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thestarlightexpress · 8 days ago

Note

Omg I love your Fourth Wing fics! Mother like daughter and Daddy did it are too cuteeee! Can you write one like that on Dain please? Of course whenever your requests re-open!! Maybe Dain and a Riorson Sister reader?? ☺️

Anything you write will be amazing though 🩷

Did they just make up?

Xaden Riorson’s little sister is balancing life after the war with her complicated relationship with Dain Aetos, their one-year-old son Elix, and the lingering tension with her brother. Between sleepless nights, old grudges, and unlikely moments of vulnerability, Dain is forced into soft-dad territory while Xaden reluctantly proves he’s an uncle who cares.

Warning: family drama, baby chaos, unresolved tension, sibling rivalry, soft dad!Dain.

Pairing: Dain Aetos × Riorson!Reader

You’d thought you were done with wars.

Not the big, bloody kind that scorches the earth and steals the sky from you — no, those had ended three years ago, when Venin were driven back and the revolution carved Aretia’s name into history. You’d thought that was it. That after bleeding for this land, after wielding until your veins burned and your vision blurred to black, you’d finally get to live in the quiet.

But this… this isn’t quiet.

This is a different kind of war.

The kind that slithers through council rooms and behind closed doors, where whispered alliances and suspicious smiles can be just as deadly as a blade through the ribs. It’s been going on for years, a mini war that refuses to burn out, and somehow you’re right in the middle of it. Again.

Your brother still hates Dain Aetos. Not with the same white-hot fury as before — the years have dulled the edge, turned the hatred into something heavier, colder — but it’s still there. You can see it in the way Xaden’s jaw locks whenever Dain walks into a room, in the way his gaze cuts sharp enough to draw blood if it lingered long enough.

From Dain’s perspective, the feeling is mutual.

And you? You’re the bridge they’d both rather burn than cross.

Especially since you and Dain have a son now.

Elix is only a year old, his hair a soft dark gold that catches the sunlight like spun wheat, his eyes so startlingly like Dain’s that you’ve seen Xaden physically bite back a comment more than once. Violet tries to be diplomatic about it, tries to soothe the tension, but even she looks at you sometimes with that quiet disbelief — like she still can’t quite believe you’re raising a child with Dain Aetos.

The war was supposed to be over. You were supposed to have peace. Instead, you spend your mornings making sure Elix doesn’t put small rocks in his mouth and your evenings sitting in council rooms while Xaden glares across the table at Dain, who glares right back. You swear the temperature drops every time the two of them share air.

You didn’t expect to survive the revolution. You didn’t expect to survive all the missions, the close calls, the sleepless nights. You never thought you’d see yourself alive, carrying a child, much less holding one in your arms. And yet, here you are — alive, somehow, but more tired than you’ve ever been.

You’d rather face a Venin than be trapped between the two of them when the arguing starts.

And it always starts.

Today is one of those rare, almost-miraculous days when you’re not a soldier, or a Riorson, or a reluctant political chess piece — you’re just… you.

And “you” happens to be getting ready to go out with Imogen and Rhiannon.

The plan is simple: they’re going to wrestle you into a chair, make you sit still while they “fix” your hair (Imogen’s word, which you pointed out was rude, but she claims it’s “constructive”), and then drag you out for drinks. Real drinks. No council meetings, no side glances from your overprotective brother, no babies to rock to sleep.

Just a night off.

The only catch?

Dain is staying home with Elix. Alone.

Which is why, right now, he’s sprawled on the couch with your son lying flat on his chest like a tiny prince surveying his kingdom, and Dain is… panicking.

“I’ve written down the feeding times,” he says, like you haven’t been doing this every day for the last twelve months. “And I know you said he usually naps for forty minutes, but what if he wakes up early? Or what if—”

“—what if he stages a coup?” you cut in, grinning as you lean over the dresser to apply eyeliner. “Starts crawling toward the horizon with a stick and a dream? Dain, he’s one.”

Dain doesn’t laugh. He looks at Elix like the baby might, in fact, attempt a full-scale escape.

“I’m just saying, you’ve never been gone this long before.”

“You make it sound like I’m going to war,” you say, dragging the eyeliner with deliberate precision. “I’m going to let Imogen set my head on fire with her hair tools and then maybe have three drinks. Four if they’re really good. That’s hardly life-threatening.”

“It could be,” he mutters, eyes flicking to Elix’s tiny fist, which is currently gripping a handful of his shirt like a man holding onto the edge of a cliff.

You laugh. “You think he’s going to beat you up?”

“Not physically,” Dain says seriously. “Emotionally. You’ve seen his face when you’re not around.”

“Oh yes,” you say solemnly, leaning down to meet your son’s gaze. “The betrayal. The horror. The deep existential despair.” Elix stares back at you with wide eyes and promptly tries to eat Dain’s collar.

“See?” Dain says, catching the fabric before it disappears into a drooly abyss. “This is what I’m talking about.”

“You’ll survive,” you assure him, grabbing your lip color. “Worst-case scenario, you feed him, rock him, and pray he doesn’t poop right after you put him down.”

“That’s the worst-case?”

“For tonight, yes.”

He groans. “I should have made a backup plan.”

You snort. “What, like calling Xaden?”

Dain gives you a flat look. “I’d rather face an actual Venin.”

You’re laughing so hard your lip pencil wobbles. “Gods, you’re dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic? You’re leaving me with a ticking time bomb.”

“Dain,” you say, turning toward him with exaggerated seriousness, “he’s a baby, not a landmine.”

“I’m not convinced there’s a difference.”

You’ve barely capped your lipstick before you’re scooping Elix off Dain’s chest, ignoring the indignant noise Dain makes when his warmth is stolen.

“Come here, my little boy,” you coo, smothering Elix’s chubby cheeks in kisses. He squeals — that gurgly little baby laugh that could end wars — and his tiny hands immediately grab two fistfuls of your hair like he’s anchoring you to him forever.

“Ow—gods—Elix, gentle,” you laugh, but you don’t pull away. You keep peppering his cheeks, his forehead, even his button nose until you’re sure there’s a perfect outline of your lipstick smeared somewhere near his left ear.

Dain is watching.

Not with the look of a man admiring a tender mother-son moment — no, he’s watching with narrowed eyes like he’s keeping a tally of every second Elix gets your undivided attention.

“Alright,” Dain says finally, crossing his arms, “I’m going to need at least half of that level of affection before you walk out the door.”

You smirk over Elix’s soft hair. “What, jealous?”

“I’m not jealous of my own son,” he says, which is a lie so transparent it should be illegal. “I’m just… noting the imbalance.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Fine. Maybe a little.”

Laughing, you hand Elix back — mostly because your hair is starting to feel like it’s in the grip of an untrained combat recruit — and lean down to kiss Dain. You let it linger just long enough to make your point, your palm resting warm on his cheek.

“You’ll be fine,” you murmur against his lips.

“I know,” he says, though his eyes flick toward Elix like he’s not entirely convinced.

You pull back, giving him a knowing look. “Besides, Xaden and Violet are literally in the other quarter of the house.”

His mouth opens — probably to say something about how that is not a safety net, given that Xaden would rather wrestle a chimera than do him any favours — but you cut him off with a raised brow.

“And I swear to the gods, Dain Aetos, if I hear even a whisper about you and my brother getting into an argument tonight…” You let the threat hang, sharp and sweet.

He shuts his mouth.

Smart man.

You’ve just slipped one arm into your jacket when the knock on the door comes — sharp and impatient, followed by Imogen’s voice shouting,

“Open up, Riorson junior, we have a schedule!”

Before you can even cross the room, the door swings open (because of course she didn’t wait for permission), and Imogen and Rhiannon stride in like they own the place.

And then they see Elix.

“Oh my gods,” Rhiannon breathes, her whole face lighting up as she drops her bag on the floor and makes a beeline for the couch. “Look at you, handsome man!”

Imogen is right behind her, already holding her hands out like she’s ready to receive a royal treasure. “Give him to me, Aetos. Immediately.”

Dain hesitates — just for a second — but the combined force of their expectant stares is enough to make even the most stubborn wingleader fold. He hands Elix over, though his expression screams I am watching you.

Elix, of course, is thriving under the sudden avalanche of affection. Rhiannon kisses the top of his head, inhaling that baby smell with an exaggerated sigh. Imogen coos something about how “unfairly adorable” he is while pressing a loud, obnoxious smooch to his cheek.

“He’s perfect,” Rhiannon says.

“He’s mine,” Dain mutters under his breath, which only makes Imogen smirk.

“Oh, we’re not trying to steal him,” she teases, bouncing Elix gently before passing him to Rhiannon. “We’re just… borrowing him for emotional support.”

“Don’t get too attached,” Dain warns, watching like a hawk as Rhiannon reluctantly hands Elix back.

“Relax, Aetos,” Imogen says, giving him a pointed look. “We’re not here to take your kid. We’re here to kidnap your wi-girlfriend.”

“Exactly,” Rhiannon chimes in, already grabbing your jacket sleeve and tugging you toward the door.

“Wait, I—” you start, but Imogen cuts you off by looping her arm through yours, the two of them moving in perfect, practiced unison.

“You’ve been cooped up in mom-mode for way too long,” she says. “Tonight is about you. Hair. Drinks. Bad decisions.”

Dain raises a brow at that last one.

“Not too bad,” Rhiannon corrects with a grin. “Just the fun kind.”

They’re already hauling you toward the doorway, laughing at Dain’s suspicious scowl.

“Try not to cry without me,” you call back over your shoulder.

“Not a chance,” Dain replies, shifting Elix into a more secure hold.

The door clicks shut, and the apartment feels… quieter. Not silent — Elix has never been a silent baby — but the hum of your presence is gone, leaving Dain alone with a pair of dark, curious eyes staring up at him from the safety of his arms.

“Alright, soldier,” Dain says, adjusting his hold and starting toward the bathroom. “It’s just you and me tonight. No backup. No reinforcements. But don’t worry—” He glances down, catching the faint smear of your lipstick on Elix’s cheek, forehead, and somehow near his ear. “—our first mission is clear.”

He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Operation: Remove the evidence of your mother’s assault-by-affection.”

Elix makes a noise somewhere between a coo and a gurgle, like he knows exactly what Dain’s talking about.

“Oh, so you like walking around with half her makeup on your face?” Dain teases, brushing his thumb gently over one pink smudge. “You’re lucky you’re perfect, or this would be unacceptable.”

He presses two quick kisses to Elix’s temple, ignoring the faint baby shampoo scent that somehow makes his chest ache in the best way. “Come on. Bath time.”

The bathroom is already warm — Dain knows better than to put Elix into cold air after stripping him down — and the shallow tub is filled with just enough water to keep it safe, steam curling faintly from the surface. He sets Elix carefully on the mat first, deftly undoing the tiny buttons of his onesie while Elix kicks his legs and grabs at Dain’s wrists with surprisingly strong little hands.

“Whoa, easy there, champ,” Dain chuckles. “I need these fingers to hold you.”

Once the onesie is peeled away, Elix’s round belly is bare, and Dain can’t resist leaning down to blow a soft raspberry against it. The baby squeals, his arms flailing in pure delight, and Dain laughs under his breath. “Yeah, yeah. You win.”

He lifts Elix and lowers him into the tub, one hand bracing the back of his neck, the other supporting under his bottom. The water laps gently against Elix’s skin, and he immediately splashes, sending tiny droplets up onto Dain’s forearms.

“You’ve got an arm on you,” Dain says approvingly. “Maybe we’ll get you a sparring partner when you’re older. Someone who can take a hit.” He smirks faintly. “Not your uncle, though. He’d cry.”

