#but i have Never; not in well over a decade of reading smut; had to question why two people were attracted to each other | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ak-vintage · 3 months ago

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I'd Like To...

Pairing: Modern DILF Din Djarin x Plus Size F!Reader

Summary: Din has always struggled to prioritize his own happiness, even more so now that he is a single father. When some well-meaning friends create a dating app profile for him without his knowledge, he finds himself on his first date in years with a woman who seems determined to bring some much-needed softness to his life.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Present-day AU, dating app AU, dual POV, no use of Y/N, private security Din, photographer reader, reader is a plus size woman but otherwise minimal descriptions provided, age gap (unspecified but enough to be noticed), Grogu is a human toddler, Cara is the ultimate wingman, good dad Din, touch-starved Din, fluff, SMUT – exhibitionism, semi-public acts, brief oral sex (m! receiving), protected p in v sex, dirty talk, rough but sweet, switch-y vibes for both Din and reader

Word Count: ~18.3K (I have no excuse...)

Written for @hellishjoel's Hot DILF Summer Challenge. I am unforgivably late to this event, and I’m so, so sorry. I hope the truly preposterous length makes up for it – it really got out of hand!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Cara Dune had never been good at subterfuge.

She was loud, decisive, commanding – a “do no harm but take no shit” kind of person who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty in a risky situation or to stick her neck out for what she believed. Cara didn’t have the constitution for stealth. She didn’t do subtle or – god forbid – sneaky; it simply wasn’t a part of her DNA. All of her colleagues were well aware of this, of course, so why, out of all of the consultants of Fett Security, Inc., she was the person that the group had selected for this particular mission was something she would never understand.

But, as a former soldier, if there was one thing Cara knew how to do, it was follow orders, so when the task fell to her, she took it on the chin and threw herself into it headfirst.

Which was how she found herself awkwardly hunched over at her desk, broad shoulders rounded protectively around her phone as she scrolled through various social media accounts, screenshotting as she went. A suspicious behavior for anyone, but even more so knowing that the images she was grabbing were all of the same man – her best friend and coworker, Din Djarin.

Nearly a decade ago, Din had been one of the first people Boba Fett had recruited to join his private security firm, and ever since, he had been the kind of man who ate, slept, and breathed the job. There was no doubt that Fett Security owed a great deal of its growth and success in the industry to Din’s expertise, but that hadn’t left him with a lot of opportunity for a full life outside of work. Or, perhaps more accurately, Din simply hadn’t made such a thing a priority.

When pressed about it, he would say that it hardly mattered; all of his friends eventually came to work for the firm anyway, Fett collecting them all like trading cards over the years, so he saw them plenty. What more could he need?

Of course, he came to eat his own words about a year ago when he rather unexpectedly became the foster parent – then adoptive parent – of a little boy, a tiny thing with no living relatives in a part of the city that had had a severe shortage of foster families for years. Din himself had grown up in the system, a fact he talked about rarely, but nevertheless, the experience had shaped him in a fundamental way. He had jumped at the opportunity to take in the kid, and overnight, he transformed from a man who buried himself in his work to a man who lived for the whim of a little boy with floppy, sandy-brown curls, wide, dark eyes, and comically large ears.

It was clear to anyone who knew him well – Din had been meant to be a father, and as his closest friend, Cara had found a great deal of joy in watching the new role shape and soften him into a version of himself that felt truer and more authentic to who he was at his core. But all of his friends agreed: when it came to his personal life, having a child had done nothing but exacerbate the problem. He was still working just as many hours as he had before, only now, when he did have time to himself, he rarely left the house without his son in tow. He had stopped joining the team for drinks after gigs, his appearances at company barbecues were fewer and farther between, and who knew how long it had been since the man had been on an actual date?

Din was lonely – Cara could tell. He loved his job, and he adored his son, but it wasn’t enough anymore. There was a hollowness to him, a shadow around his eyes. Something had to give, and so during their last group outing, the team had come together and formulated a plan. A plan which involved Cara harvesting a selection of photos of Din from various corners of the internet, writing up a quick bio, and creating an online dating profile for him.

Without his knowledge.

Cara hardly relished keeping this secret from her friend, but she knew that if she or anyone else had broached the subject with him beforehand, he would have dismissed it out of hand. He would have made up some excuse about doing just fine on his own, that he didn’t need anyone else when he had his son; she could almost hear his low, rasping scoff now. His refusal would be swift and final, and that would be the end of that.

But sometimes, being a good friend meant doing something in the best interest of the other person even when that person would disapprove.

And Cara had found that sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.

Sending a surreptitious glance around the open office space, Cara breathed a quiet sigh of relief at Din’s empty desk. The man didn’t have any of his own social media accounts, finding the whole concept frivolous and a little bizarre, so she was stuck scrolling through her own and those of their friends in an attempt to harvest a few that would be acceptable for a dating profile. It was taking longer than she had anticipated, and she still had to set up his age, gender, and location preferences and write up a brief bio for him before she was due at a job in an hour. The time crunch had her clenching her jaw as she worked.

Tonight at the bar, she planned to recruit some of their friends to help her get Din set up with a selection of matches. And all of them would owe her a beer for her trouble.

Din, the profile read. 45, 5’11”, Private Security Consultant.

Hardworking, outdoorsy, handy. Love vintage cars and motorcycles. Former boxer, teach self-defense classes at the community center on the weekends. Single father to a little boy who is my whole universe. Looking for someone to give me an excuse to get me out of the house, curb my workaholic tendencies, and show me the softer side of life.

“‘The softer side of life?’” Bo smirked around the rim of her beer as she read, Cara’s phone in her hand sticky from being passed around all night. “Cara Dune, you’ve been holding out on us. Who knew you were such a romantic?”

The crew gathered around the end of the bar all laughed as Cara rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her own drink. “What can I say? A bitch contains multitudes,” she replied with a shrug. “But the profile’s good, right? We can start swiping?”

The redhead nodded, neat bob brushing her sharp jaw as she passed the phone back to its owner. “Yeah, I think you’ve got him down.”

“Good call including the bit about the motorcycles,” Axe quipped with a grin. He waggled his dark eyebrows significantly, adding, “Ladies love that stuff. Speaking from experience.”

From her place tucked into his side, arm wrapped around his waist beneath his leather jacket, Koska offered him a tongue-touched smile and butted her head against his chest affectionately. “You’re not wrong.”

Paz returned from the other end of the bar then, shouldering his way through the crowd with six overflowing pints balanced in his massive hands. “What did I miss?” he asked as he passed each of them out to his waiting friends.

Fennec curled her lip in mild disgust as he sloshed a portion of her beer down the side of her glass, soaking her hand. She sat the pint down on the edge of the well-worn bar and drug her fingers demurely across her black jeans as she said, “Nothing, we’re just about to start picking matches.”

“Good.” He downed half of his own pint in a single glug, thick neck working in the low light. “Let’s do this. The guy needs to get laid.”

With a mock-salute of his glass, Axe groaned his agreement. “Maybe if he loosens up a little, he’ll get off my ass about taking over the Organa account. I swear to god, if I have to spend one more fucking charity dinner trailing after those stuffed-shirts, I think my head is going to explode.”

Fennec shot him an icy, closed-lipped smile. “We both know that was my suggestion, not Djarin’s. You’re a good fit for it, Woves. The sooner you learn how to play ball with the politicians, the sooner we can start putting you on more high-profile jobs.”

“Yeah, babe.” Koska’s dark eyes flashed teasingly. “Maybe then you can come join me and Bo on the Skywalker account. Finally start playing with the big boys.”

Bo snorted into her beer, sending a fine spray of the stuff flying as the rest of the group broke into peals of laughter.

“All right, all right, settle down,” Cara urged, passing Bo a napkin. “This has nothing to do with any of us, right? This is about Din. He’s busted his ass for every one of us for years – it’s his turn to catch a break. So let’s stay on task, okay? Now…” With a few taps and a swipe, she brought up the app once more and flipped to the matches tab. “What do we think of her?”

“Dune.”

“Djarin.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

The dark-haired, hawk-eyed woman quirked an eyebrow at him, phone in hand, the thing still extended toward him, waiting for him to take it. “I could do that. But then I’d be lying, and we both know that doesn’t fly with you.”

Din Djarin gritted his jaw and turned his back to her, focusing instead on tossing his towel, lifting gloves, and empty water bottle into his gym bag and slinging it over his shoulder. It wasn’t unusual for Cara to join him for his daily pre-shift workout. She was a reliable spotter, and he liked the playlists she piped through the Bluetooth speakers in the company gym, but there had been something off about her that morning – something cagey and distracted where she was normally the picture of focus. After one too many attempts at getting her attention had resulted in a distant “huh?”, he had decided that enough was enough and demanded an explanation.

With only the faintest traces of guilt shadowing her gaze, she had made her confession. A dating app. She had signed him up for a fucking dating app, and apparently, the whole team was in on it. The bunch of traitors.

“You can go ahead and delete it,” he growled, casting a scathing glance over his shoulder as he made for the locker room. “I’m not interested.”

A strong, blunt-nailed hand wrapped around his elbow, pulling his retreat up short. “Oh, come on, lighten up a little,” Cara entreated. “When was the last time you went out with someone, huh?”

He shrugged her grip off of him. “I go out with you and the team all the time.”

Behind him, his closest friend groaned dramatically. “You know that’s not what I meant. But, while we’re at it, you haven’t exactly been doing much of that, either, big guy. In fact, maybe if you did come out with us once in a while, you could meet a nice girl at a bar or a sporting event or a festival like a fucking normal person, and I wouldn’t have to resort to mining photos of you off our friends’ socials and making you a dating profile in secret.”

“That isn’t fair,” Din snapped, whirling around to face her. “I can’t just be out until all hours of the night anymore. I have my kid to think about. I thought you understood that.”

“Of course, I understand that! No one expects you to be there every time. Not even most of the time! But Din…” Cara let out a sigh, and he watched as that contentious spark fizzled out of her dark eyes, fading into something softer and more earnest. “You are an amazing father. Anyone who has ever seen you with that little boy knows that. But that isn’t all you are. Just like work isn’t all you are. How long have we known each other?”

He ground his teeth and ran his hand through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “About eight years.”

“Eight years,” she echoed, nodding. “I know you, Din Djarin, and I can tell. You’re burning out.”

Something squeezed in his chest at the raw honestly of his friend’s words, and he found himself having to look away. She was right, of course, as she often was. He had always struggled with giving too much of himself – first as a boxer in the ring, then as one of the founding members of Fett Security, then as one of its most senior consultants, and now as a father. As a younger man, he had thrived on it; the busier he was, the harder he worked, the more he proved himself, the better he felt.

But now, knocking on the doors of middle age, he found that the breakneck pace of his life was starting to fray him at the edges. He felt worn through in places and dangerously thin in others, and although he would never admit to anyone, his bed had never felt colder. The small handful of meaningless, one-night flings he had permitted himself over the last few years had left him feeling ill-used and unsatisfied, and when he took his son out to a new restaurant or to the zoo or to the beach, he couldn’t help but feel the distinct absence of another person.

There ought to have been another person holding his kid’s other little hand in the park, patiently walking the unsteady toddler between them. There ought to have been another person feeding the boy ice cream afterward, singing him songs, telling him stories, settling him down for a nap.

There ought to have been another person in his bed – holding him close, playing with his hair, whispering his name in the dark as soft lips traced down his neck…

Fuck. Din Djarin was lonely.

“Listen, I’ll tell you what,” Cara said eventually, pulling him out of his musings. “We’ll get the app set up on your phone, you can log in to your profile, and you can just…take a look at the matches we already got for you. You don’t have to go through any on your own, just the ones we’ve already found. And if you hate them all, we’ll delete your profile and be done with it. But if any of them look even remotely interesting, I really think you should try to connect with them. There has to be more to your life than work and your kid. There has to be, or you’re going to run yourself into the ground. I’m not going to let that happen on my watch.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, blunt and painfully sincere, and then Din was squeezing the pressure points on the sides of his nose and releasing a reluctant sigh.

“Fine,” he groaned. “I’ll take a look at them over lunch. Happy?”

She grinned victoriously and cuffed him on the shoulder, the gesture warm and fraternal. “Ecstatic. Now hit the showers, Djarin, you stink.”

Cara was at his desk at noon on the dot, barely waiting for him to finish sending off an email to a potential client before she was closing his laptop, dragging him bodily out of his chair, and escorting him out of the building and across the street to their favorite sandwich shop. A few minutes later, equipped with a pair of overstuffed Reubens and a couple bags of chips, the two were settled into a back corner booth with Din’s phone between them.

“Okay, there you go,” she proclaimed, sliding the thing across the table to him with a triumphant grin. “App’s installed, and you’re all logged in.”

The man wiped a napkin across his face and fought the urge to sigh. “Let’s get this over with.” Thumbing through the interface, he fumbled for a bit before finally landing on the tab that contained his list of users with bright pink heart icons next to their profile pictures.

“Now these are people that already matched with me?” he asked, suddenly feeling a bit out of his depth.

“Yep! Me and the crew did some swiping for you the other night.”

Din simply blinked at her. “Swiping?”

Cara’s mouth twisted into a thin line, as though she were attempting to swallow a smirk and failing miserably, and he felt the distinct desire to melt into the plastic cushion of the booth and disappear. “It’s how you indicate whether you’re interested in matching with someone. Swipe right for yes, swipe left for no.”

“So these are the people you…swiped right on?”

“Not quite,” she clarified with a shake of her head. “These are the people we swiped right on who also swiped right on you.”

Din’s brows nearly met his hairline at that. “They wanted to match with me, too?”

“Yeah, dumbass, they did.”

“Hey. Watch it,” he growled, jabbing a finger in her direction as he felt his hackles raise. “You know I don’t know anything about this shit. Cut me a little bit of slack, okay?”

Cara sighed, and her expression shifted from needling to softly exasperated. “Yeah, no kidding, I’m aware. I didn’t call you a dumbass because you don’t know anything about online dating. I called you a dumbass because you act like you’re surprised that people want to match with you.”

Oh.

Cocking his head at her, he replied, “Why wouldn’t that surprise me?”

“Umm…” All of the softness in her face disappeared, and instead she glared at him like he had just grown a second head. “Have you seen yourself? I don’t even like men, and I recognize a DILF when I see one.”

“A DILF?”

Cara smirked lasciviously. “Yeah, a dad I’d like to – ”

“I know what a DILF is, Cara, fucking hell, can you keep your voice down?” Din instinctually ducked his head, his gaze darting around the sandwich shop as he prayed to whatever deity might be listening that no one had heard them.

The woman let out a bark of laughter, dark hair swinging and eyes crinkling with mirth. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist, old man. No one’s paying any attention to us back here.” Gesturing at the phone in his hand, she added, “Now quit stalling and start scrolling. I think we ended up with ten or so matches before we called it a night? And we were really picky about it, too. There’s gotta be at least one lucky lady in there that tickles your fancy.”

“Hmm.” He hummed dubiously to himself as he opened the first profile in the list, a blonde woman a couple of years his junior with her head tilted back, face in the sun as she posed on some tropical beach. Pretty. Nice smile. Looked friendly. “Suppose I just didn’t think so many women would be interested in dating a single father.”

“Like I said,” Cara shrugged with a wink. “Ladies love a DILF.”

Nearly an hour later, and Din couldn’t help but feel a bit…underwhelmed with the selection of matches his friends had chosen for him. Not that any of them were bad choices, per se. They were lovely women, all of them, with their sunny smiles and their glossy, perfectly-posed photographs and their quippy bios. They were from a variety of backgrounds with a variety of interests, though all struck him as approachable, intelligent, witty. He couldn’t find a red flag in the bunch, which he supposed was a credit both to them and to his friends for sifting through the masses so thoughtfully.

No, it wasn’t the women. It was him, he was sure. What else could explain the…nothingness he felt when he looked at them? The utter lack of interest? Perhaps he had missed his opportunity for such things, he thought to himself. Perhaps he had waited too long, been too content with his own company for too many years.

He could feel Cara’s eyes on him across the table as he came to the last few matches, could sense her impatience at his silence, at his steady, unenthusiastic scrolling. Their plates sat picked over and abandoned between them, chip bags empty and crumpled, sodas drained dry. They were due back in the office any minute, the lunch hour quickly expiring around them, and as reluctant as Din had been to agree to this entire endeavor, he somehow still felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Cara to report back to the rest of the group empty-handed.

But at least he had held up his end of the bargain. No one could say that he didn’t give the idea a chance. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

Of course, that was until he reached the second-to-last match on the list.

Absently, Din tapped on your picture, opening your profile, and almost immediately, he felt himself straighten in his seat.

You were…stunning.

Wide, bright eyes. A warm, mischievous smile that teased him through the camera’s lens, as though you had a secret you were taunting him with, daring him to ask, to figure it out. Your photos were unique – mostly candids, the focus soft, enhanced with a touch of grain and flawlessly lit. And you had a lot of them, more than any other profile he had viewed. As he swiped through them, he came upon one of you in an easy, flowing blouse, hair windswept around your face, a DSLR camera with a colorful, well-worn strap slung around your neck.

He quickly scanned your profile header, taking in your name, your age, your distance from his location. Photographer, the profession field indicated.

And…shit. You were young. More than a decade his junior, on the very edge of what he would consider an acceptable age difference in typical circumstances. The gap wasn’t enough for it to be an immediate disqualifier, but it certainly was enough that if the two of you were to walk down the street together hand-in-hand, others might take a second glance.

He should un-match with you. It would be the right thing, the responsible thing to do.

And yet…

Din swiped through a handful of your other photos. Fuck, but you were sweet. Full, soft curves with wide, plush hips, heavy breasts, thick thighs. Little glimpses of soft skin peeking through comfortable clothing, airy cottons and silky satins and well-loved denims that his palms itched to touch. He wanted to feel the texture of you under his hands, the lush and the give of you beneath his fingertips…

Your last photo was one taken of you at sunrise, your soft body clad in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of barely-there spandex shorts. Your limbs were stretched and bent into some strange configuration he recognized as a yoga pose, your leg pressed back near your face at an angle that had blood rushing to his cock, his head immediately filled with images of your body contorted in a similar position as he pressed you into his mattress.

New to the city, looking for someone to show me all the best places to get a couple drinks and people watch. Professional photographer living my dream of documenting the most important moments of people’s lives. In my spare time, I like to get out in nature and go hiking, practice yoga, and travel. Excellent home cook, terrible at karaoke. Love dogs, love kids. Let me take your picture so I know it’s real.

Damnit.

You were perfect.

“Okay over there, Djarin?”

Din’s gaze snapped up to meet Cara’s over the table, taking in the quirk of her brow, the suspicious twist of her mouth, and he felt a flush of heat rush up the back of his neck and settle high on his cheekbones. He had been staring. Really staring, and with his mouth open, he realized, mortified. He slammed his jaw shut, his teeth clicking unpleasantly in his skull, and he shifted in his seat.

“Uh,” he muttered dumbly. This throat was so dry, his voice crackled around the syllable as though he hadn’t spoken all day. He cleared it quickly and nodded once. “Yeah. Fine. Uh – ” Flipping the phone around to face his companion, he slid it back across the laminate tabletop. “Her,” he said, tapping the screen with the tip of his finger. “I’ll go out with her.”

Had he not already been blushing, the cat-like grin of victory that Cara sent him certainly would have done it.

“Gonna have to message her first, big guy. Think you can figure out how to do that, or you want me to show you?”

Din’s flush darkened as he yanked the phone back toward himself, feeling a muscle in his jaw tick. “I can manage,” he snarked, and she scoffed a laugh.

However, as it turned out, as he opened the messages tab from your profile, he discovered that you had already taken the initiative and messaged him.

hey din – such a cool name! looks like we have a few things in common. i’d love to get to know you if you’re interested! 😊

Short. Sweet. Polite. Direct.

He swallowed thickly, feeling something suspiciously like butterflies take up residence in his gut. Scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he looked back up at Cara sheepishly.

“Actually…yeah, maybe I could use some help.”

You were sitting cross-legged in your oversized office chair, headphones on and iced coffee leaving a ring of condensation on the surface of your desk, when you saw the dating app notification pop up on your phone screen.

1 New Message, it read.

You glanced back and forth between your phone and your computer screen for a moment, debating. You had promised yourself you would be heads-down today, having started to accumulate more of an editing backlog than you typically preferred. The shoot you were working on this afternoon – an engagement session taken in the gardens outside the local art gallery – was due to the clients by the end of the week, and if you wanted to meet that deadline, you couldn’t afford to get distracted.

And yet you couldn’t help but wonder whether the message was a response – finally – from the man you had matched with a couple days ago. The one with the unusual name, the dark curls and even darker eyes, the strong nose and the sharp jaw and the soft, gentle smile. Broad shoulders, big, masculine hands, and a handful of pictures featuring a little boy, no more than two or three years old, his face either turned away from the camera or covered with a little green frog emoji for privacy.

Din the security consultant. Din the vintage car enthusiast. Din the self-defense instructor.

Din the DILF.

You had fired off a message to him as soon as you had gotten confirmation that he had liked you back, and he had been taking up space in your mind ever since. You had always preferred your men a little older, a little more experienced, and the fact that he was a dad, and a proud one at that, had gotten your motor running immediately. He looked like the kind of guy who knew the best bar in town to get an old fashioned and how to grill a good steak. He looked like the kind of guy who would open your car door for you, who would drive one-handed while the other rested calmly, possessively on your thigh. He looked like his palms were calloused and like his skin smelled good even fresh from the gym.

He looked like he had a big –

Fucking hell. It had been a long time since a man had given you this kind of brainrot without ever even meeting him. It was embarrassing and very much not consistent with your independent woman-about-town image you wore like a suit of armor. But you had never been the type of person to deny yourself. If you saw something you wanted, you went for it – full speed ahead. And Din…you definitely wanted Din.

If there was even a slight chance it was him…

Before you could overthink it any further, you saved your progress on your current edit, dropped your headphones around the back of your neck, and scooped up your phone. Tapping the notification, you brought up your messages tab and found one unread message staring back you.

It was from him.

Hi there. It’s nice to meet you. You seem like an interesting person. I would like to get to know you, too. Where is your favorite place you have traveled?

You drew your lower lip between your teeth, smothering a grin as though others might spot it and tease you despite being alone in your apartment. Something about the way he wrote – the dry punctuation, the complete, grammatically-correct sentences, the lack of emojis – all of it screamed someone who didn’t spend much time communicating electronically, let alone online dating. It was a refreshing change from the men you typically met on the apps, the whole thing endearing rather than off-putting and doing nothing to discourage your impression of his “dad” persona.

Poking out your tongue a little in concentration, you tapped out a quick response before you could lose your nerve.

ooo good question! hard to pick a favorite, but if i have to choose, i’d say thailand. i went there with some friends after we graduated college and we got to volunteer at an elephant sanctuary for a few days. coolest experience of my life hands down! what about you? are you a traveler?

His response came much faster than you expected, certainly faster than his response to your initial message.

I used to be. When I was first getting started, I used to travel a lot for work. I have been all over. I am more settled these days. It’s difficult to travel with a toddler on my own.

You nodded to yourself. That made sense. His boy looked young, and he was a self-described single father. You wondered what the story was there, but that was a level of personal that you didn’t need to dive into just yet. For now, your focus was on making sure this conversation didn’t fizzle out.

Frowning slightly, you realized he hadn’t really included anything in that message to prompt much of a response. However, before you could begin to fish around for something to send in reply, another message appeared.

Your profile says you’re a photographer. Your pictures are very unique. I don’t know much about photography, but I can tell that you have an eye for it. What made you interested in that field?

With a huff of a laugh and a mortifyingly strong flush, you closed out of Lightroom and abandoned your headphones on their stand. You weren’t getting any more work done for a while – you could already tell.

The two of you messaged back and forth several more times that day, then again in fits and spurts over the next three days.

You shared how you got your start in photography and the way your best clients were the ones who embraced your photojournalistic style. You didn’t care for shots that were staged or overly posed, you told him. You liked capturing people’s authentic feelings in the moment, and he quipped that he had never been comfortable posing for photos anyway, so you should get along just fine.

You talked about how both of you desperately wanted a dog but neither of you were in a place where getting one would be a responsible choice. You compared your favorite local hiking trails and determined that although he had lived in the area for far longer than you, you had significantly more experience trekking through the nearby national park. You learned a lot about the ’81 Honda Goldwing that he had lovingly restored, how he used to ride it to and from work every day but that now it sat under a protective tarp in the back of his garage most of the time. It wasn’t exactly a toddler-friendly form of transportation, he explained.

In a moment of vulnerability, you confessed that you had moved to the city as a result of a breakup, in an attempt to get a change of scenery far from the place where you had made a home with another man. He confessed that he had never really made time for relationships in the past, but that his son had made him realize that there was plenty of room in his life for love. He finally felt ready to try, and you finally felt ready to try again.

You told him you thought he was stupidly handsome, that you had no idea how he was single if he didn’t want to be. He told you that he had thought the same about you.

Except I would call you beautiful. Not handsome. I guess unless that’s what you prefer?

no lmao, you wrote back. beautiful is fine. beautiful is perfect.

On day four of…whatever this newfound acquaintance was, you spent the full day shooting a wedding – from getting ready to first looks to family photos to the ceremony to the reception. You swore you could feel your phone burning a hole in your pocket the entire time, but you managed to stay professional and present throughout the length of your contracted hours. By the time you stumbled into your apartment, you were so exhausted, you couldn’t have been more eager to pour yourself some wine and melt into the couch with some trashy reality television. You were changed into your pajamas and a glass and a half deep by the time you allowed yourself to check your phone.

Buried beneath all of the other notifications you had gotten throughout the day, there was a single pop-up from your dating app.

1 New Message, it read. Received four hours ago.

Skipping past all of the other demands on your attention, you opened that notification first.

Hi sweetheart. I know you were photographing that wedding today, so don’t let me interrupt you. We can talk tomorrow, but if you could please message me when you’re done for the night? It would make me feel better to know that you made it home safe.

Hi sweetheart, he had said.

Sweetheart.

A rush of heat passed over you at his words, and you swallowed thickly, wine burning its way down your throat at the thought of Din at home thinking about you, worrying about you. Had this been any other man, you might have found the message a bit overbearing, especially this early on, but rather than feeling controlled or stifled, instead you felt only warmth and safety. You felt…cared for. Protected. Important.

The sensation had you shifting in your seat, gulping down the remainder of your glass in a single go as you felt the apex of your thighs pulse with interest.

Din was so fucking hot, and he had no idea.

Setting your now-empty wine glass on the coffee table, you typed out a rapid reply and hit send.

heyy! made it home okay, thanks for checking in!

Fatigue pulling at your eyelids, arousal burning low in your belly, quickly-consumed wine flushing your limbs with a soft weightlessness, your thumbs seemed to move of their own accord as they tapped out a second message.

din idk how much longer i can keep this up without meeting you. i wanna see your handsome face in person. can i take u out sometime soon? please say yes.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately tossed your phone to the other end of the couch as though it had burned you. It disappeared into the stack of throw pillows there, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You couldn’t look at it, couldn’t stand to wait for his reply knowing that it was after midnight, knowing that he likely had been asleep for hours and wouldn’t see your messages until morning. Taking a deep, calming breath to steady your nerves, you forced yourself to refocus on the television. One episode, you promised yourself, and then you would get some sleep.

Less than 10 minutes later, you felt the faint vibration of your phone travel through the couch cushions to where you sat, and your show was abandoned without question.

You tossed several of your unnecessarily large throw pillow collection onto the floor in your hasty search, and though you knew you would be annoyed at having to tidy them in the morning, in that moment, you could hardly bring yourself to care.

1 New Message, your phone screen read as you recovered it from the pile. With something akin to nausea roiling in your stomach, you opened the notification and resisted the urge to physically cross your fingers.

Glad to hear you made it home safely.

…

That was all. “Glad to hear you made it home safely.”

Your stomach sank like lead in your abdomen, all of the soft, fuzzy warmth of the wine and your arousal evaporating from your body like sweat on a hot day. Only exhaustion was left in its place – exhaustion and the surprisingly poignant hurt of rejection sitting heavy on your limbs. You had come on too strong, it seemed, stated your desires and intentions too boldly and directly. You ought to have held back more, ought to have waited longer before asking or maybe couched the question in a joke or a suggestion of something more casual first. Or maybe you shouldn’t have asked at all and instead waited for him to ask you out. You supposed men probably preferred that – to be the one to initiate, the one to take charge. Fuck, you were always so impatient, so goddamn eager –

In your sweating palm, your phone buzzed once more, interrupting your string of self-curses.

Nerves roiling beneath your skin, you risked a glance down at it.

1 New Message

You had no control over your body as you opened it, watching the action from inside your own mind as though walking through a dream.

As for your other message, of course my answer is yes. I want to meet you, too, sweetheart. But be warned. Even though you did the asking, I WILL argue with you if you attempt to pay for the whole date yourself. It’s against my personal creed to let a lady pay my way without contributing.

All of the breath left your lungs as you took in his words, reading them over and over again until you could recite them from memory.

He wanted to meet you. He wanted to go out with you.

A high, breathy laugh bubbled over from your chest, spilling through your lips into your quiet apartment like the glistening champagne tower at the wedding this evening. You laughed as you typed, as you hit send. You laughed as you turned off your TV and as you completed your evening skincare routine. You laughed as you crawled into bed, as you burrowed under the covers, delirious and giddy.

i think i can allow it just this once. wouldn’t wanna violate your creed.

It took a handful of messages to determine the best place to meet. Din had offered to pick you up, wanting to treat you right, to be a gentleman, but he did not hold it against you when you turned him down. He understood that meeting a stranger from the internet, particularly as a woman, came with a particular set of risks, and he had no desire to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. He was happy to simply meet you there instead if that would make you feel safer.

Eventually, you settled on a moderately popular restaurant not far from your neighborhood. Din had never been there before, but over the last several days, he had discovered that the two of you shared a love of spicy food, and you had promised that the “modern Mexican fusion” menu did not disappoint.

they also have the cutest patio so we can sit outside if the weather’s nice 😊 , you had said, and he had been sold.

Under the assumption that Din would have a difficult time finding a sitter on a weekday evening, you agreed to wait until Friday to meet. However, the moment he had attempted to discretely broach the subject with Cara while on a jobsite, he immediately had three additional volunteers in Bo, Koska, and Axe, all of whom assured him that they hadn’t been eavesdropping and insisted that he had just been “really fucking loud” with his question.

So perhaps finding a sitter would not have been as challenging as he presumed.

Regardless, the two of you continued to chat throughout the week leading up to your date, first using the dating app’s messaging platform and then, eventually, via text. Din had grown weary of the limitations of the messaging interface days before, but he had been concerned about coming across as too forward if he were to ask for your number. But he needn’t have worried. You offered it freely late one night when the two of you were deep into a discussion about your favorite music artists, and something about getting to put your name and phone number into his contacts made the whole situation feel startlingly real. It had felt…personal, almost intimate. And it was nice.

If he was being honest with himself, it made him nervous – how much he liked you, how quickly he had begun to think of you as part of his daily routine. A text good morning after his pre-shift workout, when he knew you were just rolling out of bed. Checking his phone over lunch to find a whole stack of little videos you had found on the internet during your morning scroll, watching every single one of them as his coworkers rolled their eyes and laughed at how quickly he had fallen into line for you. Countless late-night conversations after he had tucked his son into bed, his tired body sprawled out on the couch or propped up against his headboard and wishing you were there with him.

He wanted to experience the laugh that went with that stunning smile from your photos. He wanted to hear you talk for hours on end about whatever crossed your mind while he just…listened. And fuck, did he want to touch you. It had been almost two weeks since he had first matched with you, and that need he had felt deep in his gut that first day he had seen your pictures had only gotten more acute over time. He had to know – for certain – whether the skin at the small of your back was as soft and warm as it looked. He had to know whether your plush thighs and generous hips would give beneath his hands.

He wanted you in his arms, in his lap, in his bed. He wanted you in his life, and he had never even met you.

He needed to rein it in, he knew. He didn’t want to come on too strong, and he didn’t want to dive headfirst into something without the proper consideration. It had been over a decade since he had last been in a relationship, and he was a completely different person now than he had been then. Not to mention his son. His boy was his top priority – the most important thing in his world. He would need to be cautious about dating anyone seriously with him in the picture.

But something told him that he had nothing to worry about with you, that you wouldn’t resent his priorities or demand things of him that he couldn’t give. And if things went well, and he liked you as much in person as he did online… If after a while, you earned his trust, his commitment…

You and the kid would get on like a house on fire. He could sense it.

But.

Before you could meet his son, before Din could welcome you fully into is life, he had to meet you.

Din beat you to the restaurant that Friday.

You wouldn’t describe yourself as the type of person who was chronically late (though some of your friends might have had a different opinion on the matter), but in your defense, you had had a new client intake call right at the end of the day that had gone on for longer than you anticipated. Thankfully, you had gotten yourself ready before the call so that by the time the talkative new parents were done describing in great detail their precise vision for their new baby photoshoot, all that was left for you to do was slip on your shoes, grab your purse, and run out the door.

The walk to the restaurant was brief but pleasant, the weather having worked out perfectly for an outdoor meal, and as you approached, you spotted him immediately. Tall and absurdly broad, posted up outside the restaurant’s main entrance with his hands on his hips and one leg popped in a stance that absolutely screamed “dad,” even from a distance. He wore a long-sleeved, charcoal gray henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows and a couple buttons undone at the collar, well-fitting, dark-washed jeans, and a pair of black boots with thick soles that you had a feeling he favored when riding his motorcycle. A classic pair of dark sunglasses perched on his prominent nose, and in spite of the warm weather, he had a black leather jacket grasped in one fist, hanging down by his side by its collar.

In the golden hour sun against the worn brick of the restaurant’s exterior, he looked like something out of a movie. Or maybe a men’s cologne ad – something clean but rugged, so masculine you could die. Taking a deep breath against a sudden wave of nerves, you made a mental note to bring your camera the next time the two of you went out. If he was going to look this fucking delicious every time you saw one another, it would be a crime not to document it.

You were in the middle of crossing the street when he spotted you, and you watched with heat rising in your cheeks as he visibly paused and swept you from head to toe with his gaze. His adam’s apple bobbed, and then he was straightening himself and eating up the sidewalk in a handful of long strides to meet you when you arrived.

“Din?” you found yourself asking as you came to stand before him, as if you didn’t know, as if you wouldn’t recognize that striking face, those powerful shoulders anywhere in the world.

He offered you a gentle half-smile, ducking his chin in a single nod, and you took notice of his free hand balling up into a fist at his side, like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for you. After a beat, he replied, “It’s…good to see you, sweetheart. Happy you got here safe.”

His voice. Low and rasping, worn and manly, strangely reminding you of metal scraping against leather. It was painfully attractive, and you felt your cheeks darken further even as a grin spread across your lips.

You had been right. The man was a certified DILF, and he couldn’t have been any more your type if you had designed him in a lab yourself.

“Same to you,” you said, your voice sounding a bit breathless even to your own ears. “Should we go get a table?”

Din made an affirmative noise and gestured for you to precede him down the sidewalk. “I put our names in when I got here. The table should be ready any minute.”

A small thrill went through you at the realization that he must have gotten here at least 45 minutes ago if your table was nearly ready. This place notoriously didn’t take reservations, and there was always a wait, especially for the patio. Which reminded you…

Before you could think better of it, you asked, “Oh, did you request the patio by chance? Sitting out under the lights is the – ”

“ – best part, I remember,” he interjected, his tiny smile quirking up in one corner. “Yes, I requested the patio. They should text me when the table’s ready.” No sooner had the words left his mouth and he startled unexpectedly, glancing over his shoulder as though to look at his own back pocket. He reached behind himself and pulled out his phone, the sleek, black thing dwarfed in his broad palm, and you caught a glimpse of his background picture as he unlocked it.

A little boy with floppy, too-long, sandy-brown hair, huge dark eyes, and big ears, grinning up at the camera with a toothy smile. He was adorable.

“Ah. Speaking of. It’s ready,” he said, showing you the automated text. “After you.”

He gestured again for you to walk ahead of him, and you drew your lower lip between your teeth as you acquiesced. Not a moment later and you felt the soft, warm press of his palm against the small of your back, the steady, unobtrusive pressure gently guiding you toward the entrance to the restaurant. The sensation had something low and hot simmering in your abdomen, the way the heat of it sank through the fabric of your dress into your skin, the way your body listened to his touch instinctually. It was protective in a way that felt comforting rather than overbearing, and it occurred to you that such a thing would be easy to grow accustomed to.

You had always needed to be the one to look out for yourself. How freeing would it be to be able to trust another person to carry that for you, even if it was only every once in a while?

Your restaurant recommendation proved to be a good one; the food was rich and delicious, the atmosphere was lively, and Din indulged in a couple of their house cervezas throughout the evening, which he found pleasantly light and refreshing. As the sun set behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across the flagstone patio, colorful strings of lights crisscrossing the seating area flared to life. The effect was charming, particularly the way the lights cast a warm glow over your face, arcs of gold and red and green streaking across your hair and illuminating your eyes. You were so pretty – even more than he had expected, even more than in your photos. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt “enchanted” by a person before, but he would say that was close to describing how he felt sitting across the table from you.

To his great relief, Din found that the time passed just as quickly while talking to you in person as it did over the phone. You were sweet, funny, and quite talkative, so even when he found himself dipping into introverted lulls or long silences, you were there to pull him back out of himself. You seemed to have an endless fount of things to chat about, which was perfectly fine with him, as it meant he didn’t have to wrack his brain for things to say, and he got to listen to your voice.

You also seemed to find him funny, snorting cutely into your glass every time he said something even faintly amusing, and he would be lying if he said that didn’t have his ego swelling a bit. He liked the idea of being able to make you laugh. And when your eyes flashed at him over the rim of your margarita, when you drug the tip of your slick, pink tongue across the line of salt there, when you offered him a slow, knowing smile with just the barest flash of sharp little teeth…it wasn’t only his ego that threatened to swell.

That was one thing he had not accounted for, he found, one facet of your personality that he had only barely glimpsed over text that was now staring him in the face as the two of you wrapped up your meal. You were powerfully, blatantly flirtatious in a way that felt completely foreign to Din after more than a decade of singlehood. Your lowered lashes, your intentional eye contact, your sweet compliments. Your little touches across the table, burning the backs of his hands and the insides of his forearms with the warmth of your skin. And that wasn’t even mentioning the surreptitious peeks at your ample cleavage your dress kept allowing as you leaned and shifted in your chair. That one, perhaps, wasn’t intentional, but it was still making it difficult for him to avoid embarrassing himself in the middle of this restaurant.

When it became clear that the two of you could no longer draw out your meal, the debate over the check began. Thankfully, you did not propose to pay for both your meal and his, seemingly taking his warning to heart. However, you did suggest that you pay for your own meal and drinks, and something about that still rankled. Eventually, after much back and forth, you compromised and agreed that Din would pay for the meals while you would cover the drinks. The waitress had looked at you a bit oddly when you made the request, but she hadn’t protested, and a handful of minutes later, the two of you had paid and were making your way back out onto the sidewalk outside.

Din wasn’t ready for the night to end. Spending time with you was the most fun he had had with anyone that wasn’t a coworker in…well. Too long. You were sweet and funny and full of life, and every moment he spent in your presence, he could feel warmth and vitality being breathed back into his lungs. He wasn’t ready to let that go just yet.

Thankfully, neither, it seemed, were you. Slipping one of your manicured hands into his, you said, “You know, there’s a park a couple blocks from here with a really nice walking path. You want to go check it out?”

He glanced down at your joined hands, dragging the pad of his thumb across the ridge of your knuckles almost absently as he reveled in the feeling. You were so fucking soft, just like he knew you would be, and the sensation of your skin under his almost distracted him from his response. After a beat, he nodded, and you hit him with a thousand-watt smile that Din couldn’t help but return.

You kept up a steady stream of conversation as you made your way to the park hand-in-hand. Din had proven just as easy to talk to in person as he had online, and although the evening had confirmed your suspicions that he was much more introverted than you, he was by no means reticent. He had matched you beat for beat all night, and even in the moments where he seemed to need a bit of prompting, you chalked it up to him simply being out of the game for a while and didn’t hold it against him.

More than anything, though, your impression of him as you made your way down the block was one of an old-fashioned gentleman. There was an earnestness, a seriousness about him that you had never really seen in a guy your age, and it made you feel like you were the only person in the world to him. It was a heady feeling, to be the center of such focused attention. You wondered if he knew that if he wasn’t careful, that attention was going to give you ideas. Ideas you weren’t certain someone with his sensibilities would be interested in on a first date.

Just when you thought you might need to pull him to the side of the walkway and give him a little taste of what you had in mind, his phone rang, and he dropped your hand to fish it from his back pocket.

You couldn’t stop yourself from taking a glance at the screen as he examined it. CARA DUNE, the caller ID read, and the photo that lit up the background was of a striking woman with raven black hair, sharp eyes, and smug smile.

Oh. You felt something in your chest deflate a little. Another woman.

Din pulled up short, looking at you with dark, apologetic eyes shadowed by the streetlamps. “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and you found yourself nodding your agreement even as your stomach sank further. And to think, you had been convinced that this man was nothing but a bundle of green flags held together by a gap-necked henley and a pair of slutty black combat boots…

Turning away from you slightly, putting one of his broad shoulders between you and the view of his phone, he swiped up to answer the call.

“Dune? Everything okay?” he asked, a flavor of urgency to his tone that had you frowning.

Wait – Dune? He was calling her by her last name?

You couldn’t hear what the voice on the other side of the line said in reply, but you watched as Din’s shoulders dropped from up around his ears, and he brought his free hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, put him on.” A pause then, and he sighed deeply. “No, I don’t mind, really, you just scared the shit out of me. A call from you at this time of night? I thought something was wrong.” Another pause, and you could hear what you would swear were several voices talking over each other ringing from the phone’s speakers even as they were pressed against his ear. “Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Put him on.”

Din pulled the phone away from his face then and tapped the “video call” button on the glowing gray call interface. Half a breath later, the screen flared to life, blinding you a bit in the darkness, and the image of a little boy with unruly hair and dark, sleepy eyes blinked at him from the phone.

“Daddy!” the boy cried, a toothy grin splitting his chubby little cheeks as he seized the phone from whoever was holding it on his end. He was too close to the camera, the angle giving Din a spectacular view directly up the toddler’s nose, and you smothered a giggle as you watched the boy make faces at himself in the viewfinder.

“Hey, kiddo,” Din said softly, and oh, but you could hear the smile in his voice, could feel the fondness radiating off of him in waves even though you couldn’t see his face. Every sinking feeling that had taken over your body disappeared at the sound as you realized what exactly you were witnessing. The other woman was his babysitter.

“Are you being good for Aunt Cara? Hm?” he asked, and you could just melt at the gentleness in his low, rasping voice.

“Good!” the little boy replied, nodding vigorously in a way that bounced his floppy curls across his forehead.

Another face appeared on the screen, the same woman from the caller ID photo, and you watched as she scooped the squirmy kid up into her arms with an exaggerated, theatrical groan. “Tell him,” she prompted playfully. “Say we played with your airplanes and your cars.”

