's sure to prep you first, he goes slow, makes you come twice. but like always, his kisses are short and dull; he keeps his hands on your waist or your knee, his grip very mild, just enough to keep you steady.

so imagine his shock and horror when he comes to your chambers one night, bringing your mulled wine in place of the maids, to find you crying by the hearth!!! and for the first time since you've been wed his stoic northern shell falls away — he's on the rug at your side immediately, scooping you up. and maybe you don't have the self restraint to keep it all to yourself, because you're just so frustrated. he's so cold, he constantly keeps you at arms length, and you can't even cry about it in your own room? he has to interupt that too?

its his turn to be a little heartbroken. he thought he was doing the right thing by keeping his distance, allowing you to adapt to winterfell by yourself. he didn't know that you want him so bad 🙁

so ofc he makes it up to you. as much as he wants to sit down and talk about it, he casts his northern sensability aside to make you feel better.

It was completely fucking boiling in your trailer. Hot and humid and not a single cool breeze through the windows you cracked open as far as they could open, instead just a constant blistering heat.

You took precautions, obviously. But that only really meant a shitty old fan, silver, unnecessarily loud, and one that only blew room temperature air onto you. Not cold, not hot, just a stale breeze that gave you no respite. Then there was the clothes, soft and thin. A pair of underwear and a short breezy shirt.

Half naked, with a broken fan, water from the fridge next to you that was barely cold enough and you were sweating. It was the kind of heat you just couldn’t escape from no matter how many windows you opened and how many clothes you tore off.

You were agitated, from the heat, from waking up, the sound of the fan, just everything. Even lying there, breathing softly you were drenched in sweat. And as if he knew you’d be angry, like there was always something more he could do to piss you off, there was a weight on you. On your chest. Heavy, warm.

You could break something.

You thought about pushing him off, just instead getting out of bed and sitting near the window to try and probably fail to catch the occasional rare breeze that wouldn’t carry each sweltering ray of sun into your home like the others did. But there was another weight. Then another.

You looked at the vase on your bedside table. Clear, glass, not expensive, and thought about throwing it at him. You thought better.

You turned your head slightly to fully acknowledge the position he was in, even though you could feel exactly how he was lying from the familiar weight of his body on yours. You had become almost scarily aware of how the different parts of him felt.

His head lay on your chest where your heartbeat was slow, his arm slumped around your waist, leg thrown over both of your thighs. Like you were a pillow. Like you were something comfy he could just cuddle up to and not someone on the verge of passing out from the heat.

Your bed wasn’t exactly large, but it was big enough he didn’t have to be in such a position out of necessity, rather by choice. An aggravating choice he made in his sleep to listen to your heartbeat and hold you even if he himself was too warm. Even though you were quite literally emitting heat from your body. Even though you had sweat on your brow, your lips, your back, your scalp, just everywhere, every single crevice of your body dripping with it.

You were really going to grab that vase.

Staring at the ceiling for a moment, you closed your eyes, breathed through your nose and genuinely wanted to scream. The worst part is he was only wearing a thin pair of underwear, half naked, no fabric of a shirt containing his body heat, not even a pair of shorts to stop his thighs from sticking to yours. Just him, just aerion. Just two people who were warm and for some reason sharing that warmth together, even though you were both very much past the point of warm to be cuddling someone.

He stirred in his sleep, the action causing you to look back down at him. He was lying on top of you, asleep, face calm, but very obviously warm as well. Hair slightly wet at the roots, hands damp where he was holding you, cheeks and chest flushed with pink.

If your vision wasnt blurred from sweat dripping down the entirety of your face, you probably would’ve pushed him off. Probably. Maybe.

But when he was asleep like this, in a position he’d never find himself in while he was awake and willing, it was hard not to cherish it. You found your hand slowly reaching up. To tame his hair, to brush the pinkness of his cheek? You weren’t really sure, all you knew was that your hand was moving.

Then it stopped.

The loud whirring suddenly came to a halt. The fan.

Maybe it was from having it for 7 years or maybe it was dust or maybe it was overheating but it was something and it had stopped. And you didn’t realise how much it was helping until it did. A wave of heat flooded through your body, and it was too hot, too hot and too much. He was too much. His warm skin pressing into you, cheek pushed up against your collar bone— too much.