Dain dips a soft washcloth into the warm water and gently wipes away the lipstick smudges, starting with Elix’s cheeks. The fabric is warm against the baby’s skin, and Elix leans into it, blinking slowly like the heat is soothing.

“There you go,” Dain murmurs. “All fresh.” He trails the cloth over Elix’s chin, the curve of his little neck, down the roll of one arm to tiny fingers that curl instinctively around the cloth.

When the lipstick is gone, Dain squeezes a drop of lavender baby soap into his palm and works it into a lather before smoothing it gently over Elix’s hair — or what little of it there is. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” Dain says, massaging in slow circles. “If you had more hair, your mom’s friends would be p utting ribbons in it right now.”

Elix lets out a happy sigh — or as close as a baby can get — and Dain rinses the soap away, using his hand to cup the warm water over his head. The scent of lavender fills the small bathroom, cozy and clean.

“Perfect,” Dain declares, running the cloth over Elix’s legs, pausing to tickle the soles of his feet until the baby squeals again. “Mission complete.”

By the time he lifts Elix out of the tub, wrapping him snugly in a hooded towel shaped like a tiny dragon, the baby is pink-cheeked, damp-haired, and still smiling. Dain presses one more kiss to his forehead, holding him close.

“Alright,” he says softly, rocking just slightly on his heels. “Phase two: pajamas and snacks. Think we can survive the night without calling your mom?”

Elix responds by chewing on the towel.

Dain carries Elix back into the bedroom, still swaddled in the little dragon towel, his head nestled against Dain’s shoulder.

“Alright, soldier,” he says as he lays the towelled bundle onto the changing table, “time to suit you up for the next mission.”

He peels the towel back, revealing the round belly and kicking legs of a baby who clearly has no intention of making this easy. The first kick lands square against Dain’s wrist as he reaches for a fresh diaper.

“Whoa—easy there, weapons down,” Dain mutters, catching one flailing foot while trying to slide the diaper under his squirming son. Elix responds by kicking the other leg, narrowly missing the box of wipes.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Dain accuses, even as a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “What is this, evasive maneuvers?”

He finally gets the diaper in position, holding both little ankles gently in one hand so he can fasten the tabs. Elix twists his torso in a way Dain is fairly certain isn’t physically possible, nearly rolling himself sideways off the table.

“No, no, no—stay still.” Dain’s voice is calm but his movements are quick, one hand darting to steady him while the other secures the final tab.

“Victory,” Dain declares, stepping back with mock pride. “Phase two: pajamas.”

The pajamas are soft, cotton, and printed with tiny dragons — your choice, naturally. Dain slides one arm into the sleeve without issue, but the second Elix realizes what’s happening, he turns his body into a wriggling, noodle-like form that somehow resists every attempt to dress him.

“You’re a slippery little—there we go—” Dain wrestles one arm through, then tries to guide the tiny legs into the pajama bottoms. That’s when Elix kicks again, harder this time, his foot catching on the cuff and tangling the fabric.

Dain mutters something under his breath that is not appropriate for a one-year-old, but keeps going, eventually managing to zip the pajamas up in one swift motion before his son can wriggle free again.

He lifts Elix from the table, tucking him against his chest with a satisfied nod. “See? Not so bad. Teamwork, buddy.”

They make it three steps toward the nursery door before it happens.

A small, unmistakable sound.

A toot.

Dain freezes. “No. No, you didn’t.”

Then the smell hits him.

“Oh, come on,” Dain groans, pivoting on his heel and marching straight back to the changing table. “I literally just put that diaper on. That was a brand new diaper, Elix. We barely left the room.”

Elix’s only response is to grin, big and toothless, like he’s proud of himself.

“You think this is funny,” Dain mutters, reaching for the wipes again. “You and I are going to have words when you can talk.”

Dain sets Elix back onto the changing table like he’s lowering a dangerous, highly volatile object.

“Alright,” he says, narrowing his eyes in mock seriousness, “I see your tactics now. Lure the enemy into a false sense of accomplishment… and then launch a full-scale counterattack.”

Elix kicks his legs in response, still grinning like he’s the commander of this operation.

“You think you’re clever,” Dain mutters, unzipping the dragon pajamas again. “Well, you’re not wrong. But I’ve been through years of war, and I’m not losing this one.”

The diaper comes off with one swift motion — and Dain’s eyes narrow further when he sees just how much “damage” has been done. “Unbelievable. This is an entirely new offensive strategy. Completely unprovoked.”

Elix squeals like he knows exactly what’s happening.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Dain says, grabbing a fresh wipe and holding both tiny ankles again. He works methodically, cleaning every little crease and roll — the kind only babies have — before tossing the used wipe into the bin with an exaggerated flourish.

“There,” he says, reaching for a new diaper. “Fresh armour.”

Elix immediately tries to roll to his side.

“Oh no, none of that,” Dain says, blocking him with one hand. “Not until we’re secured and zipped.”

It takes another full minute of wrangling to get the new diaper on, the tabs fastened, and the pajamas zipped back up for the second time. Dain lifts Elix into his arms again, holding him out in front of him with a mock glare.

“You better be done,” he warns.

Elix responds by blowing a raspberry.

Dain snorts despite himself and pulls the baby close, pressing a kiss into the soft hair at the crown of his head. “You’re lucky you’re perfect, soldier. That’s the only reason you’re winning this war.”

He rocks Elix gently as they leave the changing room — again — this time heading for the kitchen. “Alright, next phase: snacks. And maybe… just maybe… we’ll survive until your mom gets home.”

Dain carries Elix into the kitchen, the baby still snug in his arms, and sets him down in the high chair with a soft click. Elix immediately reaches his tiny hands up, fingers spread wide, as if trying to claim the entire counter.

Dain glances down, distracted. “Easy there, little general. We’re not storming the countertops just yet.”

Elix makes a tiny squeal of frustration, wriggling his fingers in the air. Without thinking, Dain swipes them gently down, barely noticing. His hand passes over the soft little arms and palms, brushing against warm baby skin. Elix blinks at him, confused but undeterred, his movements slow and deliberate — a tiny strategist testing the boundaries of his command.

“Hmm,” Dain mutters as he lifts the bottle from the counter. He fills it with warm water and shakes it, listening to the swish and gurgle as he debates his own dinner. “Maybe eggs… no, too quick. Sandwich? Nah, that’s sad. Something with meat… maybe chicken.”

Elix shifts, reaching again, tiny fingers curling toward Dain’s forearm as if trying to join the debate on culinary strategy. Dain, still largely absorbed in the practicalities of food, swipes those hands gently down again, more out of habit than intention, barely registering the baby’s persistence.

“You’re persistent,” he murmurs, smiling slightly, shaking the bottle to mix the formula. “Just like your mom. Not a bad trait. Means you’ll never let anyone push you around… unless it’s your dad, apparently.”

Elix lets out a soft squeak, like a question mark, and Dain chuckles. He leans down slightly, bringing the bottle closer to the baby’s mouth. “Patience, soldier. Warmed to perfection. You’ll get it soon enough.”

As the bottle continues to heat in the warmer, Dain leans against the counter, half-turning, staring off into the dim light of the kitchen, still debating the merits of scrambled eggs versus leftover roast. All the while, Elix’s tiny hands reach up again, brushing against Dain’s chest and forearm, the faintest warmth of skin-to-skin contact anchoring him in a way that makes the choice between eggs or chicken almost irrelevant.

Dain tests the bottle against the inside of his wrist once it's done — warm, but not too warm — and then crouches in front of the high chair putting Elix in and then sliding the nipple gently between Elix’s lips.

The baby latches instantly, eyes fluttering half-closed in instinctive satisfaction. His little hands, which had been reaching and grasping at nothing moments ago, come to rest against the bottle, fingers curling loosely over Dain’s knuckles as if to claim ownership of both the meal and the man delivering it.

“There you go,” Dain murmurs, his voice dropping to a tone softer than he ever uses anywhere else. “Perfect temperature for my perfect boy.”

Elix hums around the bottle — a tiny, muffled sound — and gulps in slow, steady swallows. Dain watches his throat work, the rhythmic rise and fall, and feels something unclench in his chest. His shoulders lose their rigid soldier’s set, his jaw loosens, and the hyper-alert scanning of the room — so ingrained in him after years of service — fades entirely.

It’s just him and his son.

No missions. No enemies. No orders.

Just this.

Dain slides one hand under Elix’s chin, his thumb brushing the smooth curve of the baby’s cheek. The skin is warm, impossibly soft, and faintly damp from earlier bath water. He traces the tiny jawline with almost absent reverence, like he still can’t believe this little person is his.

Elix’s eyes — wide and dark, almost black in the low kitchen light — flutter open briefly to meet his. There’s no suspicion in them, no caution, just quiet trust. Dain’s throat tightens.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” he says softly, his lips curling into a small smile. “Your mom’s the one who melts me this bad, but you…” His voice trails off. “You’re worse.”

He tips the bottle slightly, watching the milk level lower. Elix’s fingers twitch against his hand, a tiny reflex like he’s holding onto the moment just as tightly.

When a small dribble escapes the corner of his mouth, Dain chuckles quietly and swipes it away with the pad of his thumb. “Messy eater. Just like your uncle Ridoc.”

Elix makes a noise around the bottle, as if disagreeing with the comparison, and Dain huffs a laugh. “Fine. Better than RIdoc. You’re still my favourite drinking buddy.”

As the last swallow disappears, Elix lets the nipple fall from his mouth with a soft sigh, his entire body relaxing into the high chair as though the battle of hunger has been thoroughly won. Dain sets the bottle on the counter and immediately lifts him out, tucking him against his chest, one big hand spanning the small of his back.

“Alright,” Dain whispers, swaying gently from foot to foot. “Full belly. Clean pajamas. Warm arms. That’s all you need, huh?”

Elix’s head finds the curve of his father’s shoulder, his tiny breath warm against Dain’s neck. And just like that, any trace of the soldier is gone. There’s only the dad — soft, quiet, entirely undone by a one-year-old.

The kitchen smells faintly of cinnamon tea and something citrusy from whatever candle Rhiannon lit earlier. It’s warm here — warm in the way that feels different from the Riorson household, less guarded, less charged.

You’re perched on one of the tall stools at the counter, a towel wrapped snugly around your shoulders, while Imogen stands behind you with a comb in one hand and a pair of sharp shears in the other. She tilts your chin toward the window for better light.

“Hold still or you’re getting a lop-sided fringe,” she warns.

“I thought you were aiming for messy and lived-in,” you counter, grinning at your reflection in the dark glass.

“That’s different from accidental,” she says dryly, sectioning off another piece of hair.

Rhiannon leans against the counter opposite you, cradling her mug of tea and watching the scene like she’s settling in for entertainment. “So,” she starts, her tone deceptively casual, “you and Dain ever gonna make it official?”

You blink at her through the mirror. “Official… like—?”

“Like married, genius,” Imogen says, snipping neatly through a lock of your hair. “You’ve got the baby, the house-sharing arrangement, the mutual pining glare whenever the other leaves a room…”

You laugh, shaking your head slightly — earning yourself a gentle tap from the comb to remind you to keep still. “In fairness, we only dated for two months before I found out I was pregnant. I feel no rush.”

Both of them freeze.

“What?” Imogen says first, brows shooting up.

“You’re kidding,” Rhiannon adds, setting her mug down with a little thunk. “The whole squad thought you’d been together for ages before Elix happened.”

“Two months,” you confirm, smirking at their identical shock. “Guess we’re just that convincing.”

Rhiannon shakes her head. “I mean, good for you, but… wow. Honestly, I never pegged Dain as the ‘settle down’ type in the long run anyway.”