The little boy grinned toothily. “Yeah, cars!”

“And we wrestled with Uncle Axe and Aunt Koska,” Cara prompted, to which the kid giggled.

“I winned!”

Cara nodded with a fond smile. “That’s right, you won.”

From somewhere off-camera, another voice – this one male – called out in protest. “Debatable! I still say the ref was biased!”

The boy laughed again, the sound high-pitched and full of joy, and even the woman holding him seemed to be fighting back a chuckle as she plowed on. “And then Aunt Bo made dinner, and this little dude ate alllll his vegetables!”

“You did?” Din replied, genuine surprise coloring his words. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you!”

“Daddy! When you come home?”

From your angle slightly behind him, you could see your date’s shoulders fall slightly at the question, so sweetly and innocently asked in that little baby voice. On the other end of the line, Cara offered him what you would call an apologetic smile and shook her head. “Someone doesn’t want to go to bed without Dad.”

“Kiddo, Dad’s not going to be home until after your bedtime,” Din sighed. His words were slow and patient on the surface, but you swore you could hear a note of guilt underlying them, and it made your heart ache in your chest. “Remember, we talked about that before I left tonight? Aunt Cara is going to do bedtime tonight, and then when I get home, I promise I will come give you kiss, okay?”

The boy was clearly disappointed by this response, his eyebrows pulling up in the center and his wide, dark eyes shining pitifully through the screen, and he let out a wordless little whine that you were sure would have had you caving in an instant had it been directed at you. However, Din held strong. Voice low and gentle, he offered, “How about this – let’s say goodnight to each other right now instead. Is that okay? Just for tonight?”

He seemed to weigh that response for a moment, uncertain, but after a beat of silence, the kid tucked himself snugly under Cara’s chin and sighed. “Okaaaay.”

“Okay. I love you so much, kiddo. Get good sleep, have good dreams, and I’ll be there in the morning when you wake up.” Din’s words, so soft and intimate, sounded almost rehearsed to your ears, and you realized that this man was completing a long-standing bedtime ritual with his son via video chat in the middle of a darkened sidewalk on a Friday night. The thought had your heart swelling behind your ribs, the core of you warming and softening with a rush of fondness that you were helpless against.

Fuck. Din wasn’t just a DILF. He was also just a really good dad.

On the other side of the connection, Din’s little boy yawned widely and snuggled his curly head deeper into his babysitter’s chest. “Love you, Daddy,” he murmured sweetly, and you knew that if it were possible to die of cuteness, you would have done so that those words.

“I love you, too,” Din replied softly. “Good night, buddy.”

“Night night.”

Cara shifted the phone away from the kid’s sleepy face then, refocusing herself in the frame. “Okay, that should do it. I’m gonna go tuck this guy in while he’s still feeling cooperative.”

He was quick to nod his agreement, clearly not wishing to make this task any more difficult on his friend than he needed to. “Yeah, go. I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

“Hey.” She sounded rather serious then, making intense eye contact with Din through the phone screen. “Take your time, ‘kay? I got this.”

“Have fun, Djarin!” another woman’s voice chimed from a distance, off-camera and seemingly getting further and further away as Cara carried Din’s son to bed.

There was a chorus of good-natured laughter, then the man’s voice from earlier returned. “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do, eh?”

This, of course, was met with an uproar on the other side of the connection, none of which could be seen. All you could really make out was a stern woman’s voice, one you hadn’t heard before, groan, “Axe, I swear to god – ”

You laughed softly at that, hiding your smiling lips behind one of your hands and Din quickly started to fumble with his phone. “Oookay, that’s enough of that,” he muttered, and with a swipe of his thick thumb, he ended the call.

Slipping his phone into his back pocket once again, he finally turned back around to face you, guilt and embarrassment tightening the corners of his eyes. Even in the dark, you swore you could make out a flush high on his golden tanned cheekbones as he said, “I’m…sorry about that. My kid, he’s got some separation anxiety issues. He’s not used to me being out of the house at bedtime. Tried to talk to him about it before, but he’s not even three yet, and – ”

“Din,” you interjected, closing the narrow distance between the two of you and resting your palm on his arm. “You don’t have to explain. Or apologize. You’re a dad. Your kid comes first.” With a slow, sly smile, you slipped your hand into the crook of his arm, holding tight to it as you proceeded down the sidewalk once more. “Besides, that was an interesting look at your family dynamic. Or were those your friends? The one called Axe sounds like a character.”

He huffed a laugh at that. “Friends. Well, also my coworkers, but they were friends first. I’m an only child, so they’re the only aunts and uncles my kid has ever known.”

“How many of them are watching him tonight?”

“Four,” he replied with a grimace. “I had originally only asked Cara, but the others overhead and…wanted to support me, I guess. I think I mentioned, I don’t exactly do this often. I haven’t been on a date in…well. Let’s just say it’s been a long time.”

You smiled to yourself, feeling your cheeks heat at the idea that this man who didn’t date had decided that he wanted his first date in however long to be with you. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t going to go to your head a little. Leaning your forehead against his bicep so he couldn’t meet your eyes, you asked, “And how are you finding it?”

With a low, rasping chuckle, Din brought his free hand up to cover yours, wrapping his long fingers around the back of your hand where it cupped his elbow. “I’m thinking…if it means I get to spend time with you, I should do it more often.”

Not even an hour later, Din found himself in the back of a cab, arm around your shoulders, fingers linked together, your beautiful face flushed and grinning wildly as you traced the very tip of your nose along his jugular. Your voice breathless and on the verge of laughter, you gave the driver what must have been the address of your apartment, but he couldn’t have repeated the words you said if you had paid him. He was far too distracted, too overwhelmed with where the night was heading to pay attention to such details. You were so soft against him, plastered up against his side. Your mussed hair on his cheek, your breasts against his chest, your round hip snug against his, and fuck, your lips – plump and swollen and glistening with his kisses, the ones he had stolen under the lamp light during your stroll through the park. He couldn’t believe he had done that. He couldn’t believe you had asked him to.

When the two of you had planned this evening, he had had a firm talk with himself – he would keep the physical contact to a minimum, he would not allow his eyes to wander inappropriately, he would be a perfect gentleman, he would treat you like a lady. First of all, because it was the bare minimum of what you deserved, and second of all, because tonight would be your first ever in-person meeting, and he wanted to be very clear that this meant more to him than just some casual hookup. Din had had plenty of those over the years to know that what he felt for you ran so much deeper than that, and he was loathe to give you the wrong idea about his intentions with you.

The moment he saw you walking across the street toward him – backlit by the golden hour sun, hair dancing in the breeze, all your perfect, curvaceous softness swaying with your perky stride – all of that chivalry had nearly been abandoned by the side of the road. And he had been fighting tooth and nail all evening to keep hold of the reins of his desire for you.

But the two of you had meandered through that park for a while. You had stopped along the shore of a little pond to admire the water, and you had looked up at him with these wide, soft eyes, your long lashes casting intricate shadows across your cheeks, and god, it had nearly killed him to keep his hands balled up in the pockets of his jacket.

And then you had taken the smallest step forward, eating up what little distance still remained between you.

And then you had whispered, in a voice so low he could barely hear you, “Will you kiss me, Din? Please?”

How could he have refused you?

Now your breath was on his neck, your lips softly brushing his skin, and he was slithering his arm down from around your shoulders and instead pressing his palm to your thigh. His fingers dug into the softness there of their own accord, tucking the tips inward and brushing his thumb across the cap of your knee firmly, possessively. He felt you exhale against his collarbone at the sensation, the softest, faintest sound of need reaching his ears, and then he was ducking his chin, finding your mouth again, pressing his lips to yours with an urgency that ought to have felt out of place with the poor cab driver sitting right there but somehow didn’t.

Your kiss tasted like lime from your margarita, like salt from the rim. Your fingers threading through his hair felt like heaven. Your body under his hands melted like putty, warm and pliant and so fucking soft that it had blood rushing to his cock, the swell of it pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.

And it wasn’t enough. You needed more. He needed more.

Breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, Din pressed his forehead against yours, brushed the tip of his nose against yours. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and gravely in the hot, moist air between you. “We’ve got to slow down, or I’m going to embarrass myself.”

You shifted beneath his grip on your thigh, hips squirming in your seat, thighs pressing together, and when he met your heavy-lidded gaze, he was struck with how dark your eyes looked just now, how wide your pupils had blown. Shaking your head, you whispered, “Don’t care.”

He bit back a curse at the way his cock throbbed at your words, at the soft, panting tone of your voice. “Not going to fuck you in the back of a cab, baby.”

Giggling breathlessly, you tucked your face into the side of his neck to hide your blush. “You can’t talk to me like that and not expect me to be all over you, Din Djarin,” you huffed, the tip of your tongue darting out to taste the little patch of skin just beneath his earlobe. “S’not fair.”

“Not fair?” With gritted teeth, pure electricity running through his veins, he returned the favor and buried his nose in the soft, fragrant skin of neck. The scent of you there was intoxicating – warmth and musk with a touch of floral, a touch of sweetness. He wanted to sink his teeth into you, might have had you been alone. “Fine. You want not fair? I’ll give you not fair.”

Shooting a furtive glance at the driver, who mercifully seemed committed to keeping his eyes on the road, Din delicately slipped his leather jacket from where it had been tucked around your shoulders and instead draped it over your lap.

You pulled away from him slightly at that, meeting his gaze with bright, burning interest in your eyes as you realized what he was about to do.

“If we’re doing this,” he whispered, “you have to keep your eyes forward and your mouth shut. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Din watched as you swallowed hard, your swollen lips parting with lust. You nodded wordlessly, and your thigh muscles tightened under his hand, now hidden by the drape of his jacket.

“Okay then. Not a sound.” He cocked his head toward the front of the cab. “Now face forward, behave yourself, and I’ll take care of you.”

He felt the sharp exhale of your breath against his face, and then you were obeying – shifting your hips square to the front of the car, turning to face the windshield, and balling your fists up at your sides. Din shifted, too, turning to face forward and tapping into every ounce of discipline his profession had ever instilled in him to school his expression into something carefully blank and neutral. Beneath his jacket, however, was a different story.

He started with a soothing caress of his palm from the cap of your knee to the top of your thigh, using the heat and the weight of his hand to ease your tense muscles. After a couple of passes, he could feel that softness return, and unprompted, your knees eased apart – not quite spread, not yet, just parted slightly as you relaxed into his touch. The realization sent a surge of satisfaction through him, and he could not stop himself from slipping his fingers down, down, down to the very edge of your knee and slowly starting to gather the fabric of your dress in his grip.

Din heard your breath catch for a moment as you realized what he was doing, and then it sped up, and your knees dropped even further apart. Before he could wrap his head around what he was about to do in the back of a cab car, he had hiked the skirt of your dress up far enough to slip his hand underneath.

Now it was his turn to not be able to breathe. Fuck, your thighs were soft – smooth like silk, supple and pillowy and forgiving as his calloused fingers traced slowly across your skin, seeking your warmth. He could feel a muscle in his jaw jump as his fingers drew higher, as you subtly adjusted yourself in your seat so you could open your legs even wider, permit him even closer to where you both knew you needed him. Every instinct in him begged him to go faster, to give you more, to whip the stifling cover of his jacket off your lap so he could take in the sight of his fingers reaching the smooth, cotton gusset of your panties with his own eyes. Instead, he pulled his face into a scowl of concentration and kept his pace measured.

By the time the side of his pinky bumped into the apex of your thighs, Din felt ready to combust with urgency. He could feel the heat of you there through the fabric, could feel the slickness seeping through it to dampen his skin, could feel the tension in your hips as you tried desperately not to arch into his touch. You were being so good for him, staying silent, never looking his way, just sitting there, the picture of innocence as you let him touch you. It had something hot and nearly feral rising in his chest, the fact that he could give you such impossible instructions in such an impossible scenario and you would drive yourself mad in an attempt to obey them.

It made him wonder what else you would do, if he asked, and just the question had his cock pulsing in his jeans. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Din tucked his fingers under the seam of your panties and slipped them softly, gently through your folds.

A groan bubbled up in his chest, and he allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment as he collected himself. You were absolutely dripping for him – hot and wet and slippery, trim little curls sticky with it, underwear soaked against the back of his hand. It coated his fingers, and it took every ounce of restraint in his arsenal to stop himself from pulling his hand from under the jacket and popping his fingers directly into his mouth. But no, he told himself. There would be time for that later. Now, you were practically vibrating in your seat trying to keep yourself together, and he needed to watch you fall apart before the cab arrived at your apartment.

Din allowed himself to gently pet you for another moment, reveling in the feel of your soft wetness, and then he was seeking your clit, finding it swollen and puffy and begging for attention near the top of your folds. With the first delicate caress, you lost the battle with your own vocal chords and let out a quiet, breathless whimper, and a rush of pride raced through him at the thought that he had finally overwhelmed you to the point where you couldn’t keep silent anymore. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning over into your space and murmuring into your ear, “I said keep quiet, sweetheart. Or I stop right now. Understood?”

You let out a shaky exhale, and Din felt more than saw you nod your agreement.

“Good girl,” he growled, and he swore he felt your clit pulse under his fingertips at his words. Interesting. That was something he was going to need to explore more later.

For now, he offered you a few more gentle caresses, a few soft, tight circles around your clit as acknowledgment of your suffering, and then he dipped down to your entrance and slowly, sweetly slipped his middle finger into your throbbing pussy.

God, you felt incredible – hot and wet and so fucking tight that he could feel his cock leaking in his jeans at the idea that he might have the opportunity to be inside you with more than just his fingers. Your velvet walls fluttered around him in desperate little waves as he gently thrust inside you, in and out, in and out, pressing deeper on each pass, seeking that elusive spot inside that he knew would make you see stars. After a handful of strokes, he added a second finger, and your hips stuttered at the stretch, hitching against his touch in a way that felt both needy and overwhelmed. You were so tight, and his fingers were so thick; it was no wonder it was a shock.

Din turned and dropped a tender, comforting kiss to the crown of your head. Fuck, you were so good, just sitting there in the back of the cab, letting him touch you, letting him finger you, letting him make you feel good. The ease with which you gave it all up to him was driving him insane. How long had it been since he had been with someone like you, someone who seemed to know innately what he needed, who fit with him so perfectly it was as though some divine being had had a hand in your introduction? Had it ever been this good? Had he ever needed someone as badly as he needed you?

Grinding the heel of his hand into your clit, Din sped up his thrusts. In and out, in and out, pressing, stretching, seeking. Your knees fell farther apart seemingly of their own accord, as your eyes had taken on a faraway look to them, staring unseeingly out the front windshield as you took what he gave you. In your lap, his leather jacket began to slip, and one end of it fell suspiciously down between your spread legs. Although his hand and the apex of your thighs were still hidden, if the driver were to take a look in his rearview mirror, he would clearly be able to tell what was happening in his back seat.

The same idea seemed to occur to you then, because in that moment, you broke his second rule – you glanced over at him with a fucked-out look of urgency on your face, and Din could swear he felt you starting to tighten. Fuck, this was turning you on. The near-exposure, the precarious position the two of you were in, it was making you drip around his fingers, making you clench around his thrusts.

You were a wild thing; Din had known it from the moment he laid eyes on you. Now here was the proof. You were going to come on his fingers in the back of a cab car, and then you were going to invite him up to your apartment and let him fuck you senseless –

“Here we are,” the driver said, his voice slow and unaffected, almost bored as he pulled the cab off to the side of the street and turned on his blinkers.

No matter how nonchalant his words, the sound of them sent a bolt of terror through the both of you, and in a flurry of limbs and fabric, each of you scrambled to put yourselves back together as the car came to a stop. Din yanked his fingers from your body, the quick withdrawal pulling a little hiccupping whine from your throat, but he paid it no heed as he tugged your skirt back down where it belonged around your knees. You gathered up his jacket and draped it over your arm, running your fingers through your mussed hair. By the time the car rolled to a complete stop, each of you were looking mostly put together, save Din’s raging hard-on tenting his jeans and your flush-cheeked, glassy-eyed stare.

Although he had already paid for the fare, as the two of you slid out of the back of the car, Din pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and discretely slipped it into the driver’s hand.

“Thanks for the ride,” he murmured hoarsely, and before the man could reply, he threaded his fingers through yours and followed your lead to the door of your apartment building.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t been hoping that this would be where the night would end – Din’s broad, calloused hand in yours, your dress askew and your thighs damp, the two of you moving with urgency down the hall outside your apartment, breathless laughter on your tongue. You had never been strictly opposed to sex on the first date, if the chemistry was there and you felt comfortable and safe with the person, and he had checked all of your boxes and then some from the moment you spotted him outside the restaurant that night. You had decided then and there; if the date went well, and he seemed to be on the same page, you would be taking him home with you that night.

You had worried that your advances might be a bit much for Din, but clearly, those fears had been unfounded. He seemed a bit overwhelmed, a bit in disbelief, but that hadn’t stopped him from jumping at every chance you had given him – holding your hand as you walked, kissing you down by the pond…

Giving you one of the hottest experiences of your life by stealthily fucking you with his fingers in the back of the cab while you struggled to stay perfectly silent and still…

Your pussy clenched at the memory of his thick fingers inside you, the perfect stretch of them, the way they had both soothed your ache for him while also somehow making it worse, knowing how much better it would be if it were his cock filling you up like that. Fuck. You needed this man, and you needed him now.

Thankfully, Din seemed to have no interest in stopping. When you finally reached your door, he wasted no time in crowding up behind you as you fumbled for your keys, hands slipping around your waist as he dropped hot, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. Your eyelids drooped at the sensation, your hands halting in mid-air, keys dangling from your grip, and you felt more than heard him chuckle against your skin.

“Don’t get distracted, sweetheart. Open the door,” he murmured, breath hot on the shell of your ear, making you shiver. What a little shit.

After another second of fiddling with your keys, you finally were able to work open your door, and the two of you nearly fell inside. He slammed it shut behind you as you tossed your keys onto the nearby countertop, and then he was on you – one hand gripping the swell of your hip, one hand slipping along the side of your face to cup your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair at the base of your skull as he cradled you. You could smell yourself on him, the scent of your arousal clinging to the hand that now held your face, and god, you could swear your insides turned molten at the idea. His mouth was covering yours before you could comment on it, and then every lucid thought evaporated from your mind.

For a man who claimed to have been out of the dating pool for a while, Din certainly knew how to kiss – he was passionate, meticulous, and completely relentless in the way he took you apart. His lips were soft, his tongue precise, and the single-minded focus with which he stroked your jaw, coaxed you open, and devoured you was enough to make you blush.

Almost absently, you realized his other hand had swept around the crest of your hip and taken a palmful of your ass, and you whimpered into the kiss, your hips hitching toward him of their own accord. His hands were fucking huge, warm through the fabric of your dress, callouses on his palms catching on the fabric. You needed them all over you – on your skin, in your hair, between your legs –

Pulling his lips away from yours with a gasp, he groaned, “If this is too much – if this isn’t what you want – ”

You shook your head, digging your fingers into his dark brown curls, pulling his neck down to your mouth so you could suck on the skin there. “I want it, Din. I want it,” you reassured him.

You felt a shudder pass through him, and then both of his hands were on your ass, dragging you closer, pressing the full length of your torso along his. “Know it’s early, know we just met, don’t have to do anything you don’t want – ”

“Din!” Yanking his hair sharply until he hissed, you watched as he finally seemed to focus on you, eyes darkening as he took in your flushed face, your swollen lips, your glossy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I want to fuck you,” you proclaimed bluntly. His mouth dropped open, just slightly, pouty lower lip trembling as he stared at you. “Do you want to fuck me?”

The man blinked a few times, seemingly taken aback, but he didn’t allow the question to hang in the air for too long. With a heavy, audible swallow, Din replied, “Yeah, baby, I want to fuck you.”

A bright, electric thrill of victory surged through you, and you couldn’t have smothered the grin that split your face if you tried.

“Okay, then fuck me. And don’t hold back.”

You winked at him playfully, and a dangerous smirk that had your pussy fluttering pulled at the corner of his lips. No sooner had you registered the expression and he was toeing off his boots, leaving them abandoned in front of your door, and driving you backward into the apartment. A breathless yelp followed by a laugh escaped you as you allowed him to push you into your living room, shedding your own shoes as you went, and then you were kissing again, and just like before, all of your surroundings melted away.

A rush of cool air met your thighs as balled fists pulled up the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric in worn palms as more and more of your body was revealed, and you let it go gladly. Lifting your arms above your head, you allowed him to pull the whole thing off over your head, and through the wild, fluffed-up strands of hair dangling in your eyes, you watched as he took you in – your blushing cheeks, your heavy, heaving breasts cupped in a black cotton bra, your soft, rounded belly, your thick thighs and wide hips, the narrow strip your black cotton thong completely soaked through and clinging to your pussy lips. You had no name for the expression on his face, but if you had to relate it to something, you would say it was close to awe.

Din was in awe of you, completely and utterly gone for you, and the surge of power that sent through your veins was like a drug.

“Take off your shirt,” you murmured, lip between your teeth, and as he rushed to obey, you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you don’t – ” he groaned, but your hands were already working his belt buckle open, already thumbing at the button of his jeans.

“But I want to.” Looking up at him through your lashes with wide, soft eyes, you held his gaze as you slipped his zipper down, as you felt the hardness poorly concealed behind it swell and surge against your palm. “So let me.”

He gave no further protests, simply watched as you tucked your thumbs into the waistband of both his jeans and his charcoal gray boxer briefs and shoved, pulling them both down around his knees in one, smooth tug. One more push and they were pooled around his ankles, and then Din was stumbling out of them, holding onto the back of a nearby armchair for support as he kicked them aside.

He was naked now, staring down at you with dark, heated eyes, broad, muscled chest rising and falling with every labored breath, and fuck, if he wasn’t the most beautiful man you had ever seen. Thick and strong with long, powerful limbs and a soft stomach, a fine dusting of dark brown hair from his bellybutton down, and miles and miles of golden tanned skin decorated with a heavily curated collection of black and gray tattoos that you hadn’t been able to see earlier. They looked like beautiful work, and you were eager to examine them later, but for now, something else was begging for your attention, and you couldn’t ignore it any longer even if you wanted to.

Inches from your face, long and thick and curved, flushed and leaking precum, his cock was just as beautiful as the rest of him, and you needed it in your mouth. Now.

Holding yourself steady with one hand on his narrow hip, one hand around the base of him, you leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside before taking the tip of him in your mouth and suckling gently. Slick musk coated your tongue, and you moaned at the taste, immediately surging forward and taking more. Above you, Din let out a colorful string of curses and dropped a hand to the back of your head, cupping the bowl of your skull in his palm as you worked yourself over him. He never put any pressure there, never thrust himself deeper than you were choosing to take him, but you could feel his restraint in the tension in his hips, in the grip of his fingers in your hair.

He was trying so hard to be a gentleman for you. You kind of wished he would give it up already.

Pulling back, letting his cock fall from your mouth, you took up your strokes with your hand and said, “S’okay, baby. You can take what you need from me. M’not gonna break.”

Din groaned, low and gravelly in his chest, and then he was using his grip on your head to coax you up and back onto your feet. “Need to fuck you, sweetheart – I can’t wait any more.”

Your cunt bottomed out at that, the swooping sensation deep inside you almost leaving you dizzy, and although you had been looking forward to sucking him off, you found yourself nodding your agreement anyway. “Where do you want me?” you asked, and the question had him tugging you forward into a hard kiss.

“On the couch,” he growled. “Just need to feel you around me.”

Pulling him deeper into the living room, you shed your bra as you went, tossing it who-knows-where in your eagerness. You could feel his eyes on you – on them – as your breasts swayed with your movement, and perhaps such direct attention ought to have made you self-conscious, but instead in made you bold. The moment the backs of your knees collided with the couch, you stripped your thong from your body while holding his gaze, and the pure, molten want in his stare had you feeling like the sexiest woman he had ever seen.

“Lie back,” he rasped, and you were quick to obey, laying down with your head at one end and your legs stretched out along the length of the couch. Snagging one of your many throw pillows, Din tapped the side of your hip twice, adding, “Lift your hips for me, pretty girl.”

You did, and he slid that pillow underneath your ass. Then he was clambering up onto the couch with you, all long limbs and big hands and sweat-damp curls, kneeling between your legs, urging one of them up to drape over the back of the couch, nudging the other down to drip limply onto the floor. You went where he guided you, happy to arrange yourself however he pleased as long as it meant you got to feel that gorgeous cock inside you.

But he started with his fingers first, coaxing and petting and caressing your dripping folds in much the same way that he had in the back of the cab, only this time, you were free to arch your hips into his touch and let out soft, breathy moans with every delicate stroke.

Din seemed to realize this at the same time you did, as he began to nod slowly, encouragingly as he slipped two fingers into your quivering, grasping pussy. “That’s it, let me hear you now. You don’t have to be quiet anymore, sweetheart. Let me hear you feel good.”

And fuck, but it did feel good – his fingers stretching you, filling you, pressing steadily against that soft, elusive spot inside you with every thrust, making you want to thrust against him, to drive him deeper, to take even more of him.

“God, baby, you’re so fucking wet. Is that good? Is that what you need?” he groaned, and you nodded furiously, too overcome to speak, just knowing you needed him to keep going…needed him to give you more.

Again, it was like Din realized what you wanted at the same time you did. Gently slipping his fingers from you, he used the thick coating of your wetness on them to stroke his cock as he shuffled forward on his knees. Pressing down on the blunt, swollen tip with his thumb, he dragged his length through your folds collecting your slick, starting at your entrance and sliding smoothly up to your clit. You let out a low, startled moan at the feeling, and you couldn’t help but grind against him, letting the tip of his cock press and circle against your puffy, throbbing clit. Shit, when was the last time you had hooked up with someone and been this outrageously turned on? You felt like you were on the ragged edge of your orgasm already, and he had barely touched you.

However, just as Din began to trail the head of his cock back down to your entrance, a shock of reality broke through your dazed, lust-fogged mind, and you found yourself pressing your hand against his stomach, stopping him from thrusting in.

“Condom,” you panted, sex-addled and breathless. “We need a condom.”

His dark brown eyes widened with a sudden wave of awareness, and you felt him pull back immediately. “Shit. You’re right, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You let out a winded laugh and shook your head. “Me, neither. Did you bring one? I have some if you need.”

Din nodded, hopping up from the couch and crossing back over to where the two of you had abandoned his jeans. Digging his wallet out of the pocket, he slid a conspicuous foil packet from inside then dropped the wallet back onto the pile of denim. A moment later, he was settled back between your legs, perched up on his knees with his hands on your thighs and the condom tucked securely between two of his fingers.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asked, and you nodded urgently.

“So ready. Beyond ready.”

Your eagerness seemed to be all he needed to get back into the moment. With a few quick strokes of his cock, he ripped the condom wrapper open with his teeth and slid it on. You watched with hooded eyes, lower lip trapped between your teeth, and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to stroke him yourself as the latex stretched over his skin. Din groaned at your touch, and then he shooed your hands away and lined himself up with your entrance.

“Eyes on me, pretty girl. Want to see your face while you take me,” he groaned, and with one long, smooth thrust, he filled your cunt with his throbbing length.

“Ah! Fuck, Din!”

It took everything in you not to let your eyes fall shut as he thrust inside you. The stretch was incredible – just the slightest burn, but even with his size, it wasn’t too much after how he well had prepared you, how long he had teased you in the cab, how turned on you were. It was enough to feel truly full – stuffed to the brim, the weight of him absolutely gorgeous as he bore down on all your most sensitive spots. Above you, your date was gritting his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his nostrils flared, as he dug his fingers into your thighs with a grip so hard it would likely bruise. He seemed to be fighting very hard to keep himself together, and you immediately felt the sinister urge to clench around him just to watch him struggle. Instead, you chose to take mercy on him and simply roll your hips against his, driving him deeper.

“No – shit, baby, you can’t – ” he stammered, hands tightening on your legs even harder, hips surging forward in the smallest of thrusts completely out of his control. “I am…hanging on by a thread here, and if you – ”

“If I what?” you taunted, the power you had over him flowing through you like an aphrodisiac, making you bold, making you reckless. “If I do this?” You rolled your hips against his again, smooth and lazy, and you could actually feel his cock throb and twitch inside you.

Deep in his chest, Din released what could only be described as an animalistic growl, and in an instant, he had one hand tucked behind the back of your knee – the one up on the back of the couch – and the other gripping the couch cushion beside your head. Arching his broad, muscular body over yours, bringing his face down to your level, he pressed your knee back toward your head and thrust so deep into you, you couldn’t help but whine at the feeling.

“Naughty girl,” he rasped.

You nodded with a smile. “You like that about me.”

He huffed a laugh into the hot, humid space between you, shaking his head at you exasperatedly. “You’re right, I do. But right now – ” He pulled back his hips until just the very tip of his cock remained inside you, brows drawn low in concentration. “ – right now, I really just need to fuck you. Can I, sweetheart? Can I just fuck you?” He thrust back in, all the way to the hilt, and you could swear your cunt was literally dripping at the intoxicating feeling. Your body was writhing beneath him, completely out of your control, and you swore that if he didn’t just fucking rail you in the next three seconds, your head might explode.

“I swear to god, Din, if you ask me one more time – ”

His mouth sealed over yours before you could finish your sentence, and then he was finally – finally – fucking you.

With swift, firm thrusts, he drilled you into the couch cushions, all hesitance and restraint fully evaporated. The angle was perfect, the extra height and the little tilt added by the throw pillow exactly what you needed to have his cock dragging against your G-spot on every thrust, and that combined with the way his pubic bone ground against your clit had you moaning and whimpering and digging your manicured nails into his shoulders in your ecstasy. Din was like a force of nature, the way he fucked – gripping your thigh, driving your leg back toward your head, holding your eye contact, watching with deep, unflappable intensity as you trembled and shook beneath him. Every once in a while, he would drop his gaze to trace over your soft, folded stomach or to watch the hypnotic bounce of your tits, but mostly, he kept his eyes on yours, and rather than making you self-conscious, it simply drove the heat between you higher, made it more powerful.

“Thought about this,” he confessed, a whine creeping into the edge of his low voice as his thrusts sped up. “All those fucking pictures of you – doing yoga – all bent and twisted and – flexible.”

A smirk made its way onto your face, and you ran your fingers through his hair, brushing his limp curls out of his eyes. “Yeah? You like a bendy girl, Din Djarin? How’s it live up to the fantasy?”

He groaned, leaning even further forward to press his sweaty forehead into yours, driving your leg even further back toward your face. Tucking your knee up onto his shoulder, the angle of his cock inside you deepened. “Even better,” he admitted. “You’re perfect – so perfect.”

“P-Perfect?” God, that soft, spongy tip was hammering your G-spot now; you could barely comprehend any of the words he said to you, let alone string together any of your own.

“Perfect body,” he elaborated, gritting his teeth, groaning loudly. “Sweet, soft, perfect p-pussy. Perfect – hnng fuck – perfect girl.”

“Din!” you gasped. That low pool of heat in your abdomen was starting to tighten, starting to pulse. You could feel it rising inside you, threatening to take you over. It felt…massive, life-altering in a way you hadn’t known orgasms could be, but fuck, if this one wasn’t promising to do it.

“Shit, baby, can feel you,” Din groaned. “You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my cock? Hm?”

“Y-Yes, I’m gonna – you’re gonna make me – ” You hiccupped a sob, raking your fingernails down his arms in a move that had him hissing and his hips stuttering as he thrust. “Fuck, I’m so close!”

“What do you need? What’s gonna get you there?”

“My clit – can I – ?”

He cursed, dropping a wet, sucking, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Yeah, baby, touch yourself. Make yourself come. Need to feel it.”

Wiggling one of your hands into the tight space between your bodies, the tip of your middle finger found your throbbing clit and immediately began to play. You wouldn’t need much more – just something a little more direct, a little more concentrated, a little more –

“Yes! Fuck, Din, right there!”

And then you were gone – that tight, wet heat inside you bursting, dripping down his cock and flinging you into the stars on the edge of the event horizon. The walls of your cunt pulsed around him as you rode out your high, and Din was quick to follow you into his own abyss, unable to hold back anymore the moment he had felt you start to fall apart. With one final, deep surge of his hips, you felt his cock pulse and twitch inside you, and for a brief, wild moment, you regretted the use of the condom. You would have liked to have felt the warmth of him spilling inside you.

In the aftermath, Din was tender, as you had had no doubt he would be. After the two of you had taken a moment to catch your breath, he reached a hand down to hold onto the base of the condom as he pulled out. A low, husky groan escaped him as he withdrew, and you felt a sympathetic throb deep inside you at the sound. Even now, everything he did was unthinkably hot.

A moment later, he had removed and tied off the condom and retreated to your kitchen to toss it, returning with a warm rag he had clearly dampened in your sink. He was gentle and methodical as he cleaned you, wiping between and around your swollen pussy lips with steady hands before he moved on to cleaning himself.

He would need to go now, you realized. He had likely already stayed out later than he had planned, already imposed upon the generosity of his friends long enough. His little boy was waiting for him, and as much as you wished he could stay, you knew it would be unreasonable to ask him to.

So without prompting, you pulled yourself up to sitting, and when he came back from tossing the rag back into the kitchen, you rose to your feet.

You had to admit, you felt a bit exposed, a bit awkward, but even now, as Din looked at you, you could see all of the same warmth and affection you had seen in his eyes before the sex, and that eased your nerves a bit. The first real nerves you had felt since the start of the night, you realized.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but I have to – ”

“I know,” you interrupted, giving him a smile you weren’t certain would reach your eyes. “I understand. It’s late. You have to be getting back.”

“I do,” he agreed. Crossing to stand just in front of you, he reached out a hand and traced the backs of his fingers down your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Thank you for tonight. I had a great time with you. And not just…this.” He gestured awkwardly at the surrounding room, at his own nakedness that matched yours, at the trail of clothes between the couch and the apartment door. You giggled in spite of yourself, and he joined in, the whole mood lightening considerably as the two of you found your way back to laughing with one another.

“I had a great time with you, too,” you said, draping your arms around his neck. “I’d like to do it again sometime, if you’re interested.”

Din smiled, soft and genuine, and pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m definitely interested. And, ah, maybe next time I’ll call in a few favors. See if I can arrange an overnight sitter.”

You snorted, tucking your face into his neck as joy began to bubble beneath the surface of your skin, making you feel light and filling you with an impish energy in spite of the hour. “Hey, if you can swing it, I’m definitely not going to say no. I’d like to actually, I don’t know, make it to the bed next time? Maybe?”

He playfully squeezed your sides in response, and you let out a squeal. “Can you blame me?” he quipped. “Driving me insane all night.”

Offering him a tongue-touched smile, you pulled away and started collecting his clothing from around the room. “Again. You like that about me, baby,” you teased. With a wink, you dropped the bundle of clothes into his waiting arms. “Now get your cute ass back in these jeans. And go kiss your son good-night.”

A handful of minutes later, Din was fully dressed and hovering by the door to your apartment, the scent of you still lingering on his skin, his heart lighter and freer than he had felt in years. You had gone and gotten yourself a robe to cover up with while he dressed, and now you stood, hip leaning against your kitchen cabinets, arms crossed over your ample chest, watching him attempt to delay the inevitable of having to say good-bye.

He didn’t want to leave you – he hoped you knew.

He didn’t want to sleep away from his son, but he also didn’t want to leave you. An impossible conundrum, and one that didn’t bear examination seeing as this was only your first time meeting in person. It was far too early for the direction his mind was heading; he headed it off before it could travel any further down the road.

Instead, he gathered you into his arms one final time for the night, cradled your face in his hands, and planted a soft, gentle kiss on your swollen lips. “Good night, sweetheart. Can I text you in the morning?”

“You can text me anytime,” you replied with a smile. “You could even, um…call me. If you wanted. When you have some free time.”

Din drew back for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, if that’s okay with you. I’d like to call you.”

Your smile widened, and he could swear he felt a piece of his heart leave his body and lodge itself in you at the sight. “Great. Then I’ll look forward to hearing your voice again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, and with one final kiss, Din slipped out the door.

#hotdilfsummerchallenge #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu #ppcu fanfiction

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pedrospatch · 1 year ago

Text

safe and sound

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: Your daughter has a nightmare—her daddy makes it all better.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. slight canon age deviations (Joel is 56, Ellie is 17) READER’S AGE IS NOT SPECIFIED. she’s a child bearing adult woman so do with that information what you will. established relationship, reader and Joel have a toddler (her age is not specified in fic but she’s 3 ish years old), reader has NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION and neither does their child except she has Joel’s eyes and his dark curls, no mentions of her skintone. Joel and Ellie are fine bc he deserves it, Joel’s an overprotective girl dad, reader is the chill parent. implications of a toddler being told about clickers, bad dreams, almost smut, Joel and reader get cockblocked, SOFT Joel who comforts his babygirl, mention of Sarah towards the end. very minimal editing.

word count: 2.3k

a/n: listen, i love me some daddy joel but tonight i needed a bit of actual daddy joel. this was whipped up last minute bc i haven’t had the best weekend and needed some comfort. also i didn’t have the mental capacity or energy to come up with a moodboard, so gif it is.

Joel looks down at the old, worn book in his hand.

Winnie the Pooh.

He never would have imagined it. This.

Reading a bedtime story to a toddler. His toddler.

He’s in his fifties—he shouldn’t have a toddler.

He shouldn’t have a teenager, either.

Yet, he has both.

The toddler has his blood, the teenager doesn’t.

But that doesn’t matter to him.

Joel still considers her to be his own kid.

Only, she’s not a kid anymore, not really.

She’s seventeen now. She doesn’t need him much anymore, not the way that his toddler needs him.

“Ellie’s not coming home tonight,” you’d said from where you stood at the stove, stirring in chunks of potato and chopped carrots into the pot of stew in front of you. “There’s a birthday party down at the bar. She’s going with Dina and Jesse.” You can feel the look of disapproval on his face and add, “I said she could go, Joel. She asked me permission.”

“She didn’t ask me,” he’d gruffed. He looked down at the little girl sitting in his lap, scribbling away on an old state map. He had given it to her along with the pack of crayons he’d found during patrol when his group stumbled across a schoolhouse. Though crumbling on the outside, the inside had remained untouched throughout the last two decades—little coats hanging over the back of little chairs, papers scattered all over little desks, little lunch boxes still stored in their cubbies at the back of the room. He instructed the group to search for anything useful, anything that Jackson’s teachers could use for the children in their classrooms. Joel knew that taking without trading was against the rules, but that did nothing to stop him from secretly slipping the box of crayons into his jacket pocket when no one had been looking.

His daughter’s squeals of delight when he’d gifted them to her had been well worth the theft.

“Because she knew you’d say no to her.”

“I would have. Kid’s got no business going to a bar at her age. She’s fuckin’ seventeen years ol—”

The little girl had gasped and stopped coloring.

“Daddy said a bad word.”

You’d turned around and glared at him. “He did.”

She looked up at him with her wide, brown eyes.

Those she’d gotten from him. His dark curls too.

Everything else?

Her smile, her nose, her softness?

That was all you.

“M’sorry, babygirl,” he apologized, sheepishly.

“S’okay, daddy.”

And back to coloring she went.

“Joel, let’s face it. Ellie’s growing up. She’s turning eighteen in a few months and truth is, she has one foot out the door.” Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the counter. “She was telling me how she wants to turn the garage into her own space.”

“There a reason she ain’t talkin’ to me ‘bout this?”

You’d smiled wistfully at him.

“Because she knows this is hard for you, Joel.”

It is hard. Because even though she isn’t his, she’s his and he’s afraid to lose her somehow.

Joel manages to snap himself out of his thoughts.

Rosemary’s now fast asleep, her well loved stuffed bunny rabbit wrapped in her arms. She’s a handful for him during bedtime—she has too much energy and most nights, you have to step in and help him. But tonight, after her bath, he had warmed a glass of milk for her to drink and it seemed to have done the trick because within minutes of him reading to her, her eyes fluttered closed.

Joel sets the book down and leans over to brush a kiss onto her cheek, quietly whispering goodnight. “Sweet dreams, babygirl.”

He switches off the lamp on the bedside table and steps out of his child’s bedroom, being careful not to wake her as he closes the door behind him.

“I still can’t believe she fell asleep within minutes,” you say, staring at him in utter disbelief. “How?”

“Gave her a glass of warm milk before I tucked her into bed,” Joel explains, tugging on a pair of faded black sweatpants. He peels off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor before climbing into bed. “Worked like a fuckin’ charm. She’s out like a damn light.”

You set your book down and raise an eyebrow.

“Joel, I brushed her teeth before her bath.”

“I brushed them again after she drank it, darlin’.”

He outstretches his arm, beckoning for you.

Grinning, you scoot closer to him, draping an arm over his bare chest. “It’s only nine,” you tell him. “I have no idea what we’re going to do with all of this free time we have. Rosemary’s asleep, Ellie’s gone for the night.” You slowly drag your hand down his chest and over his stomach, a finger skimming the waistband of his sweatpants. You hear the way his breath catches in his throat and tease, “I guess we can actually get some good sleep for once, huh?”

Groaning, Joel rolls over and pins you down to the bed as he positions himself on top of you, his eyes glazed over with lust. “We can sleep,” he murmurs as his mouth hovers over yours. He reaches for the buttons of his flannel you’re wearing and begins to single-handedly pop them open only to find you’re not wearing anything underneath. He groans once more. “Or I can make you feel good. S’your choice, baby.”

You gasp as he nips at your chin and starts trailing his lips lower, peppering kisses down the length of your body. Heat blossoms in your lower belly as he settles himself between your thighs. Hooking both arms around them, he nibbles at the soft spot that is right below your navel, the spot you hate, but he adores. Having a child had changed your body and while you two seldom had time to yourselves to do anything of this nature, when you did find time, he never failed to make you feel like you were still just as beautiful to him, if not a thousand times more.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Please, Joel.”

“Please what, sweetheart? What do you want?”

His voice is low, husky.

Your hands reach down and tangle in his curls.

“Your mouth, Joel. Please. I need your—”

The sound of a teeny knock at the door makes you both freeze on the spot.

“You heard that, right?” you ask him breathlessly.

There’s a second teeny knock.

It’s then followed by an even teenier voice.

“Mommy? Daddy?”

“Fuck,” Joel hisses, scrambling off the bed. “What the hell is she doin’ out of bed?” Picking his t-shirt up from the floor, he quickly throws it on, ignoring that he’d put it on inside out. Watching you as you fumble to button his flannel, he calls, “Just give us one second babygirl, alright? We’ll be right there.”

“I’m decent,” you tell him, getting the last button.

Nodding, Joel opens the bedroom door. His knees protest when he squats down, lowering himself so that he can meet Rosemary’s tearful gaze.

“S’matter, Rosie Posie?” he asks her in a soft voice that he reserves for his girls. “What happened?”

She sniffles. “I—I had a bad dream, daddy.”

You sit on the side of bed and wait patiently.

Joel has it handled. He always has it handled.

He never stopped knowing how to be a father.

“You had a bad dream?” he repeats, frowning.