You brought a hand up to his shoulder, and as hard as your heat stricken body would allow you too, you pushed. He flopped onto his back next to you, his eyes fluttering open, eyebrows furrowed. Then made a sound. Not quite a groan and not quite a whine, but just that sound you make when waking up completely involuntarily and are desperate to go back to bed. Violet eyes looked up for a second, then his head snapped in your direction, still tired, still hot, still with his eyes narrowed and brows pinched.

“Did you just shove me?” his voice hoarse from sleep, deeper and sounding irritated. Irritated you pushed him off when he was the was clinging to you in the middle of a heatwave.

You almost wanted to laugh.

But instead you scoffed, “well you were on me, and wouldn’t get off of me if i didn’t.”

You were still on your back, but your head was turned, laying in the same position he was, looking at each other. Same position, same bedsheets, same heat, same anger, and it would almost be romantic if you weren’t so warm.

“On you?” his voice completely untrusting and amused, like he found it funny to even suggest the idea he was clinging to you in his sleep. “Dont be a fool.”

You stared at him in disbelief, mouth agape and eyes slightly wide, baffled he could even try to deny the fact that less than a minute ago his body was thrown over you. That he was smushed up against your half naked body and almost purring into you while he did it.

Your head turned back to the ceiling, then after a pause your legs swung to the edge of the bed, your bare feet pressing against the wooden floor. It was lukewarm, and lukewarm was colder than hot, so it gave you a sense of relief for a split second before it warmed under your feet.

You grabbed and chugged the water next to you all in the same breath, your back turned to him, glistening with the slick of your skin.

He was watching you. Gazing at your lower back, your thighs, your slumped shoulders, all the things he could see with the restrictions of your clothes, which didn’t cover very much to begin with anyways.

You brought the back of your hand to your forehead, wiping away the sweat and huffing out a breath.

Behind you, there was the sound of rustling, moving on bedsheets. You turned your head to look at him, only to see him propped up on one elbow, smirking at you. Then a slight laugh.

His arms were a little more slumped than usual, legs looking a little more heavy against the bedsheets. Clearly not as okay as he was pretending to be.

“Warm?”

You gritted your teeth, confused as why he just asked the most obvious question ever. “Huh?”

“Just saying you’re lookin’ a little warm, baby.”

Was he seriously trying to tease you about being hot when he was literally sticking to the bedsheets?

You tutted, not even having the energy to entertain him, turning back away again. He just smirked and slumped back onto the bed.

But he was right, you were warm. Incredibly so. No fan or open window could save you. Then again.. you could always shed a layer. This was your trailer anyways, and really what else were you supposed to do with a broken fan and no more water?

Your hands reached up quickly to the bottom of your shirt, damp and crinkled from the way you were sleeping on it, and lifted it over your head. Throwing it onto the floor a little angrier than necessary. The sweat coating your back and shoulders all felt a little cooler at the loss of fabric.

He clenched his jaw, you heard it, the tightening, the grinding. Then it was the underwear, wetter around the waistband than your shirt had been, the warmth of your stomach only making them feel that much more suffocating.

You slightly lifted your hips and slid them down your legs, the fabric sliding off much easier due to your slick skin. Then you were naked.

It immediately felt better, not good, you were still too warm to call this good, but it was better.

“Not fair.” was all he said, voice low. You looked over your shoulder and you raised your brows.

There was a moment where you just looked at each other, taking in every little single thing about the other. Down to the messed hair, the heavy limbs, the sweat, the ragged breathing.

Too hot. But better without your clothes.

He watched as you turned back away, standing up, arms raising to stretch, wearing nothing and revealing between your legs right in front of him.

You looked at him, moving to walk away, “it’s still early ‘baby’, you should probably go back to bed.” Slightly laughter as you said it.

He stared at you, at your face, your body, the part you had basically just flaunted in front of him, and he lunged to the edge of the bed. He grabbed your wrist, movements less heavy and slumped like before when he was lying down. He was moving with purpose. “you’re seriously not fucking fair.”

He pulled you onto the bed, fingers gripping your jaw, caging you underneath his body, an action that was slightly unfair with how good he looked.

His lips met your own desperately, body pressed fully against you, palm flat against the sheets next to your head.