You raise a brow at her reflection. “In fairness, it’s complicated.”

Imogen hums like she already knows where this is going. “Because of his father?”

“Because of his father,” you agree. “You know how that was. He didn’t exactly get a good example growing up.”

Rhiannon shrugs, sipping her tea again. “Yeah, he was tense as hell when he was squad leader. Always by the book, never bending the rules unless someone else forced him to.”

“That means I’m lucky,” you say, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I only saw the wingleader version of him. You know — already overworked, already half-exasperated with everyone. Imagine if I’d been in his squad when he was still… squad leader tense.”

Imogen snorts. “Yeah, you dodged a bolt there.��

You grin, but it softens quickly. “It’s made things with Xaden even more complicated, though.”

That earns you matching smirks.

Imogen combs through another section of your hair, the metal of the scissors cool against your neck when she pauses. “So,” she says casually, “Xaden’s still… you know… Xadenish about the whole thing?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “If by ‘Xadenish’ you mean acting like Dain’s some sort of long-term strategic threat and not the father of his nephew… then yes. Very much so.”

Rhiannon arches a brow over her mug. “Gods, that man could win medals for holding grudges.”

“Medals? He’d want a whole wing of the Archives named after him,” you say dryly.

Imogen’s mouth quirks, but she keeps snipping, clearly listening. “So what, he’s still giving Dain the frost stare at every opportunity?”

“Pretty much.” You tip your head slightly so she can reach the next section. “And I’m fed up, in fairness. I keep thinking — if it gets any worse, I might actually have to move out of the Riorson house.”

That makes them both freeze for a moment.

Rhiannon sets her tea down entirely. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” you say. “I love my brother, but I am not raising Elix in a constant low-level thunderstorm. And it’s exhausting having to referee every time we’re all in the same room. I mean — it’s been years. We’re all adults. The Venin are gone. You’d think he could at least stop glaring like Dain’s about to stab him in the back during dinner.”

Imogen hums, the scissors clicking again as she works. “Well, in Xaden’s mind, Dain is the guy who tried to pull his girlfriend off the parapet once upon a time.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, “in my mind, that was years ago, and maybe we should all move on before Elix learns to mimic that exact glare. Which, frankly, would be terrifying.”

Rhiannon grins. “You know he’d do it. Baby’s already got your stubborn streak.”

You groan. “I’m telling you — one more argument between them, and I’m packing up. Even if I have to crash on your couch.”

Imogen leans forward so you can see her smirk in the mirror. “Oh, please. You’d last three days before they both showed up here like stray cats, pretending they’re ‘just checking in’ but actually trying to drag you back.”

“Would not,” you say automatically, though your lips twitch.

Rhiannon laughs, shaking her head. “We’d have to set ground rules. No swords in the living room. No shadow wielding to win arguments. And absolutely no icy standoffs over breakfast.”

You sigh. “See? You two already get it. Why can’t they?”

Imogen’s scissors pause again, the sound of the blades going quiet. You can feel her eyes on you through the mirror, sharp in a way that’s more concerned than teasing.

“I just…” You take a slow breath, watching your own reflection avoid theirs. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the reason this is still a thing.”

Rhiannon frowns, leaning one elbow on the counter. “What? No. Don’t do that.”

But the words are already spilling out. “Think about it. Xaden and Dain barely tolerated each other before, and now? I’m with Dain. I had his kid. We all live in the same damn house.” You shrug one shoulder, the movement tugging against the comb in your hair. “It’s like I built the perfect little battleground without meaning to.”

Imogen sets the scissors down completely now, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Or maybe they’re just grown men with egos who need to get over themselves.”

“Maybe.” You force a thin smile, but your chest feels tight. “But it’s hard not to feel like I’m the catalyst. I mean — it’s not like they fought over Violet anymore. They actually started to find a weird… rhythm. And then I went and got pregnant with Elix after two months of dating.”

Rhiannon tilts her head. “Which isn’t a crime. You love him. He loves you. You have a beautiful son. That’s not a declaration of war — that’s life.”

“Tell that to my brother,” you mutter. “Because sometimes I swear I see it in his face — that look that says, ‘If you’d chosen anyone else, this wouldn’t be an issue.’”

Imogen squeezes your shoulder, grounding you. “If Xaden actually said that, I’d hex him in his sleep.”

A breathy laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Don’t tempt me. He’d probably wake up mid-hex just to lecture you.”

Rhiannon smiles faintly, but her eyes are steady on yours. “You’re not the problem. The problem is two stubborn idiots with history. And history is heavy. But it’s theirs to carry — not yours to fix.”

You exhale hard, like you’re trying to shake the weight right out of your lungs, and clap your hands against your thighs. “Okay,” you announce, voice just a touch too bright. “New topic before I get all melodramatic and you two start staging interventions. Question is—should I dye the underside of my hair red?”

Imogen blinks, thrown off just enough to make you grin. “Red?” she repeats slowly, like she’s picturing it in her head.

“Not full red,” you say, already gesturing with your hands to map it out. “Just the underneath layers. So when it’s down, you get these little flashes of colour when I move. And when it’s up—bam—full inferno.” You make a little explosion motion with your fingers for emphasis.

Rhiannon leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing in mock contemplation. “I mean, that’s a commitment. Red is… boLd.”

“I’ve literally survived being set on fire,” you deadpan. “I think I can handle bold.”

Imogen snorts and starts sectioning off your hair again, but now she’s tilting her head critically. “It could work. Especially if you keep the top dark—it’d be like… secret fire.”

“Exactly,” you say, pointing at her reflection. “Secret fire. My aesthetic.”

Rhiannon’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “So this is a distraction tactic, right? We’re veering wildly away from the ‘my brother and my boyfriend hate each other’ talk into ‘should I set my head on aesthetic fire.’”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation. “I am a master of misdirection.”

Imogen chuckles, picking up the scissors again. “Fine. But if we do it, I’m doing it properly. No box dye. We’re going professional. And you’re buying the wine.”

“Deal,” you say, even though you already know they’ll drink half the wine before the bleach even touches your hair.

Three hours.

Dain can feel every second of it pounding behind his eyes like a drum. Elix’s screams have gone past the sharp, ear-splitting wails into something hoarser, more desperate — the kind of crying that knots itself deep in a father’s chest and makes every instinct scream fix it.

He’s tried everything. Every trick he knows, every tip you’ve ever given him. He’s paced the living room until his legs ache, rocking Elix in his arms, murmuring nonsense words against his soft hair. He’s bounced gently, then a little more firmly, trying to mimic the rhythm that usually calms him. He’s offered the bottle three separate times, but Elix turns his head away with that wet, furious cry that shatters Dain’s composure all over again.

The boy’s face is blotchy now, cheeks hot against Dain’s neck when he rests him there between bursts of shrieking. His tiny fists keep clenching and unclenching in Dain’s shirt, tugging hard enough to stretch the fabric. And every time Dain thinks maybe — maybe — he’s starting to calm, another sob rips out of him, jagged and raw.

“Easy, little man… easy,” Dain whispers, voice rough from hours of talking over the crying. He can feel Elix’s hiccupping breaths against his collarbone, the way his whole tiny body trembles from the effort of it. Fear crawls in at the edges — not the battlefield kind he can armour himself against, but the helpless, gut-deep fear that comes from knowing this is his son and still having no idea how to make it stop.

What if he makes himself sick? Babies can do that, right? Cry until they throw up? The thought has him pulling back just enough to scan Elix’s face — the wet lashes clumped together, the streaming nose, the little gasps for air between cries.

He tries the rocking chair next, easing down into it and cradling Elix close, his palm rubbing slow circles over his back. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over, like maybe the repetition will sink in. “Dad’s got you. We’re okay.”

But Elix only arches back, mouth opening in another sob so big Dain swears he can feel the sound in his bones.

He thinks about letting you know. The thought sits there, tempting and heavy, like the weight of his sword in his palm before a fight. Just pick it up. Just send a message through the dragons. But the second he imagines the look on your face when you find out he couldn’t manage a few hours alone with your son, the thought turns bitter.

No. He’s Dain Aetos. He’s survived war, outmanoeuvred venin, flown through storms that could peel the skin from your face — he can handle one small, furious, one-year-old.

Even if that one-year-old currently has lungs that could rival a warhorn.

Elix’s tiny fingers scrabble against his jaw, his shirt, like he’s searching for something he can’t find. Dain adjusts his hold again, shifts him upright, tries the bottle one more time. It’s warm, the temperature perfect, but Elix turns away with a choked little sob, his head pressing hard against Dain’s collarbone.

“You’re killing me here, kid,” Dain breathes, not even sure if it’s frustration or desperation anymore. His shirt is damp from the tears — and from the sweat prickling under his own skin. His hair’s sticking to his forehead. His arms are starting to ache.

He tries humming — some half-remembered lullaby that his mother used to sing when he was small. The tune’s low, steady, vibrating through his chest where Elix is pressed. For a moment, just a moment, the crying dips to a whimper.

Hope flares. Dain slows his rocking, makes the melody softer, gentler, barely more than a breath. He strokes a hand down Elix’s back, the tiny ridges of his spine under warm, soft pajamas.

Then Elix lets out another guttural sob and the hope is gone.

Dain exhales hard through his nose, the kind of breath he uses before stepping into a spar. His mind races through every possible reason — is he teething? Is it gas? Did he bump something when he wasn’t looking? Should he try another bath? Should he—

No. If he keeps spiraling like this, he’s going to lose what little patience he’s hanging onto. He pulls Elix in tighter, pressing his lips to the crown of his head, letting the baby’s hair tickle his face. “We’re gonna figure this out,” he whispers, quiet but certain, even if it’s only for his own sake.

Dain exhales sharply, shoulders sagging under the weight of three hours of nonstop crying. He sways slightly in place, Elix still wailing against his chest, before making a decision he never thought he’d have to: he’s going down to Xaden’s floor. Maybe… maybe he’s missing something, some trick, some person who can save him from this symphony of despair.

He moves quickly, almost stumbling down the stairs two at a time, Elix in his arms, ears ringing from the constant screaming. He grabs one of Elix’s favourite blankets — soft, worn, and flecked with little blue stars — and clutches it like a talisman as he reaches Xaden’s door.

A sharp knock and then a shove, and Xaden swings it open, his expression a mixture of confusion, irritation, and wariness. “Dain?” he asks, brow furrowed as he takes in the sight of the baby wailing against Dain’s chest, red-faced and arms flailing.

Dain’s jaw is tight; he forces himself to speak without letting the panic seep into his tone, but his voice comes out rough, strained. “Is… is Violet here?”

Xaden’s confusion deepens, his eyes darting between Dain and the screaming infant like he’s witnessing some small, chaotic storm. “Violet?” he echoes, his voice flat but incredulous. “She’s… she’s on some girl’s trip with Mira and Ridoc… why?”

Dain swallows a dry, frustrated sigh, shifting Elix slightly in his arms so he can brace him against his shoulder. “I… I don’t know. He won’t stop. I’ve tried everything. I—he’s been crying for hours. I thought maybe… maybe she could help, or…” His words falter, and the helplessness he’s been bottling up finally cracks through, raw and jagged.

Xaden’s eyes widen as he finally processes the situation, and he tilts his head, taking in the baby’s red, tear-streaked cheeks, the tiny fists beating at Dain’s chest. His mouth opens to say something, probably to lecture or to ask questions, but the sheer urgency and desperation radiating off Dain stops him.

Dain shifts, holding out the blanket in one hand like a peace offering. “Do you… think maybe you could… I don’t know, do something with this? Anything?” His voice is hoarse, tight, laced with exhaustion, frustration, and the faint, unsteady edge of panic.