Rosemary nods, clutching her rabbit to her chest.

A single tear slips down the side of her little face.

Joel reaches out, gingerly wiping it with his finger.

“M’sorry it scared you, babygirl. Tell you what, just for tonight, how about you sleep with me and your mama in our bed? That sound good?” With a small labored grunt, he scoops her into his arms. She is getting heavier and you often tell him it’s not good for his back—he can’t care less. He’ll keep picking her up until the moment his little girl decides she’s a big girl and doesn’t want him to pick her up. Joel carries her over to the bed and sits her on your lap and reminds her, “But this is just for tonight, Rosie Posie. Tomorrow night you’re back in your own big girl bed, alright?”

“Okay,” she nods again and leans against you, tiny shoulders slumping.

“Rosie? What was your dream about?” you ask her gently, wrapping your arms around her. She hardly ever has nightmares—she’s too young to know the world outside the commune’s walls, smart but still too little to understand why she cannot go outside the gates. “What did you dream about, honey?”

She hesitates, then answers, “Monsters.”

“Monsters?” Perplexed, you glance at Joel.

He seems to be just as confused as you are.

“Who did you hear that word from, babygirl?”

“Robbie.”

Your neighbor’s unruly, troublemaker son.

Joel’s jaw clenches slightly. “Thought I told you he ain’t allowed to be around her. The kid is nine, ain’t got no business bein’ around Rosemary. Little brat ain’t nothin’ but a bad influence. He’s always up to no good.” He shakes his head at you. “Said I didn’t want that boy anywhere near our daughter.”

“The kids were out playing in the snow today,” you remember. “He must have been there too. It’s kind of hard to tell who is who when they’re all bundled up and flinging snowballs at each other, Joel.” You shoot him an apologetic look. “Rosie was having a blast playing with everybody—I’m sorry. I suppose I should’ve paid more attention to who was around her.”

He bites back a sigh. He knows it’s not your fault.

Rosie’s too good of a girl, too pure and innocent to know that not everybody is her friend.

“Rosie, what did Robbie say to you?”

Again, the child hesitates.

“He said—he said monsters live outside. They bite people and turn them into monsters too. He said it happened to his daddy.” Rosemary’s eyes flit from you to Joel. “He said it would happen to you, too.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “He said that to you?”

Hands curling into fists, Joel reminds himself now isn’t the time to let his anger take over. “S’not true at all, babygirl.” He reaches over and slides her out of your lap and onto his. Like you, he wants to lie—tell her those monsters she was told about are not real, that they don’t exist. But they do exist and as much as he wishes he could keep her from finding out about all that lies beyond Jackson’s walls, Joel knows that one day, she will. “Listen to me. M’real sorry to hear ‘bout Robbie’s daddy, baby. But I can promise you, that ain’t gonna happen to me.”

She points a chubby finger at you.

“What about mommy?”

“Ain’t gonna happen to her either.”

Rosemary drops her hand, fear clear in her tone as she asks the both of you, “What about me?”

“Of course not,” you say, smoothing back her dark curls. “You’re safe here, honey. As safe as can be.”

Joel nods. “Your mama’s right, darlin’. You’re safe,” he reassured her. “You’re safe and sound.”

“I am?”

He gives her body a warm, gentle squeeze. “Mhm. Always will be. Y’know how I know that, babygirl?”

“How?”

“‘Cause. As long as daddy’s around, he will always protect you,” he promises her. “He’ll never, ever let anythin’ bad happen to you, Rosie. I swear it.” Joel kisses the top of her head, his gaze meeting yours. He murmurs his oath quietly, “On my life.”

Flashing him a small, grateful smile, you reach out and touch his forearm and he places his hand over your own.

“And mommy too?” Rosemary questions him.

“And mommy too.”

“And Ellie?”

“And Ellie,” he nods, firmly. “M’always gonna keep my girls safe. S’long as I’m around, you’re all safe.”

Rosie tiredly snuggles into his chest, yawning.

“What about you, daddy?”

“Huh?”

You squeeze his arm. “Think she’s asking you who is supposed to keep you safe, Joel.”

The little girl nods sleepily. “Yeah. Who?”

“Well.” Joel’s throat bobs nervously. He knows the moment he says what he’s about to say, there’s no going back. Not that he never planned to tell Rosie about her sister, but he’d always imagined doing it when she was older and understood death. “I—uh, I have an angel in the clouds who looks out for me. She watches over me, keeps me safe and sound.”

Rosemary’s curiosity is all that is keeping her from completely passing out in his arms.

“Really? You have an angel?”

Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest. “Joel—”

He lightly shakes his head.

“S’fine sweetheart. I don’t mind tellin’ her.”

Rosie’s fighting to stay awake just a little longer.

“Daddy? What’s your angel’s name?”

Joel answers in the steadiest voice he can muster.

“Her name was—her name is Sarah.”

“Sarah,” she mumbles, her eyes closing. “S’pretty. Your angel has a really pretty name.”

“The prettiest name,” you agree, softly.

Rosie yawns again. “Daddy?”

“What is it, babygirl?”

“Will you tell me stories about Sarah? Please?”

Joel chuckles, rubbing her back. “I sure will. I have plenty of them to tell, Rosie Posie. But not tonight. I’ll save them for tomorrow ni—”

You cut him off. “Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s out cold.”

He glances down and sure enough, she’s asleep.

Moments later, the three of you are in bed. Rosie’s in the middle, curled up against Joel’s chest—your chest is pressed against her back but you’re being careful not to sandwich her in too tight in between your bodies.

In a beam of silvery moonlight shining through the bedroom window, you meet Joel’s gaze.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He chuckles. “For what? Doin’ my job and soothin’ our daughter after a bad dream?”

You smile at him.

“For being so good to her. To me and Ellie.” Lifting a hand, you reach over and cup the side of his face in your palm. “You’re so good to all three of us and I can’t even imagine what we’d do without you.”

Joel turns his face, brushing a kiss into your hand.

“I mean it,” he says, quietly. “S’long as I’m around, you girls will always be safe and sound.”

credit divider @saradika-graphics

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #fic: safe and sound

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nouearth · 11 months ago

Text

my favorite scent is you.

bruce wayne x male reader.

summary: bruce needs to be taken care of too (in which reader believes it's through the form of sex).

wc: 3.5k. genre: smut, angst (kinda?). warnings: top!bruce, consensual!somnophilia, blowjobs, slow mouth-fucking, fondling, reader is asleep, bruce and reader are the same age, reader also grew up with bruce, mentions of parental death, trauma-bonding.

notes: it's been a while since i've done a brucey smut (and also fulfilled a request), so here ya go! actually my first time writing about somnophilia, so be easy on me, lmao. it was harder than i thought! also i'm trying a new layout,,, kinda, don't mind me.

“Do you remember that night? When my parents… you know.”

It had been a little less than a decade, but the uneasiness you felt when mentioning your parents’ death was akin to hovering your palm above an open flame. The flicker of the heat frightened you. Though, you couldn’t help but feel magnetic towards it—closer and closer—until you felt a strike to your calloused hand.

Just a little more, and you’ll break free.

It was striking how your wounds maintained their novelty. Years of skin hardening, scabbing and layering over the memory of Bruce breaking the news to you on that night, and the slightest mention of your parents tore it open with little defiance.

“Yeah…” Bruce whispered, and a sudden impulse to hold you prevailed over him. He turned over on his side, slipping his arms over and under your frame, and pulled your back flushed to his chest. You eased with a melting squirm, a physical gratitude, and then another when you pressed a kiss to his forearm. “It was supposed to be Alfred telling you, but I insisted.”

“Really?” Your curiosity was piqued and you felt Bruce nod into the crown of your head, breathing you in deep like his favourite cologne. A scent he’d never wear himself because it matched you perfectly. “How come?”

“Well, I had no one other than Alfred when my parents died. He tried his best, but we barely had time to grieve. A bunch of responsibilities were bestowed upon him overnight; my parents’ estate, numerous paperworks, the press and media, not to mention the funeral service. It was… a lot for him.”

Bruce sighed, squeezing you tighter for support as he continued. “I remember reading—signing off things that I knew nothing about the very next day.” He then laughed, a bitterness surfing for air in the bass of his voice. “I didn’t even have a signature yet.”

“I’m sorry…” A heaviness sank you and Bruce deeper into the mattress. You latched onto Bruce’s arm for support, held him gently, and found levity through the brush of his lips, as if he was saying—consoling you through the black void: I’m here, I’m here.

“Is that why you guys hired my parents?”

“Mm-hm, we needed help around the manor while Alfred had bigger duties to tend to. And I’m glad he suggested the idea as much as I was apprehensive about it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met such an incredible family. A year became two, then another two, then another, and…” Bruce recalled the sounds, the visions of red and blue flashing—blaring into the sky. “Which was why I thought it would be best if it came from me. So I could be that someone that I desperately needed during my grieving.”

“You shouldn’t have been thinking about that though… I mean, what—we were only fifteen? Coming from your background, you should’ve been… cocky, annoying, emo, selfish, like every other teenager.

“I guess your personality kind of compensated for that—” He amused himself with some levity.

“Hey!” You choked out a laugh, then lightly elbowed his stomach behind you. “Ass.”

“Ow,” Bruce pressed a smile to the back of your head, inhaling your scent again. “I did have that emo phase though.”

“Oh yeah—” Within his hold, you turned your body to meet Bruce face-to-face as a flood of memories came rushing in. You greeted him with a smile that he was able to single out from within the dark. Then, he made sure your presence was acknowledged with a chaste kiss.

“Your hair came down to your nose and stuff—oh! And you kept wearing the same hoodie too.”

“Yeah, okay—we get it. Not my best look.” He groaned, tearing himself away from you as your descriptions of Bruce suddenly developed into powerfully cringe-inducing memories. As embarrassing as the past was, he was glad it brought you some kind of merriment. He’d been scolded multiple times by numerous people, though namely Alfred, to treat you better.

You and Bruce weren’t always close. In all honesty, it took your parents’ death that empowered you two to stick together more than ever. Where darkness used to storm over the roof of the manor, you and Bruce managed to conjure a light that illuminated a path to find sanctuary within each other.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” The moonlight reflecting through the bedroom window casted shadows across Bruce’s profile. Wrinkles you’ve never noticed before were accentuated; eye-bags that you’ve been nagging at him to take care of deepened; glimpses of a boy who was forced to grow up.

He turned when you reached over to trace over the spotlighted features. A single digit caressed the bumpy bridge of his nose; the stubble that tickled you whenever you kissed; the cut over his broad chin that was your favorite spot to kiss,; the scar over his left cheek that had been healing for months, only to restart the process again after Bruce’s late night endeavors.

“Let me take care of you now.”

You weren’t sure how Bruce took your proposal. Recalling the moment had you adding unnecessary details that all-the-more exploded the situation into a narrative you couldn’t exactly trust.

Wait… he made a weird face when I told him. I remember a face! No, idiot—he just had an itch on his cheek. Oh.

I don’t remember his phone ringing… You think he was trying to get out of the conversation? Maybe? He usually has his phone set on the loudest volume possible…

Oh god, he probably thinks I’m some kind of sex-crazed addict. Well, aren’t you— No?! I just—wanted to take care of him… We rarely see each other these days and I doubt the lunches I’d make for him add much to that narrative. I needed something more. Wow, I’ve been talking to myself for this long?

You probably look crazed, especially if someone were to walk in the bedroom at this moment, but you’d be too deep into your thoughts to hardly notice. If you did notice, you’d probably go on a tangent about how Bruce was probably disgusted by how you could even suggest a thing like that.

Your toes and fingers curled at the recollection you were certain happened.

“So… I know you’ve been out late at night—” “(M/N), it’s not what you—” “Shh, I’m too good of a catch for you to cheat on me.” “I mean, keep that cockiness up and maybe—” “Excuse me?!” “I’m joking.” “Uh-huh, well, keep joking and I might have to rescind my offer.” “Your offer?” “Look, I haven’t seen you much lately. It’s not your fault. You’re busy.” “I know—I just need to deal with this…” “Bruce, you look—you are tired. You’re overworked and whenever we do spend time together, you’re asleep!” “I’m trying my b—” “You’re trying your best, I know! And I don’t know what you do at night, not sure if I do want to know, but… two-three hours of sleep is not enough. You’re killing your body.” “Hm…” “And one day, you’re going to crack and I just…” “Just..?” “I’m not sure how to… put it.” “What is it?” “If you want to… and it’s entirely up to you, but…” “Jesus, spit it out—” “I— if I’m still asleep, and you want to somehow… relieve your stress..?” “Oh—” “I’m all yours.”

The second hand on the clock cycled slower, almost as if it was mocking you for being so desperate, impatient, and doubting. Yet, at the same time—if clocks could have a personality—there was a dormant kindness in the rhythm of the minute hand striking every corner of the wheel. Gentle and soothing, the lids of your eyes grew heavier with every passing second as the sound of the clock counted sheeps for you.

Forty, forty-one… fourty-two… Forty… three…

The floor creaked despite Bruce’s best efforts to remain light on his feet. You’ve always been a light sleeper, even at the sound of wind whistling you’d jolt up to, but surprisingly—nothing.

As he approached his side of the bed, his eyes settled on you like always. To Bruce, it was a sweet sigh of relief to come back home to you again. Sometimes, a miracle depending on the crimes of that night. Nightly patrols have taken a toll on him; on his body, on his mentality; but being in your presence always—no matter what—brought him back to the solitude his life was at before being laboured by vengeance.

Coldly, he sat on the edge, careful to not wake you, as he dried off the damp strands of his washed hair with a towel. Then, he chased after the tremors off his bare body with several rubs of the coarse towel, gathering water molecules into the material until he was somewhat dry. It was the typical nightly routine of Bruce Wayne, in which he was guilty of vacating you of.

Bruce witnessed—took part in—how you ended your night. A late night snack, a book, a tv show—and he’d stroke your hair to the sound of his heartbeat until you were out like a light. He’d never forget to kiss your forehead as if it was an enchantment that would guard him for the rest of the night. Naively, Bruce was apprehensive of the subtle chance of reducing his survival rate if he were to miss a night of seeing you—touching you. Even if you had the biggest argument with him, even if you were in the wrong, he’d make sure to see you one last time before escaping into the shadows, saving the city—saving you.

After dressing himself in a fresh set of briefs, the soft cushions of his bed and pillows enticed him back into sanctuary. He crawled back into bed and instinctively found his arms around your body, warm and full against the recovering bruises against his own flesh. Skipping dinner was a norm, but he felt satiated when he could hear you breathe, feel your pulse, and watch you writhe within his doting affection.

“Goodnight.” Bruce muttered as he nestled his nose into your hair, another deep inhale of your scent to ground him that you were still present in his life. And then another as his head turned towards your neck, a familiar smell that taunted him to lean closer until his nose pressed softly into the crook of your skin.

White musk.

The top note of his favourite cologne on you. It lingered delightfully in Bruce’s nostrils, and there was a reason why he always urged you to spray it on date nights. It was intoxicating.

Come to think of it, Bruce’s night routine hadn’t completely checked off all of his tasks for the night. After he would come home, it was a no-brainer to shower off the sweat, dirt, and sometimes blood, from his patrols. He would scrape his hair clean with the shampoo suds, mint and cooling on his scalp. Then he’d move onto his body. The suds would trickle down his torso, gather in his muscles, and he’d add onto the bubbles with his body wash, lathering himself from head to toe. And almost always, the slightest brush of his length would break the restraints the night had locked his sanity behind. It was always you that managed to free him. As he would squeeze himself, fondle his sack while the suds dribbled down his leg and feet, he’d think of you—miss you in ways he wouldn’t dare to ignore, ways in which he was ashamed to desert you of.

“I’m all yours.” Your proclamation echoed, ran marathons in Bruce’s mind as the white musk led him astray. The simple thought of him taking advantage of you guilted him, churned his stomach until it was bundled into thick knots, but it made his heart race.

“(M/N)?” He whispered. The bed creaked when Bruce peered over you, and he was met by silence. A few soft snores joined the ticking of the clock, but for the most part, silence.

I shouldn’t… Bruce convinced himself. It was… shameful to even think of taking advantage of you like that—in your unconscious state, in your vulnerability. You looked peaceful in your slumber and knowing how hard you worked, he wouldn’t dare to ruin it because of his own selfish desires.

He sighed, rolling flat onto his back again, hoping the uncomfortable ache in his briefs would settle down in a minute or so. When it didn’t, Bruce tended to it with a brief re-adjustment of the way his length stood. Then again as he twitched in defiance.

Again, as he throbbed.

And again, when his briefs couldn’t support his throbbing erection anymore.

Bruce turned his head to the side, scanning your unconscious state. His eyes traced the languid form of your body as it sank deep into the mattress, hugging the air to your body while he slowly pulled the blanket off of you.

The bed creaked as inch by inch, Bruce scooted closer to you, turning back to lie on his side and nearly spooning you again. His movements were sluggish, apprehensive to wake you, but at the same time, there was an adrenaline rush surging through him knowing he could be caught any second (despite your permission).

His hand felt it as it caressed your arm in singular, docile strokes. Then his breath, as he leaned closer, pressing himself against you again, and slipped a hand under your shirt. Your bare stomach rested warmly against his calloused palm, and he felt your breath hitch, your stomach tensed, every evidence of your presence, as Bruce ran a palm upwards to touch your chest once, then back down to bravely slither under the waistband of your boxers.

“Fuck…” Bruce’s breath unevened, struggling to keep a steady rhythm, when his palm gently groped a handful of your flaccid cock, a complete opposite of the shameful erection he was prodding near your bottom. You writhed once, and he quickly paused with a shudder as you suddenly turned to lie on your back, smacking the dryness in your throat away as you drove yourself into deeper slumber.

He found it unusual how you haven’t awakened by now, but the cynical part of him pleaded for you to remain asleep—until he had his way with you.

Gently, Bruce lifted your hips to pull down the remainder of your boxers off until you were bare in all of your glory before him. Your balls lay briefly in between your legs before they were back to being fondled in his warm palms. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this…”

Droplets of sweat formed over Bruce’s hairline as he sluggishly maneuvered himself to kneel over your unconscious state. His thighs hardened, flexed as he maintained his balance over you. He stroked his cock with his free-hand; to the gentle snores you poured out, to your slightly parted lips that he could easily spread open with his girth, and to his surprise, to the stiffness of your cock as it stirred awake from his constant fondling.

What are you dreaming about? Are you dreaming of me? Are you dreaming of being fucked by me? Bruce groaned as he witnessed the once softened features of your face stiffened into diffident lust. Your breath unknowingly quickened when Bruce began stroking your cock together with his in one grasp. Your body writhed with uncomfortable pleasure as if you wanted whatever was happening to you to stop, yet the throbbing veins of your cock begged Bruce for more—to hold you for longer, to keep doing as he pleased.

Bruce forgot what it was like to have you like this; to have you squirming beautifully beneath him, dripping in heavy pre-cum while simultaneously having your cock lathered in his own fluid. He was enticed by your every movement, squirming and writhing confined by the state of slumber as you couldn’t stop him. You couldn’t stop the uncomfortable pleasure that was happening to you because you were dreaming a dream that refrained you from resisting your boyfriend.

I know you want it. Fuck… I know you want my cum, (M/N). He paused briefly to press his forehead into yours, sweat dripping off his face and onto your body in his maneuver, and breathed languidly against your lips to find the parting in order to breathe his lewd thoughts into you. Bruce was careless, dangerously brave as he slipped a tongue inside of you to spread your mouth open further. You made a sound, but he muted it with a swallow as he ravished you like honey on a spoon. Remnants of mint lingered on his tongue, and as much as he wanted to continue tasting you, he needed to relieve himself.

He was close.

Carefully, he dragged himself over your chest and kneeled over your chest. Bruce’s cock hung heavy above your slumber, dripping in thick strings of pre-cum from the plump tip—a shameful exhibit of how much this had turned him on, how much he had been deprived of this act for so long.

Open wide. It was morbid. Bruce never thought himself of ever once doing this obscene act, but the guilt that had been the cause of his apprehension was only fleeting the moment he pushed his cock into your sleeping mouth.

“Oh, fuck…” He was careful with you. Careful enough to not stir you awake, but courageous enough to fulfill his sense of greed. Bruce pushed deeper, and deeper until he couldn’t anymore. His thick cock steadied your breathing and in favor, your saliva warmed him with complete gratitude.

Come on, I know you can take it… His eyes darkened at your inability to take his girth. As much as it sounded like a threat, it drove him delirious knowing you couldn’t. Even in your waking moments, it fueled a sense of pride when you gagged on his cock, covered him in bubbly thick spittle, and looked like an absolute mess while attempting to swallow him again.

Fuck, (M/N)... You’d pull him out when you had enough of gagging on his cock and jerk him off instead, catching your breath in the midst of it all. He never told you, but it was Bruce’s favourite part whenever you two did this together. The pure lust in your eyes, craving for a fill that you and him both know that he would deliver upon greatly. And somehow, as lewd as the act was, you both knew it was more than sex. You and Bruce were making love, fucking with a craving that you only have for each other because it was only you two that could bring this type of pleasure to one another.

“Fuck—” Bruce paced himself, biting back an adamant moan, thrusting slow yet filling into your mouth as he held onto the headboard. The scrape of your teeth made him hiss, but the pleasure of your warm mouth was so fulfilling that it overwhelmed any painful feeling you’ve prescribed him to.

I’m close, (M/N)... Fuck, let me cum on you… On your body, on your face, I want it everywhere on you.

He released his cock from your mouth and took the heavy girth into his own palm, pumping the muscle with a sudden vigor that had been motivated to see you covered in his fluids. Bruce’s eyes rolled back into his lids, panting heavy and harder because he was so close—so fucking close. He could see you sticking your tongue out for him, on your knees, playing with your cum-covered cock as you would wait patiently for his reward. You would begin begging for it—his cum, his cock, him. You’d worship his body, mouthing at his toned thighs, then his abdominal muscles, licking the sweat off the gutters to briefly satiate your appetite for Bruce.

Until you were gifted with his indulgent desire for you and only you in the form of thick and creamy white ropes. “I’m comin—” Bruce’s stomach sucked in hard, his abs contracting while his thighs vibrated with tremors, then with a guttural push, he released himself with a strong grunt. His grasp directed his thick and heavy loads towards your chest and stomach, stroking his throbbing cock through the glorious sprays. He sucked in his teeth to control the sounds that were threatening to burst out of his throat and whimpered with a shudder when it was unmanageable, continuing to empty his balls until he could smell the heavy sex and musk off your body.

Scanning you from head to toe, Bruce was breathless. Despite his delirious stint, it was impressive to see you drifting off to sleep like nothing had happened. Or rather, it was impressive that he had a certain amount of control to not completely make love to you like a wild mammal, rousing you from sleep.

Nonetheless, he powered through the overwhelming need to sleep to clean you up, even if you hadn’t mind the mess. And like always, he never forgot to end his night with a kiss, pressing a chaste yet breathless pant to your lips.

“Think your way of ‘taking care of me’ needs more time in the workshop , but we’ll talk about it later.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x male reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne imagine #nou.fics

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joelalorian · 9 months ago

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Fall Into Me

dbf!Joel x f!reader

The first TLOU fic I ever read was a dbf!Joel story and it left an indelible mark on my soul. Unfortunately, I never bookmarked it so I have no idea which one it was. It's only natural that I had to try my hand at one at some point. So, here we are.

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 4.1k

Series Warnings: Mature to start, but will ultimately be Explicit, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. There will be angst, drama, fluff, humor, romance, smut... basically, the works. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname from her dad, which will be explained at some point.

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Chapter One: The Day That I Met You

If you asked him over a decade ago where he’d be now, Joel Miller would not have placed himself as a single father to a tenacious pre-teen desperately trying to keep things afloat. He spent too many hours in the week working to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. He would be lost without the help of his brother and the few friends he had. He had no social life to speak of and could not for the life of him remember the last time he went on an actual date.

No, back then, Joel thought he’d be living the good life in ten years’ time – traveling, going out with the boys, maybe have a girlfriend or wife. Basically, just getting to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Don’t get him wrong, though. He was still living a good life; it just was a different sort of good than what he hoped for back in the day.

He loved his daughter with every fiber of his being. Sarah was the best damn thing that ever happened to him, his entire world, and he wouldn’t change the past ten years for anything. He bent over backwards doing whatever it took to make his little girl feel cared for, happy, and loved. He just wished there was a little energy left for something for himself at the end of the day.

Joel Miller was drained. Mentally, physically, and emotionally.

He awoke with a groan as the bright sunlight broke through the gap in his curtains. It was Saturday – his birthday – and he hoped to sleep in, at least a little. Between the brightness of the morning and the stifled sounds of clanging pans and voices carrying up the stairs from his kitchen, sleeping in was not happening.

He hauled himself out of bed with a groan worthy of a man twenty years his senior and stretched out his limbs to ease the achiness in his bare back and chest from too much manual labor. Throwing on a pair of well-worn sleep pants and a faded tee shirt, Joel slipped from his bedroom and down the stairs. He moved rather quietly for a man of his size, stealing a moment to lean against the entryway into the kitchen and watch as Sarah and Tommy worked together making breakfast.

The counters were a mess of spilled pancake mix, eggshells, and… was that coffee dripping over the edge and onto the floor? It was a toss-up on who made the bigger mess, his ten-year-old daughter, or his grown ass brother. Still, Joel could not stop the smile spreading across his face as he watched them laughing and teasing each other. That, right there, was the reason he worked so hard, why the loneliness was worth it.

When Tommy flipped the stovetop off, Sarah turned to find her dad smiling goofily at them. “Happy Birthday, Dad!” she exclaimed, launching herself at his chest. Her lanky arms wrapped around his neck as he lifted her off the ground in a big bear hug.

“Thanks, baby girl,” Joel replied, pressing his lips to her forehead in a quick kiss before he settled her feet on the ground.

“We made you breakfast!” Sarah declared, gesturing toward the disaster zone formerly known as his kitchen.

“I see that,” he chuckled, voice still slightly rough with sleep.

Tommy turned with a smirk, hands grasping two plates filled with bacon, eggs, and pancakes. “Take a seat, brother. Let us take care of you on your birthday.” Placing the food on the small dining table, Tommy roughly patted his brother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry ‘bout the mess, I’m on cleanup duty after we eat.”

“We expectin’ company? That’s a helluva lot of food,” Joel grumbled. He needed coffee, stat.

“Yeah, JB is comin’ over to see ya before heading to the airport. His daughter finished grad school over the summer and is moving back home.” Tommy set more food and a full mug of dark roast coffee in front of his brother. The scent alone made Joel perk up a little.

The Millers hadn’t met you yet, having only become friends with your dad through work after you’d already left for college on the east coast. Your dad had a good decade on Joel, but he and the Miller brothers got on like a forest fire from what he told you. With visits home always short and rushed, busy catching up with family and your own friends, there was never time for your dad to introduce you all. Now you were coming home for good and would have plentiful opportunities for spending time with your dad and his friends.

“Speak of the devil,” Tommy muttered as the doorbell rang. Sarah bounded to the door to greet your dad with a hug. In many ways, the girl reminded him of you when you were young, and it always brought a smile to his face.

“There he is! The man of the hour. Happy Birthday, buddy!” Your dad, John, or JB as the Millers called him, ruffled Joel’s already mussed hair, leaving a few locks standing straight up in further disarray. Pulling a 12-pack of beer from behind his back, your dad set it on the table in front of Joel, topped with a little red bow. “I gotcha a lil’ something to celebrate.”

“Good man,” Joel replied with a chuckle. “Have a seat and help me eat all this. Tommy just told me your lil’ girl is coming home, finally.”

Your dad’s face lit up even more at the mention of you coming home. “She’s not so little anymore, but I sure am glad she’s moving back here. Said she had enough of the east coast, but I think she just missed her ol’ man.” After wolfing down some food, he added, “Think we could host a small barbecue here this coming weekend to celebrate? Your backyard is way nicer than mine and you got the pool and all.”

“Not to mention that fancy ass grill,” Tommy chimed in.

Swallowing a long sip of his morning go juice, Joel nodded. “Of course. Invite whoever you want. I’m looking forward to finally meeting your daughter.”

“Me too!” Sarah added. She heard a lot about you from your dad and hoped you were as cool in person as he made you out to be.

Joel’s mind started spinning upon hearing his daughter’s excitement. With her school hours being so different from his typical work hours, he was spending a small fortune on after school care for Sarah. She was still too young for him to leave home alone, especially on those days where he’s stuck late at a job. He was barely scraping by as it was and couldn’t really afford the cost of after school programs. Perhaps…

“JB, ya think your daughter would mind watching Sarah during the week while she’s home. Drop off and pick up from school and keeping her company ‘til I get home from work? I could pay her – it wouldn’t be much, but better than nothin’, I imagine.” He watched Sarah’s eyes light up at the suggestion and knew it was a good choice.

“I’m sure she’d love to. She wasn’t planning on finding a real job until after the holidays, so I know she’ll be free during the day,” your dad replied. “I’ll talk to her about it on the ride back from the airport and let you know.”

Three suitcases and a carry-on bag. That’s all you had left from six and a half years of pursuing higher education in North Carolina. You sold or gave away anything that did not fit into your luggage or hold sentimental value of your time away. Now, you were moving back home to save some money before you had to start chipping away at the mountain of student loan debt you accrued.

You loved learning, always have, but you were relieved to be done with school. Equipped with a bachelor’s degree in earth sciences and a master’s in education, you felt like a real adult ready to take the world of middle school by storm… well, starting after the new year, maybe. For now, you needed several months of limited to no responsibility to recoup your mental and physical energy. That last couple years of school really burned you out. Not to mention the last-minute rejection of a teaching position you thought was in the bag…

Anyway, you were better off leaving North Carolina behind and returning to Austin. You missed your dad something fierce and his particular brand of caring for you was exactly what your weary soul needed. It was you and him against the world, just like when you were a kid.

You flight was smooth and uneventful, yet you were relieved to deboard the plane. Something about being stuck in a tin can at the mercy of someone else’s ability to keep the thing from plummeting to the ground really aggravated your anxiety. Flying was something you would never enjoy; it was merely a means to an end when you wanted to travel long distances.

The journey to baggage claim was a slog with the crowd of passengers all heading to the same place. You were wondering how you’d wrangle three large suitcases by yourself when you caught sight of your dad. His broad smile took over his face when he spotted you, rushing over to sweep you up in a big bear hug.

“Hey Spud, how was the flight?” he asked as you waited for the baggage carousel to begin moving. “Looks like it was a full plane.”

“It was, but the flight was good. I’m really glad to be home.”

“Me, too, kid.”

You settled into a comfortable silence, watching various pieces of luggage pass by on the carousel. Your bags were scattered, and you had to wait several cycles to get all of them. Your dad lugged the final suitcase over the carousel with a grunt. “Jesus, what you got in this one? Bricks? A body?”

“That one has my gaming system and half a closet full of clothes,” you replied with a laugh.

Before long, everything was loaded into your dad’s truck, and you were heading back towards town. The radio hummed at a low volume as you both chatted about everything and nothing all at once.

“Hey, so I know you said you weren’t looking for full-time work until after the new year, but I have a proposition for you.” Your dad’s eyes stayed focused on the road, and you merely quirked a brow waiting for him to continue. “My buddy Joel – you know the one I told you about? Well, his daughter is ten and he needs some help with the school run and after school care. Our work hours aren’t exactly the same as elementary school, you know?”

You nodded, remembering all the times your dad spoke to you about Joel, as well as his daughter and brother. Despite never meeting them, you felt like you already knew their whole life story. “So, he’s looking for a nanny or something? I could do that. It would keep me from getting lazy while I navigate getting my Texas teaching certificate.”

Your dad grinned, one hand patting your leg. “I was hoping you’d say that. Joel will pay you, of course, but just… don’t expect much. It ain’t easy for him being a single dad trying to keep everything afloat.”

Again, you nodded, a soft smile creasing your lips. You knew all too well how challenging it could be for single parents, having grown up with just you and your dad. Much like what your dad told you about Joel’s experience with the mother of his child, your mom split when you were barely a toddler. Things weren’t always sunshine and roses, but your dad sure did his best to make sure you had a great life. Honestly, you wouldn’t trade it for the world, that life with your dad. You had a feeling it was much the same for Joel and his daughter.

“I’m happy to help, even if he doesn’t pay me. I’m sure his daughter will enjoy having a female influence in her life if nothing else. What’s her name again? Sarah?”

Your dad’s eyes twinkled with pride. “Yup, that’s it. I’m proud of the woman you’ve become, Spud.”

A mist of tears prickled your eyes as you mumbled out a “Thanks, dad.” After a beat, you added, “Must you keep up with that nickname?”

“Of course. You’ll always be my little Spud,” he laughed as you rolled your eyes. “Oh, by the way, we’re going to the Millers on Saturday for your welcome home party.”

“What’s all this?” Joel questioned as Tommy and Sarah placed a heavy, wrapped package on the table before him along with a few smaller presents. The remains of a birthday cake sat nearby, having been delightfully devoured by the Millers while celebrating Joel’s birthday.

“Just a little somethin’ from me and Sarah,” Tommy replied, a boyish grin alighting his handsome features.

Joel gazed between them with curiosity. Not big on celebrating his own aging, he rarely got big gifts. “You wanna help me open this, nugget?” Sarah’s eyes lit up, small hands reaching to tear the wrapping paper into shreds. It only took a few moments for the contents to be revealed, leaving Joel confused at the modern contraption sitting in front of him. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You play video games on it, dumbass.” Tommy harumphed as he began a diatribe on the features of the gaming system – he had one just like it at his place and it provided hours of entertainment when he didn’t feel like going out. “I figured it would be a good hobby for you since you never want to join me in going out.”

“Huh,” Joel grunted in return, brows furrowed as he read the instructions on how to setup up the machine. His attention was diverted by Sarah shoving the smaller parcels into his lap.

“Here, dad! These go with it.” Together, they tore into the wrapping paper to find several video games, a few of which were family friendly. The final gift was a spare controller for the gaming system so he and Sarah could play together.

Despite still being unsure that the gift was a good fit for him, Joel was grateful to Tommy for the effort. “This is too much, man. You shouldn’t spend this kind of money on me, Tommy.”

His brother waved him off. “I found a great deal and you never get anything for yourself, brother. You deserve something to indulge in. Believe me, you’ll have fun with this.”

The rest of the evening was spent with Tommy setting up the system and showing the father-daughter duo how to play some of the games he picked out. The living room filled with lots of laughter and teasing, and Joel found himself really getting into the fun of the video games.

After tucking Sarah into bed, Tommy showed Joel a game that was too violent for the little girl but entertaining for the men. The game was set in Washington DC which had been ravaged by a brutal pandemic and the main character was part of a group of agents fighting off nefarious gangs trying to take over the city. Joel caught onto the gameplay quickly and the two men found themselves building the loadout for Joel’s character, taking out bad guys, and chatting well into the night.

At two in the morning, the pair looked at each other with bleary, red-rimmed eyes and finally called it a night. Joel directed Tommy to crash in the spare room as he shuffled off to bed upstairs.

It didn’t take you long to get settled into your dad’s house. It wasn’t the home you grew up in and you only visited a few times after he bought it. After years living away on your own, you thought it would be an adjustment being under his roof again, but it wasn’t. He understood the need for personal space and never hovered unless you were hurt or sick. He gave you the downstairs bedroom – it was the largest in the house, with an ensuite bath and huge walk-in closet.

“Dad, no! Why in the world is this not your room?” you questioned when he placed your bags on the brand-new, king size bed he had delivered the week prior.

“Hell no, Spud. What do I need all this space for? I like the upstairs rooms better – the light is all wrong in this one anyway.”

You looked around, holding in a giggle. The room faced south, giving you just the right amount of natural light all day. That’s what your dad didn’t like. He preferred to live like a bat in a cave with blackout curtains and limited lighting.

“Alright, well, I love it. The natural light is perfect for me. I can actually put some plants on the windowsills. Thank you!” You kissed his cheek as he left you to get settled.

You spent the week rearranging the bedroom how you wanted it, setting up your gaming system, and putting all your clothes into the walk-in closet. Your dad hadn’t done much with the room other than furnish it, so you made a few trips to the store to get a bathroom set, floor lamps, and wall décor to make the room your own.

Before you knew it, Saturday morning dawned bright and warm. The day of your welcome home gathering arrived, and you would finally get to meet the Millers. An excited energy had you moving about your space in a flurry, tidying up and getting ready early. You’d seen some photos of the Millers that your dad sent you – Sarah was adorable with her dark, springy curls, and Joel… Joel was handsome, in a broody, overworked kind of way, with dark, riotous curls and big, warm chocolate eyes. Kind eyes, you called them.

“Hey Spud, you ready?” your dad called from the kitchen as you put the finishing touches on your hair. It was pinned up, leaving the smooth skin of your neck bare. The sundress you picked hugged your curves in just the right way, falling just at your knees in a flow of lightweight material. In early October, Austin was still hot, and you hoped the Millers’ yard was shaded.

“Bring a swimsuit! They have a pool!” he yelled as you grabbed the last of your things. Turning back to your closet, you grabbed a dark green one-piece suitable for family-friendly swimming and tucked it into your bag.

“I’m ready!”

Your dad smiled at the sight of you. “Let’s go then. We’re heading over early so you can officially meet the Millers and we’ll help them setup before everyone else arrives.”

“Sounds good. Who all’s coming anyway?” Your eyes widened as your dad rattled off a list of people he invited, including his work buddies and some of his and Joel’s neighbors. He would have invited some of your old friends from high school, but you all lost touch over the years. The party was turning out bigger than you thought. Your heart swelled with how happy your dad was to have you home for good.

The Millers lived in the same neighborhood, only a few blocks away, so close you could have walked if not for the scorching sun. The drive took only a few minutes before your dad pulled into the driveway of a two-story home similar to your dad’s, with simple landscaping and two wooden rocking chairs on the wide porch. Lovely and quaint, the house made you more curious about the people who lived there.

“Dayum! Get a load a JB’s daughter, Joel,” Tommy called from the living room, leaning over the couch to look out the front window. “She’s smokin’ hot!”

“Dammit, Tommy. Stop spying on ‘em,” Joel growled, sneaking a peek over his brother’s shoulder to do a little hypocritical spying of his own. Breath caught in his throat at the sight of you and he couldn’t break his gaze away, even as JB led you toward the front door.

“What was that about spyin’, brother?” Tommy teased, practically dragging Joel away from the window as a knock sounded against the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”

Tommy opened the heavy wooden door revealing the pair of you standing there, matching bright eyes and wide grins greeting him. “Well, hello there, beautiful. I’m Tommy.” Reaching a hand toward you, Tommy completely ignored JB, who just scowled at him.

“Nice to meet you, Tommy,” you replied, offering him your hand and name in return. Joel’s scowl matched your dad’s expression as Tommy held your hand for several beats too long.

“Back off, Tommy,” your dad grunted, swatting at the younger Miller brother. “This here is Tommy’s brother, Joel. The one who actually owns this house and the better Miller, if you ask me.”

“Ain’t no one askin’ you, old man,” Tommy’s smart mouth shot back at your dad.

Joel ignored both men, eyes like dark pools as he gazed at you, awed at how small and delicate your hand felt in his. “Howdy, darlin’,” his voice rumbled from his chest. “Come on in. There’s someone else lookin’ forward to meeting you.”

Leading the way through the kitchen into the backyard, Joel felt the heat of your gaze burning his back. Were you checking him out? There was no way. You were beautiful and likely in your early twenties. He felt ancient, though he was only in his early thirties, the hard labor of construction work having taken its toll on him.

“Hi Dad!” a young, sweet voice called from a small swing set where a precious little girl entertained herself. “Who’s this?”

Joel introduced you to his daughter, leaving the two of you to get acquainted as your dad called him away.

“You were away at college?” Sarah questioned, motioning for you to take a seat on the swing next to hers.

“I was,” you replied. “But I’m back for good now.”

“That’s good. What grade did you get to? I’m in fourth grade.”

You thought about it a moment. “I guess it would be 18th grade. But you stop counting grade numbers after 12th and start using different words to describe what year you’re in during college.”

Sarah listened raptly while you explained the different terms, what you studied in school, and what kind of job you were hoping to get.

“You want to be a teacher?” she asked, awed.

“I do! I want to teach middle grade science.”

“I love science! Maybe you could be my teacher when I get to sixth grade!”

Joel returned with your dad and Tommy in tow to find you and Sarah having a blast. The little girl sat in your lap as you kicked your feet out, swinging as high as you could, singing some camp song you remembered from your youth.

“See? Told ya she’d love to spend time with Sarah,” your dad said to Joel. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, staring at the two of you with a glazed look in his dark eyes.

Shaking himself off, Joel turned to your dad. “Guess I better work out some details with her.” He stepped over to the swing set, taking a seat on the empty swing and hoping to the heavens above that it held his weight. He struggled internally on how to start the conversation and was just about to blurt something out when his amazing daughter saved the day.

“Dad! She wants to be a teacher! A science teacher! Isn’t that cool? Did you ask her about watching me yet? I think she’d love to.” Sarah rambled on excitedly, amusing you and Joel. Turning to you before Joel could chime in, Sarah turned to you with baby cow eyes, adding, “You would love to, right?”

How could you ever resist that look? No one could. Both you and Joel were powerless as you nodded, and the offer became official. Cell numbers were exchanged and before you knew it, you had a job starting Monday.

Hours later, slightly drunk on spiked fruit punch and buzzing with energy, you thanked Joel for hosting the barbecue and giving you a job. You kissed his stubbled cheek, forcing thoughts of how attractive he was as far down as they could go. You could not develop a crush on your boss. “I’ll see you Monday morning, bright and early!” you declared before following your dad through the front door.

TBC

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x female reader #the last of us #tlou #dbf!joel #Fall Into Me #pedro pascal #eventual smut #eventual romance

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jetii · 5 months ago

Text

Home is a Place on Coruscant

Pairing: Captain Rex x fem!Reader

Words: 10,705

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, discussion of grief/death, some description of blood/injuries, mutual pining, friends to lovers, smut, dirty talk, a little brat taming, oral sex (m and f receiving), penetration, unprotected sex, light exhibitionism but not really

Summary: You've always been there for Rex, and when he shows up at your door in the middle of the night after a devastating mission, you do what you do best: take care of him.

A/N: The start of this fic has been sitting in my notes app since the TCW season finale many moons ago, and it wasn't until I read this drabble by @djarrex that I felt compelled to actually finish it. Rex is my fav and he deserves to be taken care of.

It's been about a decade since I've published a fic and about a decade since I've been active on tumblr, so I decided to start from scratch with this blog. Feedback is very much appreciated! I have a few more drafts in the works for Echo, Howzer, Kix, Tech, and Hunter that I'm planning to publish depending on the reception to this one.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Rain on Coruscant was rare. But when it came, it came in torrents, and it came all at once.

In the early hours of morning, while the planet was still sleeping, the sky opened up and let loose a downpour that threatened to flood the lower levels. It was so heavy, it even drowned out the traffic noise coming from the speeders that were still flying over the city at the early hour. The noise was soothing, almost like a lullaby, and the sound of it woke you.