Lips against yours and tongue sliding into your mouth, his grip tight, and you were struggling to breathe properly with how he was kissing you. The heat surrounding you just intensified, his warm mouth and warm body, and the warmth now in your stomach as the fabric of his boxers pressed against the place where you didn’t have the barrier of fabric anymore.

Your hands shoved his chest, breaking away from the kiss, breathing heavy.

“Stop,” you breathed, “you’re too fucking hot.”

He laughed, but it came out as more of a breath, leaving a smirk on his face, “I know.”

You looked at the grin, “i’ll kill you.” Clearly an empty promise if your expression and panting were any indication.

Staring down out your face, slightly panting, he brought his thumb to your lips. More rather the spot just above them and rubbed the sweat across your skin, smearing the wetness there. The warm pad of his thumb against the warm skin of your upper lip. Too much, too hot.

He brought his thumb to his lips, staring at you as he licked away your sweat.

“You’re disgusting.” You breathed.

He just hummed in reply, still staring at you, hand still on your face. His thumb moved to your lip, your actual lip this time, he pressed gently.

Annoyingly your breath hitched, and he had felt it, under his thumb, under his hand and warm touch, the faltering in your breathing. He watched your face, your eyes, stare up so desperately at him, even though you were warm, too warm, your lips tilted upwards, tongue slowly licking against his thumb. An action you had just called disgusting and now had decided to lick the same thumb he did because he was looking at you with those eyes and nothing else mattered.

His thumb started tingling.

He stilled, almost predator like, then he moved.

He kissed you again.

You sighed against his lips, feeling too hot, too overwhelmed to do anything else other than take the way he was kissing and sucking on your tongue. There was a faint taste of salt on him from the sweat, alongside just the taste of aerion, warm and intoxicating. Your legs naturally spread wider to give him more room, and he eagerly took the space, pressing his hips in between your thighs and forcing them open even more.

He was hard. Through his underwear and onto your lower stomach, you felt the hard outline of him, pressing and grinding against the fabric, against the warm skin of you.

Aerions hand moved from your jaw to your chest, to the soft fat there, cupping it into his hand and squeezing lightly. Your mind stumbled at the touch, only feeling increasingly hot between your legs, the heat different from the one of the morning sun, more intense.

His other arm was against your head, forearm laying flat against the sheets and the only thing keeping him from fully pressing onto you. His hips moved again, the sensation against your core unbearable, enough so your hand moved down, fumbling with the waistband of his boxers, desperately needing to feel him instead of the soft cotton.

You shoved them down as much as you could with your unsteady hands, feeling the hair at the base of his cock against your knuckles, then finally releasing him from behind the fabric. He groaned, his hand next to your head gripping into your hair slightly, his hand on your breast faltering as you wrapped your hands around the length of him.

It was impossible to even think about the heat anymore, too focused on trying to ease the neediness between your legs.

Aerions hand on your chest moved further down to your hip, pinning you harder into the bed, fingers trembling slightly against the bone as your hands slowly pumped his cock, earning low groans from his throat.

His mouth left yours and began to trail kisses and pants down your body to your breasts, replacing his hand, mouth sucking around your nipple. His mouth was warm, but not a constant pestering warm, the kind of warm you lean into, your back twitching of the bed, pushing yourself further into his mouth. The smell of him, the feel of him, taste of him.

Bringing one leg to wrap around his lower back, your calf pressed into him, bringing his hips fully down against your heat. Your hands moved from his cock to next to your leg at his back, all pushing him as hard as you could into you.

His head moved to the crook of your neck, panting heavily as the combined feeling of your hands and your leg and your lower body grinding up into him, forced his length to swallow the warmth of your cunt. Sliding against your wet folds, the sounds filled the room, almost as loud as the sounds of both of your whining.

His hand in your hair tightened, not painfully, but grounding as he pushed his hips forward, then back, grinding against your wetness.

A hand travelled up his back to his sweat covered hair, damp and warm, and you pulled him from your neck. The hand still on his back trailed down underneath him, where you were joined, wrapping around his cock and adjusting it until the tip pressed against your hole.

Dropping his head to yours, foreheads slick and touching, eyes gazing into each other, he finally pushed his hips forward. Slowly, feeling each inch sliding into you. Breathing the same air, you were both panting heavily, groaning at the sensation, the heat.