Xaden steps aside, his usual stern posture rigid as he watches Dain shuffle past him, the baby’s tiny body wriggling and wailing against his chest. He’s never seen Dain like this — hair mussed, lips pale, shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world, and eyes rimmed red with exhaustion. It’s a version of Dain he’s never witnessed outside the battlefield or some high-stress mission.

Dain moves to hand over Elix, his arms trembling slightly. “I… I can’t… he just—he won’t stop,” he admits, voice breaking in that raw, guttural way that makes Xaden’s chest tighten.

Xaden exhales through his nose, forcing himself to keep the stern edge in his tone even though a part of him aches at the sight. “Give him here,” he commands, and Dain practically collapses the baby into his arms.

Immediately, Xaden starts bouncing Elix gently, rocking side to side, careful not to jostle him too hard. He hums under his breath — a low, steady rhythm — trying to replicate the kind of soothing Dain had been attempting, though with the controlled precision Xaden has always brought to everything.

Elix grabs a fistful of Xaden’s hair almost instantly, clinging with the desperation of a child who doesn’t yet understand how to be soothed. Xaden freezes for a second, the sudden tug pulling his hair down toward his forehead, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he adjusts his hold on the baby with one hand while using the other to steady his hair and keep the motion of bouncing smooth.

The wails don’t stop immediately. They ripple through the room, raw and unrelenting, and Xaden can feel the tension in Dain’s shoulders as he watches from the doorway. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the sobs begin to break apart into hiccupping gasps. Xaden rocks him with the same rhythm as the hum in his chest, soft and consistent, and murmurs gentle words he’d never admit aloud: “It’s okay, little one… I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Elix still clings to his hair, but his tiny hands start to relax just slightly, kneading the strands absentmindedly. The baby’s eyes are still wide, cheeks streaked with tears, but the desperate panic is slowly giving way to recognition — to trust.

Dain stands at the doorway, shoulders hunched, watching, unable to speak at first. Xaden finally sets Elix a little more firmly against his chest, shifting to lean against the edge of the couch. He glances at Dain, who’s still standing in the doorway, jaw tight, hands clenching and unclenching as if he can’t quite decide whether to step in or stay frozen.

“You… you should sit down,” Xaden says, voice low but teasing in that impossibly Xaden way. “You look… weird like that. Like some desperate, broken version of yourself. I’ve… I’ve never seen you like this.” His eyes flick to Dain’s slumped shoulders, the way his hands tremble ever so slightly from exhaustion and panic. “And honestly? I can’t even be rude to you when you look like you’re dying.”

Dain exhales shakily, shoulders dropping further. “I… I just… I couldn’t… he wouldn’t stop,” he mutters, voice raw and tight. Every word feels like a confession he didn’t know he needed to make.

Meanwhile, Elix hiccups softly against Xaden’s chest, tiny hands clutching at the strands of hair above his forehead. Dain freezes, watching, and then realization strikes like a jolt of warmth and heartbreak all at once. Every time Elix pulls on your hair, it’s instinct, comfort — something he’s done since birth. And now, seeing him clutch at Xaden’s hair, so much like yours, it clicks: he’s finding that same comfort in his uncle, in someone who reminds him of home, of you.

Xaden rocks him gently, side to side, one hand steadying the baby’s back while the other supports the bottom. His movements are precise but soft, patient. He murmurs low, teasing words he wouldn’t normally let escape his lips: “Well… at least we know he’s got a good set of lungs,” he says, and Dain can’t help but let a small, anxious laugh escape. “And he looks like my sister… except for his eyes. Those are all yours.”

Elix’s hiccups slow, lips trembling slightly, and Xaden’s thumb finds its way to the baby’s bottom lip. He flicks it up and down gently, almost absentmindedly, and the baby’s lips purse and twitch in response. There’s a strange rhythm to it, a little game, and Elix’s eyes, wide and trusting, follow every movement. Dain watches, heart catching in his chest, as the baby finally lets out a tiny, relieved sigh.

The room feels quieter now, the tension diffusing with each hiccup, each twitch of Elix’s little fingers in Xaden’s hair, each flick of the lip that brings the faintest of coos. Dain sinks into the nearest chair, shoulders sagging further, feeling the last of his panic drain out of him. He can’t tear his eyes away — not from Elix, not from the rare, unexpected softness in Xaden’s expression, the way he bends his usual iron-clad control to soothe someone else.

And in that moment, watching Xaden rock his son, feel his hands in the baby’s hair like you would, Dain can’t help but feel… a mixture of awe, exhaustion, and something he doesn’t quite have the words for yet.

Elix’s breathing finally evens out, the hiccups gone, his tiny body finally surrendering to sleep against Xaden’s chest. Dain exhales softly, shoulders loosening as the weight of the past three hours begins to drain from him. He can’t bring himself to move, sitting frozen in the chair like some sentinel who’s too exhausted to even blink.

Xaden shifts carefully, holding the baby with one arm while using the other to reach for the pillows stacked on the edge of the couch. With precise, measured movements, he arranges them into a little nest, creating a soft, safe space for Elix to lie down. He leans the baby gently against the pillows, one hand still cupping the head while the other tucks a small blanket around him, careful not to disturb the sleep he’s so desperately earned.

Dain watches every movement, heart pounding quietly in his chest. His exhaustion is tangled with awe, guilt, and something warmer he refuses to name. He notices the way Xaden’s hands are gentle but sure, how his body instinctively shields the baby even while he’s preparing the pillow nest. It’s a kind of care Dain has never witnessed in Xaden directed at anyone besides the squad or himself, and it twists something deep in his chest.

When Elix is finally secure, Xaden straightens, his free arm resting on the back of the couch. He glances at Dain, eyes sharp, lips pressed into that familiar line of disdain and control. The room is quiet, save for the soft rise and fall of Elix’s tiny chest. Xaden settles onto the chair across from Dain, posture rigid, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded.

“I still hate you,” he says flatly, voice calm but carrying that unmistakable Xaden edge. His gaze flicks briefly to the baby, who sleeps peacefully now, then back to Dain. “Just so we’re clear. I only… helped because he’s my nephew. Not because I’m suddenly… some soft, sentimental idiot who’s going to babysit my sisters child for fun.”

Dain’s gaze flickers back to Elix, tucked safely among the pillows. The soft rhythm of the baby’s breathing, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, makes the tension in Dain’s shoulders ease just a little. He allows himself a quiet, almost guilty relief, knowing that despite the verbal dagger Xaden just threw, the room is calm.

Xaden leans slightly back in the chair, one eyebrow arched. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, voice quieter this time, almost lost to the room but sharp enough to cut through Dain’s fog of fatigue. “I only did it because he’s… well, because of him.”

Dain finally lifts his gaze from the couch, eyes soft and heavy-lidded, the exhaustion of the past hours pressing down on him like a physical weight. His voice is quiet, almost shaky, carrying a gravity that makes Xaden pause mid-breath.

“Xaden,” Dain begins, voice thick with fatigue and something else he’s been holding back for years. “I… I just… thank you. For Elix. For helping me tonight, when I… when I didn’t even know what to do. And…” He swallows, fingers curling around the chair arms. “…I’m sorry. For everything in the past. For any time I’ve—made things worse between us, for every moment I’ve been… stubborn, reckless, or careless. I never meant—”

“Enough,” Xaden interrupts softly, almost reluctantly, though the sharp edge in his voice is gone for the moment. He leans forward slightly, resting a hand on the armrest, letting a long, heavy sigh escape. “Dain… I don’t want to hear you grovel. You’ve done what needed to be done. That’s enough. Don’t… don’t make this harder than it is.”

Dain’s chest tightens, but he nods, voice lowering even further. “I just… I want you to know. I never wanted to hurt you, not you, not anyone in the squad… not her. I just—” He falters, glancing toward the sleeping baby, then back at Xaden. “I want to do right by her, by Elix. Always.”

Xaden studies him, expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, after a careful pause, he leans back, gaze sharpening slightly, the familiar intensity returning. “And Dain… what are your real intentions with her? Don’t dance around it. Tell me straight.”

Dain exhales, letting all the tension and fear of saying it aloud seep into the air. “I… I love her. I don’t care about anything else. I want to be there for her. For Elix. For… us. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it. I’ll protect them both. I don’t want… I don’t want to screw that up.” His words are raw, the confession almost draining him entirely, and as he finishes, the combined fatigue and emotional release overwhelm him. His eyelids droop, his body slumps, and he falls asleep right there, back sagging against the chair, hands falling to his lap.

Xaden watches him for a long moment, lips twitching upward despite himself. A quiet laugh escapes him — low, humourless but genuine — at the sight of the usually sharp, guarded man completely undone in front of him. His stern expression softens for the briefest moment as he glances at Elix, still curled in the little pillow nest, breathing gently.

Carefully, Xaden stands and leans over, scooping the sleeping baby into his arms with the same gentle precision he showed earlier. “Looks like Daddy’s going to have a long nap,” he mutters to himself, tilting his head and adjusting the blanket around Elix. “We’ll leave him here… safe and sound. You're in good hands, even if your father is out like a stone.”

Xaden’s lips curl into a small, secretive smile as he carries Elix toward the door, shaking his head slightly. There’s a lightness in his step, a rare ease, as though the tension between him and Dain has softened just enough tonight for him to indulge in this quiet, private amusement.

He whispers gently to the baby, as though sharing a secret only they understand, “Come on, little one… Uncle Xaden’s taking us for a walk. Don’t worry about Daddy—he’s out cold, and we’ll let him rest.”

You’re just rounding the corner of the hallway, rubbing sleep from your eyes, when you stop dead in your tracks. Xaden is standing there, Elix cradled carefully in his arms, looking… impossibly calm for someone holding your one-year-old son. Your brain stalls.

“Elix? What the—” Your voice cracks halfway through, panic starting to surge. “Why does he—XADEN! What the hell are you doing with him?”

Elix stirs in Xaden’s arms, stretching his tiny hands, blinking up at you with that innocent, drowsy curiosity that makes your heart melt and your panic spike at the same time. You take a step closer, your voice rising. “Where’s Dain? Why isn’t he—XADEN!”

Xaden tilts his head slightly, one eyebrow quirked, the kind of look that makes you instantly feel both guilty and ridiculous for yelling. “Over there,” he says calmly, nodding toward the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall. “Sleeping like the dead.”

Your heart nearly stops. You rush over, peering inside and immediately seeing Dain sprawled across the chair, arm hanging awkwardly, face smushed into the pillow. Your hand flies to your mouth. “Did you—did you poison him?!” you whisper-shout at Xaden, eyes wide and frantic.

Xaden’s scowl is instant, sharp, and entirely terrifying. “You only think the worst of me,” he snaps, voice low but deadly serious. “Dain isn’t poisoned. He’s exhausted. Elix woke him half a dozen times last night, and he was barely surviving the crying. I helped. That’s it.”

You blink, a little frozen, trying to process everything he just said. Slowly, Xaden hands you Elix, who stretches his tiny arms up and nuzzles against your shoulder. “And, by the way,” Xaden says, eyes scanning you critically but not unkindly, “your hair looks nice this morning. The red underlayer suits you.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath from panic and disbelief, barely registering the compliment, before he takes a small step back. “You better get Dain off that chair and into bed before I come back,” Xaden adds, his tone clipped but carrying that faint undercurrent of teasing that you know all too well. “I’ve got to get to my meeting, and I don’t need him turning your hallway into a disaster zone the second I’m gone.”