You were used to this sound. You were used to it, because you were used to not being able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. It was one of the many things about living in the Jewel of the Core Worlds that was taking you longer than you would have liked to adjust to.

The traffic noise, the bustle, the crowds—it all made your homeworld of Rion seem very far away. You could never hear anything over the speeder traffic here, and you likely would've gone mad long ago if not for the trickling of the fountain you kept in the main room. It had been your mother's. You were glad it had come with you when you moved.

The rain was heavy enough that you could hear it inside the apartment, a pleasant hum against the transparisteel. You sat in the window seat, arms folded around your knees, watching the rain fall. The view from your window was not the best in the Galactic City, but it was still quite good, and at night it was beautiful, all the lights of the skyscrapers blurring together in the rain.

The rain would be good for the plants.

You had a garden, a modest one. Some of the plants were native to your world. A few were native to Coruscant. Most were from other worlds. They were your pride and joy. Caring for them had given you something to do when you were adjusting to your new life here. You watered and pruned and tended to them all, and in the spring you were rewarded for your efforts.

Rex had been baffled, at first, by the sight of you out in the courtyard behind the complex, on your knees in the dirt, digging and weeding. It was a little piece of nature on a planet that didn't have much, and Rex was amazed that someone could take so much joy in something so… natural. It was nothing like what he'd been raised to appreciate, which was a good vantage point, a well-maintained blaster, and a plan.

When he'd told you as much, you had invited him to kneel down beside you, and, hesitantly, he'd done so. You handed him a spade and pointed to a patch of soil.

"See that little green leaf poking up?" you asked, and Rex followed your gaze. "See it?"

"I see it."

"Plant the spade right under it. When you pull it up, the root will come with it."

"Like this?" Rex had pulled the spade up, and a plant had come with it. He examined it, then tossed it aside, into the compost.

"That's perfect. That's just how you're supposed to do it. See, you're a natural."

Rex smiled, pleased with the praise. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Now, let's get the rest of these weeds."

You'd worked in the garden until the sun was setting. Your hands had been dirty, and you had been smiling, and Rex had thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He would probably never tell you as much. He'd been trying to think of ways to tell you, and nothing seemed good enough. There was nothing good enough for you. So instead he told you about the missions he went on. And you listened. You always listened.

You wondered if Rex had heard the rain start. You wondered if it was keeping him awake, too. You wanted him to sleep. He was always so tired, and the last thing you wanted was for him to be exhausted when he came home from his mission.

If he came home.

It was an irrational thought. The missions were dangerous, yes, but the 501st had some of the best soldiers in the galaxy. And Rex was a good captain. A good leader.

But there was always the possibility. The risk.

You were intimately acquainted with the feeling of waiting for someone, and the way it tore you apart. It was a risk, being this close to Rex and the other clones of the 501st. It was a risk, feeling the way you did.

It was a risk, but you did anyway.

You look out at the rain, and the speeders that still flew through it. You wonder how they could fly through the storm, and not be afraid.

You're just about to turn away from the window when a noise behind you makes you jump. There, underneath the sound of the rain battering against the transparisteel, the sound of a knock at your door. You almost don’t think it is real, that it's simply a part of the soundscape of the rainy morning, but it comes again, three short raps.

You slide out of bed, fumbling to grab the clothes you tossed on the floor the night before. You don't bother to put on pants, but pull a long shirt over your head and tiptoe to the door, peering through the peephole.

The rain is heavier now, and the clouds are dark, almost black. The white shape in the hall is familiar, though, and it makes your heart race. You open the door, filling the small entryway with the scent of fresh rainwater and humidity.

"Rex," you say. "What are you doing here?”

He’s stoic, still and silent under your gaze, but you can see the tremble in his hands at his sides. The downpour seems to have washed the majority of dirt and debris from his armor, but bits of red still run through the cracks. An hour ago, he was likely covered with whatever the substance was — Umbaran dust or something more sinister — but the rain did well enough to wash it off.

He must’ve walked here, you realize, eyes widening. Your bottom lip pulls to worry between your teeth as you notice the new dents and marks on him. Carbon scoring on his shoulder plate, a tear in his kama, and what seems to be a blaster hole in his chest plate.

"I… I don’t know," he says after a moment. His voice is quiet, rough through the modulation of his helmet. It's as if the words are being dragged up from his lungs.

"I shouldn’t have. I… I should have called. I just… I had to see you.”

The words hang between you, suspended like the raindrops in the air. You feel tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. You can't believe he's here. He's here, and he's alive. You'd known he would be, but to see him with your own eyes, to have him in front of you, fills you with an immense sense of relief.

But something is clearly wrong. He's not saying what's bothering him, and you're almost too afraid to ask.

“Rex, what happened?”

You reach for him, only to have your hand meet nothing but humid air as he pulls back.

“It’s late, sorry for disturbing you—“

He turns to go, and this time you’re faster. Your hand encloses around his wrist and pulls him to a stop before he can take another step.

“Wait, Rex— please, just… stay. Just for a moment. Come in, you're getting soaked."

He lets out a slow breath and then, after a moment, he jerks a stiff nod. He allows you to drag him inside your apartment and, as the door slides shut behind him, he lifts his hands to the seal of his helmet. You watch him closely as he pulls it free and reveals the face beneath.

There are smudges of grime on his golden skin, and a deep furrow has formed between his eyebrows. He looks haunted, as if the shadows from the battlefield have followed him home. You want to smooth that line out with your thumb, but you aren’t sure he will let you.

You don't ask if you can touch him, but he notices the way your fingers twitch, and he knows you well enough to know that you're thinking about it.

"It's fine," he murmurs. He's never said no to you. "Go ahead."

He doesn't say please, and that hurts a little, but you're not surprised. Rex has been holding you at arm's length ever since he kissed you a few months back, and you know why. You just wish you knew how to help him.

So, you touch him. You brush your fingers across his cheek, wiping away the grime. You know that he doesn't need to be cleaned, but the motions are soothing. Your gentle touch is a balm, and you can feel his tension ease ever so slightly as you brush your fingers over his face.

"What happened?" you ask again, voice barely above a whisper.

"A lot." He lets out a slow breath and leans a little into your touch. He's exhausted, and he's relieved to see you, and the two warring emotions are pulling him in different directions. Rex opens his mouth to say more, but the words die on his tongue. He shakes his head, unable to continue, and closes his eyes.

"Come sit down."

You take him by the hand and lead him over to the couch. You sit first, and he follows suit, sitting a respectable distance from you. The distance doesn't seem right. When you'd met him, Rex had been so full of confidence, even when he'd been a little bit awkward, a little bit unsure. But the war had changed him. He was still the same man, still confident and brave and intelligent, but the weight of responsibility had settled on his shoulders, and the burden was crushing him.

You want to tell him it's going to be okay. You want to say it, but the words sound hollow in your mind.

You shift, moving closer, and Rex moves, too. The distance between you shrinks, and the tension eases. You don’t much care that he’s wearing armor, or that the rainwater is leaving damp spots on the upholstery.

Rex reaches for you, and his hands tremble. His gloves are damp, and his armor is cold, and the chill sends a shiver up your spine when he touches your knee. His eyes are distant, and he doesn't quite meet yours, and his expression is so, so sad.

“Hardcase is gone,” he closes his eyes to avoid seeing the look on your face. You can’t help but gasp at the admission, and a soft sob slips past your lips.

You had met Hardcase once, very briefly. He had been charming and charismatic and kind, if a little wild, and you had liked him immediately. He had flirted with you, and Rex had rolled his eyes and tried to hide a smile behind his cup. Hardcase had been fun, and loud, and a little bit reckless.

You had not known him as well as some of the others on his squad, but the pain in Rex's eyes, the grief in his voice, was enough to make it hurt.

"Oh, Rex, I'm so sorry," you murmur.

Rex nods, and his jaw tightens. You can tell that he's trying not to cry, and you can't imagine how hard it must be, to carry such a heavy weight all by himself.

When he speaks again, your blood runs cold.

“We were betrayed. One of our own— one of the Jedi, he—" his breath hitches. “Oz, Ringo — Dozens of them, my brothers. They’re all gone.

"Betrayed?"

You feel like the bottom has dropped out from beneath you.

You knew the war was dangerous, and that Rex's job was dangerous, but the idea that it could go wrong in such a fundamental way?

The Jedi had always seemed so wise, and so strong, and so just. It had always seemed like there was nothing they couldn't do. To know that one of them could betray their men — could betray the Republic, and the innocent people of the galaxy — was too terrible to contemplate.

Your hand finds his cheek again, and this time, his eyes find yours.

They're shining, but his tears don't fall. He's a soldier, and he knows better than to show weakness, even here. You wish he would let himself break. You wish he would let you hold him, and let his tears fall, and let you help him put the pieces back together.

"Rex," you murmur, "I'm so, so sorry."

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, and your thumb wipes away some of the wetness that has gathered there.

He pulls back for a moment, and you think he’s pulling away completely before he leans closer. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you tight to him as he buries his head in your shoulder. You immediately return the embrace, one arm over his shoulders while your other hand lifts to hold the back of his head.

You’re not sure how long they stay like that or how many tears are shed between you. After some time, he begins to speak, and you listen while running a soothing hand over his head, trying desperately to keep from sobbing outright as he tells you about the traitorous Jedi Pong Krell.

It’s by far the greatest atrocity you’ve ever heard, and to know that Rex has to put his helmet back on and get back to work in a matter of days makes you sick to your stomach.

He doesn’t deserve this, you think as you pull him into another embrace. None of them do.

Something about the motion causes him to wince, and you immediately release him to grab hold of both his shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, eyebrows knitting together in concern.

His hesitation is answer enough, and you can feel a wave of anger rise in your chest. How could they let him come back, in the state that he's in? How could they ask this of him, after all he's already done?

“I’m fine, cyare. Armor took most of it.”

If it weren’t for the way he avoided your gaze, you’d believe him, but instead you just feel yourself grow more upset. “What did Kix say?”

“Uh, he didn’t—“

“Rex, you were shot, and you didn’t think to get medical attention?”

His expression darkens, and you can see him withdrawing again. His shoulders pull back, and he pulls his chin up, and the distance between you grows again.

“I didn’t think much of anything, to be honest.” He mutters. It breaks your heart, but it also throws more coals on the anger burning inside of you. Not anger at him, you know, even though you can’t help but let out a sigh of exasperation. “I’ll be alright.”

“Like hell you will be,” you bite out before taking a step back to help him stand. “C’mon. Let’s get you patched up.”

You're angry. You're so, so angry. How could he let himself get hurt? How could he come here and not tell you about it? How could they send him home, to you, after all he's been through, knowing that he was injured?

But there's nothing you can do about any of that now, and being angry at him isn't going to help.

“You don’t have to—“ He protests through words only, allowing you to drag him through the living room and into the refresher.

“Yes, I do.” You shut him down quickly as you flick the light on and turn to rummage underneath your sink.

He’s still standing in the center of the room when you stand back up to full height, looking uncomfortable at your fussing. It’s not the first time you’ve had to patch him up, but so far it’s just been cuts and bruises. It’s unknown territory for you both, and he holds himself like he’s waiting for you to give up and shoo him out.

Your hands find his shoulders, and you gently push him down to sit at the edge of your bathtub. He’s pliant in your hold, but he meets your eyes with the worried pinch between his brows he gets whenever he thinks he’s upset you.

“Rex, let me take care of you,” you plead softly, and the furrow deepens.

He can hear the way your voice breaks. He can see the worry in your eyes. You're scared, and he hates that he's done that to you.

He should have known better. He should have taken a moment, to collect himself, before coming to see you. He shouldn't have let his emotions overwhelm him. He should have kept it together.

You were always there for him, and you listened, and he could tell you anything. He should have told you that he was okay. That would have been the responsible thing to do.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

And now, he can't seem to do the one thing you ask him.

But, after a moment, Rex relaxes. He’s never been able to say no to you before, and it is no different now. His shoulders slump a little, and the furrow smoothes, and you can't help but think that his face looks much nicer like this. You wish he wouldn't be so hard on himself.

"Okay," he murmurs.

It's all the encouragement you need. You lift his hand, cradling it gently, and begin to remove his gloves and armor piece by piece. You set the pieces aside, careful to keep them in order, and you know he appreciates that. It's a little thing, but it helps. You make a note to clean it for him before he leaves, the sight of the red smeared across its surface churning your stomach.

It's quiet between the two of you. The only sounds in the room are the rain and the gentle clink of plastoid against the floor as the last piece is removed.

You're grateful for the silence, though. You're not sure what you would say, and you know that he needs this, needs the moment to breathe.

"Where does it hurt?" You ask.

He hesitates. There's a lot of pain, all over his body. But you can't do anything about the pain that aches in his bones, or the ache in his chest. He doesn't know how to tell you about that.

"Chest," he finally admits. "Took a hit in the vest. Knocked the wind outta me."

That was an understatement, but you didn't need to know that. He could barely breathe, when it had happened, but the rest of his brothers needed him, and he didn't have the time to worry about his own injuries.

"Can you get it off?" You ask.

He gives a slight nod and reaches his arm up to grab the neck of his blacks, slowly pulling it overhead to reveal the skin underneath. Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, and you feel a flush rising up your neck and onto your cheeks.

The only light in the room is the faint glow from the bulb above the mirror. It casts shadows across the planes of his muscles, and you can't help but drink in the sight of him. His chest is strong and broad, and a line of hair disappears beneath the waistband of his blacks.

There's a blaster mark on his sternum, just above his right pec, not far off from the scar in the center of his chest he’d earned on Salucemi. It’s weeping blood slowly, trickling down the curve of his muscle, and you can see the red, puffy skin surrounding the injury.

It isn't terrible. A few inches to the left, and it could have been fatal. A few inches to the right, and the armor could have deflected the bolt entirely.

Still, you know that he's in pain, and the knowledge is enough to make the tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again. You force yourself to swallow them back and, instead, you reach for a damp cloth to wipe the wound clean.

He hisses at the contact, and you can see him grit his teeth against the pain. His hand moves to grasp the edge of the tub, and you can't help but feel guilty. You want to tell him to relax, to try and ease his suffering, but you know he wouldn't listen. He never listens, not when it comes to his own wellbeing.

"Sorry," you murmur, but the cloth keeps moving. You have to clean the wound, so you can treat it properly.

“Where’d you learn this, anyways?"

"What, first aid?" You're surprised by the question.

"Mhm."

“My dad was a swoop racer, believe it or not,” you say softly. You don't talk about him very often. It still hurts. But this feels like the right moment.

Rex tilts his head curiously, watching your face. You can see his expression soften, and you know he can tell how difficult it is for you to speak about this.

"Really?"

You nod, your eyes focused on your work. “My mom was always patching him up, and I’d sit on the counter and help out where I could. When she passed, I took over.”

“Isn’t swoop racing illegal?”

“Hm, not on Rion, it’s not.” You finish cleaning the wound and move to grab the bacta bandages. “Maybe if it was, he wouldn't have gotten himself killed."

You're not sure what possessed you to be so blunt, but the words are out, and there's no taking them back. Rex blinks, shocked by your honesty. You feel embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck.

"Sorry," you murmur, keeping your eyes low. "That was… I shouldn't have said that."

Rex says nothing. He knows better than to try and coddle you, and besides, you've always been the one doing the comforting, not the other way around. But it doesn’t sit well with him to see you like this, and before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches out to you.

His hand lifts, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You can't help but lean into his touch. He's so warm, and his hand is calloused and gentle. He cups the back of your head, guiding you forward, and his lips press against your forehead.

You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes as the cloth slips from your fingers, and you cling to him. You feel terrible, for complaining about the loss of your father when Rex has lost so much.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs, and you're not sure if he means for asking or for Hardcase or for the war or for everything, and you can't bring yourself to ask.

“It’s alright,” you whisper back. He lets you pull away from him to busy yourself with sorting bacta patches, but you can feel his eyes on you.

"Is that why you came to Coruscant?” He asks softly, his tone careful and gentle.

Part of you wants to lie. You're tired, and you're hurting, and you're not sure you have the strength to have this conversation right now.

But the truth is already out, and if this will help him, you'll tell him anything.

You nod.

“He was actually really good at it,” you chuckle, and Rex can hear the bitterness in your voice. “But eventually he pissed off some powerful people who were placing the wrong bets. One day he left for a big race, and the next morning I found a box with his helmet at our doorstep. Or what was left of it.”

Rex sucks in a breath, and you can see his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He knew about the helmet, he’s seen it on the shelf in your living room. But he hadn't known the full story.

You look back up at him. There are tears in your eyes, but they don't fall. You're smiling, and your eyes are sad, and his heart breaks.

“I tried to get the police involved, the racing league, anyone I could get to listen to me, but no one would investigate. I was so angry. Then I started getting threats. I couldn’t…” You shake your head, trying to rid the memories. "I couldn’t stay. So I moved here. And then the war started, and then I met you.”

It seems like a lifetime ago. The days before Rex felt like someone else's life, and you wonder how you ever managed without him. You'd been so lost, and so alone, and you'd felt like the universe was crashing down on you, and he'd pulled you out from underneath the rubble just by being there.

"I'm so sorry, cyar'ika," Rex murmurs.

You reach forward and gently lay a hand on his chest, pressing the bacta patch into place. His skin is soft beneath your touch, and you can't help but think, not for the first time, about how beautiful he is.

"I'm glad that you're here," you tell him softly. "That you made it back, I mean. I'm glad you came home."

Home. Rex swallows thickly.

He's never had a home before, not really. Home had been a word for people with families and futures. Home had been a word for normal, everyday people, not clones.

Home had always seemed like such a far away concept, something he'd never get to experience.

But, suddenly, the idea isn't quite so foreign. Home. With you.

"I'm glad I came back too," he finally murmurs, and his hand lifts to hold yours.

You're quiet, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, and his gaze finds yours.

There's something different between the two of you, something charged and heavy. You know you need to pull away. He needs to rest. You're both exhausted.

But you can't. You can't stop looking at him. He's beautiful, and he's kind, and he's the bravest person you've ever known. You've never loved anyone the way that you love him.

"Cyare," he whispers, and the word makes your heart stutter, even if you don’t know what it means.

He's not sure what comes over him. Maybe it's the way you're looking at him. Maybe it's the fact that, after the past couple of weeks, he thought he'd never see you again. Maybe it's that, for once, you're letting him take care of you. Maybe it's because you're so beautiful and you're so close and he loves you, he's so in love with you, and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand to go without saying something.

Whatever it is, he knows he needs to say something, and he knows he needs to do it now.

"I'm so glad I met you," he whispers, and it's the best he can do, but he hopes it's enough.

He reaches forward, and his hand finds the curve of your cheek, and the touch is enough to send a spark through your skin. You can feel the heat building inside of you, the desire pooling in your core, and the air in the room is electric.

"Me too," you manage.

His lips find yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and your arms wrap around his shoulders, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. You're pulling each other closer, as close as you can possibly get, and it's not close enough.

Rex moans softly against your lips, and you can't help the way your hips twitch, or the way you whimper into his mouth. You're both desperate, and eager, and it's the sweetest relief.

He stands and turns, lifting you up and sitting you on the edge of the counter, and his body presses against yours. Your legs part, welcoming him, and his hips slot perfectly between them. His hands are on your thighs, gripping and pulling and massaging the flesh.

"Rex," you gasp, breaking away from his lips.

He takes the opportunity to press his lips against your throat, his tongue and teeth working the delicate skin. He sucks at your pulse point, and you whine. You know that there will be marks in the morning, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"Rex," you whine again, and you're not sure why, not exactly, because all you want is for him to keep doing what he's doing, to let him claim you and mark you and make you his. But you're overwhelmed, and you need to catch your breath, and his name is the only word your brain can think.

His fingers tighten, and his lips lift from your skin. He’s watching you with dark eyes and swollen lips, chest heaving.

"I need…" he trails off, and he doesn't finish the sentence, but you understand.

He's holding himself back. He doesn't want to push you, doesn't want to assume, but you can feel the need rolling off of him.

He's desperate.

You are too.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

Rex sucks in a breath. There are a lot of things that he could say, but the only thing he can manage is your name, soft and needy, and you can hear the way his voice breaks.

The sound makes you ache.

Your hand finds his jaw, and your thumb runs along his bottom lip. He's looking at you with the most adoring eyes, and your heart feels like it's about to burst.

"Please," he breathes.

It's all the encouragement you need. Your lips find his, and his hands find your hips. He lifts you off of the counter and into his arms, and your legs wrap tightly around his waist. His fingers dig into the backs of your thighs, grabbing and holding and massaging the flesh. You're not sure how the two of you make it into the bedroom. All you can think about is Rex's lips, his teeth and tongue and hands, and the way he's carrying you like you weigh nothing, his hardness digging into your hip.

It's a miracle he doesn’t trip over the pile of dirty laundry on the floor.

His knees hit the mattress, and he leans down to lay you gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a tenderness to his actions, a sweetness in the way he handles you, that makes you shiver. His thumbs trace the lines of your hipbones underneath your shirt, and he smiles at the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

"Are you sure?" He whispers, and the words are enough to make you ache.

His hands are so gentle, his face so earnest. He's always been so careful with you, and it makes you feel like the most important thing in the world.

"Yeah," you whisper, your hand coming up to rest against the side of his face.

Rex's smile is so beautiful, and it's so full of joy, and you can't help but return it. He turns his head and presses a kiss into the center of your palm.

His lips move, tracing the lines on your palm. His teeth nip gently at the tips of your fingers, and he watches as your breath catches.

He wants to take his time, to learn every inch of you, to map out the places that make you moan and the ones that make you scream, and the ones that make you laugh. He wants to kiss the scars and worship the stretchmarks and the freckles, and the dimples in your skin, and the wrinkles in the corners of your eyes, and the birthmark on your shoulder, and he wants to show you how beautiful you are, how perfect, how special, how loved.

He'll do it, eventually. But not tonight.

Tonight, he just needs you.

His fingers dip underneath the hem of your shirt, drawing it up slowly, and he can't help the groan that falls from his lips at the sight of you. You're suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that you'd never put on pants when you answered the door, let alone a bra, and you're almost embarrassed.

But the way Rex is looking at you after your shirt is tossed aside makes your stomach flutter, and the words die on your tongue.

"Mesh'la," he breathes, his eyes wide.

He can't seem to decide where to look, where to touch first, so you grab his hands and guide them. They slide across the planes of your stomach and over your ribs, and his fingers ghost the underside of your breasts, and your head falls back onto the pillows.

"Rex," you beg. "Please."

The sound of your plea is enough to spur him into action. His lips find the side of your neck, and his hand cups your breast, thumb finding your nipple and swiping over it.

You gasp, your back arching and hips bucking into his, and Rex moans softly. His teeth graze the line of your pulse, and he moves lower, and he pulls a nipple into his mouth.

"Fuck," you whimper, your nails scratching at the back of his neck.

You can feel the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He likes having this effect on you.

The hand on your other breast is kneading the flesh, and his lips are sucking at your nipple, his tongue tracing patterns on the delicate skin. His fingers pinch and pull, and you can feel the heat building between your legs.

"So sensitive," he hums, and the vibrations from his words send a tingle down your spine.

"Only for you," you breathe.

The words make his hips stutter, and the hardness of his cock presses into the wetness of your core. You can feel the outline of him against you, the heat and the thickness, and your breath catches.

You roll your hips into his, and Rex releases a groan, his teeth sinking into the soft skin of your breast.

"Kriff," he hisses, and the sound sends a shock of pleasure through you. Suddenly, you remember your promise.

"Lay back," you whisper, and his head lifts.

"What?"

You push at his shoulders, mindful of his bandages as you urge him backwards, and Rex follows your command. You move quickly, kneeling between his legs and grabbing the waistband of his blacks. You can see the outline of his hardness straining against the fabric, and you can't help but lick your lips.

"Can I?"

Rex's chest is heaving, his eyes blown black, and you can tell he's trying to process your question.

"Cyar'ika," he breathes, and the endearment makes your heart flutter. "You don't have to."

"I know," you tell him, your hand moving slowly up and down his thigh. Your head tilts thoughtfully. "Can I be honest?"

"Always," he replies.

"I've wanted to for a while."

You can feel the blush creeping up the back of your neck, and your eyes dart away from his. You don't know why, it's not like you've been hiding your attraction, but something about telling him is making you nervous.

"You have?"

His voice is soft, and his hand finds the back of your head. His touch is so gentle, and the surprise and happiness in his tone makes you bold.

"Yeah," you murmur, looking back up at him.

He looks stunned, but there's a light in his eyes, a warmth that you can feel spreading inside you too. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You shrug. "I didn't want to push."

It's his turn to blush. It's cute, the way his cheeks flush, and his eyes dart away. He almost looks embarrassed.

"Since we're being honest…" He starts.

"What?"

"Me too."

Your heart stutters, and a wide grin stretches across your face. The happiness building inside your chest is competing with the desire that courses through you at the knowledge that he's thought about this, about you, and the idea is almost too much. You're sure you must look like a fool smiling this much, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"You've thought about it?" You tease.

"Yeah," he breathes. "All the time."

"Tell me."

He groans, his fingers tangling in your hair, and you can see the way his cock twitches at your words. "I… Kriff, I've imagined it so many times. How good you'd look on your knees, with my cock in your mouth, or bent over, with my hands on your hips, or straddling me, riding me."

"What else?"

You've moved closer to him, and his fingers tighten in your hair, and you can feel the wetness between your thighs. You've never felt so desperate, so needy, and all you want is him, any part of him.

"I think about it all the time. What it would be like to have you in the barracks, in the 'fresher, in the hangar. You on your knees in my office. Fuck, everywhere. It's all I can think about sometimes."

You can feel the wetness growing between your thighs, and you can't stop the whine that falls from your lips. It's almost too much, hearing the things he's imagined, the ways he's wanted you, the times and places, and the need and desperation behind his words.

"Then will you let me?" You ask, and you hope the answer is yes, because you can't imagine stopping.

"Please," he breathes.

"What was that?"

Rex's grip on your hair tightens, his gaze locked on yours as he speaks again, his voice is low.

"Please, cyare."

That's all the encouragement you need. Your eyes don't leave his as your hands pull at the fabric, slowly revealing his length. He's bigger than you dared to imagine, and thicker, and the sight of him is enough to make your mouth water.

His eyes are wide, his pupils blown, and his mouth is hanging open slightly. The blush on his cheeks is spreading down his chest, and the muscles in his arms are tensed.

"So perfect," you hum, and you're not sure if you're talking to him or his cock.

You wrap your hand around him, and Rex's hips stutter. Your thumb swipes over the head, spreading the bead of precum, and his eyes fall shut.

"So sensitive," you tease.

"Cyare," he warns. There's an edge to his voice, and it makes you grin.

Your head dips down, and you press a kiss to the underside of his cock, and his hips jerk. You keep pressing kisses along his length, your fingers wrapping around the base. Rex is struggling to breathe. He's not even inside of you yet, and it already feels better than anything he's ever experienced before.

He opens his eyes to look down at you, and the sight of you on your knees in front of him is almost too much. He's dreamed about this moment, and fantasized, and he never, not in his wildest dreams, imagined that it would feel like this.

Your lips wrap around him, and Rex can't stop the way his hips thrust up. His cock brushes the back of your throat, and you gag, pulling back slightly with tears in your eyes.

"Sorry," he gasps, his cheeks flushing.

You shake your head as much as you can with his length in your mouth, and your eyes flash up to his.

You like this, he realizes with a start. You like being used, you like the feeling of him fucking into you, and the realization sends a shock of pleasure through him.

You bob your head slowly, and Rex watches, transfixed, as his cock disappears between your lips. Your tongue runs along the underside, and his eyes fall shut again.

"Maker," he moans.

Your hand is stroking what doesn't fit into your mouth, and your other is tracing the lines of his thighs, and his abs, and his V-lines. You can feel the muscles tensing and relaxing under your fingertips, and you can see the way his hips are straining, the effort he's making to keep still.

Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and you hum softly in response. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling gently, and his other hand comes to rest on the back of your head.

"Fuck, mesh'la," he moans, and the praise makes you preen.

You pull back, until only the head is between your lips, and swirl your tongue around him. He tastes sweet and salty and just the right amount of bitter, and you can't get enough.

"So good," he gasps. "So perfect, so beautiful."

He's babbling now, the words falling from his lips without him thinking about them, and you can't stop the grin. You'd always wondered if he was a talker.

"So perfect, cyar'ika, taking me so well." His voice is wrecked, and his breath is coming in ragged pants. "Feel so good. I could fuck your mouth all night."

His words make you shiver. He could. He could do anything he wanted with you, and you'd let him.

You move your head down, taking him as far as you can, and Rex's eyes open to watch you. You hold his gaze as his cock slides along the back of your tongue and hits the back of your throat, and you suppress the urge to gag.

"So pretty," he hums, his voice strained. "Such a good girl."

Your pussy throbs at the words, and the moan you release vibrates his length.

"That's it," he gasps.

You can feel the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes, but you keep moving, keep taking him, and his grip on your hair tightens.

"So good, mesh'la, so, so good."

He's repeating the words, and you're not sure if he knows he's saying them. Your jaw is starting to ache, your lips are sore, and there's drool dripping down your chin, but you can't stop the soft whimpers and moans.

The sounds are enough to drive him mad.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, and his thumb runs along your bottom lip, stretched around him. The gesture is so tender and loving, it's almost too much.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Kriff, I've wanted this for so long. So beautiful. So perfect. My perfect girl. You take me so well."

You hum again, and his head falls back, the movement pushing his cock deeper. You gag around him, and his hips stutter, a litany of Mando'a spilling from his lips. You're not sure what he's saying, but the words are making your cunt clench, the pleasure building inside of you overwhelming.

"I'm close, mesh'la," he gasps. "If you want to stop, you'd better— ah, kriff!"

You've pulled back, and the suction of your lips is incredible. Rex's hips are stuttering, his hands are tugging on your hair, and the sounds falling from his lips are enough to make your core throb.

"Mesh'la, please, I can't—"

His words die in his throat as you reach between his legs and roll his balls in your hand. The action sends him hurtling over the edge, and his hips thrust up one last time, pushing his cock down your throat as he comes.

Your throat works to swallow every drop. It's so much, more than you were expecting, and you struggle not to choke. His grip on your hair is borderline painful, but you don't mind. You can feel his whole body trembling, his breathing labored and his chest heaving.

You release him with a wet pop, and he shudders. You press one last kiss to the underside of his softening length, and he twitches, his body still sensitive.

"You're gonna kill me" he breathes.

"Hopefully not." You wipe your mouth, thumb catching a stray drop of cum and sucking it into your mouth, and you watch as his eyes darken.

He pulls you to him, and you climb back into his lap, his lips on yours. The kiss is slow and lazy, his hands running up and down your back, his body still shuddering from the force of his orgasm.

"Mesh'la," he sighs against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. "So beautiful."

His fingers trail down the side of your neck and between your breasts. They ghost the skin of your stomach and dip underneath the hem of your panties, and you can't help the whimper that escapes.

"Still want me?" You ask.

"Always."

His lips are on your neck, and his fingers find the wetness between your thighs, and you gasp. The noise that falls from his lips is filthy.

"Fuck, cyar'ika," he groans. "You're soaked."

"That's your fault," you manage.

His teeth graze your pulse, and his fingers brush against your clit, making your hips buck.

"Can't help it," you gasp.

You can't stop the cry of pleasure as his thumb presses down. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, and you're not sure why. You've made it perfectly clear that you want this.

"Rex," you whimper. "Please."

He presses another kiss to your lips, and the hand not between your thighs wraps around your back, holding you steady. He teases your entrance, and your breath catches, and then his fingers are slipping inside.

"Ah, fuck," you hiss.

You're so wet, so slick, and his fingers slide in easily. Just two fingers already feel so thick, and you can feel your walls stretching around him. There's a dull ache, but it feels so good.

"Cyar'ika," he groans. "Fuck, so tight."

His fingers pump in and out slowly, and your head falls onto his shoulder.

"Faster," you gasp. "Please, Rex."

"Shh," he coos. "Patience, mesh'la."

"Please."

"Be a good girl and be patient for me."

You whine, the sound muffled by his shoulder. He's being cruel, teasing you like this. You've already had him once, and now he's drawing it out. "Rex, I need you."

He hums softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. His fingers are still pumping in and out, slowly, agonizingly, and you know he's doing it on purpose.

"I need you," you whimper.

"I'm here," he whispers.

"No, I— ah! I need you inside me."

You can feel his breath catch, and his fingers stutter, and then his lips are at your ear.

"How do you want me, mesh'la?"

"Like this," you breathe. "I want to ride you."

His breath hisses through his teeth, and his fingers speed up. The change in pace is enough to make your head spin, and the noises coming from your mouth are embarrassing. You sound desperate, and you are.

"Fuck, Rex."

"So good," he hums. "Such a good girl."

A third finger slides in beside the other two, and the stretch makes your back arch. You're not sure when he had the chance to slick his fingers with your wetness, but he must have. He's not hurting you, and the feeling is incredible.

"Rex, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he cuts you off.

"Please, I need to—"

"You'll wait," he growls, and the command is enough to make your toes curl.

"Please," you beg. "I'll be good, I promise, just—oh!"

Your plea is cut off by a sharp cry of pleasure, and your walls flutter around his fingers, your hips rocking back and forth.

"I said not yet."

"I'm sorry," you gasp, and the words come out strangled. "I couldn't help it, you feel so good."

He hums, his thumb finding your clit, and the stimulation is almost too much. His lips find yours, and his free hand holds you steady as his fingers move inside of you.

You writhe on top of him, your legs shaking, and you can feel the pleasure building in the pit of your stomach, and it's all too much.

"Please," you beg, and you're not even sure what you're asking for.

"What do you need?"

"Please," you gasp.

"Use your words, cyar'ika. What do you need?"

"I need— ah! I need you. I need more. Please."

He's torturing you, you realize. He's doing it on purpose, making you beg, punishing you for how you teased him earlier, and the thought of it makes your cunt throb.

"You've been so good for me, mesh'la. You think you've earned it?"

"Yes," you hiss. "I'll be good. Please, Rex, I'll be a good girl."

He can't say no, not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your lips are parted and your cheeks are flushed, and the look in your eyes is so desperate.

"Okay," he concedes.

You let out a sound of relief, and his fingers are slipping out of you. He brings his fingers to his lips and sucks them into his mouth, and the action is enough to make you groan. You rise off of him, legs trembling, and hurriedly push your panties down and toss them aside.

He looks up at you, and there's awe in his eyes, a reverence, as his hands settle on your hips to guide you back to him. Your hand wraps around his cock, lining him up, and the two of you gasp as his head breaches your entrance.

"Take your time," he whispers. “You don’t have to—fuck!”

You sink down, taking him fully in one smooth motion, and Rex can't stop the low, guttural moan that escapes.

"You said to take my time," you say, and there's a cheeky lilt to your voice. He opens his mouth to argue, but the words die in his throat. "So I took my time."

You can't stop the grin. The look on his face is almost too much. His cheeks are flushed, and his chest is heaving. His lips are swollen from the kisses, his eyes wide and his pupils blown. He looks good like this, you think, and you've never seen him so undone.

"Cyar'ika," he finally manages.

You hum, circling your hips, and his grip on you tightens. Your pace is slow, savoring this feeling unlike anything you've ever experienced. He's bigger than anything you've ever had inside of you before, filling you in ways you didn't even know were possible. You're still adjusting to him, and your movements are slow, but they're steady, and you can't help the soft whimpers and gasps.

Rex is struggling to breathe. Your heat is so warm and so wet, your walls are clenching around him, and the sight of you is almost too much. The way your head is tipped back, your eyes closed and your mouth open, the sounds you’re making, and the way his cock is disappearing inside of you over and over again, it's all so much. He can't believe this is happening.

He leans forward to press a kiss to your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. You gasp before pushing on his shoulders, and his back hits the mattress. You lean over him, your hands reaching to grasp the headboard, and the new angle makes the both of you exhale. It also makes your breasts hang tantalizingly in his face.

Rex is not one to waste an opportunity.

He leans up and closes his lips around one of your nipples, and the sensation is enough to make your hips buck. Your pace speeds up, and his hands grip your hips tightly, helping to guide you.

"Oh, kriff," you gasp.

He releases your nipple with a pop and moves his attention to the other, and the sound you make is almost enough to make him come right then. He can’t help but shift his hips, moving them up and down in time with your thrusts, and you pull away from him to give him a look of warning.

"Stay still," you order.

"Or what?"

You raise an eyebrow, and Rex shivers. You're not sure what makes him react like that, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

"I'll stop."

His jaw drops, and his eyes widen. "You wouldn't," he says.

"That’s an order, Captain," you say, and his cock twitches inside of you. You can't help the wicked smile. You’re learning a lot about him today.

"You're the worst."

"You love it," you retort.

His hands move to your waist, and he pulls you closer.

"I love you," he breathes.

You can feel yourself clench around him at his words, and he hisses through his teeth.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

Your lips meet his, and his tongue slides into your mouth as his hands roam your body. You can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, his lips are warm, and his breath is hot, and his body is so close to yours, the feeling is overwhelming.

He's everything.

"I love you," he says again, his voice hoarse.

"I love you, Rex."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"It's true," you gasp.

His hips stutter, and you pull away, giving him a look of warning, and his jaw clenches.

"Sorry, cyar'ika. I couldn't help it."

"I know."

"Let me make it up to you."

"Wh— ah!"

You cry out as his fingers find your clit, and your walls flutter. The movement sends pleasure shooting through you, and your legs shake, the pace of your hips unsteady.

"That's it," he coos. "Come for me."

"Not yet," you gasp. "Need you to— oh, fuck, Rex."

His hips snap up, meeting your thrusts, and the new pace is relentless. He's chasing his own release, and you're right there with him. You can't take it anymore.

"Please, please, I can't—"

"Go ahead," he urges.

You can't stop the cry that tumbles from your lips. You can feel the orgasm building, and your hips are bucking wildly.

"I can't—I can't," you sob.

"Come for me, cyar'ika. Come on my cock."

The words are enough to send you over the edge, and he swallows your cries of pleasure. You're trembling above him, your nails are digging into his skin, and the pressure of his fingers against your clit is enough to make your hips jerk.

"Kriff, I can feel you," he breathes. "Your little pussy is squeezing me so tightly."

"Please," you beg. You're not even sure what you're begging him for.

All you know is that he feels so good, and you're so sensitive, and the sensations are too much and not enough.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Good girl."

"I can't, I can't, I can't-"

"Shh, shh, it's okay."

He's so gentle even as he sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping up to meet yours. You can feel the head of his cock hitting the end of your channel, and his fingers are rubbing frantic circles around your clit.

The pressure is almost painful, but it feels so good.

"Oh, fuck, Rex," you cry out.

"Come again," he demands.

"I can't," you protest. "It's too much."

"You can," he counters. "Do it for me."

The words send a thrill through you, and you can feel the pleasure building. Your walls are fluttering around him, your hips are bucking, and you can't control the noises coming from your lips.

"That's it," he growls.

Your orgasm washes over you, and this time it's stronger, tears spilling over as his name falls from your lips over and over again. You can feel your release gushing out of you, coating his cock and the sheets below.

The sight is so filthy, but it only seems to spur him on. Rex grips your hips tight enough that you know you’ll bruise, and the thought sends another thrill through you. You want him to leave his mark. He fucks up into you with a force that has the headboard slamming against the wall, and his thrusts are losing their rhythm.

"I'm so close," he breathes.

You're barely coherent, but you can't help but latch on, his words sending another rush of heat through you. "You gonna come for me, Captain?"

He shudders, and his eyes flutter shut, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He can't find the words.

"You've been so good for me," you purr breathlessly. "Let go."

You can see the tension leaving his shoulders, his jaw slack. His breath is coming in shallow gasps, and his thrusts are unsteady. He's teetering on the edge, and all it takes is a few more words from you.

"Fill me up."

"Cyar'ika," he warns.

"Do it," you order.

"Fuck, cyar'ika," he breathes. "Oh, fuck, I'm coming, I'm—"

He curses, his head falling back against the pillow, and his cock pulses as he spills inside of you, his hands tight on your hips to hold you down. You can feel the warmth of his seed filling you, and the sensation is enough to make the corners of your vision darken.

"I can feel it," you murmur. "I can feel you, kriff, Rex."

He groans, his arms pulling you down, and you collapse against his chest. You're not sure how long you stay like that, just holding each other. You can't feel anything except him, his hands running up and down your spine, and his lips pressed to the top of your head.

“So,” you say after a while, and he can hear the smugness in your voice.

You tilt your head, and the look he gives you is withering.

"Don't start," he warns.

"Captain, huh? I didn't know that was your thing"

"That's not—"

"What? You don't want to talk about the fact that your cock gets hard when I call you Captain?"

On cue, the appendage in question twitches, and Rex closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not— ugh, kriff," he mutters.

You can't stop the laughter that bubbles up.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed," you coo.

"Don't patronize me," he says, but the words have no heat behind them.

"I'd never dream of it, sir."

You can see the blush rising in his cheeks, and his eyes darken.

"That's an order," he grumbles.

You lean up, brushing your lips against his, and the touch is soft and gentle. He melts into it, his hands resting on your waist.

"Yes, Captain," you say.

"I can't—kriff. You can't say things like that, mesh'la." His expression is pained, and the sound that escapes him is almost a whine.

"You're right," you agree. "I can do better."

He raises an eyebrow, and his jaw drops as your fingers wrap around his wrist. His eyes follow the motion as you pull his hand between your thighs. You let out a satisfied moan as his fingers dip between your folds, and he can't tear his gaze away from the sight of his seed dripping from your cunt when his softening cock slides out of you.

"You're a mess," he says reverently.

"I'm a mess because of you."

He hums, his fingers gathering some of his spend and sliding it back into you.

"Is this what you were imagining, Captain?"

He shudders at the title, and his hips cant, his cock stirring to life.

You can't help the grin. "It is, isn't it?"

"You're terrible," he growls.

"Oh, I'm not terrible. I'm the best you've ever had."

He lets out a breathless laugh. "You're the only one I've ever had," he admits.

You pull back, staring at him in surprise, and the look on his face is unreadable.

"Are you— are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," he says, brow raised.

"But--"

"Cyare, I've only ever wanted you." His words are simple, and they're said with a conviction that steals the breath from your lungs.

"Oh."

You're speechless. You're not sure what you'd imagined the past few months. You're not even sure if you'd ever given much thought to it, but the idea that you're the only person who has ever made him feel like this is dizzying.

"I've loved you for a very long time," he confesses, and the words make your heart ache. "I never thought—kriff, I never thought you'd feel the same."

"I love you," you say firmly. "So much."

He grins, and the smile is so wide that his cheeks are dimpling. You can't resist. You lean down to kiss him again, and the way he holds you, like you're the most precious thing in the world, makes the feeling in your chest bloom.

"I'll say it every day for the rest of our lives, if that's what you need," you say.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he murmurs.

"I wouldn't," you promise.

He stares at you for a moment, his gaze intense, and his grip tightens. You can see him steeling himself, and the words he speaks make you shiver.