Hands in each others hair, eyes locked and blown.

“Too warm..”

“Fuck, i know,” he groaned, voice rough, “you’re always,” he pushed fully inside you, bottoming out and leaving no room between you, “always so warm inside. you’re.. so warm, baby.”

With his hand on your hip and the other in your hair, eyes staring down into your own, cock deep inside you, his mouth found yours once more. The slow movement of tongues from two people completely overwhelmed by their surroundings, and deciding they needed to breathe each other in order to breathe properly.

He started a shallow movement of his hips. Barely pulling away despite how hot he was and how warm you were because the feeling of being inside you was like nothing he had ever felt and he couldn’t bring himself leave fully. Just slowly pulling out an inch or two, then slowly pushing back in, your hole swallowing and clenching around him.

The kiss became less of a kiss and more of a placement. His lips on yours, mouth slightly open, yours completing the same action, just breathing. Heavily, when he pushed deep inside you and the tip of him hit that spot that made you come undone more than you’d ever admit. Raggedly, when he pressed against it, holding himself there.

At some point, the hand on your hip moved to your clit, circling it, earning your breathing to turn into breathy moans.

Aerions head dropped to your shoulder, his teeth pressing into your skin, and not easing in the slightest throughout the entirety of his hips moving against you. Your head turned slightly to him, taking his earlobe between your teeth and biting because whatever he gave you, you always gave him back.

Body tingling, warm, so warm, his teeth in your shoulder and his thumb on your clit, and his cock pushing into you and all you could do was take it. Your mind fuzzy and moans sounding more like desperate whines, the tightening in your stomach snapped, a long, devastating wave of pleasure spreading through your body.

You moaned his name, he groaned yours back.

Then he followed just after, your wet hole tightening then sucking around him, milking him of all he had to give, and his body stilled against you. Limbs becoming heavy again and hands unthreading from hair, teeth releasing the flesh pressed between them, his weight collapsing on top of you. Both of your bodies dripping with sweat, with pleasure, with the presence of each other. An endless feeling of warmth and him and the slow, deep sex of people who were too tired and too warm to move properly.

You wanted nothing more.

Except maybe a shower.

“Move,” you breathed, “it’s hot.”

He didn’t move.

And on your floor, clothes you were wearing half an hour ago but eventually gave up with, just lying there in one, small, angry pile.

a/n - starting to realise this is like the 3rd work i’ve posted that involves sweat and i’m already writing another one. i think writing fanfics has brought out a kink in me 😟 first time writing pinv bear with me pls

hope you enjoyed!!

tpp!reader masterlist

➤ aerion didn't let you keep talking the second the word 'friend' left your lips. he wasn't going to tolerate that, as offended as he suddenly felt. how could you do that to him? “boyfriend. she meant boyfriend.” he replied with a mocking smile that didn't reach his eyes. he felt insulted. for the rest of the day, he stayed pettily angry. sometimes he ignored you completely, while other times he would pull you closer or even put you on his lap, making sure everyone knew you were his. in private, get ready for a whole speech about how lucky you should feel to be with him and how mediocre everyone else is in comparison. next time he won't be so lenient, or so he proclaims once he decides to drop the dramatics.

➤ daeron's expression darkens when you refer to him as a friend in front of other people, and despite the lost puppy face he makes, he manages to go along with it as best he can. he'll spend the rest of the day thoughtful and a bit distant, wondering inside if he's done something wrong or if you’re simply embarrassed to be with him. of course, later when you're alone, he'll ask if something is wrong between you two, and you better comfort him because he's one word away from tears because of you. he can act like your 'friend' if that's what you want in public, but every second will feel like an arrow to the heart for not letting him show that you’re his and he’s yours!

➤ baelor's expression shifts to one of surprise when you refer to him as 'friend', but he's able to go along with it without even showing how confused he felt inside, or hiding that too tense smile that appeared on his lips while he tried to keep the conversation natural for your sake. you simply caught him off guard. anyway, throughout the day he'll try to find ways to touch you softly, as if to make sure everything is okay between you two. you must have some reason, and he respects it, but in private he expects an explanation or at least a reassuring promise that your relationship is fine. deep down, he's a bit scared that something made you uncomfortable and that he failed you as a partner, and he's already thinking of ways to make you feel better. inside, he hopes that you, the person his heart belongs to and to whom he is so devoted, will proudly show him off next time like he would do with you without hesitation.