You glance down at Elix, then back at Dain, still slumped like a little exhausted ragdoll, and mutter something under your breath that’s mostly panic and irritation. “Xaden, I swear…”

But he’s already walking away, the sound of his boots fading in the hallway, leaving you holding your son and staring at your boyfriend with a mix of awe, frustration, and a little amused exasperation.

Reblogs, comments and asks are appreciated!

credits to @empyreanevents for the dividers!

Also I have a goal to reach 2k followers by the end of the summer so please follow and check out more of my work if you like this fic!

#dain aetos #dain aetos x reader #fourth wing

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thestarlightexpress · 8 days ago

Text

Crossing the line - Dain Aetos

Dain Aetos x reader

word count: 4,6 k

trigger warning: mild onyx storm spoilers, NSFW, SMUT, 18+

requests are open!! i’m currently reading onyx storm and i’m obsessed with nearly everyone so shoot

Ever since entering the rider’s quadrant, you’d made it your personal mission to get under Dain Aetos’ skin. There was something about the way he carried himself - so composed, so infuriatingly perfect - that made you want to crack that facade wide open. Being in the same squad only gave you more opportunities to push his buttons. You told yourself it was just for fun, that you didn’t care about the way his jaw tightened when you teased him or the way his eyes flashed with something he couldn’t quite hide. But deep down, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were trying to see if there was more to him than the rule-following, by-the-book cadet everyone thought he was.

But later on, your comments grew to be more of a joke than genuine criticism and both you and Dain made it a part of your routine. Halfway through your second year, your teasing remarks had taken on a different tone - lighter, flirtier, though neither of you acknowledged it. You told yourself it was just a game, a way to keep things interesting. But sometimes, when his eyes met yours across the mess hall or during training, you wondered if there was something more behind his sharp retorts and smirks. And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one who noticed the way the air between you seemed to crackle with something you couldn’t quite name.

But during your third year, you couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under your wingleader’s eyes nor the lack of humour in his retorts. You’d been there when his father disowned him. The words had echoed through the room, sharp and final, like the crack of a whip. You’d seen the way Dain’s shoulders stiffened, the way his jaw clenched as if he were holding back a storm of emotions. But what struck you most was the way his eyes - usually so full of fire and determination - had gone hollow, as if a part of him had been extinguished. Your heart ached for him, though you’d never admit it out loud. For all the times you’d teased him, you’d never wanted to see him broken.

Somehow, you found yourself standing in front of the door to his room, your heart pounding in your chest as you paced back and forth. What the hell were you doing? This was Dain Aetos, the man who’d spent three years glaring at you like you were the bane of his existence. And yet, here you were, holding a bottle of wine like some kind of peace offering. You took a deep breath, your knuckles hovering over the door. Before you could second-guess yourself, you knocked - three sharp raps that echoed down the empty hallway. You heard those soft but tired steps coming closer and closer until the door opened and your eyes met his, their sandy-brown irises lacking their usual spark.

“Hey,” Dain said, leaning against the door frame in a poor imitation of nonchalance. But you saw right through him. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual, and the usual sharpness in his gaze was dulled by exhaustion. His brown hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly, and his posture, though carefully casual, betrayed the weight he was carrying.

“Thought you could use some company,” you said, holding up the bottle of wine with a grin. “And before you say no, remember that I’m the only person in this quadrant who can put up with your brooding. Well, besides your paperwork, but I’m way more fun.”

Dain eyed the bottle suspiciously, his brow furrowing as if trying to decipher your motives. But you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. For once, he didn’t have the energy to push you away or fire off one of his usual sharp retorts. Instead, he glanced down the hallway, as if checking to make sure no one was watching, and then stepped aside to let you in. You didn’t need to say it out loud - you’d already won.

You’d never seen his room before, but it was exactly what you expected: barren walls, a simple bed, an armoire, a chair and a table buried under piles of paperwork and books. The sight made your chest tighten. This wasn’t just a room - it was a reflection of him. Orderly, functional, and painfully lonely. The guilt in your heart grew heavier. Had you been so focused on breaking his walls that you’d failed to notice how much he was already carrying?

Dain sat down back in his chair and started cleaning the surface of the table, to no avail. You could see the nervousness creeping into him. When was the last time he had a girl in his room? You forced yourself to not think about such nonsense.

You perched on the edge of his bed, the mattress firm beneath you, and took a swig of wine. The rich, tangy flavor grounded you as you watched him shuffle papers aimlessly. The room smelled faintly of leather and ink, and the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow over his tired face. You fidgeted with the bottle, unsure what to do with your hands - or your thoughts. Upon noticing the empty glass on the table you walked over and filled it to the rim, sensing the way Dain was looking at you. You ignored the heat of his body and stalked back to the bed, the distance between you two palpable.

“Why are you here, Y/N?” Dain asked, his voice low and weary. He kept his eyes on the paper in front of him, but you noticed the way his hand stilled, the pen hovering mid-sentence.

You hesitated, the question hanging in the air between you. Why were you here? To tease him? To comfort him? Or because, despite all your jabs and jokes, you couldn’t stand to see him like this - broken and alone.

“So you wouldn’t be so lonesome, wingleader,” you teased, smirking as you held up the wine bottle. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t drown in all this paperwork. I hear it’s bad for your health.” To your delight, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“How was your day?” he asked, still not looking at you. As surprised as you were, you didn’t comment when he took a sip of his wine. Oh, he must be actually going crazy.

“Sucked. Yours?”

“Same.”

You chuckled, laying down on the bed. The blanket smelled exactly like him.

“I could help you out with something,” you pointed to the piles of books.

“No need, thanks.”

“You scared I would mess something up, wingleader?”

“Well, don’t you always?” he jabbed back and you pretended to be offended by his words, though on the inside you couldn’t be happier he was turning back to his normal self.

“Excuse me? Never.”

Dain looked over his shoulder at you and lifted his brows.

“If you say so.”

With a scowl, you turned away from him.

For an hour, you kept each other quiet company, the only sounds being papers turning, pen scribbling and fire cracking in the hearth. You pretended you didn’t notice how Dain stole glances at you, the same way he pretended he didn’t see you looking at him. He looked damn perfect in this light.

So you two just drank, too much of cowards to actually acknowledge the chemistry between you two that has been growing ever since you first met.

When his glass was empty, you were there to fill it again. Silently, you watched with interest the effect alcohol had on him. Gods, had he ever drunk before? You could see his reddened cheeks, how he leaned his head back against the chair, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. He looked so unguarded and beautiful.

To speak for yourself, the wine made you drop your defenses. When you saw his perfectly messed up hair, you couldn’t help but get up and go touch it. His eyes opened at your touch and Dain just stared up at you as you sunk your fingers in his silky hair.

“You have pretty hair,” you mumbled, blush creeping up your cheeks. What the fuck were you doing? He was your wingleader and the fact that you two had flirted for two years changed nothing.

“Really?” he whispered. You watched his tan throat, the soft skin as it bobbed when he swallowed.

“Mhm…” you hummed softly, moving your fingers to his temples, then caressing his sharp cheekbones. Slowly, you moved to touch those gods' damned lips.

Suddenly, his hands shot up so fast as he gripped your wrists. You could do nothing but stare at him, hurt flashing across your features.

“What are we doing?” Dain asked, unguarded confusion etched into his face.

“What we should have done a long time ago.” You knew he was bluffing. The grip he had on your wrists disappeared the second you kissed him.

After a moment of hesitation, you felt his body melt. With one arm he lifted you on his lap, the other holding your face as he caressed your neck, kissing you with intensity you never even thought of, his beard scraping your already sensitive skin. You felt his warm hand splayed on your hip, his fingers moving in circular motions up your waist. You couldn’t help but shudder at his touch.

For a second, Dain pulled away. “Is this fine?” he asked quietly, misunderstanding your shiver. Immediately, you missed the heat of his powerful body.

“Yes.” you said, breathless. “More than fine, actually.” you grinned and that blissful smile on his face made you melt. His hand gripped your hair as he pulled you close again, his lips trailing a path down the side of your throat. A gasp of pleasure escaped your lips and you heard Dain groan into your skin.

You needed him. For almost two years, you were saving the spot in your bed just for him, even though you would never admit it out loud. Buckling your hips, you felt his bulge rub against you. The sweet ache in your lower belly grew, as did your body’s need for this man.

“Dain,” you whispered, moving against him again. Dain whimpered softly, his forehead resting between your breasts while his hands explored your ass and waist.

“Yes, cadet?” you felt him smiling into your skin. Letting out a huffed laugh, you reached for the hem of his tight black tunic and tried to pull it off his toned torso. Only with his help did you finally shrug it off of him.

You’ve seen him shirtless many times before but now you could finally touch those muscles, visible with his every move.

“Oh, nothing important, wingleader. Just wanted to ask if you put a sound shield up or if you want the whole quadrant to hear me scream your name.” You purred into his ear.

He immediately froze and you knew you would never forget the look he gave you. But then he smirked, that gods’ damned cocky smirk and you melted right there and then.

“It’s up. If you scream my name, I would prefer it to be just for me, love.”

Dain gripped your hips firmly, making your bodies grind against each other harder. With a swallowed gasp of pleasure you caressed his muscular shoulders, pecs and biceps, admiring the bulging veins on his arms. Dain trembled under your touch while soft whimpers escaped his wickedly perfect lips. Oh, how you loved to see him like this.

"Guess I finally found a way to break your precious rules, wingleader." you smirked. “Who would’ve guessed that all it takes is just a pretty face.”

“It’s probably past curfew, pretty face or not,” Dain breathed out and you stopped, giving him an unbelievable look. “I’m kidding, Y/N.” he laughed and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him.

“I hope I make you think of other things than curfew.” you smirked at him, caressing the skin of his torso right above his buckle.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Dain asked. You shook your head and he leaned closer, his scent overpowering you as he whispered in your ear: “I’m thinking about bending you over this table and making you fucking melt.”

A delicious shiver ran down your spine at his words as heat pooled low in your belly. You had pushed and teased him for years, but never had you imagined Dain Aetos would ever say something like that—to you, no less. To anyone, really. Was it the wine? It must have been.

“Is that so?” you murmured, tilting your head back slightly as his lips traced a slow path along the curve of your throat. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers pressing into your flesh as if he was barely restraining himself.

“Mhm,” he hummed, his breath warm against your skin. “But something tells me you wouldn’t make it that easy for me.”

You smirked, reaching for his belt, but he caught your wrists again, this time with a firm yet careful grip. His sandy-brown eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering within them. At least their spark was back.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher. But you also saw the question in his face.

Your heart thudded against your ribs. This was Dain—your wingleader, your rival, your… friend? No, you had crossed that line long ago, hadn’t you? This moment had been simmering between you two for years, an unspoken tension in every sharp remark, every stolen glance, every touch that lasted a second too long.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, your hands slipping free from his hold to cup his face. His stubble scratched against your palms, grounding you in the reality of this moment.

"Do your worst," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your bravado.

Dain froze, his eyes searching yours for a moment, as if waiting for you to take it back. When you didn't, he exhaled sharply, a flicker of something raw and unguarded crossing his face. "You have no idea what you're asking for," he murmured, his voice low.

"Then show me," you challenged, your heart pounding in your chest.

Dain exhaled sharply, something in him snapping. In an instant, he stood, lifting you effortlessly onto the table, sending books and papers scattering to the floor. You barely had a moment to laugh before his lips crashed against yours again, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Gods, you had wanted this.