"Good, because I intend to marry you someday."

"Someday," you echo. You're not sure if you believe him, if that's even possible for you, but you believe that he believes it.

"When the war is over," he confirms. "When the fighting is done, and we've finally got a chance at peace, I'll give you the galaxy, cyare. And a family, if you want one."

"Rex, I—" You swallow thickly, and he can see the emotions flickering across your face. His fingers are drawing shapes on your hip, and his eyes are locked with yours.

"I'm not asking for an answer now," he says gently. "I just— I want you to know how serious I am."

You nod, and the silence that stretches between you is heavy.

"You really mean it," you finally say.

"Of course I do."

"What happens if—"

"There is no 'if.'" His tone leaves no room for argument, and he shifts, sitting up. The new position brings you into his lap, and your knees are straddling his waist. He rests his forehead against yours, and his breath fans across your face.

"Whatever happens, we'll face it together."

"Together," you murmur.

"I'm with you. Always."

You close the distance, kissing him softly. It's nice, holding him like this. The feeling of his arms around you is enough to drive the fears from your mind, pushing them to the furthest corners. You can feel yourself relaxing, the tension leaving your shoulders, and his hands roam your body, exploring every inch.

"You know," you begin, your voice quiet, and your lips brush against his with every word. "I'm still waiting for a tour of the barracks, Captain. Oh, the hangar too."

His breath hitches, and you can feel him starting to harden again under you.

"Cyare," he breathes.

"I'd love to see your office," you continue, and his eyes darken. "You can give me a private tour, just the two of us. I'll wear a skirt, and you can bend me over your desk."

His cock is fully erect now, and he can't stop the groan.

"And the showers," you purr, gently rotating your hips. "I bet they're big. Just big enough for the two of us. We could get the water nice and hot, and I could drop to my knees..."

"Kriff," he swears.

"Or…"

He's breathing heavily, his fingers digging into your skin.

"We could do that now," you offer.

"Cyare." His tone is pleading, and the sound sends a thrill through you. You can feel the ache building between your legs, and your thighs are sticky.

"I'm already dripping wet," you whisper.

"That's it."

He moves so fast that it makes you yelp, and the next thing you know, he's on his feet, carrying you, and your legs are wrapped around his waist. He walks swiftly towards the 'fresher, and the feeling of him sliding against your core makes you shudder.

"You're going to be the death of me, cyare," he murmurs.

"Maybe," you concede. "But I think we can agree that it'll be a great way to go."

The door slides shut behind him, and the sound of his laughter is enough to make you melt.

"A great way to go," he echoes.

You know the path ahead of you is treacherous. You know there will be more battles, and more losses, and more nights where you're unable to sleep. You know there will be pain, and fear, and sorrow.

But there will be hope too, and joy, and happiness. A home, and a family, and a future.

It will be worth it.

#captain rex x reader #rex x reader #star wars #the clone wars #captain rex #captain rex x you #rex x you #clone x reader #clone smut #x reader #clone captain rex #i literally had a dream about rex last night so it's time to pull the plug and post this #roy writes

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pearl-nouveau · 3 months ago

Text

A Woman's Purpose - Cregan Stark x Reader [chapter three]

summary: After a sudden betrothal, you consider what a future in Winterfell may look like.

warnings: smut, oral (fem receiving durr), referenced baela x jace, slight timeline alterations

a/n: i feel weird writing smut even though i am an adult and i was writing UNGODLY things as a sixteen-year-old virgin half a decade ago. lmk if you enjoy because i don't have anything else written so if i'm going to keep writing i want to know that it's going to be read!

Cregan wasted no time trying to get me accustomed to Winterfell. As we entered the gates, he led me through with a protective hand on my back, steering me towards the stables first. He introduced me to his horse, Stormfighter, and I smiled at his excitement over the creature. It reminded me of my feelings about Vermithor.

"You shall have as many horses as you wish," he told me, "perhaps a cream-colored one would pair well with mine. But I suppose you already have a dragon."

"Yes, Vermithor is a good form of transportation. I find horses rather slow now."

He laughed. "I shall build a dragonpit for Vermithor, if you wish it."

I smiled gently. He was so eager to please me. "He is much too big, I'm afraid. He will have to find a nest outside like Aemond's dragon, Vhagar."

"Ah. Not as easy as having a small dragon like your brother's, but perhaps more impressive."

"Vermithor's wingspan creates shadows over entire towns." I knew I was boasting, but Cregan's eyes widened with approval nevertheless.

"Impressive indeed."

He took me within the palace walls, through warm hallways and into a communal dining hall where Stark bannermen laughed together merrily. One of them noticed Cregan enter, and the group regarded him with respectful My Lord's. I observed a few kitchen girls gossiping by the fire, unafraid of their Lord's presence. It pleased me to think that my future husband was a welcome presence to the people who worked beneath him. The tranquility of the scene put my mind at ease.

"I know Winterfell is less grand than you are used to," he admitted wearily, "but I will do anything to ensure your comfort here."

"You are Warden of the North and take care of your people with ease and no complaint," I turned to him, "there is no greater comfort to me than a Lord husband with a gentle heart."

"Lord husband?"

Jacaerys' voice startles you. He has crept up behind the two of you, and you are suddenly aware of the weight of Cregan's hand still on your lower back.

"Jace," I flushed, "we... I..."

The words were lost in my mouth, but before me stood my brother, and words were not necessary. He smiled at me and I returned the grin knowing that he understood what had come to pass. He brought me in for a hug.

"Congratulations," he told me, pulling back and kissing my head. He moved to Cregan and, to my surprise, brought him in for a hug as well. "Brother." he said happily.

"Thank you, my prince." Cregan stood tall in front of him, pride radiating from him. "We will have a celebratory dinner tonight in the great hall."

"I shall send a raven to my mother." Jace said this with a smile and walked off, but I watched Cregan's expression darken.

"What is it, qēlos?" I touched his face without thinking. He leaned into my fingertips.

"I realized I never asked your mother permission for your hand," he said, "I was so caught up in the thrill of being yours that..."

"It matters not, it was always my choice." I said firmly. I could tell it still bothered him. "What can I do to make it better?" He thought for a moment.

"Allow me to come with you to Dragonstone, at the appropriate time. Let me meet the queen and pledge myself to her and you in person. And then..." he trailed off, as if afraid to overstep.

"Yes?"

"I hoped we could have a ceremony in the traditions of House Targaryen. Bind ourselves to one another by blood. If it pleases you."

For him to think of my house and my culture and not only his own made me awash with emotion.

"It does please me." I whispered, placing a sweet kiss to his lips. He pulled back.

"What did that word mean?" My brows furrowed at his question.

"What word?"

"The one you said earlier, qua, queh..."

"Qēlos." I told him. "It means star."

He hummed and repeated the word under his breath.

I sought some alone time with Jace so we could talk before my betrothal to Cregan was announced at dinner. I found him in the library of Winterfell, flipping through an old history book. He looked up as I came in.

"Sister," he greeted, "the Maester suggested I read up on the history of our houses' relationships with one another. That is, the Targaryens and the Starks."

"I hope it's good."

He smiled. "Even if it wasn't, this marriage would surely do the trick." He stood up, removing his focus from the book below him. "Cregan is a powerful man, little dragon. In many ways. He commands a population that our ancestors have found very hard to control in the past. The North is loyal not to their Warden, but to their Lord Stark. His involvement could mean victory for mother."

I scoffed, suddenly annoyed. I was newly engaged and he could still only talk politics. "Well, what do you suggest I do? Suck his cock every time mother wants a thousand men? I won't be her pawn, I am going to be the Lady of Winterfell."

"I only mean that you now sit beside one of our most important fighters. I... I suppose I don't know what I meant telling you that. I just mean that it pleases me to see you with such an accomplished man. And... I like Cregan. He is good, and you deserve a good man."

"I did worry, at first, that he only asked for my hand because mother sought something from him. But he asked for my hand all those years ago, in a letter he sent me after his time in King's Landing."

"What? Why did you never respond?"

I flushed. "I never opened the letter."

Jace began to cackle. "You're a fool, sister."

"I know." I snapped at him, slapping his shoulder. I sat down in a chair across the table from him, prompting him to sit as well. "I don't think I would have said yes if I had, though."

"Why not?"

I sighed. "I was not ready, and I knew not what he wanted from me."

"What does he want from you?" Jace was prodding, and I was letting it happen. I looked down at my hands.

"Everything. My heart and soul. I haven't been ready to give it. I have been too afraid that I would give it to the wrong person, or they would capture it and I would never be free again. But I feel free with him. He wants nothing from me, but to love me. And I know if I ask for my soul back, he will give it to me. But I want him to have it. I trust him."

A tear shot down my cheek, taking me by surprise. I didn't realize I had started crying. Jace was still smiling at me. I loved when he smiled, and I had the feeling it would only become more rare. So I returned it, and we were happy together for a moment.

"When will you wed?" He asked curiously.

"I have no idea. But Cregan has asked to visit mother in Dragonstone and have a ceremony of her house there."

"That will please her greatly."

I nodded. "Part of me wants it to be slow, so that I can ease into being married. But part of me cannot wait another day. Part of me just wants to be near him, close to him, always." I blushed, realizing what I was insinuating. But Jacaerys was nodding in agreement.

"You know, you can wait as long as you want. You don't have to wait for the rest, not really."

"What?" I sputtered. He so casually and simply dismantled a norm that had been thrust at us our entire lives. More specifically, me.

"No one really knows what happens behind closed doors." He shrugged.

"Oh hush, Jace, you only say that because you are a man." I bit.

His face reddened. "Very well, but you have never heard me presume to say that a woman's virtue is ruined alongside her maidenhood."

"Only old men still believe that."

"Exactly. Look, I know how much of a change this is from what you convinced yourself you always wanted. Take a few moons to settle in before you marry him. If anything happens naturally between you two in that period... so be it. You are to be married anyhow."

I was amused by his candor. "My brother, the wildling." I teased. "Tell me, was this enlightened opinion developed when our depraved uncle took you to a brothel when you were ten and three?"

He rolled his eyes. "You know very well I was a child deathly frightened of women, and bedding brothel wenches is different than making love to your betrothed."

It clicked for me. "You mean to tell me that you and Baela..."

He looked at his lap, equally flustered and self-satisfied. As much as it irked me to think of my brother in bed with someone, I found his admission heartwarming. After our grandsire's death, Dragonstone had been dreary and tense. We all walked the halls knowing that our days were numbered. To be unwilling to wait to be with the one you love when each day could be your last - it was romantic.

"Jace," I grinned at him. I kicked him under the table. "How? I mean, when?"

"Before grandsire died," he admitted, "We just... got caught up in the moment. But I don't regret it. Life is too short."He reached out across the table and playfully pressed his knuckles against my cheek in a faux-punch. "If you are choosing to be free, be free. We may be called into battle on the morrow."

I left our conversation feeling validated in a way I hadn't realized I needed to be. It made me want only one thing: to find my husband-to-be.

I found Cregan in the highest room of a round tower to walk to dinner together. He answered the door and I could tell he had been working from the papers strewn upon his desk. The room was set up as an office, with a small straw mattress in the corner. I guessed that he found himself sleeping here when overwhelmed with work.

"My beautiful wife," he greeted me, "almost. Come in."

He brought me in, sitting me in a cushioned chair across from his desk and leaning against that to observe me. I spoke. "I wanted to discuss the wedding. I was not sure how long you wanted our engagement to last, and I wondered how soon before we are married."

"I had not thought to discuss the details without you," he said, "you are, after all, meant to be in attendance as well."

His words always comforted me, and were always accompanied by a soft smile that I had only seen him give to me. "If it is alright, my Lord, I hoped to wait a few moons before we are wed. I suppose I have not yet come to terms with the reality of saying the vows."

"We can wait as many moons as you like, little dove. Years, if it is your wish."

I smiled up at him. "You are so easy. You truly have no quarrels?"

"Not if it would go against my Lady's desires." I stood. Our chests were inches apart. I could feel his hot breath on my face.

"There is nothing that you cannot wait for?"

He shuddered. His jaw tightened as if he were in pain. Suddenly, the unbreakable man had a crack running through his thick skin. I ran my fingers up his furs and toyed with the clasp, which carried the Stark sigil. I unclipped it slowly and his cloak fell to the floor.

"You don't have to wait to touch me," I told him. His eyes were burning holes through mine, darting every other breath to my lips. He bit his lip.

"I will not sully you, my princess," he said in a low voice. "I am an honorable man."

"And I am an honorable woman," I said firmly. "Therefore we do not dishonor each other."

"Your arithmetic is very confusing, my love."

"But it is correct."

He kissed me with a heat that his kisses had never held before. It was as if now I had given him permission to want me, he could no longer pretend he didn't. His hands roamed up my back, unclasping my cloak and moving to tangle in my hair. Teeth clashed against each other in a dance that we were both leading. One of his large hands came to rest at the base of my throat, then ran lower through the column of my breasts and then he finally moved to cup one. I gasped at the feeling of his fingers kneading at my flesh, slowing down when grazing over my nipple. He stopped kissing me only to flip us and place me on the desk, slotting his hips between my legs. I squealed as he pressed them open, the fabric of my dress falling between my thighs, but he quickly bunched it and moved my dress up past my hips. He smiled at the sight of my smallclothes.

"I'll have you naked in my bed soon," he grumbled, "but for now, I won't ruin the surprise. I will just give you a taste of the pleasure you shall have for the rest of your life."

His words made me whimper. He kneeled down in front of me, and a surge of embarrassment made me close my eyes as he grasped my undergarments and slid them down my legs. He must have noticed, because no more touches came after I was bare. I opened my eyes to his gaze.

"I want you to watch me please you," he said gently, more a request than a command. He kissed the inside of my thigh. My hip bone. Slowly, he grew closer to my center, keeping eye contact with me until his mouth connected with my core.

Oh.

So this was why people could not wait until after their marriage vows.

I gasped so loudly that he stopped for a moment until I gently grasped his hair and guided him back to where he was. I could feel him smiling down there and I almost laughed with joy. His tongue danced beautiful choreography against my cunt, expertly drawing pleasure from my body in a way I could never have imagined.

"Cregan... fuck, oh, yes," I could no longer control words from spilling from my mouth. He slowly stroked a finger at my entrance, looking back up at me to ask for permission as he gently prodded at my hole. I nodded and then moaned as his finger intruded me, and if I wasn't mistaken I could have sworn I heard him let out a moan as if it were his own cock that had penetrated me.

He continued to eat me like a starved man and with the addition of his finger slowly curling inside of me, I knew that something was about to explode within me. My stomach was tightening, my legs shaking and trying to clamp shut against Cregan's head. He fought against them with ease, pressing me further open and leaning into his meal, lapping it up like a wolf feasting on prey. He could feel my peak approaching and his tongue began to focus on my pearl, suckling and kissing the bud with tender care.

It was too much. My moans had morphed into screams of pleasure, and my hands were yanking at his hair so hard I had no idea how he wasn't hurt. With a few more well-placed licks against my pussy, I could feel myself at the edge.

"Cregan..." I could barely breathe, barely speak. "I'm-I'm-so, so close," I keened.

"You're perfect," he mumbled against me, "can't believe this is all mine." He dove back in on a mission and I began to fall.

"Oh, oh, yes..." I could only sigh as the tension snapped and a jolt ran through my body. It was electric, and Cregan held my body tightly as it shuddered. He stood slowly, caressing my legs as he did, and removing a handkerchief from his pocket, which he gently ran through my folds. I gasped, sensitive from my orgasm, grasping at his forearm. He only hushed me and kissed my brow. He moved my dress back down to protect my modesty, and picked my undergarments off the floor.

"I'll keep these as a reminder of the first of many times I ate my wife's cunt," he said, shoving them into his pocket. He picked me up from the desk and set me down in front of him. "How was that? Are you alright?"

I put my arms around his neck. "I have literally never been better."

“I am glad.” He said. He kissed me slowly, his arms absentmindedly running across every plane of my back, mapping the new terrain. "You are..." He looked at me the way people usually looked at me before calling me beautiful. But he said nothing. He only placed a peck on my forehead and fetched our cloaks from the floor, reclasping mine first and then his own.

"I am what?" I asked, now curious.

Cregan shrugged, leading me towards the door. "There isn't a word to describe it."

The silent walk that we took to the great hall was not awkward, but pensive. I liked the feeling of my arm wrapped around his underneath the cloaks. He always pulled me to his side, so he could feel the fabric of our clothes brushing together as we walked. Every few steps I could see him look down at me out of my peripheral vision. At one such time, I caught his gaze and we smiled at each other. He licked his lips slightly, and it reminded me that those same lips had so recently between my legs, and I blushed, my gaze falling to my feet.

"Thinking of something, dove?" He smirked.

"Just those lips of yours," I reached up and brushed his bottom one with my fingertip. "You've been blessed with a talented mouth."

"I am at your service, forever." He said seriously.

Forever. It seemed an easy enough thing to imagine with Cregan. He felt safe, he was devoted to me. He said he loved me. Could it be that easy? Just to give in to his love? It was tempting, but I sought clarity. What made him love, and why had he found it with me? What if I suddenly stopped doing the thing he loved? The darkest part of my heart told me that as we aged and my beauty faded, his interest in me would falter.

"Now you surely aren't thinking of me between your legs," he observed, "because you are frowning."

"Just wondering."

"About?"

I sighed. "Do you believe that love fades?"

"Sometimes." He said. His definitive answer stumped me and I could feel a flare of anger arise from it.

"Well, then," I hummed passive-aggressively. It was unbecoming, I knew, especially since I was trying to ascertain that he would not grow tired of my antics and regret our union. Instead of arguing, he chuckled.

"Why do you speak in riddles? Ask me what I know you have been wondering. I may be a dull Northerner but I am not dimwitted."

Even in humbling me he was gentle, his voice laced with amusement, as if any complaint I may have could be fixed as simply as commanding him.

"Why do you love me? I... I am afraid that whatever it is will fade, and you will grow tired of me. And..."

"And?"

"Forgive me."

"What?"

I felt hot tears behind my eyes but I clenched my teeth until they retreated. "Will I forever be your second wife? Not the mother of your children, either, only a... replacement? I'm sorry, my Lord, I should not target your late wife with my own insecurities."

He had stopped us in the hallway, boxing me against the wall and listening intently. Cregan drank every word I said up like honey. After I finished, his palm found my face and I saw the emotions swimming behind his eyes. I regretted terribly the possibility that I may have reopened past wounds.

"I believe love can fade sometimes, in the way that it has for my late wife." He sighed. "Her name was Arra. We were friends in childhood. When my parents suggested our union, her familiarity comforted me. I think that is what I loved about her. She was like home, like being a boy again. But I am no longer a boy." He took my hands. "I will miss Arra until the day I die because she was my friend and bore me a babe. But I did not choose her, and you have been my only thought since the moment I met you. In years of not hearing from you, not knowing if you would ever allow me to become close to you, I still loved you. Every night memories of your wit and bravery haunted me. Fuck, girl, you ruined me for any other woman. The thought of anyone else, for all those moons, was unthinkable. You could not fade from my heart if I tried to pluck you out with a knife."

I hadn't anything to say.

So I said, "I love you."

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #got imagine #got fanfiction #got fanfic #got #cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark fanfiction #cregan stark smut #cregan x reader

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munson-blurbs · 2 years ago

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series

Summary: After moving to Hawkins to take care of your ailing grandma, you end up spending a wild night with Corroded Coffin's lead singer, Eddie Munson. When you uncover his true intentions, you have no desire to ever see him again, but fate--and his son, Harris--has other plans.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), fingering (f! receiving), oral (m!receiving), slowburn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, Eddie is 30, Reader is 28, no use of y/n

WC: 7.5k

Chapter 1/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Late August, 1996.

July had come and gone so quickly, and you could sense it in the muggy air as the daylight dwindled away on the horizon of an orange colored sky. Your heels click along the parking lot pavement as you make your way into the dingy bar. Everyone told you that your twenties would be full of surprises, but no one warned you that those twists and turns would land you in Hawkins, Indiana.

The neon sign reads The Hideout; well, really, it reads Th H deo t, and the “o” is starting to flicker. You’re not the only one who notices the building’s crumbling exterior.

“Huh,” Jess says, crossing her arms over her chest. “This place seemed a lot cooler when I was in high school.” Still, she pushes open the door, where you’re immediately hit with the stench of cigarettes and beer. The floor is sticky with what you can only hope is spilled liquor, and you take a seat on a rickety barstool.

“How did you even hear about this place?” you ask your new friend, tugging your dress so it covers a bit more of your thighs. You had one night out to yourself, and Jess was insistent on you making the most of it.

“Used to come here all the time when I was, like, sixteen?” She wrinkles her nose. “They’re dirt cheap and they never card, so my friends and I used to get super wasted. Thought we were hot shit.” She flags down the bartender with a wave and a smile. “Anyway, you can’t live in Hawkins and not come to the Hideout at least once. It’s a tradition.”

The bartender, a woman who looks to be in her mid-forties, leans on the counter. “What can I get you ladies?” she asks. Her voice is raspy from what sounds like decades of chain smoking.

You’re about to order a Bud Light, but Jess cuts you off. “We’ll each have a Hideout Special,” she says confidently. “Make hers a double.”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me? And what the hell is a Hideout Special?”

She waves off your concern. “Honestly, I have no idea. But it’ll get you buzzed fast.”

You reluctantly agree, sipping on something that tastes vaguely like a mixture of rum and vodka, with the pungency of rubbing alcohol. “That’s awful,” you grimace, and Jess just laughs.

“Yeah, they’re pretty rough going down. But you only have one night to yourself, and you’re gonna make the most of it.” She links her arm through yours, using her free hand to tilt the drink back up to your lips. “Now, drink up. The band’s gonna start playing soon, and you’ll need all the liquor you can get. Trust me.”

Corroded Coffin, the band in question, is warming up in the back room. Tuesday nights has been their slot since high school, and if their lead singer and guitarist has his way, it’ll be their slot until they’re too old to play. He’s tuning his ax, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, only looking up when he hears a faint “oh, shit,” come from his bandmate.

“Y’good?” Eddie asks, strumming gently to play a perfect A-chord.

“Yeah,” Jeff says, holding up a small black box. “Forgot I had this in my pocket; almost dropped it when I took off my jacket.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “That’s what you get for wearing leather in fuckin’ August, dude.” He squints at the object in Jeff’s hand. “What is that, anyway?”

“A ring,” Jeff proudly announces. “I’m gonna ask Viv to marry me.” The big, goofy grin on his face makes Eddie’s stomach churn. He looks at Gareth and Danny, expecting similar disgusted reactions from them, but they’re both smiling, too.

“Way to go, man!” Danny says, and Gareth claps Jeff on the back. “Our little Jeff is growing up.”

“Oh, fuck off, man,” Jeff says, but he’s laughing as he accepts the congratulations. He glances expectantly at Eddie, waiting for him to chime in.

“You two’ve been together for a million years,” Gareth jokes, twirling a drumstick in his free hand. “What made you decide to take the plunge?”

Jeff’s eyes dart around the room. “Okay, I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” he starts, voice hushed, “but Viv’s pregnant!”

“Holy shit!” Danny sputters. “Dude, you’re gonna be a dad!”

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees incredulously. “Fuckin’ wild, isn’t it?” His gaze falls to Eddie. “Does the seasoned professional have any words of wisdom?”

An uncharacteristic silence fills the room. Eddie can feel their eyes burning a hole into his head. He knows what he should say, what Jeff wants to hear, but he can’t bring himself to feign happiness. “You don’t have to marry someone just because you knocked her up.” It comes out with a snarl, meaner than he’d intended.

“Crazy thought, but have you considered that I actually want to marry her?” Jeff shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re not all content being miserable hermits like you are.”

“Whoa, break it up,” Gareth tries, stepping between the two guitarists, but the conversation’s already too heated.

“I’m not miserable, and I’m not a hermit,” Eddie counters. “I’m just not about to limit myself when there’s plenty of pussy in the sea.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Thanks for the well wishes.” Eddie can’t help but notice the flash of hurt in his eyes as he walks away. A small part of him feels bad, but he can’t shake the anxiety that unexpected change seems to bring.

“So, what does this mean for Corroded Coffin?” he asks. “Should we consider this our farewell show?” He tries to ignore the irritated glares he’s getting from Gareth and Danny. It’s like the words fall from his mouth before his brain can process the damage they can do.

“Obviously, once the baby comes, I’ll have to take a step back,” Jeff shrugs. “And I’m gonna try to work some overtime before it’s born. Save some extra money, y’know.”

The room had been zapped of joy, and Eddie feeds off of the sullen atmosphere. “Nice commitment to the band,” he sneers. “Glad to see how easily your priorities change.”

“Yeah, man, you should try it sometime,” Jeff snaps. His fists clench, and he looks angry enough to throw a punch. “Maybe you’ll stop acting like an overgrown teenager.”

Eddie’s about to fight back, jaw locked in place and eyes seeing red, but he’s temporarily grounded by the sound of the manager’s tired voice echoing from the ancient sound system.

“Put your hands together for Corroded Coffin!” A smattering of applause signals their cue to enter. Eddie tries to shake off the conflict; it can be resolved after they play. The show must go on, or whatever it was that his high school drama teacher always said.

A balding man with a gruff voice introduces the band as Corroded Coffin. Jess’s eyes go wide; she’s already a few Hideout Specials deep and definitely feeling it.

“Oh, shit!” she laughs with a hiccup. “That’s my sister’s boyfriend’s band!” She motions to the bartender to pour her another drink, but you shake your head and just mouth water. The bartender gives you a knowing nod, probably grateful that she won’t have to be the one dealing with Jess tonight.

“Yeah, that’s Jeff!” Jess continues, pointing at a tall guitarist with tight curls. “He’s the one who knocked up Viv!” She cackles like she just made the most hilarious joke. “I totally forgot they were playing tonight.” She frantically waves at him, and he gives a small head nod in acknowledgment.

Your eyes are drawn to someone else: the lanky, ring-clad man who takes center stage. He grips the mic with black polished nails, smirking out into the crowd as he yells, “Hawkins, how’re we doin’ tonight?” The loudest cheers come from Jess, and you join in, letting out an obnoxious “woooooo!” in response.

The noise draws his attention, and you watch as his smirk shifts to something needier, hungrier, even. His big brown eyes land on you and Jess, leaving you momentarily breathless. He’s absolutely gorgeous, light stubble on his cheeks and above his plush lips. He’s wearing a white V-neck that shows off a dusting of chest hair. His torn black jeans hang low on his hips, accentuated with a studded belt. A gleaming pair of silver handcuffs are clipped to one of the loops.

“All right!” he calls back. “Well, this first one goes out to the pretty girl in the blue dress at the bar. Wait for me after the show, Sweetheart.” He counts out to four, and they launch into a cover of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me.

It doesn’t even register until Jess nudges you, more forcefully than necessary, and says, “Hey, you’re wearing a blue dress!”

Oh.

“Who…who is he?” you ask, feeling a warmth spread through your core that you’re sure isn’t from the alcohol.

“That,” Jess says, leaning on you for balance, “is Eddie Munson. Total freak back in high school, but now he’s just got a reputation for being a freak in the sheets.” She throws you a clumsy wink and adds, “looks like you’ll get to find out for yourself tonight.”

“I’m not really a one-night stand kind of person,” you counter, internally cringing at the memories of your feeble attempts at hooking up, all of which inevitably ended with you pining after them pathetically.

Jess rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she whines, taking note of the way you and Eddie can’t seem to tear your gazes from each other. “Your dad leaves tomorrow, and then you’ll be spending your nights taking care of your grandma. You gotta live a little!”

Plopping back down onto the barstool, you consider her sentiment. It’s true; once your dad goes back home, you’ll be the one helping out in the evenings. And the new school year starts next week, leaving you with little time for yourself.

Your whole life has been spent helping others. You became a teacher to shape young minds and provide them with a safe place to learn and express themselves. You moved to a tiny town in the middle of Indiana to look after your grandma. Even now, you’re babysitting Jess and ensuring she doesn’t dehydrate instead of letting loose and ordering another drink.

“Fine, but only if he brings it up,” you concede. “I’m not gonna be the one to make the first move.”

The band moves on to their next song; it’s either an original or one you’re not familiar with, but you find yourself dancing to the beat. Jess joins you, writhing her body in some kind of drunken jig that has you cackling. You’re having such a great time that you don’t even notice Eddie tripping over a few chords as he watches you sway your hips back and forth.

Corroded Coffin plays for another forty minutes. You recognize some Metallica and Black Sabbath songs, headbanging along until you’re dizzy. The bartender slides you another drink—on the house, she insists—and you sip it eagerly, trying to quell your nerves. Eddie shouts out, “thank you, Hawkins!” and disappears backstage with the rest of the band.

You can’t ignore the dejected pain in your heart, but you muster up a smile and turn to Jess. “Ready to get out of here?”

She shakes her head, putting her palm on the bar to steady herself. “You still have to wait for Eddie,” she teases. “You promised.”

You cock your eyebrow in amusement. “First of all, Drunky McWasted, I didn’t promise anything,” you say, “and second, show’s over and, uh, he’s not here.” You swivel around for emphasis.

“Give him a fucking second, would ya?” The comment doesn’t come from your friend, and you turn around to see Eddie standing behind you. He’s got a towel around the back of his neck, mopping up the sweat from his performance. His hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and you can see the remnants of kohl eyeliner smudged around his lash line. “Had to clean myself up a little bit, damn.” He smiles, and you feel like you’re going to melt.

Jess interrupts, pushing you closer to him. “Eddie, this is my neighbor.” When you still don’t say anything, too awestruck to introduce yourself, she tells him your name.

Eddie nods, letting his fingers graze yours. “What’d you think of the set?” He grins at the bartender, who gives a small head bob and hands him a whiskey, neat.

“It was good,” you manage, finally finding your voice. “I especially liked the song you dedicated to the pretty girl in the blue dress.” There. You flirted. The rest is up to him.

“Yeah?” He rests his forearm on the bar and leans over to take his glass. “Was kinda hopin’ you would. Soon as I saw you, I knew I had to shoot my shot.” His eyes flit over the low-cut neckline of your dress before he drags his gaze back to your eyes. “You new to Hawkins?”

“Mhm,” you say, watching as he fumbles with a pack of Newports. “I moved here to take care of my grandma.” Good going. Nothing turns a guy on like talking about your elderly relatives.

But Eddie’s unfazed. “Hot and nice? A lethal combo, if I do say so myself.”

“What about you?” you blurt out. “I mean, have you always lived in Hawkins?”

He shrugs. “Been back and forth. Came here when I was nine, left when I was twenty-two, then came back about four years ago.”

“What brought you back? Missed all the excitement?” You laugh and he gives a small smile, but an emotion you can’t pinpoint crosses over his face.

“Somethin’ like that,” Eddie mutters, popping a cigarette between his lips. “Wanna go outside an’ have a smoke with me?”

“I’d love to,” you say with an apologetic tone, “but I really don’t wanna leave her alone.” You motion to your friend, who is currently trying to convince the bartender to let her have another drink. But as soon as she hears you using her as an excuse, she waves you off.

“Go,” she insists. “I’ll be fine. ‘M gonna have Jeff take me back home.” She stands on her tiptoes, nearly falling over, flailing both her arms wildly when she spots Jeff in the crowd and shouting, “Jeffy! Jeffy, can you drive me home so these two can have sex?”

You feel your face heat up at her words as Eddie shakes his head incredulously, lips twisting into a cocky grin. The last thing Jeff wants to do after Eddie’s earlier tantrum is help him get laid, but he knows there will be hell to pay if he doesn’t watch after his inebriated sister-in-law-to-be.

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, carefully looping his arm around her waist and helps her to his car. He appears to deliberately avoid making eye contact with Eddie, though you don’t know why. The two of them seemed to be getting along just fine on stage. The rest of the band leaves with them, carrying various instruments. No one even acknowledges Eddie’s presence.

“Uh, everything okay?” You can’t not pretend you didn’t notice; the tension is far too obvious.

Eddie brushes it off with another shrug. “Guys all got sticks up their asses, I dunno.” He pulls a black Bic lighter from his back pocket and motions towards the door, signaling your cue to walk out with him and drop the conversation.

Chirping crickets and a rowdy group of drunks shouting obscenities at each other punctuates the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Eddie looks at you expectantly, holding out his lighter, and you realize that he’s waiting for you to take out your own pack of cigarettes. A pack of cigarettes that you do not have.

“Oh, I, um, I don’t smoke,” you stammer, biting your tongue in irritation towards your own awkwardness. “I mean, I’ll smoke, like, socially, but I don’t carry cigarettes on me. Sorry.”

“Wanna bum one?” You pluck one from the pack and lean in as he lights it for you. The crisp inhale of tobacco lingers in your lungs for a moment before you breathe out, grateful that you didn’t cough like a middle schooler stealing cigs from her mom’s stash. You take another drag, watching as he does the same. You’d thought that there would be some level of conversation, but Eddie seems perfectly content smoking in silence.

“So,” you finally say, “how long have you been playing guitar?”

He chuckles and pushes his hand through his hair, stopping where it’s gathered into a hair tie. The perspiration on his forehead is starting to dry, but his bangs still stick to it. “Shit, gotta be twenty years now. Damn, I’m fuckin’ old.”

“How old are you?” It comes out more accusing than inquisitive, and you sharply inhale more nicotine to shut yourself up.

“Turned thirty last month.”

“Oh, that’s not old,” you reassure him. “I’m twenty-eight, so…not far behind.”

He doesn’t say anything in response to this. Maybe you’d misread his intentions. Or maybe he’d lost interest after just a few moments alone with you. The pretty girl in the blue dress quickly becomes the lame girl in the blue dress, and you both return home unsatisfied.

You try again, this time saying something that warrants a response. “I just moved here last week, if you have any recommendations of places to go. Restaurants or something?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, ‘s pretty boring around here.”

End of conversation.

“Well, I should probably get home,” you say, shifting your weight onto your other foot and stubbing out your cigarette in the nearby ashtray. There’s no sense in wasting anymore time, and the nighttime chill is biting at your bare legs.

“Wait, what?” Eddie practically does a double-take. “I thought…didn’t Viv’s sister say something about…”

Or maybe you’d read the situation correctly after all.

“You still want to?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He ashes his own cigarette, and the smirk returns to his face. “Your place or mine?”

Considering the fact that your place is currently housing an eighty-year-old woman with declining cognition, and your father, you quickly jump at the offer to go to his home.

You walk with him to his car, a beat-up blue sedan. He opens the passenger door, and you thank him with a tight smile, still not sure what to expect. Maybe he’s just not into small talk, but he seems awfully closed off for a man who’s trying to get laid.

A tangle of tree-shaped air fresheners hang from the rearview mirror; they sway slightly as the two of you plop in your seats. Instinctively, you look behind you as he turns the key in the ignition. Nestled into the far left side of the backseat is a carseat. Cheerio crumbs are wedged in the crevices, and an empty sippy cup leans up against it.

“Is that a carseat?” It’s a dumb question; of course it’s a carseat, but you can’t bring yourself to be more blunt and ask if he has a kid. I mean, the guy couldn’t even tell you a single restaurant to go to.

“Oh. Yeah.” Eddie reaches around, placing a ringed hand on the back of your headrest as he backs out of the spot. He doesn’t elaborate on the matter, just speeds out of the parking lot, so you don’t push it.

The words, I love kids; I’m actually a preschool teacher, linger on your lips, but you bite them back. This is supposed to be casual, a one-night stand; you’re not trying to be anyone’s stepmother.

Eddie flicks on the radio to a metal station–of course–and you sit back and try to enjoy the ride. You can faintly hear him humming along to the music. The fingers on his left hand drum on the steering wheel, while his right hand finds its way to your upper thigh. Fuck, it feels good. He gently squeezes, and the sensation of his cold metal rings combined with his hungry touch makes you involuntarily press your legs together.

“Just wait, Sweetheart,” he laughs. “There’s more where that came from.” It’s probably the most he’s said to you all night, and you consider it a small win. You lean in and gently nip at his earlobe, grinning as he shivers at the contact.

“There’s more where that came from,” you echo, shifting back in your seat. Eddie looks at you, brows raised and forehead creased in amusement, but–big surprise–says nothing. He pulls into an apartment complex parking lot, swinging into the nearest available spot, and kills the engine. Without the music or the steady hum of the ignition, you’re suddenly plunged into complete silence. Are you really doing this? Going to a stranger’s apartment to have sex with him? What if he’s some sort of serial killer? But Jess knows him–sort of–and vouched for him, so he can’t be all bad, right? Although, Ted Bundy had friends, too…

Eddie clearing his throat disrupts your inner monologue, and you glance up at him shyly. “Sorry,” you mutter, though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for.

“No biggie,” he says, like he’s used to women just spacing out in his car before they fuck him. “Um, y’ready to go inside?”

You nod, opening your door and carefully stepping out onto the uneven pavement. You wobble a little in your high heels, but you feel a hand on your lower back, steadying you. “Lemme help you,” he mumbles, lacing his fingers through yours and guiding you to the front door of the building.

The two of you only make it to the stairwell between the first and second floors before he’s pouncing on you, your back against the cold concrete walls. His hands start on your waist, traveling upwards and lightly grazing your breasts before he’s cupping your face. His kisses are hungry, but not sloppy; when his tongue breaches your lips, you let him in without a second thought. He places his knee between your legs, just barely nudging it against your lace thong. “Fuck,” he hisses, pulling away from you and running his tongue over his teeth, “I need you, pretty girl.”

You pout, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. “Can’t get naked until we’re in your apartment.” You pause before whispering in his ear, “and if you thought this dress looked good on me, wait till you see it on your floor.”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “‘S just another flight of stairs after this, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just takes your hand again and leads you to apartment 3C. There are a few Hot Wheels cars scattered on the ground, but he kicks them under the couch without further explanation. He sits down, adjusts his body on the soft beige cushion, and pats his lap. “Your throne,” he says cheekily, exposing tiny dimples on either side of his lips.

Wordlessly, you climb on top of him. Your dress bunches up as you straddle his waist, though that won’t be a problem much longer. You greedily grind your clothed pussy over the rough denim of his fly, sucking on his neck as his strong hands clasp the back of your thighs and pull you closer.

“Needy thing, hmm?” Eddie smirks, chuckling when you feign offense. “Where’re you going? ‘M just teasing you.” He sits up a bit, tugging one dress strap down and kissing the flesh between your neck and shoulder. “Maybe I read it wrong, but…y’look like a girl who likes to be teased,” he says, voice muffled by your skin.

“N-No, I do. Like it,” you stammer, fumbling with the frayed hem of his shirt and lifting it over his head. You run your hands over the expanse of pale skin, admiring his tattoos. There’s one of a red guitar pick right above his left pec; without thinking, you kiss it gingerly. He lets out a quiet moan, unzipping your dress and helping you shimmy out of it. You’re not wearing a bra, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue when he sees you on display for him.

“Christ, baby,” he groans, “got the most perfect fuckin’ tits I’ve ever seen.” He kisses them and runs his thumbs over your pert nipples before briefly sucking on them. The nickname baby isn’t lost on you, but you try not to read into it.

Still, there’s a sense of satisfaction at the way he’s crumbling literally beneath you, though you can’t help but snarkily say, “bet you say that to all the girls you bring back here.”

Eddie throws his head back and laughs, sending vibrations through your core. “Only the ones with perfect tits.”

You hate yourself for wondering how many perfect-breasted women there have been.

“Bedroom?” It’s all you can manage, already breathless from dry humping like a goddamn teenager on prom night.

Eddie hesitates before shaking his head, a curl falling loose from the hair tie. “Let’s just, uh, stay out here. Room’s kinda a mess.” The unsure expression on his face hints at another reason, but he quickly distracts you by pushing your panties to the side, slipping his middle finger into your aching cunt. “Holy shit. S’fucking wet already. I knew you were needy.”

“Y-Yes. Need you. Need more.” You’re already stretched out by one finger, but you’re dying to know how a second one feels. The more of him inside you, the better. He obliges, fucking you with his pointer and middle fingers while his thumb makes tiny, hurried circles against your clit. “That’s it, right…right there. Don’t stop; please don’t stop!” He brings you to your orgasm, smirking as you finish all over his fingers.

Your rocking slows, and you reluctantly pull yourself off of him and sink to your knees. He’s unbuckling his belt as fast as he can, and you can’t help but notice the wet spot on his jeans right where you were grinding on his thigh.

Eddie’s pants and plaid boxers are around his ankles in a heartbeat. His hard cock rests against his stomach; a pearly bead of pre-cum leaks from the tip. “Let’s see what that cute little mouth can do, Sweetheart,” he muses, leaning back into the couch with his hands behind his head.

You bite your lower lip. “First I gotta clean you off, yeah?” you ask before licking the tip, tasting him. His length twitches at that minimal contact, which makes you giggle. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.” There’s no protesting, so you grasp the base of his shaft with one hand and cup his balls with the other. You suck on the head, circling it with your tongue, before taking as much of the rest of his cock as you can fit into your mouth.

“Mmm, baby, yes,” he growls, inhaling sharply when you gently tug on his balls. “Thas’ a good girl. Play with my fuckin’ balls, just like that.” He bucks up his hips, bringing his cock even further down your throat. “Gag on it, baby. Gag on my big fuckin’ cock.”

He’s not wrong; at least, it’s the biggest of any guy you’ve ever been with. Hollowing out your cheeks, you increase your pace, letting your nose brush against his patch of dark curls. Saliva drips down your chin; you swipe at it clumsily and keep your focus on him.

“Shitshitshitshitshit–FUCK!” Before you can even process what’s happening, Eddie pulls out of you. Thick, hot ropes of cum trickle down his right hand, and he buries his face in his left. You reach for a tissue and hand it to him, and he angrily wipes off his spend.

“Gimme fifteen minutes, and I’ll be good to go,” he says, tossing the used tissue in a nearby wastebasket. He finds the remote tucked behind a couch cushion and clicks on the TV. An episode of Seinfeld comes on. “You’ll do,” he mutters, plopping down next to you and poorly stifling a yawn.

“Sleepy?” you tease, wrapping your naked chest in an itchy wool blanket and curling up. He doesn’t put his arm around you, or make any attempt to cuddle, so neither do you.

“Nah, ‘m fine.” But nearly five minutes later, while Jerry and Elaine argue about God-knows-what, you can hear Eddie softly snoring next to you.

“Eddie,” you whisper. No response, so you try a little louder. “Eddie!”

“Huh? What?”

“I can, uh, I can go now. I’ll call a cab. Just need your address.” You start to get up and head for the phone hanging on the wall, but he puts an arm out to stop you.

“‘S’okay. Stay for a bit, baby.”

Stay for a bit, baby.

It almost feels like you’re taking advantage of him; his curt conversations and closed-off demeanor earlier in the night indicated that he was not looking for someone to sleep over. But now he’s asking you to stick around, resting his head on your shoulder and letting one tattooed arm drape over your waist. You let him stay there, trying your best not to wake him, but you’re forced to reach over him to grab the remote when an infomercial starts blaring.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, half-asleep as he lays down and scoots himself as far back as he can. You follow his lead, pressing your back against his bare chest. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you find yourself drifting off while wrapped in the warm embrace of this handsome stranger.