➤ valarr is subtly but visibly surprised — you catch how his perfect smile falters for just a second. he recovers quickly with practiced charm, but the quiet disappointment in his eyes is hard to miss. even after you introduce him as your 'friend' in front of others, his hand still finds your waist from time to time, a small but deliberate claim that says otherwise. in private, he approaches you calmly, pulling you close and asking softly, “friend, really?” with that slightly wounded tone. he just wants to understand why, and whether you’re unsure about the relationship. afterwards he becomes extra affectionate and attentive, quick to forgive once you reassure him. call him your boyfriend a couple of times, correct that earlier slip, and he’ll melt back into that warm smile, spoiling you extra just to remind you how proud he is to have you as his.

Because it made him violent.

The feast had been held in honour of a visiting delegation from the Stormlands. The hall was crowded with lords, ladies, knights, and their endless entourages. Music drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. Servants wove between the tables carrying silver platters while nobles laughed loudly enough to make sure everyone knew exactly how important they were.

Aerion had tolerated the evening remarkably well.

For nearly two hours.

It wasn't your fault.

You were simply being polite, the same way you were with everyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in your company. You listened when people spoke. You smiled when it was appropriate. You laughed when a story was amusing. It was a quality that made people gravitate towards you without even realising they were doing it.

Most considered it one of your greatest virtues.

Aerion considered it one of your most troublesome.

Kindness invited familiarity, and familiarity bred confidence. Men who should have known better convinced themselves they were special because you remembered their names. They mistook your patience for affection and your attention for interest. Given enough time, they imagined significance where none existed.

The young lord appeared to be no exception.

Whatever story he was telling had clearly captured your attention because, each time Aerion looked across the hall, the fool seemed more increasingly comfortable in your presence. The distance between the two of you had gradually disappeared. His posture had relaxed. His smiles had become easier, more familiar.

As though he had forgotten who he was speaking to.

Or perhaps, more importantly, whose wife he was speaking to.

Aerion's jaw tightened.

Across the table, Daeron followed his brother's line of sight and immediately understood the source of the problem.

The realisation was followed by a long, suffering sigh as he set his cup down, as though preparing himself for the inevitable.

He didn't even need to ask.

"No."

Aerion didn't bother looking away from the hall when he answered, his voice flat with distraction.

"No what?"

Daeron tilted his head slightly, watching him now with the weary patience of someone who had survived this exact situation far too many times.

"Whatever it is you're thinking."

Aerion's gaze remained fixed across the hall, unblinking.

"I'm not thinking anything."

That earned him a quiet, humourless exhale.

"That's a lie, and a particularly poor one."

Only then did Aerion finally glance towards him, slow and disinterested, as though the interruption itself was an inconvenience.

Daeron met his stare without flinching, his expression entirely unimpressed.

"You've been staring at the same man for the better part of ten minutes," he said, taking another calm sip of wine as if discussing the weather rather than impending disaster. "If you focus any harder, I suspect you'll discover a way to kill people with your mind."

Aerion's brow barely shifted, "an interesting ability."

"One I hope you never acquire," Daeron replied immediately, cutting him off before he could entertain the idea.

Aerion made a faint sound of acknowledgement that wasn't quite agreement and wasn't quite dismissal, already losing interest in the conversation as his attention drifted back across the hall.

His fingers closed around his goblet again.

This time, the silver didn't just protest. It groaned under the pressure, a faint dent beginning to form where his grip tightened without him seeming to notice.

Daeron noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes dropped to the cup, then to Aerion's hand, then back again in slow, disbelieving succession.

"Seven hells."

Aerion didn't look at him when he responded, though his grip loosened slightly.

"What now?"

Daeron exhaled through his nose, leaning back as though physically bracing himself.

"You've dented it."

Aerion finally glanced down, turning the goblet slightly as though inspecting a minor imperfection rather than evidence of strength he hadn't bothered to control.

There it was.

A visible impression in the silver.

He set it down with casual indifference, as though it had simply ceased to matter.

"Poor craftsmanship."