And by the way Dain groaned into your mouth, the way his hands roamed your body as if memorizing every inch of you, you knew he had wanted it too.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with heat and the sound of your mingled breaths. Dain's hands were everywhere - tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, sliding up your thighs-and you couldn't get enough of him. His lips left yours only to trail down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks you knew you'd have to hide later. You didn't care. Let the whole quadrant see. Let them know that Dain Aetos, the stoic, rule-following wingleader, had finally let his walls crumble - for you.

"Dain," you gasped, arching into him as his teeth grazed your collarbone. His name felt like a prayer on your lips, and he responded with a low growl, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you closer.

"You've been driving me insane for years," he muttered against your skin, his voice rough and strained. "Every damn comment, every smirk, every time you looked at me like you knew exactly what you were doing... I wanted to hate you for it."

You laughed breathlessly, your fingers threading through his hair. "Hate me? Really?"

"Yes," he said, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, and you could see the truth in them. "But I couldn't. Not when you were the only one who ever made me feel... alive."

Your heart stuttered at his words, and for a moment, you were speechless. Dain Aetos, the man who always seemed so composed, so in control, was laying himself bare before you. And it was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

"Dain," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I-"

He cut you off with a kiss, deep and desperate, as if he couldn't bear to hear what you were about to say. Maybe he was afraid it would break the spell, shatter the fragile moment you'd built between you. Or maybe he just didn't want to waste another second talking when he could be showing you exactly how he felt.

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head in one swift motion.

The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he took you in. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, sending shivers down your spine.

"I've spent years trying not to look at you like this," he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite grasp. "I don't know how l managed to keep my hands off you for so long."

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. "You're not doing a very good job of keeping them off me now," you teased, your voice laced with amusement.

Dain chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. "Good," he said, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "Because I don't plan on stopping."

You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continued to kiss and tease your skin. His hands moved lower, undoing the fastenings of your pants and sliding them down your legs. You kicked them off, your heart racing as he looked at you, his eyes filled with desire as he caressed your thighs.

You arched into his touch, your fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt. He groaned against your mouth, his hips pressing into yours as you finally freed him from the confines of his pants.

"You're going to be the death of me," he muttered, his breath hot against your ear as he pushed you back onto the table. You laughed, the sound breathless and wild, as his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart.

A gasp escaped your throat as his lips trailed down your chest, his tongue teasing your breasts. He paused, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then he smirked, that infuriating, cocky smirk that had driven you crazy for years, and you knew there was no turning back.

You gasped as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his teeth grazing lightly before he kissed his way higher. The scratch of his stubble against your skin sent shivers down your spine, and the warmth of his breath made your pulse race. You could smell the faint scent of wine on him, mingling with the earthy aroma of leather and sweat that clung to his skin. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue flicked against you, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, but it was no use. Dain knew exactly what he was doing, and he wasn't going to stop until you were completely undone.

"Dain," you gasped, your hips bucking against his mouth as the pressure built inside you. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt yourself teetering on the edge. And then, with one final flick of his tongue, you shattered, your body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Dain didn't give you a moment to recover. His hands gripped your hips again as he changed his position, bending you over the table - just like he promised.

His lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your spine, sending shivers down your body. You could feel the heat of him pressing against you, his arousal evident as he leaned over you, his chest brushing against your back.

"Dain," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. His name felt like a plea, a prayer, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated through your entire being.

"You have no idea how long l've wanted this," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. His hands slid up your sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, before settling on your shoulders. He pressed you down gently but firmly, your chest meeting the cool surface of the table as he positioned himself behind you.

You gasped as you felt him, hard and eager, pressing against you. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. But you didn't want him to stop. You wanted this - wanted him - more than anything.

"Don't you dare," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside you. Dain laughed, the sound sending a thrill down your spine.

"Good," he said, his voice low. And then he was pushing into you, slowly, deliberately, giving you time to adjust to the feel of him. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway, a soft, desperate sound that only seemed to spur him on.

Dain groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as he buried himself to the hilt. For a moment, he stayed still, his forehead resting against your back as he fought for control. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he trembled with the effort of holding back.

"Dain," you whispered, your voice breaking. You needed him to move, to give you the release you so desperately craved. And then he did, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, hard and fast.

You cried out, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface of the table as Dain set a relentless pace. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, building the pressure inside you until you thought you might explode.

"You feel so good," Dain growled, his voice strained. His hands moved from your hips to your shoulders, pulling you up so your back was pressed against his chest. His lips found your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he continued to move inside you.

You reached back, tangling your fingers in his hair as you turned your head to capture his lips in a searing kiss. Dain groaned into your mouth, his hips stuttering as he lost himself in the feel of you.

"Y/N," he gasped, breaking the kiss to bury his face in your neck. "I'm close."

"Me too," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breathing.

Dain's hand slid down your body, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. You cried out, your body tightening around him as pleasure ripped through you.

Dain followed you over the edge, his hips jerking as he spilled himself inside you. He held you tightly, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he rode out the waves of his release.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the sound of your mingled breaths. He scooped you into his arms and moved you to his bed. Dain's arms were wrapped around you, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the faint thud of his heartbeat, and the way his fingers traced idle patterns on your arm. It was a stark contrast to the intensity of moments ago, and yet it felt just as profound.

For years, you’d teased him, pushed him, and now… now you were here, in his arms, wondering if you’d crossed a line you could never uncross.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. Words felt unnecessary when the weight of what had just happened hung so palpably in the air. But eventually, Dain broke the silence, his voice low and rough, yet softer than you'd ever heard it.

"Y/N," he began, his fingers stilling on your arm. "This... changes everything."

You turned slightly in his arms, enough to meet his gaze. His sandy-brown eyes were darker now, the usual sharpness softened by something you couldn't quite name. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear. You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, and felt him lean into your touch.

"I know," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "But maybe it's a change we both needed."

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and pulled you closer. His forehead rested against yours, and for a moment, you just breathed together, the rhythm steady and grounding.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "How to be... this. With you."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his words. This was Dain - your wingleader, your rival, the man who always seemed so unshakable - laid bare before you. And it was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"You don't have to figure it out right now," you said softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "We can take it one day at a time. One moment at a time."

He nodded, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring your words. When he opened them again, there was a flicker of that familiar spark, the one you'd missed so much. "You always know what to say, don't you?" he murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Someone has to keep you in check," you teased, grinning when he rolled his eyes. But the smile he gave you in return was genuine, and it made your chest tighten.

For a while, you just lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. The world outside - the quadrant, the rules, the expectations - felt far away, like it couldn't touch you here. And maybe, just for tonight, it couldn't.

But as the fire began to die down and the room grew cooler, reality started to creep back in. You felt Dain shift beside you, his hand tightening around yours.

"We should probably get some sleep," he said reluctantly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Tomorrow's going to be... complicated."

You nodded, though the thought of leaving his arms was almost unbearable. "Yeah," you agreed quietly. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw something in his eyes that made your breath catch. It wasn't just desire or affection - it was trust. And maybe, just maybe, something more.

"Together," he echoed, his voice firm despite the weariness in it. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling away. "Get some rest, Y/N. I'll be here when you wake up."

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. As you settled back into the bed, his arms wrapping around you once more, you felt a sense of peace you hadn't known in years. This wasn't the end of something - it was the beginning. And whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew you'd face them together.

Because Dain Aetos was no longer just your wingleader, your rival, or your friend. He was yours, and you were his. And nothing would ever be the same again.

#dain aetos #dain aetos x reader #fourth wing #dain aetos smut #dain aetos x reader smut

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thestarlightexpress · 8 days ago

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azris:

#azris #azris supremacy #azris coded

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thestarlightexpress · 12 days ago

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The Lady of the Autumn Court is a Naked Mom™

#the way i cackled over this #lady of autumn #acotar

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thestarlightexpress · 12 days ago

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Here’s a bunch of random Pinterest quotes that remind me of Eris

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra vibes

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thestarlightexpress · 12 days ago

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This also caught me so off guard when listening the the Fourth Wing audiobook. Actually in heaven when I heard Xaden and Lucien have the same VA.

I practically squealed when I heard Isaiah had the same VA as Dain. And that’s not even mentioning the 20-minute spiral I went into when I heard Sawyer in FW and promptly screamed “is that fucking Tamlin??” when I figured it out.

The GA books are some good soup and I’m chomping at the bit for the TOG GA cast to come out.

Because I'm a nerd...

I looked up the full cast lists for both the ACOTAR series and Crescent City series for the dramatized audio by Graphic Audio and here are my findings:

The narrator is the same for Silver Flames and Crescent City

Lucien Vanserra = Micah Domintus (Crescent City) <- I was fucking right about them having the same voice actor

Tamlin = Tristan Flynn <- Didn't see this one, but I haven't heard Tristan talk a lot where I am in the book

I would imagine the ACOTAR voice actors are the same for Crescent City #2 and #3, but I have not listened to them yet. I will report back when I have.

#acotar #crescent city #fourth wing #dramatized audibook #graphic audio #throne of glass

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thestarlightexpress · 12 days ago

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We need more whimsical foods and drinks in ACOTAR. Enough of the oats and stew. I'm talking Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes level of fantastical. These fruits and vegetables are grown from magical land, they need to have a little pizzazz to them!

• an apple that makes your vision go upside down when you take a bite

• water from a glacier fed pond in Winter that makes you immune to the cold

• lettuce grown in Spring that gives you the ability to talk to animals

• orange juice from fruit source from Tarquin's personal grove in Summer, when you take a sip you're incapable of telling a lie

• a breed of duck that if you catch, cook, and eat it, you'll be left hovering above the ground for the rest of the day

etc, etc, etc.

Bring Back Whimsy!

#acotar #this is it #rip world building #more whimsy is always the answer

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thestarlightexpress · 18 days ago

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Liam Mairi x Female Reader

Game

Summary: Toying with your boyfriend turned out to be way more fun than you could have ever imagined....

Warnings: Smut

A/N: Okay, okay, this time, I DID NOT OUTRIGHT SAY LIAM AND Y/N WERE IN THEIR SECOND YEAR. But I may have implied something possible only in their second year shhh :)

This one's been on my mind for a while now, and I finally got it down! Hope you enjoy!

I pretend to focus on the game infront of me.

My eyes are trained on the board, ostensibly tracking Rhiannon moving her pawn after yet another lucky six. I promptly laugh when Ridoc promises to bring her winning streak to an end the moment he finally rolls something other than a one. I make a show of rolling the die after a complicated hand maneuver, as if I'm manifesting a six, and then take some time as I decide which of my pawns I should move. I pretend to be extremely amused when Ridoc rolls yet another one.

But really, all my attention is on the growing heat in my belly, and the wild anticipation coursing through my veins like liquid fire.

Liam's eyes are burning holes in my skin. His gaze is fixated on my chest, tracing the line of my exposed collarbone, framed by the plunging neckline of the white lace top I wear.

Ever since training finished two hours ago, the burgeoning ache in me has only intensified. Watching him spar shirtless with Xaden never fails to arouse me with a desperation that can only be quelled after I drag him into my room and show him exactly what watching beads of sweat dripping down the toned muscles of his abdomen does to me.

And that was my plan for today as well, but before I could drag Liam away with me, Ridoc and Rhiannon had approached us and asked us to join them for a game of ludo that Rhi had bought the last time she went out to town.

The question had caught me off guard, but before I could get a single word in about how we were going to busy, Liam-- the cheeky fucking bastard who knew exactly what I was going to suggest to him mere moments ago-- smiled nonchalantly at them, and said we'd love to join them. And with a final wink in my direction, he had grabbed his gym bag from a bench, and walked off to the showers with Ridoc.

Leaving me stare after him, winded and heated and unsatiated, wondering what the fuck just happened.