RRRRIIIINNGGG! RRRRIIIINNGGG!

You’re startled awake by a loud, unfamiliar noise that doesn’t sound like your alarm clock.

RRRRIIIINNGGG! RRRRIIIINNGGG!

Eddie jolts up, almost knocking you off the couch. “Shit, didn’t think you were still…” He turns towards the ringing sound, still confused. “What time is it?!” His eyes widen as he gets a look at the clock, which reads 7:19. “Shit, shit, shit! Son of a bitch!”

He practically flies off of the couch, sprinting to the phone and bringing the receiver to his ear. “Wayne? Yeah, I’m sorry…overslept. I can be there in ten…no, you don’t have to do that, I’ll just…okay, okay, fine. See you soon.” He hangs up with a clank, turning back to you.

You’re just sitting on the sofa, still wearing nothing but your underwear and the blanket. “Everything…um, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but he lets out an overwhelmed sigh. “Let me help you find your dress.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but the real meaning behind his words seeps through: you should leave.

You nod, feeling the all-too recognizable lump in your throat. It happens any time these shared intimate moments come to an end; the realization of just how temporary you are in someone’s life is a punch to the stomach.

You find the bunched blue garment behind the couch and slide it over your head. The fabric feels stale and cold against your skin, like it doesn’t belong to you. Eddie’s only wearing his boxers, and you catch yourself staring at the collection of tattoos that trail down his arms and torso.

“Like what you see?” He laughs when you duck your head, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks as he walks towards you. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Not after that little show you put on for me last night.” He leans down, tilting your chin up to him and kissing you softly. “Before you go, leave your number, yeah?”

That makes you roll your eyes. “Oh, please,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What?”

“Don’t ask for my number if you’re not gonna call,” you say. You sling your bag over your shoulder as you walk to the door. “We don’t have to do the whole song-and-dance. We can just, y’know, leave this as a one-night stand.”

Eddie chuckles incredulously. “You wound me, Sweetheart,” he says. “‘Course I’m gonna call you. How could I not wanna see a girl as beautiful as you again? ‘Sides,” he adds slyly, “We didn’t even get to the best part.”

Begrudgingly, you write your number on a nearby notepad. The phrase don’t get my hopes up for nothing sits on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back.

You’re halfway down the stairwell when you remember that you never called a cab. There’s no way in hell that you’re going to clamber back up to the third floor and ask Eddie to use his phone–and get his address–so you continue down to the lobby payphone and dial Jess’s number.

“H-Hello?” a man’s sleepy voice picks up on the third ring.

“Uh, Jess?” It’s clearly not your neighbor, but you have no idea what else to ask. Did she find some skeezy guy to bring home from the Hideout last night?

“Nah, it’s Jeff. Who’s this?” When you say your name, he hums in acknowledgment. “Oh, yeah. From the bar, right?”

“Yeah…is Jess there?”

He yawns into the receiver. “Last I checked, she was asleep. Finally. She spent half of last night puking her guts up. Everything okay?”

“Mhm. I was just wondering if she could pick me up from…um, from Eddie’s.” You cringe at your admission; the last thing you want is for Eddie’s bandmates to think that you’re some kind of pathetic groupie.

But Jeff seems unfazed. “I’ll be right there.” Before you can protest, he hangs up.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the glass-door reflection. Your hair is a mess, and there’s smudged makeup around your eyes and lips, like a billboard for the walk of shame.

Jeff pulls up a few minutes later, and you bashfully climb into the passenger seat. “Thanks,” you mumble, trying not to let your humiliation show through.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs as he pulls onto the main road, “it’s a special occasion.” When you pinch your eyebrows together in confusion, he laughs. “Ed never lets a girl stay over. Not sure what you did–don’t wanna know, to be honest–but you must’ve made quite the impression.”

“Didn’t mean to,” you say quietly. “We both fell asleep after…yeah. We only woke up when we did because some guy named Wayne called.”

Jeff nods knowingly. “That’s his uncle. He watches his son on Tuesdays when we have our gigs.”

His…son?

Jeff must notice the stunned expression on your face, and his cheeks flush pink. “Shit, he didn’t tell you about Harris?”

“We didn’t do much talking,” you reply wryly. “I’ll have to ask him about that when he calls.”

“Christ,” Jeff shakes his head. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he’s not gonna call. Never does. Calls it the ‘Cat-and-Mouse.’”

“The what?” Your throat goes bone-dry. You should’ve trusted your intuition, denied giving him your number, left it as a one-time thing.

“He brings a girl back to his place, has sex with her and asks for her number, but doesn’t call. When she shows up to the bar the next week, all insecure and wondering if he’s still interested, he acts like he’s been so busy, apologizes profusely, and strings her along until she catches on. Then it’s onto the next one.”

You feel like your heart’s been ripped out of your chest. Bile burns at the back of your esophagus, and you have to blink back tears. How could you be so stupid, so naive? Didn’t you know by now that guys like Eddie Munson are only after one thing?

The two of you sit in silence until he pulls up to your building. “Thanks,” you say finally, “for the ride and for the warning.” Jeff just nods, watching to make sure you get inside before driving off. As soon as he’s safely down the road, you burst into tears. Angry at Eddie, but mostly angry at yourself.

Eddie watches from his window as you get into a car–Jeff’s car–and leave. Great, he thinks, I’m sure I’ll get my ass handed to me at our next practice for fucking around with his sister-in-law’s friend. If we even still have a band, anyway.

Throwing on a pair of dark gray sweatpants and an undershirt, he makes his way downstairs just as Wayne and Harris arrive. His son is leaping out of his carseat to get to him.

“Daddy!” Harris flashes a gigantic smile. His dark brown curls are a tangled mess atop his head. Eddie unbuckles him and wraps him in a giant hug. He’s losing the chubbiness of his baby fat, but he’s still sweet and cuddly.

“Har-Bear!” Eddie laughs. “Did you say goodbye to Grampa Wayne?” Harris encircles Eddie’s waist with his legs, reaching out his arms to give Wayne a hug through the window.

“Sorry again,” Eddie says sheepishly. “Fell asleep and forgot to set the alarm.”

“Got a job yet? A real one?” Wayne asks stoically, ignoring his nephew’s apology.

A storm cloud washes over Eddie’s face. “I’ve told you a million times: nothing’s going to pay the bills as well as working for Rick.”

Wayne rolls his eyes. “Get a job,” he says pointedly, pressing a kiss to Harris’s cheek before lowering his voice and growling at Eddie, “and wipe the damn lipstick off your neck, for Chrissake.”

Jeff’s right: Eddie never calls. The home health aid that takes care of your grandma during the day informs you at the end of each shift that week that no one named Eddie called for you. And while you can’t say you’re shocked, it doesn’t do much to quell the hurt.

You spend as much time as you can preparing your classroom for the new school year. By the time you’re finished, the room is decorated to look like a jungle. Stuffed animals of lions, monkeys, and different birds line the shelf tops, which are packed with various books and art supplies. Your walls are decorated with different posters, all of which encourage kids to be their best.

The hustle and bustle of the first day of school helps keep your mind off of your personal life. With a thermos full of hot coffee, you happily introduce yourself to your teaching assistant, Will. He’s a sweet guy, a few years younger than you, and he’s practically bursting with games to teach the kids.

“Before I forget,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, “I picked up our roster from the office on my way in. Looks like we have ten kids this year.”

“You’re the best,” you tell him gratefully, and he starts putting tiny chairs around tiny tables.

Being new to town, you don’t expect to recognize any of the names on the list. There’s an Abigail Carver, a Joshua Harrington…

And a Harris Munson.

“No fucking way,” you muse, apparently a bit louder than you’d intended, because Will’s head snaps up and he swivels in your direction. “Sorry.”

The sounds of bubbly giggles and excited chatter filing into the hallway grab your attention. One by one, parents start dropping off their kids, kissing them goodbye. There are tears–some from students, some from parents–and you’re quick to reassure everyone that school will be so much fun.

You’re just grabbing the sign-in sheet for Mr. Carver to fill out when you feel a small thump against your legs. When you look down, you see a curly-haired boy staring up at you with wide, brown eyes.

“This is my classroom!” he says matter-of-factly, pointing to the number 3 on the door. “My name’s Harris. Like the guy from Iron Maiden!” He jumps up and down as he speaks. “Are you my teacher?”

“I am.” You smile and introduce yourself, peering towards the door. “Harris? Did a grown-up drop you off?” And please tell me his name is Wayne, you silently plead.

“Oh, yeah! My dad has my backpack!” He starts running back to the hallway, only to crash right into Eddie.

“Little dude, you can’t be running off like—” Eddie stops mid-sentence when his eyes land on you. “Oh, shit.”

You set your jaw, willing yourself to stay strong. He’s on your turf now.

“Mr. Munson, you need to watch your language,” you warn crossly.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, handing Harris’s backpack to him. “I packed him a snack, um, and a juice box.”

“Okay,” you nod, crouching down to Harris’s eye level and injecting enthusiasm into your voice. “Can you find your cubby? It’s the one with your name on it!”

The little boy bounds over to his assigned spot, hanging his bag on the hook before running over to play with blocks.

Forced to interact with Eddie, you press up on your knees and say, “Pick-up is at two.”

“Can I say goodbye to my kid before you kick me out? Jeez,” he grunts, calling out to Harris with his arms wide open. Harris hugs him, half-heartedly promising to be on his best behavior before starting to race back to the toys.

“We walk in the classroom,” you tell him sweetly. “That way, people don’t hurt each other!” You make a point to look over at Eddie when you say the last part, though his gaze is trained on the classroom posters. Harris, innocent and oblivious, walks hurriedly towards the group of kids playing with blocks.

“Didn’t know you were my kid’s teacher,” Eddie remarks, pressing his tongue into his cheek.

You shrug. “Maybe I would’ve told you if you called me.”

Shooting you the wide eyes that he passed down to his son, Eddie lets his lower lip jut out in a little pout. “I’m so sorry; life’s just been, like, crazy lately—”

“Exactly what Jeff said you’d pull,” you bite back. “Two PM, Mr. Munson.” You walk towards your students to begin circle time, leaving Eddie dumbfounded.

After a long day of wrangling ten four-year-olds, you’re ready to go home and take a nap. The kids are gathered around the table, molding Play-Doh and giggling amongst themselves. By 2:10, everyone’s been picked up. Except for Harris.

“Typical,” you mutter, kneeling next to the boy and smiling sweetly. “Whatcha making, Harris?”

He holds up a lump of the yellow clay. “A dinosaur, see? Roar!” You fake being scared, and he laughs. “Don’t worry; it’s just pretend!”

“Oh, phew!” You wipe imaginary sweat off of your brow. “I was afraid that he was gonna eat me!”

Harris reaches over to where one of the other students had been sitting and plucks a handful of blue Play-Doh off of the table. “Wanna play with me?” He’s looking at you adoringly, and you can’t possibly turn him down.

Just as you’re about to join him, Eddie runs into the room. “Hey, buddy! Sorry I’m late. Got, uh, caught up with something.”

Harris just shrugs, unaffected by his dad’s tardiness. “S’okay. Look!” He holds up the dinosaur proudly, giving another ferocious roar.

“That’s awesome! And super scary.” Eddie ruffles Harris’s curly hair before looking at you. “Can we talk for a sec? Out there?” he asks, gesturing to the hallway.

You huff out a sigh. “Fine,” you concede, and Will slips into the chair next to Harris.

Eddie closes the door behind him. “Listen,” he begins, twisting his rings around his fingers, ”about the other night…” He trails off, and for a split second, you think he might offer a genuine apology. “I just don’t want this to affect how you treat Harris.”

You bark out an incredulous laugh. “You really think I treat my students any differently based on whether or not I like their parents?” Crossing your arms, you turn back towards the door, throwing out a pointed, “I think it’s best if you leave now.”

Eddie’s voice draws you back into the conversation. “I’ve never had this problem before,” he snorts.

“Excuse me?”

“Most girls love the thrill of the chase. The will-he, won’t-he. Haven’t struck out yet,” he retorts, a smug grin spreading on his face.

You roll your eyes. “Well, I’m honored to be the first. I don’t know what girls are into your pathetic games, but I’m certainly not one of them. So, please, just go before you say something else ridiculously stupid.”

Eddie bristles at that, standing a bit straighter and clenching his jaw. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, twisting the doorknob and punctuating his frustration with, “Frigid bitch.”

He’s just trying to get under your skin, and you refuse to let him get the best of you. You plaster on a well-practiced fake smile. “If you don’t think that this classroom is a good fit for Harris, you can request a transfer with the office.”

“Sounds like a plan, Sweetheart,” he snaps, yanking the door open so aggressively that it smacks into the wall. “We’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

“Can’t come soon enough.”

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ressjeon · 7 months ago

Text

relief | myg (m.)

pairing ⇢ yoongi x reader (hints of ot7)

genre/au ⇢ smut, fluff, idol!au, long time ??

summary ⇢ the nerves have been shaking Yoongi’s usual confidence while preparing for his first solo tour — what a relief that you’re here then.

wc & rating ⇢ 3k | 18+

warnings/content ⇢ dom/sub dynamics, grinding, protected sex, riding, emotional sex?, praise kink, groping, semi-clothed sex, size kink, breast play, temperature play, orgasm control, yoongi’s hands are everywhere help, aftercare, pillowtalk <3

a/n: it's been a year since yoong's tour kicked off so i wanna celebrate with this, along with my return here! never thought i'll do this cuz i don’t usually write nor read this au but he won again on the poll last year so here we are XD! this is mainly inspired by what i was feeling while watching the live stream of both his shows in the first city of his d-day tour! pretty divider by the amazing @cafekitsune <3

after the final song, you were just as surprised as the crowd around you. a faint chuckle leaves you at the way Yoongi ended his concert.

of course, you should've expected that he'll pull something like this.

“i’m so proud of you yoongs”

you greet him enthusiastically as soon as you spot him at the entrance of the hallways near his dressing room. he’s smiling so wide, reaching you at once with his airport-like walk like how he exited the stage quickly earlier.

you beam once he catches you, wrapping your arms around his shoulders despite how sweaty he is.

“it went well” he giggles lightly, caging you in his arms before grabbing your hand to bring you to the backstage area where you both can see the audience without being seen.

the gummy smile plastered on his face never wavered as he watches the fans dispersing outside and you have an inkling that it's reminding him of the world tours with the boys before.

“i told you it would” you whisper once he turns to you, leaning in to give him a peck but Yoongi’s hand reaches up to grab your neck, pulling you in to catch your lips once more and deepen the kiss.

a small whimper elicits from you, both from being needy and worry that any staff might see you both like this but Yoongi seems to not care. it must be the adrenaline and the whiskey combo he had during the concert cause his calloused hands start roaming your body.

a total opposite during soundcheck where he’s simply cuddling you while waiting during the delay that he almost fell asleep.

though Yoongi's performed in front of millions of people for a decade now, he still feels anxious since he’s doing this on his own and it’s been a long time since he met his fans in person. he was naturally nervous about this but you’ve been doing your best to support him so he's really grateful that you’re here.

teasing him earlier when he put those yellow sunglasses on while you rake your hand through his luscious locks thankfully helped ease his nerves.

"yeah yeah i saw the cat edit"

“you’re so cute”

a firm grab of your ass reminds you of where the two of you are, nudging Yoongi slightly to release you. both breathless from the kiss, he’s looking at you in bewilderment until you gestured him to the waiting staff who’s here to take his post-concert pictures.

“pics first”

he only answered with a pout after releasing you but he followed. you on the other hand couldn't look at the photographer as embarrassment floods you, immediately retreating to the dressing room to wait for Yoongi there.

grabbing another glass of Henny, you scroll through your phone for updates on what’s going on outside. you did sneak out earlier and lined up with fans to get some merch and talked to some of them because well, you are one of them.

loving the boys and their music is one thing you share in common.

after a while, the door opens, revealing a smiling Yoongi like he hadn’t been teasing you this whole time.

maybe that was part of his plan but you’ve been patiently waiting. it even came to the point where you can't wait to be all over him now that everything’s done for the night.

placing your empty glass of brandy on the small side table, you drop your phone on the couch before approaching Yoongi. he chuckles when you hastily drag him toward the couch before climbing on his lap.

he doesn’t mind really, knowing how needy you get after he performs like you were in the past. he might’ve unintentionally teased you like he does to everyone else but it's one of the things he loved about you.

how easily you get turned on in every little thing he and the others do but especially for this. knowing his voice can make you crumble instantly gives him that satisfaction that he didn’t know he had when he first met you.

“you’re worked up this much __?” he teases, hands situating themselves on both sides of your waist. “is it the black or white one?” he adds nonchalantly, pertaining to his outfits prior to the one he’s wearing right now.

“shut up, you know what your voice does to me” you whine impatiently, clutching the silver bone necklace around his neck before leaning in to kiss him again.

ah, the chain, another one that you love seeing on him. he'll always be fascinated with your favourites no matter how long you've been with them.

you deepened the kiss this time and Yoongi welcomed them with fervour. it’s his turn to get lost in the moment now that you’re needier than him. his ending fit riled you up this much that now you’re grinding yourself desperately on him but hey, he’s not complaining.

his hands smooth around your covered thighs after, lingering between the crease of your legs before he releases your lips.

“i’m surprised you’re wearing leggings, you hate it”

“it’s cold”

“explains the sweatshirt too” he muses, one hand tugging the baggy sleeve of your white tour sweatshirt with both his aliases on your chest.

his heart warms seeing it on you, the way you’re proudly wearing him even though this whole thing between you and them still remains a secret. his hands creep underneath your top, caressing your sides that hasten your roll against his crotch.

you lean in to kiss Yoongi once more but he grabs your sides, stopping you.

“want it off though” he whispers, the mischief in his eyes shifts to a demanding one.

his darkening orbs are looking straight into yours, making you squirm against him. you didn’t waste any time at once, taking off both your sweatshirt and your bra in a frenzy, much to Yoongi’s satisfaction.

you’d know with that cocky look resurfacing on his pretty face.

now that you’re bare in front of him, Yoongi can see your crotch rubbing along the top of his denim zippers. he could watch you like this, let you get off on your own until you cum like he’s done many times but he relents.

lately, he’s been so busy with the tour preparation that he missed seeing you this needy. he reaches down to cup your pussy, not surprised to find you drenched knowing how easy it is for you to get wet.

you squirm at his touch, trying to get more friction by rubbing your swollen clit on the buckle of his belt. he knows it's you silently wanting his fingers to help you get off but his hand abruptly leaves you.

frustration looms on your face, your lips turning into a frown but Yoongi grabs your body closer and instantly latches his mouth on your tits, earning a surprised shriek from you.

“yoongi!”

you didn’t mean to be loud but with how Yoong’s been licking your pebbled nipples and occasionally nibbling them, you’re starting to forget that there are still people outside the door who can hear you both.

one hand of yours takes a handful of his messy jet-black hair, pushing his face more into your chest. he groans and continues to nip around one tit while his other hand plays around your neglected breast.

kneading and pinching nonstop, you’re unable to hold in the whiny moans coming out of you as your other hand grips his shoulder. you’re relishing it, the rough feeling of callous fingers against your now-swollen nipples.

taking a glance down at Yoongi, you notice how wet he is. he's drenched in sweat but my fuck does he look even hotter when he does. his mouth releases your peppered breasts, opting to fondle your clothed pussy this time.

“don’t tell me you’ve been wet since the first song” he teases and you look away from his heated gaze. he got his answer when he felt your cunt twitch through your clothed core. rough pads of his fingers rub you faster, more of your slickness seeping through your leggings to his hands.

he was clad in all black earlier, one of your favourites so he wasn’t that surprised.

“yoongi..” you’re panting, almost begging him with the way you're gripping his hair and shoulders. you need him to do something, anything more than teasing at this point.

it surprises you when Yoongi grabs the empty glass of Henny that you put aside on the table earlier, taking the ice to his mouth and he’s back to assaulting your breasts. he rolls the ice cube with his tongue around your nipples, making you shiver at the cold and wet sensation.

you’re whimpering, legs shaking as the band on your lower abdomen threatens to snap with how Yoongi’s cold and wet fingertips fondling your core. the multiple stimulations are pushing you nearer to your orgasm. you’re not sure if he’s aware or not, if this was his plan all along.

“..oh fuck”

“hmm?”

“yoongi..i don’t.. wanna cum in this”

you cry, eyes mustering your neediest look towards him, hoping he’ll listen to your pleas. and Yoongi did, his hand leaving your drenched pussy and mouth releasing your breast. relief courses through you, smiling at him despite the uncomfy feeling of your leggings sticking to your core.

“of course, you don’t, always wanting to cream my cock”

he doesn’t say it in a mocking manner, the hint of adoration coming forward within his hooded eyes. you get off of him once his hands release you, quickly shimmying down your leggings while he unbuckles his baggy pants and boxers.

you didn’t miss him whipping out a condom from his front pocket, making you suspicious with your arms now crossed over your chest.

“and why-”

“you’re here and i did remember you love being fucked anywhere”

he answers right away and your face morphs in shame, arms sliding down to your elbows, revealing your breasts again to Yoongi.

you hate being paranoid like this though you know he’s always been prepared. and he’s right, you do love it when they fuck you anywhere they like whether it be on the venue, in their vans or in their hotel rooms.

it’s one of your favourites when you join them on tours before.

“yoon–..” you try but he beckons you closer and helps you back onto his lap, kissing you right away and ignoring your protests because he knew right away what you were gonna say.

“none of that hmm? lemme get you ready”

he took himself out and put on the condom already before his hands skitter around your inner thighs.

“no”

he quirks a brow at you, wanting to make sure if that's what you want. even though you’re stark naked figure’s been enticing him to just fuck it and ruin you like you’ve been begging for, he's been a pro at controlling himself to prepare you.

huffing before wrapping your hands around his neck, you squeeze his nape as an answer.

you just want him inside you and you don’t wanna wait anymore.

a smirk graces Yoongi's face at your impatience before helping your body up to grind on him again.

now rubbing your bare pussy against his dick, you enjoy watching him seethe with each friction. your hips circle until his swollen tip catches your entrance, pausing just to tease him. one of his hands scrambles to grip your hip and you chuckle before lifting yourself, grabbing his dick and lowering slowly.

“fuck,fuck,fuck”

you watch Yoongi close his eyes, a plethora of curses coming out from his mouth. you’re whimpering in return, pussy walls fluttering around him to try to accommodate his thick girth.

“big..fuck, yoongi” you cry, tears threatening to well in your eyes.

you love the feeling though and he knows it but Yoongi still tries to comfort you, roaming his veiny hands around your body till he reaches your breasts.

you start moving your hips slowly, planting your hands against his clothed chest as you try to take more of him. his hands fly on both sides of your waist, feline eyes also watching you while you’re slowly adjusting to him.

“more..” he grunts, prompting you to go faster as he tightens his grip on your waist. you try to roll your hips faster then deeper until you bottomed down.

pausing for a bit, you couldn’t help but lean in and whine against his clothed shoulder with how his cock’s filling you deliciously.

he has other plans though, releasing a deep groan after you unconsciously clenched around him. he starts fucking up to you, pouring all that adrenaline rush coursing through his bloodstream.

a loud moan escapes you when he finds that soft spot, causing you to pull back and again note the cocky smirk emerging on his handsome face.

“yoongi..fuck”

“shhhh”

he silences you with a finger on his puckered lips, hips bucking up to you faster while he repeatedly hits that spongy spot again.

you struggle but you wanna be good for him so you close your eyes and force yourself to keep your moans in. it results in you gasping instead, small whimpers still escaping you with how magnified everything feels.

“you listen really well baby” amusement laces Yoongi’s tone, eliciting deep moans after when you clamp around him with the praise. his groans spur you to ride him faster but you’re starting to feel the burn on your legs.

he must’ve felt you slowing down cause you found him grinning once you reopened your eyes. gritting your teeth, you dig your nails into Yoongi’s clothed shoulders and call his name in a whimper, biting your lip to hold back your release but his praise makes you crumble.

"yeah? come on __" he gauges you, kissing you at once to swallow the moans that you couldn’t keep in once you reach your peak.

he slows down his pace, letting you ride your own high as his mouth peppers your jaw then later your neck with kisses. his hands continue to caress your naked body until they reach down on your ass.

you let out a surprised yelp when he squeezes them hard, causing you to grip his damp hair once he starts fucking up to you again.

calling your name with a deep groan, you whimper by his ear in response as he chases his release. he’s relentless with his fucking, groping your ass nonstop until you feel him explode in the condom.

you do miss it when he fills you up but you both can’t risk anything while he’s still on tour.

“shit..” he chuckles after releasing you, pushing his hair back with a satisfied look on his face but it shortly disappears when he notices the small tears in your eyes.

“was i too rough?” he worries but you shake your head.

“you know i love it” you reply with a quick peck to his now perplexed face. he doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue.

“i just got emotional..you know”

a small smile of relief breaks into Yoongi’s face, stroking your naked back while you’re both coming down from your highs.

“i’m glad you’re here” he whispers, kissing your forehead. you don’t fucking know why you're suddenly emotional but it could be because of oxytocin flowing through you right now.

“the seesaw acoustic made me cry” you sniff, nuzzling Yoongi's clothed chest that’s a bit damp now, mixed with sweat and your tears but neither of you mind it.

“why? the lyrics still?”

he did remember you crying after hearing it for the first time years ago, the lyrics being the sole reason of it.

“it’s just.. i don’t know, it reminds me of when you guys were touring before” you admit, melancholy in your voice while you reminisce watching his solo performance during their last world tour as a group.

“thank you” he pauses, looking away from you. “for staying with us after all these years”. he takes your hand and plays with it as he says those words.

you adore this side of Yoongi and now you feel bad for doubting him earlier. meeting them years ago and staying this entire time meant a lot of hardships that you went through together with the rest of his members.

“i miss all of you together” you give Yoongi a quick peck on his heated cheeks before giggling, all the sadness gone at the sight of him blushing. he sits up right away and grabs your face to do the same on your lips before lifting your body off of him.

“you see each of them all the time more than i do, i’m jealous”

he gets up, pulling off the used rubber before picking up your clothes that he threw around earlier. he emerges in front of you after, wet wipes in his hand as he parts your sore legs.

“who knows, maybe me and Jimin will drop by”

he stops, letting out a snort and you raise a brow at him, mind suddenly alert to the possibility.

“he’s coming right?”

“idk babe” he’s got that teasing smile and you wanna cry.

“yoonggiiiii..”

“is this why you came here?”

“no”

you’re back to sulking because the boys won’t tell you anything either. it’s something they’ve all kept a secret cause even Jimin won’t budge earlier when you tried to get the answer from him during pillow talk.

however, Yoongi surprises you amidst your sulking when his head’s suddenly between your legs, licking up a stripe of your swollen folds, causing you to whine at the sensitivity.

he knows you’re tired so he stops your hand from grabbing his damp hair.

“later” he mutters, licking his glistened lips as he wipes your pussy.

you didn’t reply, still lying down on the couch while trying to put your bra, panties and leggings back on. getting up would be impossible so you wanna stay on the couch for a bit to cool down.

“i wanna surprise everyone okay? and you’re always on stan twitter”

he gives up, grinning at you with that adorable gummy smile before grabbing another glass of whiskey on the table.

then instead of wearing it back, you throw your merch shirt at him.

“YOU GET DEETS BECAUSE OF ME” you yell, earning a deep chuckle from Yoongi.

then he pulls out his phone and takes a picture of you, sending it to your group chat with a thumbs up caption. the others surprisingly replied immediately, with Jimin responding with a wink emoji.

oh they will pay for this.

e/n: it's been a long time lmao how are y'all? btw i wrote this during those two days and haven't opened it in almost a year now so 😂

685 notes · View notes

wooahaeproductions · 21 days ago

Text

Forging the Threads of Time

Professor/Greek God Hephaestus Wonwoo x Reincarnated Female Reader

Genre: smut, fluff, angst, college au, reincarnation au, fantasy au

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: mentions of Greek myths, mentions of death and sickness, kissing, smut (grinding, unprotected sex, sort of sub!Wonwoo, classroom sex, penetrative sex)

Rating: 18+

Summary: Wonwoo never expected to meet the mortal love of his life ever again and you never thought you’d feel so drawn to your welding professor.

Taglist: @black-swan-blog27 @fullmindlady @bbybnnuy

A/N: Well, this certainly was a labor of love and I really wish I'd had the time to expand on this world further but I really hope you enjoy reading this. I was honored to be a co-host of The 13 Gods of Olympus collab with Aeris @beomcoups and write this piece for it.

A big thank you to my beta readers for making sense of this: Jupiter @cheolism, Tara @diamonddaze01, and Haneul @chanranghaeys 💕

Lastly, thank you Sevn @aaagustd for the most beautiful banner. ~Maren

Wonwoo hadn’t been banished to earth for long, a bitter taste left in his mouth after what his mother and supposed wife had done to him. He had taken to frequenting speakeasies, some fancy, some considered a bit dodgy. That didn’t matter when all he was seeking was alcohol to ease the injustice he felt. And that’s when he met you, a bartender at one of the fancier places he had gone to. The first time he sat at your bar, you took one look at him and said, “You look like you could use a strong drink,” and proceeded to pour him a whisky. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt drawn to you, and when you looked at him, he could tell you felt it too.

From then on, he only frequented your speakeasy. Then he got the courage to ask you on a date. He began to court you. Frequent dates turned into a committed relationship, which turned into the two of you living together, and eventually marrying each other. That day of your marriage was the happiest out of all his lives. He didn’t know how, but being with you healed wounds that Aphrodite, his first wife in Olympus, had left him with.

For the first and only time, Wonwoo had fallen in love with a mortal.

And then, you became ill and his new world collapsed.

In the present, Wonwoo tossed and turned under the covers as images playing in his head invaded his sleep, images of you. Images of the first time he met you at the speakeasy, of him seeing you walking down the aisle when you got married, and unfortunately of your last moments in the hospital when your mortality proved itself to be all too real.

He awoke with a start, feeling unsettled. He hadn’t dreamt of you in decades, or at least it felt like decades. He couldn’t be sure since time passed differently for him. You had been mortal but Wonwoo was not. He was immortal; a god. The god Hephaestus to be exact, but he hadn’t gone by that name since the moment his mother banished him.

Wonwoo sighed, flinging an arm over to cover his eyes for a few seconds. He waited in early morning silence before turning over to see the time on his bedside clock. He groaned, realizing it was twenty minutes before his alarm for work sounded. There was no way he was going back to sleep at this point. Pushing the dreams to the back of his mind, he flipped off the covers and begrudgingly rolled out of bed.

Wonwoo taught welding and metalworking at the local art college, and today was the beginning of the new semester. He had planned to be there early to make sure everything in his classroom was in order, but now he was kind of regretting that decision thanks to his disrupted sleep.

He got dressed in a nice button-up and some slacks he had set out the night before. If he was a teacher for a more fancy subject like literature or history, he might have worn a suit. That didn’t fit his personality though. Before his banishment, working with metal and fire had been his whole life; it was part of his identity and something he found he didn’t want to change.

He paused in his bathroom long enough to brush his teeth and glance at his reflection in the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair to make sure it wasn’t too messy before going down the hall to the living room. He grabbed his briefcase of class materials that were left on his desk when he finished planning the semester out last week and grabbed his phone from the charger that was there as well.

Finally, he made his way to the entry of his apartment and grabbed his welding helmet, gloves, and heavy-duty apron from the console table along with his keys before heading out the door. He took a quick glance at the time on his phone before pocketing it. He had plenty of time to grab coffee at the little shop near campus.

Wonwoo had never been a breakfast person, so it was always a cup of coffee, usually an Americano in the morning. The only exception was the very rare occasion when his friend Mingyu, who happened to be the god Hestia and the owner of a nightclub on Earth, would make him breakfast.

Reaching his truck in the parking lot, Wonwoo unlocked the doors and put all his teaching items in the passenger seat. He then got in the driver’s seat and when he put the key in the ignition, he was met with the classical music he had on when he was last in the car, specifically Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons”. He wasn’t much of a music person because it changed so much; He’d rather listen to things that hadn’t changed in the hundreds of years he had been earthbound.

He pulled out of his parking spot and started to drive toward the coffee shop. Autumn was beginning to edge out the summer, the leaves on trees and bushes near the sidewalks were slowly turning orange and red. Wonwoo had noticed there was a slight chill in the air that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago.

It was also Fall when he met you for the first time. Another thing that he chose to try to ignore and force to the depths of his brain, but a clenching in his heart and the feeling of helplessness happened anyway. He continued to stifle it down as he drove.

A quick few minutes later, he was pulling into a parking spot at the cafe. It was a little busier than usual, most likely due to it being the start of the new semester and more students were stopping by to get their caffeinated pick-me-ups. He got out of his truck and walked inside the shop, the door making a ringing sound to indicate a person had come in.

Wonwoo was very much a regular at the shop and before he could even think about getting in line, one of the baristas held up a to-go cup to indicate his drink was ready for him and set it by the register for when he got to the front of the line. They were moving quickly and it didn’t take long for him to get there.

“Good Morning, Wonwoo. Here is your Americano,” the girl at the register said as she handed him the drink and punched the correct codes into the register.

He stuffed a hand in his pocket, producing a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her. He still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of using a plastic card to pay for things. She handed him back his change, which was only a few cents, and he immediately stuck it in the tip jar in front. Despite always using cash, he didn’t like his pockets to jingle. He gave a small wave of thanks and then left the cafe.

He got back into his truck, setting his coffee down in the cup holder. He glanced at the truck’s console, checking the clock for a third time. By now, it was 7:30 AM and class started in an hour. He had plenty of time to get ready for class. He pulled out of the cafe’s parking lot and drove only a few streets over to where the college campus was located. The welding department was toward the back of campus and had its own little lot for parking with only a short walk to all the classrooms.

Getting out of the car, Wonwoo grabbed his coffee from the cup holder and set it on the roof of his truck. He reached back through the car, putting all the things he sat in the passenger seat earlier this morning in his arms before shutting the car door with his hip and grabbing his coffee cup once more.

Wonwoo walked to his classroom door and realized he didn’t have enough hands to pull the door key out of his pocket. He gave an exasperated sigh, setting the coffee cup on the ground just enough out of the way of the door so that he could get the keys out to unlock it. He unlocked the door and flung it open, his leg keeping it open long enough for him to slip the keys back into his pocket and get his abandoned coffee before it slammed shut behind him.

It was dark, the only light coming from the two windows in the front. Since he had no available hands to turn on the light switch, Wonwoo slowly made his way to his desk in the half-light and unloaded everything he had in his arms. He walked back over near the door and flipped the lights on, making himself squint slightly from the sudden light. Back at his desk, he finished off what was left of his coffee and went to work getting his classroom ready for the students who would arrive shortly.

Eventually, all the student desks had been set up with the supplies the school provided for each student, although today was mostly going to just be for talking about the class expectations. Wonwoo had planned to give them a small demonstration of what they would end up learning and had his own welding desk set up with a few metal sheets that he would weld together. They would use that process to make whatever project they picked out to make during the semester.

Wonwoo stood up from his desk and students started to trickle in, a stack of paper syllabi in his hands. He was old school in that way and he had printed them the night before and put them in his briefcase. As each student sat down, he set a syllabus on the desk in front of them. He had developed a bit of rhythm, that is until he saw you walk in the classroom and he came to a dead stop. There was no doubt in his mind who you were, you even looked identical despite wearing modern clothing. First, the dreams from this morning and now this. What sort of sick plan did fate have?

You walked into the welding classroom, your first class of the day. You weren’t even sure why you signed up for the class but it was a good elective to take, and maybe it might even turn out to be a fun one. As you made your way to a desk, you felt as if there were eyes on you. It didn’t feel uncomfortable though, like when you could tell a man was ogling you. You sat down at a desk and looked up to the front, finding who you assumed to be the teacher, frozen with papers in his hands and staring. His were the eyes that were staring at you, almost like they were trying to burn a hole through your body. Your eyes eventually met with his and unexpectedly, you couldn’t look away either. What was this sudden warm and magnetic feeling?

Finally, he looked away and it felt like someone had snapped a chord. It felt like you had been in a trance of sorts, and you hoped only a few minutes had passed. You put your school bag and materials for the class on the floor next to you and turned your focus on the syllabus that had been sitting on your desk while the rest of the students filled the classroom. Once the teacher, Mr. Jeon or Wonwoo, as he introduced himself as later, felt everyone had shown up for class, he started explaining the syllabus and demonstrating some of the things you would learn with him that semester including stick welding, which was the main type you’d be using for the project listed in the syllabus.

You kept stealing glances at the man, noticing how handsome he was. He was built, not in a bodybuilder way, but in a way you could tell had honed over time due to his metal working. Yet at the same time, he gave off a bookish aura when he occasionally slipped the pair of glasses he had sitting at his desk on. All the while you could not shake the feeling that he was familiar to you, that he was someone to you. You weren’t sure what it was, but you didn’t think it was necessarily a bad thing.

You left the class an hour later, still feeling bewildered. For the rest of the day, your thoughts were filled with him and who he could be. Did you know him as a child? Was this a deja vu situation? Or was this even deeper, like knowing him from a past life or something like that? You didn’t like this not knowing, so you decided there was really only one way to figure out what this was. You needed to get to know him. More precisely, you needed to ask him on a date. Sure, he was a teacher and that was generally taboo territory even if you were both adults but you needed to know what this feeling was, who he was.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was apprehensive and questioned lots of things after class had ended. Was it actually you? It certainly felt like you. Just like the dream he had early that morning, he found himself wary of the timing. Why was the universe putting you here and now after all that time? Wonwoo knew what happened before. He didn’t think he could take it if he lost you the same way again. He nearly lost himself before and he couldn’t even fathom what it would be like if the same thing were to happen for a second time. So just like that, Wonwoo made up his mind. No matter how strong the connection felt between you two, he was determined to keep you at arm’s length.

A week or so had passed and to Wonwoo’s annoyance, the feeling had not gone away at all. In fact, he felt it was stronger. The more he tried to resist your stares and signs of flirting, the stronger the pull felt. He felt surges of electricity when your hands brushed against each other when he gave you handouts. He knew you purposely would ask for help when you were practicing welding techniques, just so that the two of you could have the slightest contact even though he knew darn well you didn’t need help at all. Wonwoo hated it. He wanted you so bad but at the same time, he didn’t. He couldn’t.

You didn’t understand.

You were pulling all the subtle advances you could think of without blatant flirting and your teacher would not budge. You could tell he felt the same things you did, the same charge when you touched. There was a familiar warmth and comfort when you felt his arms against your back while helping you weld, something that felt like love but there was no way you could feel that way this soon, right?

You had already decided to ask him out eventually, but you were hoping you could get him to warm up to you first so that it would be simple for him to say “yes” or perhaps even to ask you out instead. It seemed he wasn’t going to make it easy on you, hesitating for whatever reason unknown to you. You made the official decision, you would ask him out. Today.

You purposely waited until all the other students had left the classroom, putting your materials away slowly at your desk and in your book bag. Wonwoo had returned to sit at his desk, also cleaning up materials from today’s class. Once all the others were gone, you made your way to the front and stood in front of his desk. He didn’t look up for what felt like ten minutes but it was probably only a few. He was ignoring you, whether it was on purpose or not you didn’t know.

When Wonwoo finally did look up he asked, “Is there something else I can help you with Y/N?”

“Yeah, you can help me by going on a date with me,” you said boldly and matter-of-factly.

Wonwoo let out an audible sigh and rubbed at his face in unease. “Y/N, I’m your teacher,” he responded, using a more valid reason to refuse you instead of just his feelings.

“I know. It’s frowned upon, sure, but it’s not against the rules. I’ve never been one to shy away from taking risks. So let’s go on a date,” you persuaded.

“No.” Wonwoo definitely was not going to make this simple.

You scoffed. “Fine, but I’ll just ask you again until you agree to it.” Then you walked out of the classroom, leaving Wonwoo with a slight scowl on his face. There was no way you were going to give up that quickly. You needed to know what this was.

Over the next three days, you asked him out after class again and again, his answer always being a firm “no”. Wonwoo was determined not to let heartbreak and the complete destruction of his supposedly safer world happen again, even if that meant a mild version of it now from rejecting you so many times. To him, that would be a gentle pain compared to being together and losing you for a second time. And that was much more acceptable in his eyes.

On day four, Wonwoo was prepared with his repeated answer. Except you had a different question this time.

“Can I just ask why?” you asked, standing up at your desk before leaving class. “We both know the fact that you are my teacher isn’t the real reason.” You sounded a bit exasperated now, you had never been rejected this many times.

Wonwoo contemplated, coming to stand closer to you, almost nose to nose before he said, ”I’m not sure you would believe my real reason.”

“Try me,” you challenged, the now normal charge pulsing between you two.

Wonwoo gave you a hard stare. Maybe if he did tell you, you’d think he was insane and you would finally give up. “I’m not human,” he said simply.

You squinted at him. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“I’m not a human. I’m a God. They called me Hephaestus,” Wonwoo said, wincing a bit as he spoke his previous name. To his surprise, you didn’t call him crazy. He watched as the wheels in your mind turned.

You didn’t know if you believed him, but you didn’t exactly think he was lying either. You gave a small laugh thinking of how ironic it was for him to be a welding teacher.

“See. You think I’m nuts,” he said, misunderstanding your giggle.

“No, no, actually I’m pretty sure I believe you. But you being a god doesn’t deter me. In fact, it makes me more interested. There’s no way you just being a god or whatever is what is making me feel like I belong with you, like I need to be with you,” you clarified.

Wonwoo’s eyes widened a bit. He knew what he felt with you and he knew it was possible that you had too, but maybe not the magnitude of it. “You’re her reincarnation. She’s you. You’re her,” he said, softly. A note of sadness seeped through his words now.

“Who?” you asked, needing to know more.

“The only true love I ever had. After I was kicked out of Olympus and sent to Earth by my mother.”

Now you thought you got it. The reason you had all these unexplainable feelings, why you felt like you knew Wonwoo already, why you felt so connected to him. It was because you did know him, albeit in a different lifetime. You had been with him, you had loved him and he had definitely loved you. But there was still something you didn’t get. Why wouldn’t he want to be with you again then?

“There’s still something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?” you questioned.

Wonwoo looked down at his feet and you barely made out the words that he responded with. “You were sick. You died.”

Your heart dropped and you felt a piece was broken, for him and for your previous self. But you were a new person now, it might not end that way with you. Next thing you knew, you were closing the space between the two of you and pressing your lips against his. He backed up, trying not to give in to you but all that resulted in was you pinning him against the classroom wall.

At first, he just stood there, frozen. However, he could no longer deny his body’s chemistry with yours and in a split second decided he no longer wanted to fight it. He kissed you back and somehow the entire universe felt like it had been righted after so long. Suddenly, he didn’t care that his heart could break again and never be repaired. Kissing you, touching you made it feel like that could never happen to him again.