Daeron gave him a long, tired look. "Yes," he said flatly. "I'm certain the goblet is entirely at fault. Fragile thing, really. Practically begging to be crushed."

Aerion watched for a moment longer, his jaw tightening as the man laughed at something you'd said and leaned in just slightly too much. Not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough for someone like Aerion to notice exactly what it was.

Then he stood without warning or hesitation.

Just the scrape of his chair against the stone floor and the immediate shift in the room that followed.

Conversation dipped, then stopped altogether in scattered pockets as people noticed him moving.

Daeron didn't look up this time, only exhaling under his breath as though he already knew how this ended and had no interest in watching it unfold again.

"No," he muttered, like a man repeating something that had never worked in the first place.

Aerion didn't answer him.

By then, he was already walking.

The space around him changed the way it always did when he moved with purpose, not because he forced it, but because everyone else instinctively corrected their position before he ever reached them. Servants stepped aside without being told, lords fell quiet mid sentence, even the music seemed to lose its confidence as he passed through it.

He did not rush.

He never needed to.

And that, more than anything, was what made people notice him too late.

By the time he reached you, the lord still hadn't realised.

He was still talking and smiling, acting comfortable, as if he thought everything was going fine.

Aerion stopped just behind him, close enough that the air itself seemed to shift. Only then did the lord's voice falter as he finally became aware of who stood behind him, turning mid thought.

Whatever composure he had been holding collapsed instantly.

"My prince—"

It came out too quickly, the words stumbling into a bow that was equally rushed, as though speed might somehow compensate for poor judgement. Aerion didn't acknowledge it, not even with the courtesy of a glance.

His attention went to you first, just briefly.

Long enough to see that your expression had changed— not fearful, not startled, but resigned, in the way someone looked when they already knew a situation was about to become unnecessarily complicated.

Only then did his gaze return to the lord.

"You've been speaking to my wife," Aerion said, his voice even enough to pass for polite to anyone who didn't know him well.

The lord swallowed, straightening too quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. Only conversation. I meant no disrespect—"

Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering whether the phrase meant anything at all when repeated so often by men in situations exactly like this. "No disrespect," he repeated slowly, testing the words.

The lord nodded again, faster this time, as though agreement might somehow smooth over what instinct was already telling him had gone terribly wrong.

Aerion stepped forward, close enough that the space between them stopped feeling accidental and started feeling claimed. The confidence that had settled so comfortably in the lord's posture only moments before quickly faded, and Aerion noticed every bit of it.

"I was only telling the princess about the tourney," the lord said quickly. "I didn't mean to take her time."

"You didn't take my—"

"I'm speaking." The words were quiet, but the look Aerion shot you was enough to stop you before you could finish. His eyes met yours for only a moment, cold and unwavering, making it perfectly clear he had no intention of letting you interrupt him again.

His attention returned to the lord.

"You did take her time," Aerion said, his voice calm enough to make the words sting even more. "Do you not have somewhere else to be?"

The lord's face flushed almost instantly, "yes, Prince Aerion." He bowed so quickly it bordered on clumsy before muttering another apology and disappearing back into the crowd without another glance.

Almost as if nothing had happened, the hall went back to normal. The musicians started playing again, servants moved between tables with full platters, and conversation slowly picked up, as if everyone had agreed to ignore what they’d just seen.

You couldn't.

Not after the way Aerion had spoken to you.

Not after the way everyone had watched.

Aerion turned towards you then, a pleasant smile appearing on his face so suddenly that anyone watching would've believed the entire interaction had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. If they looked closely enough, however, they would've noticed the tightness in his jaw and the way his hand settled against the small of your back with just a little too much firmness.

"Come," he said smoothly, and you knew it wasn't a request, it was one an order in which he expected you to obey to.

He guided you from the Great Hall without another word, smiling politely at the nobles who greeted him along the way as though nothing at all had happened.

The moment the doors closed behind you, the noise of the feast faded until the corridors were left in near silence. No servants wandered the passage at such a late hour, and even the guards stationed nearby had long since moved on with their rounds.

The instant you were alone, Aerion's patience disappeared.

His hand tightened around your waist before he turned you sharply, backing you against the cold stone wall of the keep, leaving little room for escape as he stood over you, his expression stripped of the smile he had worn only moments before.