What Liam should have known is that two can play this game. That it doesn't take long for my desperation to turn into a desire for revenge. That I'm well aware me showing off a little skin and wearing revealing clothes does to him exactly what seeing him spar does to me.

In the half hour we've been on the floor of Rhiannon's room, laughing over a game of a ludo, Liam's eyes have failed to stray from my body even once. The little white top that I changed into after my shower, has a delicate lace necklace that reveals just the right amount of skin for Liam to get a little tease. To get his blood rushing faster.

To leave him wanting more.

"Penny for your thoughts, Liam?" Rhiannon's mocking voice cuts through the charged connection between Liam and me.

His eyes snap up to hers, eyebrows rising as if he'd been jolted to attention by a live wire.

"Wh- yeah, yeah... my turn," Liam recovers quickly, snatching the die off the board.

I bite my lip, trying to suppress the smile threatening to split my face as Liam hastily throws the die, then looks at this pawns when he rolls a three.

"Wait," he frowns. "How did two of my pawns get sent back home? Weren't they literally ten squares away from completing a whole round?"

Rhi snorts, while a small chuckle escapes me at the lost expression on my boyfriend's face.

"Well, I would have said something when I sent them home three turns ago," Ridoc remarks, a knowing glint in his dark eyes, "But you seemed way too occupied doing something else, and it seemed rude for me interrupt your... musing."

I purse my lips at that comment, while Rhi huffs out an amused laugh.

A faint tinge of red colours Liam's cheeks, but he chooses to ignore Ridoc's comment, quickly moving one of his remaining pawns in front, and practically chucking the die across to Rhiannon.

The game continues, and now, Liam's eyes remain trained on the board. His expression's casual, indifferent, no sign of any warring thoughts swirling in his head visible on his face.

But all it took was a close observation of the impatient movement of his adam's apple as he swallowed, his hands clenched into fists on his lap and the growing bulge in his pants he tried to hide, to know he was clearly not alright.

Not nearly as cool as he now tried to seem.

I shift from my position on the floor to lean to one side on my hand, and stretch my bare legs-- clad in the shortest pair of flattering white shorts I own--to the other side. In clear view of Liam’s line of sight.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Liam's jaw tenses. His eyes flick over to my legs, and quickly turn dark as they run down the length of my thighs, strengthened from months of intense training, my calves, deliberately flexed for his viewing pleasure.

A shiver of delight races down my spine as Liam looks away, his gaze at the board once more, his lips stretched into a thin line.

He's moments away from cracking.

Wordlessly, I grab the die from the board, and give it a spin, watching it fall onto the wood with a sharp smack. It twirls on the spot, slower and slower, till finally, it comes to rest on a four.

A small half smile lifts up a corner of my mouth, and I reach out to move my pawn forward, to the square where Liam's recently moved pawn rests.

A devilish anticipation rushes through me as I pluck Liam's pawn off the board with my thumb and forefinger, and lean forward across the board to drop it back into its home. Stretching far enough from my position, and close enough to Liam, for my lace top to slip from my chest, giving him a clear view of everything I've been teasing him with for the past half hour.

I hear him inhale sharply as I settle back onto my former spot, smoothening my features into innocent impassiveness.

But it's as if the world has narrowed down to Liam and me. Ridoc and Rhiannon's laughs and comments about how Liam's lost yet another pawn, fall onto deaf ears.

I don't even look at him, but I'm more than aware of when the black of his pupils finally swallows all the blue, and when the restraint in him finally snaps.

In a flash, Liam's off the ground, and before I know it, one of his arms wraps around my torso, while the other slides under my ass, lifting me off the ground in one, clean swipe.

I let out a surprised squeal, my arms instinctively wrapping around Liam's neck, as he pulls me into his chest.

"What in the- what are you two-" Rhi starts, but she's interrupted by Ridoc's amused chorle.

"Oho, don't you see it Rhi? They've finally decided to finish the game they've been playing privately all this time-"

"We'll see you guys later," is all Liam says, his voice tight, as he throws open the door and steps out into the dimly lit hallway, letting the door the slam shut behind me.

"Liam," I breathe, but he's off down the hallway to his room, strides long and measured, his arms around me tightening.

"That is it, Y/N," he whispers, his voice low and ragged in my ear. "You want to win? Fine, you fucking win."

The hand of his that supports my thigh squeezes it, fingers digging into my skin with a bruising pressure. I simple stare at him, wide-eyed and gasping, but his eyes are trained on the door to his room, only a few steps away now.

"Remind me to never deny you of anything you want, baby. Ever."

His hand reaches for the knob, twists it, and then he's pushing into his room, kicking the door shut behind him.

Liam's room is dark and silent, the moonlight entering through the windows painting it in hazy silver streaks, giving the room a strange ethereal glow, almost as if there's something magical about it.

Somehow, all it seems to do is intensify the fire burning through ever inch of my body. And it seems to do the same to Liam as well, as he makes no move to activate the mage lights.

In fact, he doesn't waste a single second. One moment we're at the door, and the next, he's throwing me onto the bed.

"Liam!" I shriek, springs squealing as I hit the mattress with a soft thump, my body bouncing for a moment, the breath momentarily stolen from my lungs.

And then he's climbing on top of me, settling down near my stomach, pushing my lace top up with rough impatient hands, exposing the similar lacey bra I wear underneath.

Liam's breath hitches, and he stares at my chest for a moment, awe shining in his eyes as if it too, were the moonlight making its way through the windows.

"You win, Y/N. You win. Every. Single. Time. And losing has never promised to be sweeter."

His fingers make quick work of the buckles of my bra, the material quickly falling away under his nimble touch, and he slips it off of me, tossing it to the floor.

I barely feel the wind caress my chest, before his mouth is on me, taking a nipple between his lips, sucking like his life depends on it.

A moan escaes my lips, shrill and desperate, white hot pleasure racing through my blood.

Liam's hand finds the other nipple, taking it between his fingers, twisting and pinching, as his teeth and tongue do the same to the first.

"Liam," I whimper. "Oh gods...."

"Beautiful. You're so fucking beautiful, Y/N. Every part of you. Fucking delicious."

He switches sides, and I arch my back into his mouth. My eyes are trained on him, through the slits the pleasure has reduced them into. The moonlight paints his blonde hair nearly white, and the locks look soft and wavy, as his head moves. My fingers thread their way through his curls, and he groans, the vibrations through my sensitive breasts sending delicious shivers through my body.

I don't know how long we stay there, Liam's mouth and fingers doing things to me that make my mind delirious with want. It's only when I'm trembling, tugging on his hair, begging him to do something, he finally lifts his head from my chest.

I'm certain the wild look in his gaze, the desire in his eyes, mirrors the look in mine, both of breathless, besides ourselves with our need for each other.

But along with the desire, is that residual softness glistening in his eyes. A tenderness, borne out of the overwhelming love we share, that fuels ever action of his.

Liam leans forward, his lips pressing against mine in a fleeting kiss.

"As you wish, my love," he whispers against my mouth, before he rises from my body.

Cool air presses down on me as the warmth of his weight disappears suddenly. But the chill only serves to fuel the insistent pleasure in me, the anticipation that drives my fingers to quickly undo the buttons of my shorts, sliding them, along with my underwear, down my legs in one go.

I look to my side, just as Liam enters my view once more, his body bare, the perfect outline of him framed against the moonlight behind him. I bite my lip as I take all of him in, the beauty of him never failing to make me question just how lucky I am to have him.

"You look so handsome in the moonlight," I whisper, unable to control the words from spilling out of me.

"Just in the moonlight?" He smiles, his lips quirking up to reveal those gorgeous dimples of his I can just about make out in the dark.

"Especially in the moonlight," I chuckle, as he climbs onto the bed once more. A stray curl falls onto his forehead as his body moves to cover mine, his elbows resting on either side of my face.

"Well," he whispers, aligning himself with my entrance, making my breath hitch at the contact. "You look like a goddess, lying here beneath me." His warm breath fans my cheeks as his gaze drops to my lips. "And I can't wait to hear exactly what comes out of your pretty mouth as I'm inside you."

And then he's sliding into me in one, smooth go. The sudden stretch makes me gasp, my eyes widening as I stare at him. Liam's lips press down to mine, moving against mine with a comforting pressure as he stills inside of me, letting me adjust to his size.

"You okay, lovie?" Liam murmurs.

"I'm fine," I whisper. "I-I want you, Liam, please-"

And finally, he begins to move then, pulling out of me halfway, before slamming back in. I moan, the sound resonating in the dimly lit room, pleasure blooming within me with each subsequent thrust.

"Gods, pretty girl...."

Liam fucks into me with a lazy, steady pace, each thrust filling me completely, consuming every sense, till all I know is him, his hands on my body, his teeth nibbling on my earlobe, his voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear, his soft hair tangled between my fingers.

The feel of him deep inside me, stretching me, claiming me, sets every nerve ending in me alight.

One of his hands slides down me, his touch feather light, leaving little tingles in its wake, till his fingers find my clit.

I gasp at the touch, that familiar insistent pleasure building within my stomach.

"There you go, baby. Are you close?" Liam murmurs in my ear, his voice a soft question, so contrary to the rapidly strengthening pace with with he fucks into me and the sharp sounds of the headboard of the bed slamming into the wall with every thrust.

"LIAM," I shriek, my voice shrill and desperate as his fingers circle my clit faster and faster, applying more and more pressure, till I cannot take it anymore.

"That's it, baby," Liam gasps. "I've got you, my love. Come for me."

The coil wound tight within me, snaps.

My release barrells through my whole body, a loose scream erupting from my throat. I clench tightly around Liam, and he groans into my neck. A second later, he's right there with me, spilling deep inside of me, his warm come painting my insides white.

For a long moment, we stay right there, unmoving. Liam still inside of me, both of us boneless and absolutely spent, our heavy breaths filling the otherwise silent room.

And then, Liam presses a soft, tender kiss to the corner of my eye. His lips linger against the sensitive skin.

"I love you, Y/N, so much." His voice is hoarse, but undeniably laced with so much genuineness and warmth, that my heart clenches.

"I love you too, Liam." I whisper back.

A small smile crosses my face. "Maybe we should tease each other more often, if the culmination will always be this sweet."

Liam laughs, finally rising from my body to shift onto his back. His arms reach out to take a hold of my body, and he pulls me onto his chest. Our eyes meet, the familiar blue barely decipherable in the dark, but still there, a comforting presence as he stares at me.

"Darling, I don't think teasing needs to be a precursor for every moment with you to be this sweet."

#liam mairi #liam mairi smut #liam mairi x reader #liam mairi x reader smut #fourth wing #the empyrean

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thestarlightexpress · 21 days ago

Text

𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

request; Hello I was wondering if you could do a Liam Mairi x reader where involving the side-effects of having bonded mated dragons pair so they absolutely go feral with eachother while using the prompt "That's it, fuck, that's a good girl."

synopsis; you and liam discover the trouble with mated dragons when you wind up in his bed. hidden feelings threaten to come to light.

pairing; liam mairi x fem!reader

warnings; smut (18+ only), p in v, soft sex w feels

word count; 2.6k

Reaching out blindly until your hand snags against the soft fabric of Liam’s sleep shirt, you take a shuddering breath as a surge of arousal locks you on the spot, every muscle coiling tight when you press your forehead to the wall and tug him closer. His thighs are bare and they flex when he stumbles towards you, bracing himself by means of a hand either side of your head, corded biceps caging you in when a ragged pant rips through you and you grit your teeth.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though his voice is strained, the veins that wrap the lengths of his forearms like vines protruding from the creamy skin. You suppress a pathetic little noise that bubbles from the base of your throat, tipping your head back as Liam’s hand makes contact with the skin there. “Shh, shh.”