Since he seemed to reciprocate your advances now, you moved your arms from caging him against the wall and instead ran your fingertips underneath his shirt, just at the edge of his slacks. Even touching his skin felt right and familiar to you. There really was this unparalleled feeling that was felt with nobody else but him. Despite being annoyed with him previously, you felt his devotion to the you from before and wanted to take your time with him.

You slowly pulled his shirt over his head, taking it off and revealing the abs you knew were under it. You knew they were there, yet you still gasped at how lovely they looked. Wonwoo reached forward and pulled your shirt off as well, leaving you in your bra. Soon both of your pants and undergarments had been taken off, the two of you completely exposed in the classroom.

Wonwoo ran his hands along various parts of your skin, igniting that ever-present electricity. He pushed you against the edge of his desk as his exposed length rubbed against you, making you wetter by the second.

You took back control, pulling his arm to make him sit in the chair behind the desk. He looked up at you, his face full of adoration as you moved to straddle him. You started slowly, gradually grinding against him, wanting to show him a more gentle side.

“Fuck.” He let out the word in a deep breath as you continued to grind your slit against him. The word seared straight to your core and you needed him in you now.

“Wonwoo, I need to ride you,�� you whined, calling him by his first name. He nodded and let you gradually sink onto him, taking your hips into his warm, large hands once you bottomed out. A moment later, you had adjusted to his size and you began moving your hips which elicited a hiss from Wonwoo.

You glanced at him, making sure this was okay. “It’s okay, it feels really good,” He confirmed, encouraging you to keep moving.

You picked up the rhythm, creating a steady pace as you rode him in the chair. Both of your voices echoed in the classroom, moans confirming your pleasure and you were so glad he didn’t have any classes after yours.

Wonwoo’s hips began to stutter and the moans he was letting out before were turning into whimpers. You were sure he was getting close to a release. Then you shifted in his lap just slightly so that he was hitting that particular spot within you. “Y/N, I’m gonna…” He whispered.

“Me too,” you responded. As soon as you spoke those words, his hips stilled and ropes of his cum painted your insides. He leaned forward to kiss you while his length continued to jerk. The force of his orgasm led you to your own, one so intense it left you weak in the knees and lightheaded. You ended up slightly limp in his lap, resting your head on his broad shoulder.

You didn’t remember him pulling out or moving you to sit in his lap like a little kid. A minute or two later, the post-orgasm haze had worn off and you felt like you needed to say something. “I know we are connected and I kind of pushed you into kissing me first. I know I’m supposed to be a reincarnation of your true love but I didn’t mean for that to happen,” you said, rambling in a little embarrassment and a small bit of guilt for pulling Wonwoo further into this whole thing.

“So you regret it?” Wonwoo asked, a strange deadpan tone to his voice and he moved his hands that were just cradling the small of your back. He just made the choice to move ahead with you and now you were already regretting it?

“No, No. I didn’t mean that. I regret nothing. Do you?” You asked with a raised eyebrow at his reaction. It sounded like he was finally letting himself be free from what was holding him back from you. You didn’t mean for it to sound like you didn’t want everything you just did.

Eventually, he answered. “No, I don’t,” he said with a bit of a chuckle and kissed you on the forehead before you got up from his lap.

You smiled at him cheekily then. “Good.”

What’s the worst that could happen? Well, Wonwoo already knew the worst thing that could but maybe, just maybe fate wouldn’t be cruel and this time might end differently. He decided he would take that chance with you.

©️wooahaeproductions

All works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works.

#seventeen fanfic #kvanity #svthub #thediamondlifenetwork #greek god collab #seventeen wonwoo #seventeen smut #jeon wonwoo #svt angst #svt smut #svt wonwoo

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faggotbeloved · 13 days ago

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Cold Metal Biting Soft Flesh | Yandere!Curly x Captain!M!Reader

1: Sanitized (~1k words)

Cw: Canon typical violence, my headcannons for post-crash Curly's wounds, no beta we close our eyes, body horror, lots of painkillers

This work does not contain smut but is 18+. Minors and fem-aligned people, please do not interact. AN at the end.

└───────────────────────┘

It had been only a few hours after saving a man from a three decade old craft when you’d determined that he was going to be under your primary care, aside from medical, from now on.

The man, as you’d discovered, was in fact the captain of the Tulpar. Upon inspection of his wounds, which only occurred back at the ship and with him sedated, Rhodes discovered the harrowing truth that he’d been in a state of third degree full-body burns for over four months. Worse still, he had one half-functional eye with the eyelid burnt shut though the other was severely dry, eyelidless, but still in surprisingly good condition.

Immediately, Rhodes ordered someone to get the passenger’s company issued bio-fabricator, a critical technology with the ability to take biological elements and grow genetically similar (but not identical) copies.

Technically, it was reserved for creating more plants or animals in a biosphere lacking most of the required succession elements, but it’d be easy to grow supplemental skin, hair, and blood to perfectly match the burnt man’s body. He also ordered silver sulfadiazine cream to soothe the initial burns, and for the first time since the man was in the accident he seemed to not be in agony.

──────────────────────

You sat beside the man. He still had his tongue and vocal cords, so he could talk (with much effort), but he was fully deaf so you had a captioning machine set up for him to read your words. Once he awoke, you silently showed him your badge with your name, picture, and title, which he read and nodded once he was done.

“Are you able to talk, sir? We need your name,” you said softly, watching as your head doctor, Rhodes, finally replaced the sticky, deteriorating bandages that practically cemented to his raw flesh. Luckily, the man was unable to feel it with how numb his entire body was.

He nodded weakly, eye never straying from you for long, and coughed. He spat up blood and saliva, to which you gently swiped a rag across his chin to remove it. “It’s okay. Take your time. This is Rhodes, he’s your doctor for now, but one of the passengers here is also a cosmetic surgeon and can start skin grafts once you’re ready.”

You sat back to give the man some space and idly wondered if the bio-fabricator could make enough connective tissues, nerves, and muscles to give him back his limbs. Rhodes left after replacing his arms and legs bandages, and soon the man tapped your resting hand with one of his handless arms and you looked back at him.

“C…url…y,” he rasped out. His volume was lacking, but he couldn’t hear himself so it was to be excpected.

“Curly? Is that your name?”

He nodded weakly. You spoke again, “Curly. Okay, and can you answer a couple questions for me? Shake or nod your head, if you can’t talk.”

Curly nodded, and you began questions. “Were you the captain of the freighter I found you on?” Nod. “Were there exactly five people, counting you?” Nod. “Did the crash do this to you?” Nod.

“Was the crash on purpose?”

He hesitated, then nodded very minutely.

“Did you–” you were cut off. “Jim…my,” he croaked. Well, it sounded more like ‘Jenny’ on account of his lack of lips, but you got the gist. “Jimmy crashed the ship?” Nod. “Did the crew know that?” Shake.

“Shit.” Nod. You chuckled at the nod and he looked up, like he was proud of making you laugh.

“So… do you have your ID with you?” you asked, and he produced a fresh ID from a lanyard under his gown. “Huh. Did Jimmy put that on you?” You asked, to which he nodded. “Was he your friend?” A weak nod. “Do you know why he went batshit? I mean, he’s the only one who could have killed all of your crewmates.” Curly tilted his head like he was wondering what you were asking. You rambled too fast for the machine to pick up. “Oh, yeah. Do you know of a motive?” Shake.

You glanced from the ID card to his face. There’s no mistaking those eyes. You notice there’s something written on the back, but the handwriting is awful. “Um, it looks like Jimmy tried to give me instructions and told a five year old scribe. Can you decipher this?” You asked, showing him the text. Shake. “Fine, I guess. It’s good you have this, facial reconstruction can probably get you pretty close to your face from then.”

He shrugged and laid back, gazing at you. “Wait…” he gasped. “‘lease.” Please.

“Yeah?”

“Stay?” He pleaded, using what remained of his forearm to lock around your arm and keep you (only barely) in place. “’m… s…cared."

“Scared?” You echoed, settling back into your chair and placing a hand on his thigh. “You’re safe here. Everyone who goes in and out of here has high clearance and I know them all personally.” Even still, Curly shook his head. “‘lease,” he echoed.

“I… suppose I could get Sealegs to move my desk into here. Would that be good?” Nod. Nod. Nod. “This is Captain to Sealegs, Sealegs, do you copy?”

“I copy. Whatcha need?” Sealegs hummed. The sound of a familiar video game caught your attention.

“Quit playing Snake on government computers, first of all. Wheel my workbench to the medbay,” you requested, only endearingly annoyed at your nephew. After a few minutes, a young boy with the same eyes and hair as you came in with a rolling desk equipped with robotics equipment, soldering items, and more. Curly seemed to relax once you situated beside him and the two of you slipped into a comfortable silence.

“Hey, Curly, can I take some measurements of you?” You asked after a couple minutes. “Arms and legs,” you added. Nod. Curly lifted up a handless arm and waited for you to start, to which you took diameter and circumference of his arm, approximate length, shape of the amputation, and more. You did the same for the other arm and both legs, then you sat back down to work.

──────────────────────

In a few minutes, you put your higher education to use and attached a crude prosthetic to his leg, but since he was numbed to hell it wasn’t causing him any pain. You worked, he watched, and soon he fell asleep painlessly for the first time in probably a half of a year or so, for him at least.

Once he stopped coughing every time you looked away for too long, you were able to get some work done and sent off an update to your boss–you told him that you had a new crew member on board, that you authorized the use of the bio-fabricator, and that you’d pay for his medical costs. Of course, you wouldn’t tell Curly that. Feeling indebted to someone is a terrible thing.

You were in for a long night. You wanted to give him the most mobility possible, but it’d be up to him ultimately to use them. The least you could do is build him the choice.

┌───────────────────────┐

I’m not happy with this, but if I didn’t get it out now it’d rot forever :( thank you to everyone who’s left kind words and reblogs and likes!! It means so much and if youve left any asks I’m so sorry but tumblr SAYS i have 6 asks but none show up :(((

#✑ captain curly.#✑ my works.#yandere captain curly #curly mouthwashing x male reader #yandere curly mouthwashing #yandere curly #captain curly x male reader #captain curly x reader #curly mouthwashing x reader #curly x male reader #curly mouthwashing #curly x reader #captain curly #tw yandere

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ichorai · 2 years ago

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balance the scales ; aemond targaryen. (m)

alternatively titled soda. track six of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; aemond targaryen x strong!f!reader

synopsis ; he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

words ; 40.3k (my longest oneshot!)

themes ; heavy angst, action, smut (minors dni!), mild fluff, enemies to lovers back to enemies trope, slowburn, betrothed au

warnings / includes ; violence/war, several character deaths, descriptions of injury/blood, birth scenes, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, hotd s1 spoilers, reader is fiercely team black, implications of rape (aegon), really really heavy angst, harwin is reader's older brother, helaena is the sweetest ever :( jace and luke are reader's best friends, rhaenyra is practically reader's mother, lots of Emotions in this one, asoiaf politics and references for all of you book nerds

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It was said that you came into the world silent.

A problem with your lungs, the midwives had solemnly told your father, the Hand of the King, proclaiming you dead not three minutes after. Lyonel Strong was grief-stricken at not only having lost his dear wife to the perilous task of childbirth, but you as well.

But you were a fighter from the very beginning. At least, that’s what Harwin had told you. Once they’d laid you in your eldest brother’s arms, your airway had miraculously cleared up and you’d let out a hoarse, shrill cry—and the rest was history.

“I was twenty when you were born, you know,” said Harwin, voice rife with affection, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from your face. “I was so scared that I’d lose you. Now look at you—eight years of age and healthier than ever. Are you excited to meet the new baby?”

“Yes! The babe gets a dragon egg and everything!”

You beamed up at your eldest brother, batting away his fretful hands and turning to your friends. Though—they’d always felt more like your brothers than merely friends.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, who bore a striking resemblance to Harwin (and you’d keenly noticed that they shared your smile), were playing with a wooden carving of a dragon, blowing raspberries and running around the spacious chamber. The taller of the two, Jace, was only a few moons older than you, whilst Luke was much younger and looked up to you—quite literally and figuratively. The two young boys roped you into their little game as well, screaming with laughter when you began chasing after them with a snarl, arms outstretched.

With a slight smile, Harwin watched over the three of you, hands comfortably rested against the hilt of his gilded longsword. Even though he was only but your older brother, he always treated you as if you were his own child—after all, you barely saw your father anyway, seeing as he was always busy serving the King as the Hand. The fact that he was a whole two decades older than you only made him all the more protective of his youngest sibling.

His attention was pulled away from the three kids clambering on top of each other when the doors creaked open. An exhausted Rhaenyra slowly limped in, Laenor Velaryon right behind her, holding a bundle of red and gold fabric.

“Mother!” exclaimed Jace, getting onto his feet to greet Rhaenyra. “Look!”

He scuttled away to pull the cover off of the stone incubator, revealing a scaly dragon egg of dark emerald hue. You and Luke were hot on his trail, peering over his shoulder to marvel at the smoking egg. A large part of you was jealous that Jace and Luke and the new babe each got a dragon egg, and you never did, despite having similar physical attributes to the boys. But they were royal Princes, and you were only the youngest child of the Hand, which really meant little to nothing other than fancy titles and polite honorifics.

“We chose an egg for the baby,” Luke excitedly told his mother, who leaned against a chaise tiredly.

Harwin offered his arm to Rhaenyra, helping her slowly ease down onto the seat.

“Ah,” she said, the beginnings of a smile to her lips. “That looks like the perfect one.”

“I let Luke choose!” chirped Jace, squaring his shoulders proudly. “But Luke couldn’t decide, so I asked Y/N.”

The purple of Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with affection when she looked at you, nearly shrouded behind Jace’s taller stature. “Sweet girl,” she hummed, briefly glancing up at Harwin, before returning her gaze to you. “You chose wonderfully. Thank you.”

Luke reached out to graze his fingers over the egg’s ridges, but flinched back from the heat, sticking them into his mouth. You pulled a grimace but laughed anyway, lightly shoving Luke away from the incubator.

“Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess,” said your brother. “I thought it best to escort the lads. They insisted on Y/N coming along, as well.”

“Laenor and I thank you, Commander,” replied Rhaenyra, dipping her head with gratitude.

Harwin’s eyes locked on the babe in Laenor’s arms. “Another boy, I heard,” he said.

The Princess nodded once, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly.

“Might I?” asked the Commander.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra told her husband, who finally ripped his loving gaze from the babe, and handed him over to Harwin.

With flailing hands, Luke reached out to Harwin, eyes trained on Laenor. “Please, father, may I hold Joffrey?”

“Ah, ah, ah, back to the Dragonpit for you two—before they send out a search party!” ushered Laenor as he led the boys out of the chamber. “Come, Y/N, would you like to join the boys?” he asked kindly, clearly wanting to give Harwin and Rhaenyra some well-earned time alone.

Excited at the prospect of seeing the boys’ dragons again, you scrambled out the doors after them, squeaking out, “Wait! Wait for me!”

Once the doors were shut and the kids were gone, Rhaenyra looked upon Harwin bouncing the babe fondly.

“You’re asleep in front of the Commander of the City Watch,” he gently scolded the tiny thing. “Terrible lack of respect.”

“A certain insolence runs in the family, I’m afraid,” commented Rhaenyra, subtly hinting to the baby being of Harwin’s blood, rather than Laenor’s.

Harwin tried his best to suppress his smile, failing miserably. He looked down at the baby once more, noting with pleased fascination that Joffrey had his nose.

The dungeons of the Dragonpit were dimly lit by sparse, flaming torches hanging by the stone walls. It stank of smoke and ash and stale blood, but you didn’t quite mind the smell. You bounced on the balls of your feet behind Jacaerys, eyes wide with anticipation as the dragonkeepers brought out Vermax.

He was a rather tempestuous beast, snarling at the lot of you as he stalked forward. The pale orange of his wings and the green of his scales warbled beneath the fire’s light. The keepers spoke in their lilting Valyrian tongues to command the dragon—foreign to your ears, but no less interesting.

Aegon seemed not to share your disposition, however, yawning loudly and rolling his eyes to the side, clearly bored with watching Jacaerys bond with Vermax. Ever since Aegon had won mastery over his own dragon, Sunfyre, his head seemed to swell twice its size and he held no interest in anybody else’s dragon but his own. Both you and Luke glanced up at him with a scowl. The younger of the silver-headed boys kept his gaze trained to the ground, used to his brother’s antics.

You’d always been much more fond of Aemond than Aegon anyway—he was far kinder to you than his brother. Though, compared to Aegon, it was barely a competition.

Watching on in rapt fascination, you turned your head to see one of the keepers bring out a bleating lamb for Vermax to feast upon.

“Can I say it?” asked Jacaerys, equal parts nervous and excited. He glanced at his uncles, before looking back at you, eyes gleaming. You gave him an encouraging smile. At the keepers’ hum of approval, he turned back to his dragon. “Dracarys, Vermax!”

With a grateful hiss, Vermax turned and blew a long breath of fire straight at his prey, pupils sharpening. Even from afar, you could feel the heat of the flames kiss your skin.

Vermax happily stalked forward and began biting into the charred flesh of the lamb. The keepers clapped Jacaerys on the shoulder proudly, before heading off to round Vermax further into the darkness of the Dragonpit.

Just as you were about to tell Jace how amazing that was, Aegon interrupted by cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder.

“Aemond, we have a surprise for you,” he glibly said.

The other two boys glanced at each mischievously. You tilted your head, feeling a bit left out. You weren’t aware of any surprises they had planned for the young Prince.

“What is it?” asked Aemond.

“Something very special!” chimed Lucerys, just before he ran off into the darkness.

Clearing his throat, Aegon continued, “You’re the only one of us without a dragon.”

Aemond frowned. “Indeed.”

“And we felt badly about it, so we found one for you!” exclaimed Aegon.

This came as a surprise to you. To your knowledge, none of the dragons had nested as of late, and there were no new eggs for Aemond to take.

The same skepticism colored Aemond’s tone. “A dragon? How?”

Aegon didn’t even try hiding his snarky smile. “The gods provide, dear brother.”

And out came Luke from the shadows, tugging along a large, oinking pig. Tufts of dried wheat were tied around the pigs back, made to mimic a dragon’s wings. You felt your lips twist into a frown. What a terrible thing to gift Aemond.

The other boys giggled as they announced, “Behold, the Pink Dread!”

They snickered in amusement at Aemond’s reaction—or lack thereof.

“Be sure to mount her carefully,” cackled Aegon, prodding his brother’s side. “First flight’s always rough.” He snorted loudly into Aemond’s ear, who stood still and unflinching.

Jace and Luke followed suit, making obscene pig noises and giggling. They turned to leave the Dragonpit.

“Come on, Y/N, let’s go see if they have any lemon cakes for supper!” said Luke, grabbing your hand.

You kept your gaze trained on Aemond, shaking the younger boy off. “I’ll be right there… just give me a minute.”

Shrugging, Luke scampered off with Jace and Aegon, still laughing between his pig-reminiscent oinks.

Uncertain, you stood a couple feet away from Aemond, toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You sympathized with him, really. All your life, you had no dragon of your own, despite always having wanted one. You knew it wasn’t the same because it was his birthright as a Prince to have a dragon—but you could still understand the feeling.

“I’m sorry about them,” you said, moving closer. “That’s a terrible thing to gift you.”

The Prince was silent for a few moments, before rotating on his feet to fix his glare on you. You shuffled back a step.

An amalgamation of anger and embarrassment etching crystal clear across his face, he spat out, “Go away! You’re not even of royal Targaryen blood—you don’t belong here!”

It was clear that he was merely projecting his frustrations onto you—after all, he himself was of Targaryen blood and yet he always felt like an outcast in his own family.

But you were only eight, and such complicated matters were lost to you.

Lips twisting in a frown, you blinked at the Prince, hands curling into fists by your side. “I just wanted to help,” you quietly mumbled beneath your breath, before promptly turning on your heel and marching out of the Dragonpit.

Aemond had heard your final words before your departure, feeling a twinge of guilt coil within his stomach. But after casting another look at the pig, his thoughts about you disappeared, replaced only with hot fury.

With a determined set of his jaw, Aemond trudged on further into the darkness of the Dragonpit.

“Your feet,” said Harwin, tapping the edge of his sword onto your scuffed boots. “Don’t stand like a pin needle. Keep them apart—steady your stance.”

You did as he told, and he nodded in approval. With your dull, wooden practice lance, you dove forward and struck the hay sewn dummy with quick strikes.

“Good,” your older brother commended, patting your shoulder. “Just remember to move with your feet, alright? Come now, drop the sword.”

“What?” you asked, allowing the wood to go limp in your hand. “Why?”

Kneeling down before you, Harwin brushed your sweaty, damp hair away from your burning skin. “Because this world doesn’t give little girls swords when they need it. They must only rely on their wit and their hands if the situation arises. Drop the sword, darling.”

Frowning, you relinquished your hold, waiting for further instructions.

You’d been doing this with Harwin for a long while now. Every other night for the past three years, he’d been teaching you how to fight, and how to defend yourself.

“Now, I’m going to pretend to hit you, and you have to do everything in your power to stop me. Do anything you must—hit back, bite, kick, run… just don’t give up. You promise?”

“Okay,” you told him, steeling your nerves.

He began slowly, motioning to strike your stomach and your sides. You managed to evade those easily, moving back or rolling out of his way. The faster he got, however, the more sloppy you were. One particular jab to your shoulder made you bite back a cry of pain, and you glared up at him.

“Must you be so rough?” you growled, to which Harwin only nodded, face stoic.

“In a fight—a real and true one—do you think they’d go easy on you? No. You must be prepared for it, Y/N. I will not always be there to protect you.”

His words made you pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be there?”

“I’ll always be there for you, little sister,” he said, large hand patting your head. “But if there comes such a time where I won’t be, for some reason unbeknownst to me, you must be ready.”

With a reluctant bob of your head, he commanded you to get into a fighting stance again.

“Thumb outside the fist,” he gently reminded you. “Feet wider apart, knees bent—yes, that’s it.”

And without warning, he darted forward, using his foot to sweep across your legs, making you stumble back onto your arse, all the breath in your lungs rushing out.

“Harwin!” you yelled out, now fed up with him. “That’s not fair! You’re using your feet!”

“I never said I wasn’t going to use my feet. You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair,” he said, unable to help the small chuckle falling from his lips. “Up you get.”

Rubbing at your sore bottom, you mumbled out, “Why don’t I get to spar with Jace and Luke and Aemond and Aegon? I want to spar with them.” Though, as soon as the words left you, you realized that you’d really rather not spar with Aemond and Aegon. Especially not after that whole pig situation.

Surprised at your question, Harwin halted to lower himself down to your height once again. “Sweet sister… it is safer for me to train you in secret. In a fair and just world, you’d be able to train with whomever you wanted. But you are a young girl, and they are the royal Princes. The court would not find it proper if you were to spar with them.”

Tears welled up in your widened eyes. “But… that’s not fair…”

Harwin thumbed away the wetness on your cheek. “Come now, don’t cry. How about, next time the boys train, you get to watch—and I can teach you the same things they learn later in the evening? How does that sound?”

“O-Okay,” you hiccupped. “Can I have my sword back?”

With a faint smile, Harwin nodded, handing you the wooden stick.

From the shadows where neither of you could see, Criston Cole watched, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted.

Harwin was a man of his word.

The very next day, you had shot out of your bed like someone had lit a fire beneath you, hurriedly dressing and washing yourself, much to your handmaid's shock, and scampered out to the training yard.

“There you are,” greeted your brother, ruffling your already sleep-mussed hair. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” you replied, bouncing on your toes.

Harwin could only grin down at you, before returning his gaze to the four boys dully smacking their wooden practice swords against the dummies.

Aegon twisted and turned and hit with speed rather than precision, grunts of exertion falling from his lips. Lucerys was clumsy and slow, but for the most part, he hit the targeted regions accurately. Jacaerys was nearly the same as his youngest brother, only a tad faster and more agile on his feet.

Ser Criston Cole was scrutinizing Aemond, despite him seeming to be doing the best out of the four. Fast, accurate, and strong strokes of his wooden blade thudded repeatedly against the hay.

“Soften your knees,” gruffed Criston, face betraying no expression. “Feet light. Light, Aemond.”

Training with the Dornish man seemed much different than training with your older brother. With your brother, as hard as he was on you sometimes, he was still kind and knew your limits. Cole was cold and rigidly strict, and seemed to care naught for the boys’ boundaries.

You glanced up at your brother, who watched on with a mildly distasteful expression.

Observing from the walkways above, you spotted your father with the King. Lyonel eyed you with a questionable gaze, wondering what on earth his youngest daughter was doing on the training grounds, rather than playing with Princess Helaena, whom you’d grown to be rather fond of, or entertaining Rhaenyra and the new babe, Joffrey.

You tilted your head when Aegon grew bored of smacking his own dummy, wandering over to Jace and knocking the younger Prince’s sword out of his hands. To none of your surprise, Criston chose to turn a blind eye to the eldest boy.

You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair, you could hear your brother’s words echo in your head. Perhaps he was right. Nonetheless, you could feel anger simmer within your stomach.

“Don’t stand too upright, my Prince, you’ll get knocked down,” commanded Cole.

Aegon halted in his terrorizing as two handmaids passed by, openly gawking at the poor girls as they hurried off with baskets of soiled laundry. Only after they were long gone, did Aegon catch sight of you, tilting his head curiously, as if trying to remember your face.

“Aegon,” Criston called out, pulling Aegon’s attention away from you.

“I’ve won my first bout, Ser Criston,” boasted the white-haired Prince. “My opponent sues for mercy.”

A ghost of a smirk graced Criston’s lips. “Then you shall have a new opponent, then. Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.”

With dejected expressions, Luke and Jace slunk off to the side, watching Aemond and Aegon battle against Criston. It was only then that the two boys took notice of you. Luke waved excitedly, and Jace nodded his head with a smile. You grinned back at them, clasping your hands behind your back, itching to have a practice sword gripped between them.

Criston seemed to make a fool of the Princes, easily parrying away their strikes and sending them sprawling onto the ground several times.

“Weapons up, boys,” Harwin quietly advised Luke and Jace. “Give your enemies no quarter.”

It seemed as though his words were not quiet enough—Criston certainly overheard what he was saying, and didn’t look too pleased with it.

Your brother narrowed his eyes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston.”

Jaw squared, Cole bit out, “You question my method of instruction, Ser?”

“I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” said Harwin.

“My pupils? And not… your pupil?”

This made your brother blanche uneasily.

“Lady Y/N. Come. I want to see what Ser Harwin has taught you.”

Shocked, you looked up at your brother, lips falling open and shut, unsure of what to say or do.

Not wanting to disobey the tall, scary man, you timidly stepped forward. From above, your father seemed to want to end this nonsense, shifting his weight from foot to foot—but as the King trusted Ser Criston Cole, he had little he could say to put a stop to this.

“Aemond. You shall spar with the Lady Strong.”

The Prince seemed to want to do anything other than that, but reluctantly ambled forward anyway. Criston roughly shoved a wooden sword against your chest, which lacked any armor whatsoever in comparison to Aemond’s full chestplate and protective metal gloves.

“Engage.”

Desperately trying to recall what your brother had taught you, you spread your feet further apart and bent your knees, leveling your weight in preparation to move around.

Aemond was the first to attack, diving forward to strike your sides. He got one hit in at first, pain blossoming by your ribs. You winced, staggering back slightly.

By the second strike, you were prepared. Though he was half a foot taller than you, you used that to your advantage. It was little effort to duck away from his arc when he was about to repeat the very same maneuver, smacking the flat of your stick to the back of his left knee, sending him buckling forward. In the short time you had to watch him, you’d noticed that he favored his right side, and often left the other side unguarded.

The Prince was quick to recover, scrambling back up on his feet and glaring at you with the strength of a thousand suns. This time, he was smarter, waiting for you to attack next. You feigned a jab to his neck, forcing him to parry high up, before you used your feet to kick out against his exposed stomach. It was a dirty move—not a proper one in the least, but it was as your brother said the other night—life was not fair.

Aemond fell back with a muffled oomf, expression suspended into one of disbelief. He couldn’t believe he’d just been bested by a girl. Teeth clenched, you placed the tip of your sword against his chest, locking eyes with him. He stared at you with nothing but pure hatred within the deep purple of his irises. After a second, you moved it away, holding out your hand to help him up. You were willing to overlook what happened down at the Dragonpit the other day—after all, you still sympathized with him and didn't hate him in the very least. Especially not compared to his wretched older brother.

The Prince didn’t take your hand. He shoved it away with a grumble, standing up on his own and slinking off to the side. It was embarrassing. More than that—he was angry at himself, at you, at Cole. Tears pricked the corner of Aemond’s eyes, but he willfully staved them away.

Frowning, you made your way back to Harwin, who fondly cupped your face with one large palm, patting your cheek thrice. “Well done, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”

You smiled wearily, though it didn’t reach your eyes.

Criston’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, clearly unhappy with Harwin’s pupil beating his own. His gaze flitted downward to lock with yours for a brief moment, before looking at the crown Prince. “Alright. Jacaerys. You spar with Aegon. Eldest son against eldest son.”

Giving the boy no warning, Cole seized the front of Jace’s armor and all but dragged him to the center of the training yard. Helplessly, Jace looked to you and Harwin.

This was by no means a fair fight, but you had to remind yourself—life is not always fair.

As if reading your thoughts, Harwin called out, “It’s hardly a fair match.”

“I know you’ve never seen true battle, Ser, but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.” Criston’s seething words made you shift uncomfortably. How dare he speak to your brother like that?

You glanced back up at your father and the King, still watching over. You wondered if he could hear what Criston was saying. If he cared.

“Engage,” said Cole.

And with that, Aegon roared, raining down attack after attack upon Jace. He shoved him down onto the ground, dried leaves fluttering upwards with his fall. Satisfied with himself, Aegon turned his back to Jace, bowing to you with a smirk and chuckling at his early win.

Jacaerys, however, was quick to get on his feet and charged forward with a snarl, wildly arcing the practice sword at his uncle.

In an attempt to get him to stop, Aegon shoved a dummy onto Jace, which prompted Harwin to step forward and say, “Foul play!”

“I’ll deal with him,” barked Criston, before stepping towards Aegon. “Plant your feet. You have a height advantage. Use it!”

It was becoming more and more clear that this spar was no longer an eldest son against an eldest son. It was between your brother, Commander of the City Watch, and the Queen’s kingsguard.

Whilst Criston roughly barked instructions to Aegon, Harwin moved to Jace, gripping the young boy’s chin in his palm and gently gave him advice and words of encouragement—not unsimilar to what he did with you during your training.

Once they were done, Aegon furiously stormed back to Jacaerys. “You!” he screamed, red-faced and furious at his nephew for having embarrassed him in such a way. The Prince was not at all used to not winning.

“Close with him!” yelled Criston when Aegon surged forward and hit him repeatedly. “Press him backward! Stay on the attack! Use your feet!”

With that, Aegon placed his heel squarely against Jace’s chestplate, kicking him back onto the dirt.

“Don’t let him get up. Stay on the attack!”

You watched on in concern as Aegon whacked the wooden sword over and over onto Jace—to the point where you panicked and frantically tugged on Harwin’s armor, afraid he was going to do some serious damage on your friend.

Deciding to put an end to this once and for all, Harwin finally stepped forward and ripped Aegon away from Jace.

“Enough!” he bellowed, so loud that his voice seemed to echo back against the stone walls.

This seemed to enrage Aegon all the more as he screeched out, “You dare put your hands on me?”

“Aegon!” yelled the King from above.

Nobody listened.

“You forget yourself, Strong,” said Cole, voice dripping with venom. It didn’t slip by your notice that he’d dropped the honorifics with your brother. “That is the Prince.”

“This is what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?” seethed Harwin.

Tone eerily level, Cole glibly commented, “Your interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin… or a brother… or a son.”

With that, Harwin surged forward and planted a clean punch against Criston’s face.

Criston made no attempts to fight back. Not with the second hit, or the third, or the fourth. By the fifth, he was bleeding from the side of his temple, and red ran down a stream from his split lips.

Your hands had flown over your mouth, and you staggered back, against Jace. Luke’s small hand curled into the fabric of your tunic. A son… Criston had said. And it all made sense to you now—why Harwin loved the boys so dearly, why they looked so much like your brother, why you shared the same smile as them.

They were your nephews.

This only had you protectively stepping in front of them, shielding them from the sight of their true father beating up a knight.

Over and over and over again, your eldest brother struck Cole, until his own knuckles glimmered with dark ichor—belonging to both him and the man beneath him. Two gold cloaks had to rush forward and haul Harwin away from Criston.

“Say it again!” bellowed Harwin. “Say it again!”

Despite the beating he’d just undertook, Criston laughed through his blood-saturated spittle. “Thought as much,” he choked out, turning to his side to hack out a wad of red onto the dirt.

Your father was furious.

At you, yes, but the anger he felt towards Harwin a thousand times moreso. So much so that he had ordered Harwin be stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch, and taken back home to Harrenhal as his heir. Though, it wasn’t a home to you, seeing as you’d never even stepped foot in the place.

Your father had also tried to resign as Hand to the King, feeling immense pressure and shame from the court. But the King insisted he stay, and to your relief, that meant that you could stay, as well.

However, that also entailed that you had to say goodbye to your beloved brother.

When he first told you, you scoffed and retorted, “A funny joke, Harwin, but I’m not in the laughing mood.” And when his expression remained solemnly unchanged, you could feel your heart sinking to your stomach. “No… no, you can’t be serious. Harwin, you can’t leave! No! What am I to do here without you? What of our training?”

The following hour consisted of you crying your little eyes out, sobbing into Harwin’s armor, begging him not to leave. He had little to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d join you in your crying. But he stroked your hair and assured you that he’d write as often as he could to you.

Father was to be joining him to drop him off at Harrenhal and ensure everything was going smoothly for the first fortnight, before he was due to return to King's Landing. You wouldn’t be missing him too much—at least he was coming back. You hadn’t a clue when the next time you’d see your brother might be.

And there was the other unspoken elephant in the room—Rhaenyra’s sons. Your best friends—and, as you’d recently found out, your nephews.

“Be good to your mother, lads,” said Harwin, kneeling by Luke. “I’ll visit when I can. But that may be some time.”

He turned to Jace, who stood tall beside his mother, rocking Joffrey back and forth in his arms.

“I will return,” your brother told his eldest son, lifting his chin up with the tips of his fingers. “I promise.”

Harwin and Rhaenyra locked eyes for a brief moment. Hers watered. Harwin’s softened. He bent down to press a loving kiss to the babe’s forehead.

“I will be a stranger when we meet again,” he whispered to Joffrey, but a part of it was directed to Rhaenyra herself.

You awaited by the door for him, wiping your tears furiously with the back of your hand.

Harwin’s final goodbye was saved for you. So much to say, with so little time. He cupped your face and kissed your forehead, nose slotted against your hairline. His first and final tear fell from his misty eyes.

“Remember what I told you. I’ll always be there for you, sweet sister. Always. Maybe not physically here,” he said, before pressing a thumb just above your duly beating heart. “But in here.”

Much to your frustration, you began to cry again, chest thundering with sobs.

“Goodbye, brother,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Oh, no, don’t cry over me, darling. I want you to keep your head high, hm? By the time I see you again, you might be even stronger than me.”

Harwin pressed another kiss to your cheek, before swiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and stood up again.

You watched as he pushed the door open and strode down the hall, disappearing from your sight. Jacaerys came to your side, threading his hand with yours in an effort to comfort you. You squeezed gratefully, releasing a shuddering breath.

“We will exchange letters by raven,” placated Rhaenyra, trying her best to alleviate both of your sorrows. “Won’t that be fun?”

Bluntly, Jace turned to look at his mother and asked, “Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?”

Shock colored Rhaenyra’s expression.

“You are a Targaryen,” she affirmed after recovering from her initial surprise, stroking Jace’s hair away from his face. “That’s all that matters.”

She hadn’t answered his question, but both you and Jace knew the truth.

News of your brother and father’s death spread like wildfire. It was said to be an accident—a tragic product of Harrenhal’s Curse. There were rumors flying around, however, that it was no accident.

Rumors of Daemon Targaryen wanting to rid his niece of her lover. Rumors of Corlys Velaryon exacting revenge for Harwin cuckolding his son. Rumors of your last remaining brother, Larys Strong, murdering his own blood to claim his inheritance.

You paid no mind to the rumors. It was an accident, and that was that.

Life is not fair, you could hear your brother’s voice say to you. He was right—nothing was fair.

After their deaths, you spent days weeping in your chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys often dropped by to check in on you, offering to take you down to the Dragonpits in hopes of cheering you up. You’d sniffled and shook your head, curling up in the center of your bed. Rhaenyra, who saw you more like a daughter than anything, took the liberty of bringing food to your chambers, urging you to eat something.

“It’s okay to cry, sweet girl,” she told you, sitting by the edge of your bed and stroking the hair away from your face. When you began to quietly sob, she wound her arms around your small frame, and held you close to her chest.

The fortnight after their deaths, everyone treated you as if you were hewn from glass. They spoke slowly and cautiously, treading on eggshells around you. Even Jace and Luke seemed hesitant to play with you anymore, afraid you’d burst into hysterical tears any second.

What made it worse was when Rhaenyra announced that she was leaving King’s Landing with her children for Dragonstone. It was devastating news—for she and her sons were the closest thing you had left to a family.

Jace hugged you goodbye, eyes teary and nose red. Little Luke clung to your legs and begged you to come with them. Even Rhaenyra had offered you a place on the ship to join them on their journey, her voice kind but so very tired.

“You will always have a place with us, sweet girl,” she had told you, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline. The Princess considered you the daughter she never had—always fiercely protective of you. With Harwin gone, that feeling only increased thricefold. You were practically her family by now.

But you couldn’t leave King’s Landing with Rhaenyra and the boys. Not with Larys Strong anchoring you to the Red Keep—and certainly not with Alicent breathing down both of your necks.

And so you watched them sail away, face drenched with your tears and hands clenched into fists by your side.

You abhorred it all, wishing everything could just go back to how they were before.

Out of all the other children at court, Princess Helaena was the only one who treated you the same as she did before, all misty-eyed and odd-of-tongue. Because of this, you found yourself glued to her side, desperate for a sense of normalcy, which you ironically found in the strangest of girls. She was a fascinating person, far more intelligent than first meets the eye—with a peculiar interest in critters and insects lurking in the shadows.

She was rather fond of you as well, though not at all used to having friends, much less other girls who took her fixations seriously and didn’t think her gross for it. Queen Alicent was mortified at having a Strong girl befriend her daughter, and yet was simultaneously relieved that she finally had someone to call a friend. Besides, having you on her side was more of an advantage than anything—especially with Larys Strong backed in her corner, as well.

“The butterfly has two large, black spots on the bottom of its wings,” said Helaena as she crouched down beside you, holding her palms up to brandish the small insect. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.”

You smiled at her, raising a finger to touch the little insect, only for it to flutter away before you could get too close, hurrying back to the gardens.

“They’re beautiful,” you said, watching it disappear amongst the flowers. “Masters of trickery, though.”

“Yes,” surmised Helaena, though her gaze was fixed on you. “Beautiful. Deceitful. Both equally true.”

It had been three weeks since your brother and father passed.

And yet, here you were, at someone else’s funeral in Driftmark. Laena Velaryon—the late wife to Prince Daemon Targaryen.

You’d pleaded with Larys, begged him to allow you to go back to Harrenhal to mourn your family—but he only supplied you with a crooked smile and told you that you belonged in King’s Landing. With Larys being your only kin left standing, adamant with his refusal to return home to properly grieve over Harwin and Lyonel, it seemed that you were stuck with him.

You were never very fond of Larys to begin with.

At Laena’s funeral, you made it your job to avoid him as much as you could, following behind Jacaerys and Lucerys. It was strange and pleasant under the worst circumstances seeing them again so soon after such an emotional farewell.

Rhaenyra wove through the crowd, bowing her head to you with soft eyes, before fixing her gaze on her eldest son.

“Your little cousins have lost their mother,” she said. “They could use a kind word.”

Jacaerys looked to you, then back up to his mother. “We have an equal claim to sympathy.”

Brows furrowing, Rhaenyra looked around to make sure none of the lords and ladies were listening in. “Jace—”

“We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin. It is not fair to Y/N,” he stressed, jaw clenched. Tears warbled over your irises, but you quickly blinked them away.

“You’re right—it’s not fair. But it would not be appropriate. The Velaryons are our kin and the Strongs are not. Look at me, Jace. Do you understand?”

Bearing a sour face, Jacaerys nodded, before trudging off to give his condolences to his little cousins.

You watched him go, looking up at Rhaenyra with wide eyes. “Nothing in life is fair.”

The silver-haired Princess shot you a questioning look, but you turned and made your way into the shadows, where you knew her half-sister, Helaena was playing.

“Hand turns loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread,” she chimed, repeating the words over and over again, cradling a spider in her palms.

When she caught sight of you, she didn’t stop her mantra, but dipped her head in greeting. She offered you the spider, but you shook your head with a kind smile, allowing her to keep playing around with the spindly arachnid.

From about a meter away, Aemond and Aegon watched the two of you.

“We have nothing in common,” the elder of the two bemoaned, slurping wine from a golden chalice. He was referring to the fact that he was betrothed to his sister now, something that neither of them seemed particularly pleased about.

Aemond pursed his lips. “She’s our sister.”

“You marry her, then,” Aegon shot back.

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” He watched curiously as you tossed your head back with a laugh when Helaena whispered something about collecting spider webs in a jar. Come to think of it, Aemond couldn’t remember ever hearing you laugh before. Memories of you besting him in combat flashed before his eyes.

“If only,” snorted Aegon.

“It would strengthen the family. Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

Pulling a disgusted face, Aegon looked to his brother. “She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future queen,” spat Aemond.

“I’d rather take the one beside her,” said Aegon, eyes glued to you. “She is growing to be a fine girl… considering how she beat your arse to the ground.”

Aemond supplied him with no answer. He was no stranger to Aegon’s lustful ramblings.

“Actually, we do have one thing in common—we both fancy creatures with long legs!” chortled the older prince, before sauntering away, off to hunt down a maid for another cup of wine. “Wench! Another!”

This left Aemond to shake his head with revolt, observing his brother go.

He spotted his nephew, Jacaerys, not too far. A part of him wanted to say something, offer his sympathies or apologies—but when Jace lifted his head and stared straight at him, Aemond could feel the words lodging in his throat, and he turned to walk away.

You observed the interaction from afar. Aemond caught your eye, merely for a brief moment, but it felt like an eternity.

And, much to your surprise, he made his way to you.

“I offer my condolences, Lady Strong,” he said, rigidly formal. “It is tragic what happened to your brother and father.”

You bowed your head, lips trembling. Though the two of you have certainly had your differences, Aemond was not heartless. He knew you were suffering a great loss.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you croaked.

The two of you stood in silence.

“I… I’m sorry. For snapping at you in the Dragonpit.”

Your head shot up in surprise. There was little you could think of saying, so you gave him a small smile—one that he mirrored after a moment’s hesitation.

Somewhere in the distance, the pained roar of Vhagar echoed over the seas.

It was the dead of night.

You were already sound asleep when Luke burst into your chambers, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you awake.