There was nothing pleasant left about him now.

"Do you take me for some sort of fool?" Aerion asked, his voice deceptively calm. There was no shouting, no raised voice, only the cold certainty of a man who expected an answer he already believed he knew.

"No, I—"

"Don't." The single word stopped you where you stood. "You've spent enough of this evening speaking. Now you'll listen."

You held his stare, refusing to look away even as his hand came to rest against the wall beside your head.

"You stood there laughing with him," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You smiled at him. Listened to him. Gave him far more of your attention than he had any right to receive, and all the while he stood there looking at you as though he'd forgotten exactly whose wife you are."

You frowned, brows pinching together in confusion at his wordss. "He was only being polite."

Aerion gave a quiet, humourless laugh, “polite?” He repeated your word back to you. “Is that what we're calling it now?”

“That’s exactly what it was.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head once. “That fool wasn’t speaking to you because he wished to discuss a tourney. He was speaking to you because he believed he could. Because every smile you offered him convinced him he'd been invited to stay a little longer.”

“You're making this into something it wasn't.”

“Am I?” His voice remained level, but there was something far more dangerous beneath it, and you didn’t want it to be another reason it lashes out.

“Then tell me why he thought he could stand so close to you. Tell me why he touched your arm as though it belonged to him. Tell me why he was comfortable enough to forget I was sitting less than twenty feet away.”

You opened your mouth to try and get him to understand the fact that he mistook friendly chatter for something completely different, “Aerion—”

“Don't defend him. I have no interest in hearing excuses for a man who couldn't keep his eyes where they belonged.”

You folded your arms across your chest, frustration beginning to outweigh your patience. “You're jealous.” The words lingered between you.

For the first time since leaving the hall, Aerion smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, it was quite the opposite one.

“Jealous?” he echoed quietly. “No.”

He stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you. “I simply dislike people forgetting their place.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he spoke again.

“Every man in that hall was watching you. I saw it before he ever walked over. Then he had the audacity to think he could keep your attention for half the evening while I sat there expected to tolerate it.”

His jaw tightened. “I don't tolerate insolence well.”

You let out a slow breath. “You embarrassed him.”

“Good.” There wasn't the slightest hint of regret in his voice.

“Perhaps next time he'll remember that approaching another man's wife so comfortably has consequences.”

“You're impossible.”

“Perhaps.”

His expression softened only slightly as he looked at you, though possession still burned plainly in his eyes, “but you're mine.”

Before you could answer, he closed the remaining distance between you, one hand settling at your waist and the other gently cupping your jaw. He kissed you with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding, lingering just long enough to steal the words from your lips before finally pulling back.

His forehead rested briefly against yours.

“Let them wonder,” he murmured, his voice quieter now but no less certain. “Let every lord in this keep see exactly where you belong.”

His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.

You were on his sofa. Had been for an hour, the television long since irrelevant, his hands in your hair and your mouth on his and the particular unhurried quality of a Saturday afternoon with nowhere to be. His jumper was on the floor. Yours was close behind it. His glasses were on the coffee table because you had taken them off him twenty minutes ago with the specific deliberateness that always made his breath catch.

You bit his jaw. His throat. The soft place below his ear. And then you turned your mouth to his ear and told him exactly what you wanted. He went completely still.

Not the managed stillness — the actual stillness, the full system pause of a man whose brain had just received information it needed a moment to process. You felt it in every point of contact between you. His hands had stopped moving. His breathing had stopped being a thing he was doing unconsciously.

You bit his earlobe, gently, and waited.

"You—" he started.

"Yes," you bit your lower lip and smiled at him.

"You want—"

"Yes, Baelor."

A silence in which you could practically hear him thinking. The careful examination of something he had filed under will not happen being suddenly, without warning, recategorised.

Then his hands moved. Back into your hair. Deliberately.

"Alright," he said pulling you to him again. Low and slightly rough. "Okay, we're doing this."

He was thorough about it, because he was thorough about everything.

He got you on your stomach on his bed and took his time opening you up with lubricated fingers — one first, slow and deliberate, working in to the knuckle while his other hand pressed flat and warm on the small of your back. He used his fingers the way he used them for everything: with patience and complete attention, watching your face for every reaction, adjusting to every sound. By the time he worked a second finger in alongside the first you were pressing back against his hand and he knew it and did not hurry.