“Li-“ you whisper through gritted teeth. “I need you to tell me to go away. I can’t- can’t control myself.”

“No-“ he says, quickly – too quickly, desperation lining his every syllable. You’re all too familiar with the feeling, the panic that seeps into his voice at the prospect of you leaving in search of another man’s bed. He’s not too proud to beg you. “No. Stay, please.”

The thought of you leaving is near unbearable now he’s close enough to touch you — feel you. Close enough to smell the shampoo in the wisps of hair that fall around your flushed face, close enough that the scent of you cloys in his nostrils and throws all inhibitions out the window.

His body presses against yours and the contact sets every nerve ending you possess alight. You tremble when he glides steady fingers - much steadier than you’re feeling right now - over your half-bare shoulder where your t-shirt has slipped downward, coming to a halt over your skittering pulse. His head falls forward into the juncture of your neck.

“Fuck.” His voice is rasping, barely there in your ears as Deigh does something Áine particularly likes and a crusade of need slams through him.

You thread your fingers through the blond tresses that tickle at your skin, pointedly ignoring the obvious disparity of your bodies, how his dwarfs your own, the way it makes your head spin with the need to get closer, to claw your way into his skin and feel every inch of him.

“Liam,” you whine softly, arching into him as those thick arms twine around your waist, pulling your torso flush to his own. He squeezes you, hands slipping beneath the t-shirt you’re clad in, palming and groping at every bump and ridge, every hill and valley of flesh he can reach. He ventures lower; your fingers tense where they still lay in his soft hair, and when his palms flatten and tap firmly at the backs of your thighs, you know what he wants.

You oblige the clear instruction, pushing yourself up from the balls of your feet until you’re in Liam’s arms, legs looped around his waist and ankles crossed at the base of his spine. Your back hits the wall as he surges forward to nose at your jugular. His lips part, tongue flicking forward to lave at your balmy skin. As his head dips, trailing a hot, wet path of half moons in the wake of his lips, you shudder.

“I know, my girl. I know,” he coos, sympathetic. His words slur and jumble, each sound melting into the next as though he’s drunk from the feel - the taste - of you alone.

The pet name would be enough to have you melting with affection under usual circumstances— now, it’s enough to have you whining, craning your head to slant your lips hungrily over his own, uncaring if it’s messy or filthy or downright sinful. Your only mission is to feel him, to get closer, to roam every inch of him with your ravenous tongue and teeth and lips— greedy for his touch.

If anyone were to walk in they’d certainly blanch at the sight; you pinned against the wall closest to the door of Liam’s room, his eager fingers splayed over your ass as you breathe into each other’s mouths. You’re unconsciously grinding down into him in quick, fervent bursts, and he reciprocates the movement appreciatively, letting you slide down the cold wall until the thick length of him presses to your wet cunt— hindered only by the fabric of his boxers and the lace of your panties.

The material is almost translucent, soaked through with your arousal. Liam coos something sympathetic that you can’t quite decipher for the fog that clouds your every nerve ending, for the hand that slips between your bodies until his thumb is rubbing tight circles into your swollen clit through the ruined fabric. Tears burn at the backs of your eyes and you tremble round him, the pleasure everything you need and somehow nowhere near enough, all at once.

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs. “‘ve got you, angel. ‘S okay.”

You gasp wetly against his kiss-bitten lips, the only warning you give as you begin shuddering against him, your climax ripping through you before you even have time to think. Everything is so sensitive, every brush and graze of his skin against your own amplified tenfold— it’s too much but still, you greedily accept everything he’s willing to give you, teary eyes trained to his throat that works around a swallow as he watches you cum with heavy lidded eyes. Babbling around a sob, you part your lips from his in favour of sinking down into the juncture of his neck, your hot cheeks searing against the cooler skin that greets you like a soothing balm.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.”

“Liam,” you hiccup, grabbing large fistfuls of his t-shirt, the flimsy material the only thing that separates you from miles of toned skin and muscle. That lopsided grin cracks across his face, a dimple cratering onto the centre of his cheek as his teeth flash in an amused smile; his chest heaves, even more so when you slip your hands underneath his tee to palm at bare skin.

Setting you down on shaking legs, his hand encircles one of your wrists and tugs, leading you until you’re perched at the edge of the bed. He turns, elbows flaring wide as he pulls at the neckline of his shirt and drags the material over his head in one fluid motion. The planes of his back are bared to you, each individual muscle rolling and moving with one another as though they’re cogs in a well oiled machine. You want your mouth on every inch of that skin– no corner, no crevice left untouched.

And then he’s on you, prowling with a predatory glint in those cerulean eyes as his pupils swallow the bright hue of his irises; all he sees is you– the way you shrink and tremble at the fervent way he surveys you.

A wide palm slips beneath your own tee and curls around your ribcage, frantically rising and falling with every laboured breath. He shucks the fabric upward to expose your soft breasts to the cool air of the room, and watches with rapt fascination as your nipples harden into peaks under his attention.

You shift until you’re propped up on your elbows to allow him space to discard the item of clothing, complying when he nudges you until you’re flat against the mattress, legs hooked over his hips. Your head turns, face burning at the wolfish way his eyes rake over you, a great contrast to the flattened hands that scrub sweeping lines over the tops of your thighs to soothe your nerves.

“Don’t hide from me, angel,” he murmurs, folding at the waist to smear a kiss against the curve of your jaw. His next words are a rumble against your skin that seep into your pores, into your very bones. “If it gets too much for you, all you have to do is tell me. And we’ll stop. Okay?”

His cadence is low and rasping, and the feel of the bridge of his nose pressed to your cheek sending a wave of affection through you that knocks the breath from your lungs. You nod.

“Words, sweet girl.”

“Okay,” you croak.

“Good girl.”

Your pussy aches with a sharp throb when he reaches down to press his thumb back to your swollen bundle of nerves; you whine, hips canting up into his touch unconsciously as he slips the wet material down your legs and discards them somewhere behind him.

He presses a kiss to your tummy, your knee, your ankle, and then pushes your legs up and back until they’re folded atop your chest. You gasp when his warm breath fans over your bare sex.

“Liam.”

“I know, angel,” he grunts. His voice patters out into breathless silence as you part your thighs, splaying a hand across his thrumming pulse to wrench him upwards and towards you. He doesn’t resist, putty in your hands. Absolutely, wholly yours.

“Please,” you whisper; his nose brushes yours. “Need you.”

He parts your lips with his own, slaking his hunger on you. He revels in every noise he pulls from your slick lips, every whine and gasp and plead for him to give you what you want. He swallows them all greedily and when - and only when - he’s decided you’ve begged him prettily enough, does he free his weeping cock and line up with your entrance.

He sinks in slowly, every thick inch of him splitting you wider than the previous. He’s thick, cock twitching against your cunt as the flushed head practically begs to be buried inside of you. The colour bleeds from your knuckles as you clutch his biceps, leaving crescent moon indents in the wake of your cruel touch; he hisses, and when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, he sweeps down again to press wet, ardent kisses to your face and neck. He hooks your legs up against his hips, pulling back to rock back into the tight clutch of your cunt with slow, rhythmic movements.

He hits every spot inside of you without trying, the spongy head of him rubbing continuously over a particular spot you haven’t discovered yet; it has you keening, sobbing out a broken moan against his balmy cheek as he coos gentle praises against the shell of your ear.

His entire focus is fixated on him desperately trying to not blow his load at the first feel of your cunt clasping him, breathing deeply through his nostrils as he props a forearm either side of your head.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he gasps, picking up his pace as your enthusiasm starts to peak, your shaking fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Your body arches beneath him, head tipping back when a soft whine spills from your swollen lips.

The lewd sound of slapping skin and heavy breathing encases your senses, drives you further to that edge that you’ve been aching for since you entered the room.

He’s so beautiful like this it sets you alight with adoration— and arousal: blond hair mussed and falling over his eyes, face flushed as he dips down to brush his nose with your own, plush, pink lips parted into a gasp when you clench around him.

“‘M so close, Li,” you croak, tightening your fingers where they’re carding through his hair.

“I know, angel. I know.” Deft fingers slide between your bodies as he works over your clit rhythmically— sweeping movements that alternate between tight circles and up and down motions as he places pressure on that bundle of nerves.

A sweet, quiet little gasp spills from your lips, and Liam doesn’t miss the way you tense, clinging to him harder as you shatter.

He coaxes you through it, movements never slowing as you ride out your peak, whining against his lips when he swallows your sounds with his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until you’re squirming and writhing beneath him, kicking your legs feebly to push him away; he shudders at the movement, back bowing in the centre until he’s spilling into you with a groan. He braces himself with his head buried in the juncture of your neck, arms hooking around the base of your spine to hold you flush to him.

You both collapse in a haphazard mound of limbs and you roll onto your side to face Liam, his cheek still pressed to yours. He brushes the bridge of his nose along the length of your cheekbone, his smile imprinted into your skin as you hum and needle your way closer into his chest.

You don’t know what to say— neither does he. This silence is comfortable regardless, the gentle, lulling energy encasing the pair of you in this bubble.

He brushes a stray lock of hair from your sticky forehead, smearing a kiss along the crown of your skull. Your lashes flutter, body soft and lax against his own as you greedily seep up his warmth. You’re weightless, your head pleasantly blank when he pulls the blankets over you, pressing a final kiss to your cheek before he’s pushing himself out of the bed and to the bathroom.

There’s some shuffling and then emerges seconds later, clad in a clean pair of boxers and clutching a t-shirt for you to take. You’re still how he left you, laying on your side and dozing, cheek smushed against the back of your hand.

“C’mon, angel,” he murmurs, hooking an arm beneath your shoulder to hike you upright, handing you the tee; you rub at your heavy eyes with the backs of your fingers, swiping the fog away. He settles himself between your legs to clean you up, swiping a tissue between your thighs.

“You don’t have to do that, Li,” you croak. “‘M okay, I’ve got it.”

You make to loop your fingers around his wrist to halt his movements, but he only tuts and swats your hand away with a smile. Affection rises in your chest, hot and fast and blinding.

“I’ve got you, my girl.”

There’s that name again. My girl. You’re melting, sure you’re nothing but a pile of mush following those two little words; he surveys you with those cerulean eyes, laced with nothing less than adoration.

“Liam,” you whine, protesting.

“Oh, hush.” He presses a kiss to the curve of your kneecap before pushing the blankets back over your legs.

You pull the oversized tee he’s pushed into your hands over your head appreciatively, resisting the urge to bury your face into the fabric and inhale at the scent of him that cloys the room, that swirls around your face in tantalising tendrils.

You love him, you realise. The admission isn’t terrifying as you thought it would be, but rather a calm wave that washes over you and grants you a newfound clarity. You want this all the time with him. You want everything.

The bed dips as he returns to your side, an arm around your waist until you’re both propped against the headboard, your face resting in the dip of his collarbone. You feel his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

Your chest feels as though it might cave in at any moment, the sheer volume of love you hold for this boy too much for your body to hold onto. You brush your lips against his shoulder, blinking slowly in your haze. The rumble of his laugh carries right down to your bones.

“You’re beautiful,” you mumble, already half-asleep.

“You’re more beautiful,” he whispers back as though it’s a secret. Private words shared between the pair of you, for no one else to hear.

You’re asleep before you can respond, draped lazily over his torso. He shucks the blankets up until they’re covering you right up to your shoulders. Your nose scrunches unconsciously.

Fuck, he loves you.

#liam mairi #liam mairi x reader #liam mairi smut #liam mairi fluff #fourth wing

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