"Okay?" he said.

"More than okay," you said into the pillow.

"I want to hear you say it properly," he said, lower than usual, with an edge in it that was new — him adjusting in real time to something he hadn't known he wanted. "Tell me how it feels."

"Full," you said, honestly. "Fuck. Baelor, please."

He worked a third finger in slowly, scissoring them apart, and the sound you made was muffled by the pillow and entirely beyond your control. He kept his palm pressed to your lower back, steadying, and crooked his fingers and you made the sound again.

"That's my good girl," he said, quiet and distracted, like he was thinking about something else entirely.

When he finally pulled his fingers free and positioned himself you felt the blunt pressure of his cock against your ass and exhaled slowly, and he pushed in with one long careful stroke that didn't stop until his hips were flush against you.

The sound he made when he bottomed out was low and involuntary and wrecked — startled out of him before he'd had time to compose his reaction to it. His forehead dropped to the back of your shoulder.

"Gods," he said. Barely voiced.

"Fuck, you feel so amazing," you managed.

"I—" he stopped. His hips shifted minutely, testing, and he made the sound again. "You're so — gods, it's so tight," he said, rough, like the words were being pressed out of him. "I can feel you around every—"

He moved, and stopped talking.

He fucked you slowly at first, deep measured strokes, pulling back until just the head of his cock was inside you and then pushing back in to the hilt while you drooled on the pillow and felt every inch of it. His hands found your hips and gripped, not gently, and the controlled rhythm started to slip as he found what made you gasp — a particular angle, a particular depth — and returned to it again and again with the focused persistence of a man conducting research he was very personally invested in.

"There," he said, when you made a sound that was higher than the others. "That's—" he did it again and your hips bucked back against him— "yes. Stay still."

"Then don't—" a gasp— "don't stop doing that."

"I'm not stopping," he said, and reached around for your clit, his long fingers finding it immediately and pressing in slow circles while he kept fucking into you from behind. The combination was obscene and overwhelming and you stopped being able to form sentences.

He got less careful as it went on. The controlled pace gave way to something more urgent as the sounds you made and the feel of you stripped the composure back layer by layer — his hips snapping forward harder, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet of his bedroom, his breath coming rough and uneven against your shoulder. He fucked your ass like he'd been thinking about it, like he was making up for the months he'd filed it under will not happen, thorough and deep and increasingly beyond his own management.

"You feel — fuck — you feel incredible," he whimpered.

"I want to feel you come inside," you managed between breaths.

His grip on your hips tightened. "What was that?" he moaned. "You want me to fill you up?"

You nodded against the plush of the bed, his cock pushing all the words away from your head.

"I asked you a question," he slapped your asscheek once, accompanied by a powerful thrust of his hips. "Do you want me to claim this tight hole as well or not?"

"Fuck!" you cried into the mattress. "Yes, yes! I want you to — fucking fill me."

You came with his fingers on your clit and his cock buried in your ass and your face in the pillow, clenching around him, and the sound he made when you did was completely unlike anything you'd heard from him before — raw and high and genuinely undone. Baelor followed you with two more hard thrusts and then his hips pressing flush and staying there, buried to the hilt, coming inside your ass with your name pressed into your shoulder like a confession.

He took some time to come down from his own height, his hand massaging the fullness and roundness of your ass. He pulled out and watched as your hole dripped with his come, and felt a twitch on his cock, as if coming back harder already.

You collapsed face down onto the mattress and he followed, looking at you and caressing your whole back with his hand. He stayed like that for a while, both of you breathing.

"I've never thought—" he started. "I had filed that under—"

"Under the label of unreachable?" you softly chuckled, completely drained of strength. "Seems you need to relabel it."

His mouth pressed warm to your shoulder. Slightly wondering.

"We could have been doing that," he said, with great quiet dignity, "for considerably longer."

"Yes," you smiled at him. "We could have."

A pause.

"I'm going to need a few minutes," he said, "and then I have thoughts about doing that again."

You laughed. Baelor made a pleased sound, and his arms tightened around you, pressing you to his chest. You had him relabeling a lot of things since appearing in his life.