“Y/N, wake up, wake up!” he whisper-yelled.

Groaning, you peered open an eye and sat up. “What?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Someone stole Vhagar!” he said, tugging you off the bed and ushering your bleary form along. Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena were already rushing out to see who had taken the old beast of a dragon.

Not at all sleepy anymore, your eyes widened upon seeing Aemond clamber off the dragon.

“It’s him!” gasped Baela.

Aemond cocked his head. “It’s me.”

Face contorting with rage, Baela gritted out, “Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother’s dead,” said Aemond. Briefly, his gaze flicked to you, before looking back at the two Targaryen girls. “Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena gruffed.

“Then you should’ve claimed her,” retorted Aemond. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

A soft gasp lodged in your throat when Rhaena strode forward with a growl, aiming a loose punch at Aemond’s face. He easily dodged, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her off to the side. Baela rushed towards him next, landing a good punch to his face. He yelled out and struck her back, a bilious crack of his fist against her skin ringing out against the stone walls.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” threatened Aemond.

His words made Jace yell out and jump forward, driving Luke to attack, as well. Aemond made quick work of the boys, kicking Jace back and punching Luke so hard in the face that his nose cracked beneath the pressure.

You were hesitant to fight Aemond, you really were—especially when the two of you seemed to have just gotten over your grievances with one another.

But he’d hurt your friends, and you wouldn’t stand for that. Harwin certainly wouldn’t have.

“Stop this!” you told him, protectively standing between Luke and Aemond. When he only set his jaw, you gave him a hard shove back. The conflict that danced within the purple of his irises was tangible—you could see it.

He didn’t want to fight you.

Your push took him by surprise, sending him sprawling onto the hard ground. Baela, Rhaena, and Jace took advantage of this, jumping forward to rain punch after hit after kick on the young Prince. He was bleeding now—red leaking from his nose, his lips, his fists.

“Stop! Stop!” you screamed at them, grabbing at Rhaena’s hand and trying to pull her back, to no avail. “Jace, stop!”

Luke pushed away from you to join the skirmish.

To your horror, Aemond grabbed a large rock that had come loose from the cobblestone walls, curling his bloodied fingers around it. The other hand shot out to wrap around Lucerys’ throat.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did! Bastards!” spat Aemond into Luke’s face. The words seemed to have fallen from his lips without thought, as if completely forgetting that you were there.

But what he said had struck a chord within you. How dare he speak of your brother in such a way? You wished to move, to hit Aemond until he was nothing but a bloodied pile of flesh and bone—but he still held Luke in his grasp, and the looming threat of the rock in his other hand.

Confused, little Luke choked out, “My father’s still alive!”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Aemond looked to Jace then to you, then back to Jace. “Lord Strong?”

Furious, Jace unsheathed a small dagger.

No.

No, if Jace were to kill Aemond… it would only make matters all the worse.

“Jace, no—!” you began, but your warning fell upon deaf ears.

Jacaerys dove forward with the dagger, but Aemond knocked him down with the rock thudding against his cheek, the blade flying. to the other side of the corridor. Aemond let go of the younger Velaryon in his haste.

This was a mistake.

Luke crawled about in the sand, grabbing the hilt of the dagger Jace had dropped. Working in tandem, the elder brother threw sand in Aemond’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, and Luke stood up, slashing the sharp metal straight across the side of Aemond’s face with a sickening squelch. Blade slicing flesh.

Blood splattered everywhere. All over Luke’s hands, over the dagger, over the sand.

A scream erupted from Aemond’s lungs as he clutched his maimed face with his hands, falling to his knees.

Drip, drip, drip. The blood dripped through the cracks between his fingers.

You rushed forward to the Prince out of pure instinct, grabbing his shoulders and cupping the uninjured side of his face, your breathing staggered and rapid. All the hatred you’d felt for him—all the anger, the rage, the frustration—flew right out the window at the sight of him hurt so badly.

“Aemond!” you cried. The blood was too much—pouring down his tunic, onto your own sleepwear, staining your skin.

“Cease this at once!” bellowed a voice from behind you. “Get away!”

Criston Cole ripped you away from Aemond, under the impression that you were the one that was hurting him, kneeling beside the Prince.

You began to hyperventilate, scrambling back until you hit the wall. Blood on your hands, under your nails, dampening your clothes—

Someone, you weren’t quite sure who, hauled you up, dragging you through the castle, Jace and Luke in tow.

Everyone was gathered into a large room. A maester was stitching up Aemond’s wound by the fireplace, Alicent knelt by her beloved son’s side. You stood by Jace and Luke, trembling viciously and eyes warbling with unshed tears.

“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” King Viserys asked the guards, voice cross and brows furrowed.

“The princes were supposed to be abed. Prince Aemond was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace,” replied Criston.

With a snarl, Viserys hobbled onto his feet, leaning his weight onto a cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!”

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes—” began Criston.

“That is no answer!” yelled the King.

Worriedly, Alicent asked, “It will heal, will it not, maester?”

Hesitant, the maester pursed his lips. “The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s expression seemed to fall at his words. She rounded to her eldest son, who stood behind her, not caring nearly enough for his brother who’d just lost his eye.

“And where were you?” screeched Alicent, rising to her feet.

“Me?” said Aegon, flabbergasted at the attention suddenly being on him.

A smack rang loud and true throughout the room as Alicent struck him across the face.

Crying out, Aegon shrunk away from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she hissed.

Just then, the doors swung open, and Corlys Velaryon strode into the room, his wife Rhaenys just behind him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice booming.

“Baela, Rhaena!” gasped Rhaenys. “What happened?”

The girls rushed to their grandmother.

Rhaenyra hastily came through a different set of doors, Daemon hot on her heels. Upon seeing her sons, she hurried towards them, immediately kneeling down beside Luke.

“Show me,” she told him, gently prying his hand away from his nose to inspect the damage.

A tear slipped down your cheek. The Velaryon girls had their grandparents. Jace and Luke had their mother. Aemond had his mother, as well as his siblings.

You… who did you have to comfort you? Harwin was gone. Your mother was gone. Your father was gone.

Your lips trembled. Never before had you wished to just disappear from the face of the world.

“Who did this?” barked Rhaenyra.

“They attacked me!” said Aemond.

“He attacked Baela!”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!”

The kids all began throwing accusations, their combined voices drowning each other out. Your head began to throb with their volume. You glanced at your dear friend Helaena, who put her hands over her ears to block out the noise.

“Enough,” ordered the King.

Nobody listened.

“He was gonna kill Jace!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Enough!” said the King.

Again, nobody listened.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” Alicent yelled.

“He was choking me!”

“He called us—!”

“SILENCE!” bellowed Viserys, knocking his cane against the ground repeatedly. The crowd fell into a lulled murmur. “Aemond. I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

Brows furrowed, Alicent shook her head, auburn curls flying every which way. “What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “It was a regrettable accident.”

“Accident?” scoffed Alicent. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!”

Voice raising, Rhaenyra defended, “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them!”

Viserys tilted his head. “What insults?”

A beat of silence.

Rhaenyra gripped Luke’s hand in hers. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”

“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys said.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra told her father. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Alicent’s fists clenched by her side. “Over an insult? My son has lost an eye.”

Viserys leaned down closer to Aemond. “You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?”

Desperate to place the blame away from her son, Alicent cut in, “The insult was training yard bluster, nothing more—”

“Aemond,” Viserys sharply said, ignoring his wife. “I asked you a question.”

Aemond remained silent.

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys’ father?” asked Alicent. “Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched with muted anger. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”

Alicent huffed. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

Criston cracked an amused smile at her words.

“Aemond,” said Viserys. “Look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

The young Prince swallowed heavily. “It was Aegon,” he reluctantly said.

“Me?” parroted Aegon.

“Where did you hear such calumnies?” snarled Viserys to his eldest son. When Aegon refused to answer, he yelled out loud enough for you to flinch, “AEGON! Tell me the truth of it!”

The silver-haired prince refused to meet the King’s eyes.

“We know, father,” he said. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

A tense silence folded over the crowd, only stifled by the flames of the hearth crackling. You shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the middle between Rhaenyra’s side—the side that you grew up with, the side you loved so dearly—and Alicent’s side—the side of the sweet Princess Helaena, and the Prince Aemond who’d just lost his eye. The side of your only brother left, Larys Strong. You felt stretched thin—uncertain of what to think of yourself.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” bellowed Viserys. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to each other. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!”

Thinking the matter over and done with, Viserys began to hobble away.

Alicent’s words stopped him in his tracks.

“That is insufficient,” she said. A thin film of tears reflected the golden light of the torches hanging on the walls. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys placated, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken!”

Viserys shook his head. “What would you have me do?”

Alicent casted her gaze to Rhaenyra. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

Gasps murmured through the crowd. You drew in a shaky breath, shuffling closer to Rhaenyra and her sons, until you practically stood in front of Luke. He was your friend—your kin—and you would be damned if you were to let anyone touch him.

“My dear wife…” began Viserys.

“He is your son, Viserys!” Alicent pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Your blood.”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement,” he warned.

Frustrated beyond relief, Alicent gnashed her teeth together and said, “If the King will not see justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Scared, Luke grabbed onto the back of your sleeping shift, looking up at his mother with frightened eyes.

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son!” she gritted out.

“You will do no such thing!” hissed Rhaenyra.

Turning to Criston, Viserys ordered, “Stay your hand!”

“No, you are sworn to me!” asserted Alicent.

Cole’s eyes darted from the Queen, to the King, to Rhaenyra. “As your protector, My Queen,” he softly said.

“Alicent, this matter is finished,” Viserys said, voice heavy with finality. “Do you understand?”

A tear fell from Alicent’s cold eyes.

“Let it be known,” the King began, addressing the entire crowd this time, “anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

Blowing out a relieved exhale, Rhaenyra dipped her head. “Thank you, father.”

With sudden movements, Alicent unsheathed Viserys’ dagger from his belt and marched towards Rhaenyra and her sons.

Instinctively, you grabbed Luke and dragged him further back, shielding his body with your own. Luke began screaming out of fear when Alicent brought down the blade onto his mother, only barely held back by Rhaenyra’s hand wrapping around her wrist.

The crowd erupted in pandemonium, with guards frantically pushing each other back, not knowing who to defend. The king’s wife, or the king’s daughter and heir? Daemon came forward to stop Criston in his tracks. You tightly held onto Luke, eyes wide and heart beating frantically.

“You’ve gone too far!” Rhaenyra told the Queen.

“I?” Alicent’s voice trembled. The blade was held between them, shaking and glowing with the reflections of the hearth’s fire. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law! While you flout all to do as you please!”

“Alicent, let her go!” commanded Viserys.

They both ignored him.

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?” cried Alicent. “It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!”

For the first time since everyone was gathered, her father, Otto Hightower, the new King’s Hand, said, “Release the blade, Alicent.”

“And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!” said Alicent.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it?” replied Rhaenyra. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness! But now they see you as you are.”

With a yell, Alicent brought down her blade and staggered back. Its sharp edge had cut through the fabric of Rhaenyra’s sleeve, carving a deep gash across the inside of her forearm.

Blood. Dripping. Thick. Red.

Luke gripped your hand tightly. The dagger in Alicent’s palm fell to the ground.

Rising from the chair, you got a good look at Aemond's wound for the first time since you entered.

It was swollen and red, the stitches extending from the top of his forehead to the side of his ear. Your heart ached—whether it was for Aemond, for Jace and Luke, or for Rhaenyra, you couldn’t at all tell.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” said Aemond. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

Viserys blew out a shaking breath. He was tired, and his body grew weary. “This proceeding is at an end.”

With that, the crowd began to disperse. You let Luke go, and he went rushing forth to his mother.

You watched as Aemond leaned his head on his mother’s chest.

A guard began ushering you out of the room and back to your chambers before you had the chance to tell him that you were sorry.

Barely a moon after Laena Velaryon’s funeral, Aegon and Helaena were getting married. It was held in haste, most likely to distract the court from the incident at Driftmark—give them something else to talk about for a change.

You sat in Helaena’s chambers as her ladies fussed over her, pulling the strings of her ivory dress, tying her hair into intricate knots, and applying rouge to her cheeks and lips. It was a much more elaborate process than what your own lady-in-waiting had done to you—all you had was a simple, ocean-hued dress with intricate patterns of deep green running down the length of the fabric. Your hair was pinned away from your face and a chain of silver pearls rested against your sternum. Though it was nice to wear such pretty things, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were just playing dress up—as if these clothes didn’t actually belong to you, like you were donning a charade for the night.

Whilst you were only nine, your name day having passed quietly a few moons ago, Helaena was at the ripe age of ten-and-three—she was barely of age to be married off—to her vile older brother, no less, but Alicent had insisted.

The young Princess’ eyes were clouded over, as if her mind was far, far away. She might’ve been here with you physically, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Three silver eggs, twisting, twisting, twisting… the blood curdles, the milk dries,” she murmured as the handmaidens finished with their final touches. Once they were done, they bowed their heads and left Helaena’s chambers.

You moved closer to her, your fingers grazing over her the smooth green-gold cloth on her shoulder.

“Helaena,” you whispered, heart aching for her. “I’m sorry. I wish I could whisk you away, keep you from the abomination that is your brother. If only I had a large dragon of my own to carry you off onto.”

“You will have a dragon,” she said absentmindedly. It didn’t slip your notice that she had completely disregarded the mention of her wedding, as if pushing it far and distant into the back of her mind. Perhaps if she didn’t think about it, the pain wouldn’t sting as much.

Helaena was not one to jest, but you waved away her words as if she had.

“If… if you need me to do something—anything, Helaena, I can’t just stand by and watch you suffer. It is not honorable. You deserve someone kind and loving… Aegon is not capable of granting you such luxuries.” It was as if you were pleading with her to say something—to try and stop this accursed union. In truth, you knew that you were powerless against the might of Alicent and her loyal subjects.

You were nobody. You were well aware of that fact.

But as of that very second, you would’ve gone to the ends of the earth for the sweet, cloudy-eyed Princess.

She fixed you with a fond gaze, though still far away.

“A dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can,” she whispered.

The corner of your eyes pricked with tears. “Princess, please—”

Before you could continue, the door to Helaena’s chambers swung open, and Alicent swiftly hurried in. You stepped away from your friend to give the Queen space to fuss over her.

It was time for the wedding.

The ceremony started with the septon reciting prayers, so lengthy and repetitive that your eyes drooped with the silent threat of sleep. Aegon stood beside the septon, shoulders slumped and muffling yawns every other minute.

Once the septon had finally wrapped up, the grand doors of the Sept swung open, and King Viserys walked in with Helaena on his left side. He parted with a gentle kiss to his second daughter’s forehead. It was no secret that Viserys very obviously favored his eldest child, Rhaenyra, but out of the four others, he had a certain muted soft spot for Helaena and her strange mysticism. You would’ve been surprised if he even remembered Aemond and Daeron’s names.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon’s voice rang clear and true, echoing loudly in your head.

Looking none too pleased, Aegon all but threw the cloak over Helaena’s smaller frame, the Targaryen sigil seeming distorted from where you were standing.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Now and forever.

Your heart fell lower to your stomach.

The septon tied a knot with red ribbon around their joined hands—Aegon angrily holding onto her palm while hers was limp in his grasp.

“Let it be known that Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, and Helaena Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

With one tug, the red ribbon between them unraveled.

The Princess bore no emotion as she began to speak in unison with Aegon, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

A lie. Aegon would never be Helaena’s.

You let your gaze travel to Alicent at the side, wiping a tear from her eyes. Anger bubbled within your chest. Right beside her was Aemond, a leather eyepatch fixed over his injury. His face betrayed no expression.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aegon said emotionlessly, as if he were reading from an invisible script. He held Helaena’s face and planted a quick kiss on her lips. The two turned to the audience, who burst into raucous applause.

You did not clap.

The wedding feast following the ceremony was, expectedly, large and extravagant. Lords and ladies from all over the realm milled about as they ate and chattered and danced to the music.

Helaena sat beside Aegon on the longtable, refusing to eat any of her pigeon pie, repeatedly poking holes through the chunks of meat with the prongs of the fork. Her brother—now husband—had refused to lead the first dance with her, instead choosing to crossly slump into his chair and knock back chalice after chalice of spiced wine.

With little appetite to eat, you had taken to ghost around the expansive room, head abuzz with thoughts of Rhaenyra, Jace and Luke. A few lords had halted you in your tracks, asking for a dance, but you’d politely declined them all. You hardly paid attention during dancing lessons with the Septa and you were sure you’d trip over your own feet and make a fool of yourself. That, and you were in no mood to dance with lords thrice your age.

During your fourth cycle around the large room, bored out of your mind, you felt someone’s stare burning a hole into the back of your neck.

Aemond Targaryen.

He was looking straight at you, unabashedly.

Memories of his blood on your hands flashed through your mind. You ripped your gaze away.

Suddenly feeling sick, you hurriedly wove through the packed room, murmuring apologies when you accidentally trod over a few unsuspecting feet, and rushed out of the hall, just about fleeing to your chambers.

As soon as you shut the doors behind you, you began to sob uncontrollably, sliding down the wood and burying your tearful face between your knees.

The next morning, you felt terrible for leaving the feast early, and consequently, Helaena alone, as she suffered through the trauma of the bedding ceremony. The ladies of the court gossipped between bouts of laughter as they recounted Helaena’s fearful face when men began tearing at her clothes and carrying her off to Aegon’s chambers.

It was said that Helaena’s pained cries could be heard echoing across the Keep for the first few minutes, until she fell utterly silent. The creaking of the bed, however, didn’t cease for the rest of the night.

The gardens smelled of fresh morning dew and sweet clementines. You walked alongside Helaena, her hand softly resting in the crook of your arm as she dreamily chattered about how she once found a ladybug with no spots eating a small spider in under five minutes. It’d been nearly two weeks since she was wed, and she often hastily changed the subject to something else whenever you tried to bring the matter up.

“The poor spider,” you said, stopping to admire a bush of white roses. “But I suppose a ladybug must eat.”

“Yes,” Helaena hummed in agreement.

The rest of your walk was comfortably silent when you led her to a shaded spot beneath the fruit trees, where you had a blanket laid out beforehand.

A small millipede crawled out from the grass onto the blanket, and Helaena smiled at the critter, holding her hands out to let it climb onto her awaiting palms. The princess watched it snake along her skin with her earnest purple eyes.

“People often confuse millipedes with centipedes,” she explained. “Centipedes have one pair of legs for each body segment. Millipedes have two.”

The millipede scuttled down her fingers as she set it back down on the ground.

You blew out a pleased sigh, turning your head up to the sky and shutting your eyes, letting yourself bask in the warmth of the late morning sun.

“You are a fascinating person indeed, Helaena,” you told her, a laugh to your tone. “No other in the entirety of Westeros can speak of bug legs and make it interesting.”

The princess smiled, all wide and toothy. It fell the next moment when she began speaking again.

“I am with child, I think,” she whispered.

Startled at the sudden confession, you snapped your head her way, eyes wide, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. But again, Helaena was never one to jest.

You gathered her hands between yours. “Are you certain, my Princess?”

Grey seemed to cloud over her vision. “Quite. I saw it in my dreams. Two pairs of legs for each body segment.”

Your brows furrowed. Was she speaking of babies or of millipedes?

Blinking in confusion, you shook your head, allowing for a small, fond smile to replace your miffed expression. “You will make a wonderful mother, Helaena. I’m sure of it. I will be there for you every step of the way.”

Wary that she wasn’t too keen on prolonged physical touch, you loosely tugged her into an embrace. She smelled of honey cakes and rich soil. Her cheek rested against your shoulder and she shut her eyes, grateful for your friendship.

“Two pairs of legs for each body segment,” she mumbled again, voice low. “A millipede regrows limbs that are cut off. A dragon cannot.”

Training without Harwin proved to be a challenge on its own—but you were nothing if not determined.

You often snuck out to a secluded part of the yard when the pale moon was high in the sky and the sun had hours until it was due to rise. At first, you weren’t entirely sure how to go about teaching yourself how to fight. But you worked on honing the same skills Harwin had taught you for three years. Speed, agility, accuracy, strength—all were important. Though, not as important as keeping a sharp mind.

You frequented the library often, reading voluminous tomes on the history of blades and the art of battle. The faded words on the parchment told you secrets to fighting that you had a feeling not even the most seasoned of knights knew. One that had certainly caught your attention was the fact that there were certain points in a man’s body you could strike that would render them temporarily paralyzed. You wished you had an excess of detestable men lying around to practice your newfound knowledge on.

As Aegon and Aemond continued their sparring with Ser Criston Cole, you watched from the shadows, observing their technique and creating mental notes on their habitual weaknesses. Ever since Aemond had lost his eye, he worked twice as hard to better himself. He wasn’t going to let the loss of an eye hinder him from becoming a warrior.

But that didn’t make him invincible. Aemond was still greatly disadvantaged with such a large part of his peripheral vision gone.

It wasn’t until a few moons later, when you were ten and Aemond was twelve, did he confront you again.

You were testing the accuracy of your knife-throwing, two small blades you had nicked from the armory gripped in your hands. Pulling your hand back, you narrowed your eyes at the target, and let it fly forward. It sank into the ringed wood with a dull thud, but had veered slightly off course when you released, resulting in a less-than-satisfactory result.

With a frustrated huff, you tried again, this time changing the way you had thrown it.

The blade whistled as it carved through the air, but strayed even farther from the center.

Before you could react to your disappointing performance, a voice resounded from right beside you, making you let out a small shriek and flinch away with surprise.

It was the Prince.

“You’re holding the knife wrong,” he said, voice not unkind, single eye observing your defensive stance. In three strides, he tugged the blades out of the wood, making his way back to you. “You use your thumb to neutralize the blade’s rotation. Like this.”

He demonstrated, and you watched in silence.

When he returned the blades back to you, you attempted to mimic what he had shown, glancing up at him for approval.

“Move your grip lower,” he said, lifting his hands to gently shift the knife in your palm. His touch was cold, but you didn’t quite mind.

“Thank you, my Prince.” Your voice was but a hoarse whisper. Aemond nodded once, stepping back to give you space to try again.

This time, when you flung it to the target, it was far closer to the center, only barely grazing the white marker of the inner circle.

You grinned, proud of the drastic improvement.

“I’ve seen you sneak out to train nearly every night by now. Why?” the silver-haired boy asked, almost suspiciously. He didn’t forget the way you had shoved him just before he lost his eye.

The memory of Harwin telling you that you had to be prepared for a real fight briefly flashed in the back of your mind. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“I want to be ready,” you replied, pointedly avoiding his burning stare. You thought back to Helaena’s wedding, when he hadn’t taken his gaze off of you the entire night.

“What are you readying yourself for?”

Squaring your jaw and straightening your posture, you quietly told the one-eyed prince, “Life is unfair, Aemond. I am merely preparing to balance the scales.”

Before he could think of a response to your cryptic words, a rivulet of electrifying pain struck his empty eye socket behind the patch, ricocheting into waves throughout the rest of his skull. Aemond let out a soft cry as he doubled over in agony, hands flying to his face. It reminded you eerily of when Luke had first slashed the eye out, a memory that haunted your nightmares far more often than it should have.

Panicked, you shuffled closer to him, one of your hands grazing his back, unsure of what to do.

“Aemond! Are you alright? Should I summon the maester?” you hurriedly queried, feet already moving away, getting ready to dash off as you waited for his answer.

“No,” he gritted out through the pain, glancing up at you with his features twisted with misery. It was humiliating—Aemond felt ashamed of himself for showing his pain, for revealing a crack through his usually stoic demeanor. He felt ugly. He felt vile. He felt weak.

A restless protest was on the tip of your tongue. “My Prince, you’re clearly hurting, please—”

“No!” he repeated himself, a sharp edge of finality to his tone. “They’ll just give me more milk of the poppy—!”

Again, he doubled over, a muted roar rumbling within his chest. Not knowing what else to do, you clutched his shoulders, eyes frantically searching his single one.

After a second, Aemond seemed to snap back into his senses, flinching from your touch and just about ripping himself away from you. Mortification flooded his quickly-paling features. He turned on his heel and ran off without another word.

Plumes of dust flew up from the covers of the heavy book when you set it down on a table. Grimacing and waving a hand in front of your face, you flipped the tome open. It was an old, lengthy volume on medicinal alchemy—a genre that you seldom read and knew little to nothing about.

But for Aemond, you supposed you’d give it a shot.

The chapter you began to read was on remedies for severe wounds, such as fallen limbs or shattered bones. You were learning far too much about the grotesque nature of the human body than you had initially bargained for. Illustrations of cauterizations, sanitizations, and all sorts of diagrams of nude men filled the large pages. For your young eyes, you couldn’t quite comprehend most of what you were seeing.

However, once you fell upon the optics chapter, you perked up, reading through the small text word by word. You were hoping that by reading more about problems with the eye, you’d be able to help Aemond out with his pain in some way. If there even was a way.

And as you read on, you found a small section on the near-magical works of a plant native to Dorne—a Sabar root. It was said to be all-curing and was often used to heal outer wounds. The footnote even detailed historical accounts of the root’s juices restoring the vision of those born blind. Though you doubted that to be true, you couldn’t help but hold onto the hope that it could help Aemond with the pain, even just a little bit.

You scampered out of the library with the thick book clutched to your chest, hurrying down the Red Keep’s stairs, scrambling towards the rookery, where they kept the messenger ravens. Beneath the rookery was where the Grand Maester resided.

You were but a small thing compared to the large wooden slab of a door. Knocking thrice, the door creaked open not two seconds later, revealing Maester Mellos, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Lady Strong…? What are you doing here? The hour is late, child, you should be in bed!” he scolded, fixing you with a narrowed gaze.

You shoved the book up into his face, a pleading expression on your face. “Maester Mellos, I have found something that might help Aemond’s condition!”

“Condition…?” he began, looking startled. It was late at night, and a ten year old was at his doorstep proposing a remedy to an issue he hadn’t even known existed. To his knowledge, Prince Aemond was healing just fine and had little to no complications since he had taken the stitches out. “Forgive me, my Lady, but I am rather busy at the moment and would really prefer to have this conversation with you when the sun rises. Sleep well, Lady Strong.”

Before you could get another word in, the large door croaked shut in your face, and you were left staring at the dark wood. With a dejected huff, you turned and marched straight back into the Keep. Up the stairs you climbed, arms growing weary with how long you’d been lugging around the heavy tome.

You came to a stop in front of Aemond’s chambers, right beside Princess Helaena’s old bedroom from before she was married to Aegon. A room you used to frequent to visit your dear friend, which resulted in several awkward, and silent passes with the Prince.

It didn’t occur to you just how improper this was—knocking on the door of the Prince in the dead of night when you should’ve been in your own chambers, fast asleep. But this was important, and you needed to let Aemond know since the Maester wouldn’t listen to a word you said.

The door barely opened, revealing only a small sliver of space, where Aemond peered through to check who it was. In his hand was a dagger he kept beneath his pillow in case of emergencies. His grip slackened when he saw you behind the door, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes fiery with determination. He opened the door slightly wider, both curious and confused as to what you were doing in front of his chambers at such a late time.

“Prince Aemond,” you breathlessly said. His gaze drew down to the large book you held, nearly larger than your small, ten-year-old form. “I found something that might help your pain. It’s a plant root that only grows in Dorne, you see, but I’m sure they can have some imported to King’s Landing upon your request. I believe it can be used to relieve you of your suffering.”

Shock dawned upon his features. You’d done all this research… for him? For an issue that he never spoke of to anyone? Even after he had rudely scampered away from you with his tail between his legs like a wounded hound?

He struggled to find the right words. Should he thank you? Tell you he was sorry?

Instead, Aemond found himself saying, “Why are you doing this?”

A moment of silence. Outside the Keep, the winds howled with the threat of a coming storm.

“I told you,” you whispered to the Prince, features softening. “I’m balancing the scales.”

The months passed by in a blur. You corresponded with Jace and Luke in the form of letters via raven quite often, always visiting the rookery with a bright smile and an excited bounce to your step at the prospect of learning about the boys’ stay at Dragonstone. It seemed that Jacaerys was struggling with learning Valyrian, and little Luke was growing like a beanstalk. Princess Rhaenyra had already birthed two new sons on Dragonstone with her uncle-husband, Daemon—respectively named Aegon the Younger and Viserys, after the King. In his writings, Luke took care to detail that both babes had silver hair and purple eyes, traits that he and his elder brother both lacked. It was his way of saying that he knew you were his kin—his true blood.

They always signed off with a promise of visiting soon.

Soon truly couldn’t come soon enough.

Your training continued as normal, and more often than not, Aemond would be there with you, offering tips and gentle words of advice. He was not strict in the way that Criston Cole was, leaving you the choice of whether to listen or not, taking no offense if you decided to forgo his teachings. The two of you sparsely spoke outside of that, but you sometimes caught his eye during mealtimes, in which you’d offer him a small, grateful smile. He didn’t return them, but would dip his head in acknowledgement instead.

Helaena’s belly grew large—larger than most pregnancies—and the maesters had concluded that she was bearing twins. It was shocking news, one that elated Alicent and Helaena to no end. This only sent you into a spiral of worry, however, knowing that births were but the gods’ dangerous gambles. Having twins only doubled the risk of complications during the labor.

Thankfully, when the time came around for Helaena to give birth, everything had gone smoothly with very few bumps in the road. She had begged you to stay by her side the entire time, and you were more than happy to comply. It filled you with a sense of pride that she asked you to be there with her over her own Queen mother.

The first twin to come out was a screaming boy with tufts of silvery hair and large purple eyes. He was the spitting image of his father, and you could only pray that he wouldn’t turn out like him in the future. More interestingly, however, the little boy had six toes on each foot and six fingers on his left hand. The midwives had shrieked in partial-surprise, partial-disgust upon their discovery, but you had swept the boy into your awaiting arms, gently rocking him up and down with a wide grin.

The second twin, a girl, came out mute. Your heart lurched in your chest—you had come out silent when you were a babe, as well. She was noticeably much smaller, and bore the same hair and eye color as her twin. Her features, however, matched that of Helaena’s, to your delight. The small girl was eased into Helaena’s arms, seeming perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she was strangely quiet.

“You did so well, Helaena,” you told her, kneeling down by the birthing bed to show her her son. Your dear friend grinned tiredly, murmuring a quiet hello to her eldest child. “They’re beautiful.”

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, their names were. You could already feel a protective love blossom inside of you, swearing to guard them with every fiber of your being. It occurred to you that this was what Harwin must’ve felt when you were born, though you were far younger than he had been.

The thought only had you clutching the wailing babe closer to your chest.

Helaena’s children grew at an exponential rate. The twins had quickly become your favorite part of the day—it was a rare sight to see you without one of the children clinging to your legs, or you without the Princess by your side.

Little Jaehaerys was loud and boisterous, being the first to crawl, to speak, and to run. He was a strong little boy, but often cried when not given what he wanted. His sister, on the other hand, was always quiet and much less active. She often took to staring aimlessly at random points of the chambers instead of playing with her brother, purple eyes scarcely blinking. You loved both of them despite their drastically different personalities.

You were well into your eighteenth year when the babes had their eighth nameday. During the later half of those eight years, Helaena had fallen pregnant again, and had a third child—a son named Maelor. He was a large baby, with a head of pale white hair and eyes a darker shade of mauve than his older siblings.

“Jaehaerys, don’t be so rough with your brother!” you lightly scolded when the boy began yanking at his baby brother’s cheeks with no restrain. A laugh slipped past your lips as you held Maelor out of his reach, which made Jaehaerys whine, as if you had taken away his most favorite playtoy. Helaena, sitting on the chaise on the other side of the room, glanced away from her embroidery to smile at her children, before returning her gaze back down to the needle and thread. Jaehaera sat beside her mother, staring into the fire with her lips parted.

Both you and Jaehaerys began playing a game of chase, where he was a fierce and mighty dragon whilst you enacted the role of a helpless knight. You had set down Maelor into his crib, where he suckled on a milk-soaked cloth.

The little boy roared, his face scrunching up with the action, before sprinting after you with outstretched hands. You were fast on your feet as you scampered away from him, but decided to slow down and let the little boy catch up to you, knowing he’d burst into tears if the game had gone on for too long without him winning. You shrieked in surprise when he grabbed at the ends of your tunic, yanking hard and yelling, “Dracarys, dracarys! I got you!”

“Indeed, you have,” you told the little boy, bending down to sweep him up into your arms with a grin.

From afar, Aemond lurked in the shadows, watching you play with his sister’s children. He watched the way you smiled with them, the way you laughed, the way you pressed chaste kisses into their chubby cheeks. It surprised him to find an inkling of jealousy for his nephews—how they had so freely enraptured your affections, whilst he was offered very little of them. No bother—all things came with due time. Besides, Aemond was not yet ready to admit his growing feelings with you.

The two of you had become considerably close over the past few years. You often frequented the library with him, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as you read together. You trained together, dined together, and took walks together. Hardly a day ever passed by without you spending some time with the young prince.

Aemond would scarcely speak when he was with you, preferring to listen to you instead. The times he did speak, it was quiet and thoughtful and rife with endearment. It was no secret that Aemond was growing quite fond of the youngest Strong.

A tourney was held in honor of the twins’ eighth nameday.

You sat beside Helaena in the high platforms on the elongated arena, hands twisting in your lap. Tourneys usually bored you to no end—watching men hurt themselves over little else than theatrical show and bragging rights was not something you were very keen on. It felt like a waste of time to you—you’d much rather be reading, or writing to Luke and Jace, or playing with the twins. To your other side was Prince Aemond, looking equally disinterested in the event. You couldn’t help but notice his long fingers tapping impatiently against his knee, as if he were itching to leave. His older brother Aegon was nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere in the bowels of the Street of Silk.

Round after round of jousting went by, until Harley Piper—a young, handsome lord with soft ginger curls and bright green eyes and freckled, sun-kissed skin, urged his horse closer to the platform, gaze trained on you. Draped over his armor were the colors of House Piper—gentle pink and silken white against a striking shade of blue.

“Might I be honored with your favor, my lady?” he asked, voice sweet and mellifluous.

At first, you’d thought that he had been speaking to Princess Helaena, finding it rather odd for him to ask a married woman for her favor. But when she made no move to hand him a favor, it dawned on you that he was asking you. Flustered, having never really received any sort of romantic attention before, you rose to your feet and dropped a crown of woven flowers down his long jousting lance.

You noted with muted curiosity that Aemond’s tapping fingers had curled into a tight fist.

Off Harley Piper went with your favor swaying by the lance’s handle, the metal grating of his helmet pulled down over his grinning features. You found yourself holding your breath as his joust began against another knight you couldn’t care to know the name of, eyes intently following his movements.

The crowd burst into raucous applause when the nameless knight easily unseated the young man—Harley flew off his horse with a grunt. They proceeded into hand-to-hand combat, where the larger knight leapt off his horse, grabbed a mace and swung it straight at Harley. A gasp lodged in your throat when the young man was struck cleanly in the back with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.

“I yield!” relented Harley, raising a hand.

From beside you, a ghost of a leering smile appeared on Aemond’s lips.

It disappeared when Harley struggled back onto his feet, clapping his opponent on the shoulder good-naturedly, and began limping back to your direction. You subconsciously straightened your spine, which made Helaena hide a knowing grin behind her hand.

“I’ve dishonored you, my lady,” winced the man with a head of flames. “A beauty such as yours deserves much better than I.”

“Nonsense, Lord Piper,” you replied, finding his humility rather endearing. “You are more than enough.”

Aemond’s shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched at your words. You didn’t spare him a glance.

Harley Piper beamed, as bright as the sun, bowing his head before you. “I shall take my leave, Lady Strong. Perhaps I’ll see you at supper?”

Before you could reply, Aemond coldly spat out, “I’m afraid Lady Strong will be dining with me tonight, Lord Piper. Take your leave.”

Shocked at his sudden hostility, you swung an incredulous, confused glare at the prince. Harley, equally bewildered, glanced between the two of you with narrowed lids, before bowing his head and striding away.

“Aemond, what the seven hells was that about?” you hissed, hand reaching out to grasp his forearm. His one eye darted between your touch and your furious expression—how you managed to become even more beautiful whilst angry was beyond him. “I liked him.”

The prince scoffed. “You have poor taste.”

“I thought he was sweet!”

“He lost his joust in a matter of minutes.”

“Losing a joust is nothing but a temporary blemish to one’s ego. Perhaps you could do with losing something, for a change,” you retorted, nose wrinkling at him.

The purple of his eye seemed to darken. “Mind your tongue, Strong,” he murmured, voice low. It didn’t slip your notice when he briefly glanced at your lips, parted and raw-bitten.

“Or what?” you shot back, leaning closer to him until your nose was but a hair’s breadth from his. “Will you take it from me? Will you take my tongue, My Prince?”

Before he could reply, Helaena cleared her throat, announcing that she would like to retire to her chambers. The noise was starting to get overwhelming for her. You practically ripped yourself out of your chair, eager to put some well-needed distance between yourself and the one-eyed prince. The skin on your cheeks and neck burned with heat—whether it was from Harley’s unadulterated attention, or from Aemond’s prickly behavior, you couldn’t quite tell.

His gaze burned into the back of your head as you left the arena to return into the Red Keep.

Larys Strong’s cane knocked against the uneven stone floor with each lurching step he took. The Master of Whisperers hobbled up to the Queen’s side, where she stood in front of the Weirwood tree, reminiscing her now long-ago childhood with Rhaenyra.

Hearing the echoing stamps of his cane, Alicent dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Lord Strong. Any word of Rhaenyra?”

There was an eerie smile to Larys’ face that didn’t quite reach his dark irises. “My sources tell me she has fallen pregnant again. Her third child with Daemon.”

A scowl flitted across Alicent’s wary features. “Certainly hasn’t wasted any time, I see.”

Larys spared her no response, merely humming thoughtfully.

The Queen gave him a sidelong glance, hastily deciding to change the subject. “Word has it your sister has taken an interest in the young Piper boy during a tourney.”

This time, it was Larys’ turn to frown. “Y/N is young and impressionable. She will take a liking to anyone who spares her an inkling of attention.”

Alicent tilted her head. “My children are rather fond of her—for reasons unbeknownst to me.”

“Hm. Indeed.” The Queen’s words seemed to get the cogs in Larys’ brain churning. “I am the Lord of Harrenhal—and I will sire no children. Harrenhal will go to Y/N once I have passed. Marriages are of political currency, these days, Your Grace.”

Eyebrows cinched, Alicent turned to fully face the man. “What is it you are speaking of, Larys?”

“I am suggesting… a marriage of alliance. Between my young sister and your second son, Aemond. They are already quite fond of each other, as you have mentioned before. This will do good for not only them, but the both of us and our houses, as well. Once I pass, Harrenhal will go to Y/N and Aemond and any of their children they have together. If a civil war breaks out… Harrenhal would be sworn to Aemond—and thereby you, as well, Your Grace. Not Rhaenyra.”

Shock colored the Queen’s expression. For years, she had been trying to figure out the entire picture behind Larys Strong, and his true intentions. He hated Rhaenyra so much for dishonoring his house that he had murdered his own family for it to gain inheritance of Harrenhal. And now he was willing to bargain away his young sister, practically Rhaenyra’s daughter, to Alicent’s son.

A sick feeling twisted within Alicent’s gut.

She considered the thought of Aemond marrying you. The two of you were together more often than not, anyway, and you were her daughter’s best and only friend. Not only that, but the political advantage of having Harrenhal truly backed to her family’s side was something she just couldn’t pass up, no matter how vile it made her feel.

“That is a splendid proposal, Lord Strong. I shall inform the King and my son with haste,” she told him, lips pursed.

A twisted grin etched into the corner of his mouth. “And I will break the wonderful news to my sweet sister. Good night, My Queen. I shall see you on the morrow.”

Alicent watched as Larys began limping away. It was only until his figure disappeared into the Keep’s walls that she buried her tired face into her hands.

When you were younger, Larys was but a scarce figure in your life. You practically only knew of him by word of mouth—he was only your family in blood and name—he certainly didn’t feel like your brother. Not in the same way that Harwin did, at least.

As you grew older, however, you began to notice Larys always lurking in the shadows, watching your every move like a vulture would a rotting carcass. Your second brother bore no love for you, that was glaringly obvious. Instead, he saw you as a pawn in his little game of thrones—a piece of the board he owned and was free to move around as he wished.

The Clubfoot leaned his weight on his cane as he studied you reshelving around half a dozen books you had borrowed from the library.

“Sweet sister,” he crooned, roping your attention away from the fraying spines of the tomes.

A disgusted shiver spidered down your form.

“What is it, Larys?” you sighed, already wanting the conversation to be over and done with. Later that night, you had planned to take the twins stargazing from the Keep's highest tower with Helaena, and you were hoping to squeeze in a quick bath before doing so. “I’m busy.”

“As you often are,” your older brother glibly murmured. “Forgive me for being so brazen… I couldn’t help but notice how close you and the young Prince Aemond have become.”

You blinked, the sudden mention of Aemond taking you by surprise. A pregnant silence fell over the both of you, heavy and tense. You were stiff as you waited for him to continue, but Larys was as relaxed as ever, a coy grin playing at the corner of his lips.

“You are ten-and-eight years old. Prince Aemond is twenty. Both of you have been of age to marry for quite some time. I have arranged a betrothal for you, Y/N.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, taking half a step back. “Larys… what did you do?”

The shelves seemed too close together, and you found the air within your throat thinning away. You fixed your brother with an incredulous glare, heated with the fire of a thousand summers.

“The Queen has agreed to this—you will be wed to Aemond Targaryen. The Strong bloodline will continue on through you and the Prince.”

“No…” you whispered, a sharp, betrayed edge to your tone. “How dare you? How dare you do this to me?”

The calm, nonchalant expression on your brother’s features remained unchanged. “I am helping you, dear sister. You are fond of Aemond—you cannot deny this, for it would be a plain lie. He is a prince—this is the best sort of marriage you can possibly get.”

“I am no sister of yours,” you spat, lurching forward to shove him back, caught up in a fit of rage. All you could see was red. Larys stumbled into a bookshelf, yet still appeared unfazed. “You took away my choice to marry whomever I wished. My freedom. When I asked—no, I begged—to return to Harrenhal to mourn Harwin and father, you simply brushed me to the side as if I were dirt on your shoe! All these years, and you’ve hardly acknowledged me as a person, much less your family! And now you… you use me for your political gain—to appease the Queen you are so desperate for, to further drive me away from Rhaenyra… you are vile, Larys. You are everything Harwin is not. Your very existence is a filthy stain on the memory of our family… of House Strong!”

The space between the two of you crackled as you stared at him, chest rising and falling in staggered motions from your anger-fueled tirade.

“Aemond will treat you well,” was all Larys said, completely disregarding your harsh words with not a care in the world. “The Queen has informed him of the arrangement… along with the King. There is no going back now, sister-mine.”

Rage clawed through your chest, scratching down your ribs and twisting within your lungs. With not another word, you stormed past him, your shoulder roughly knocking into his on your way out of the library.

You had been so angry that night, you completely forgot about your promise to Helaena and the twins, and they were left waiting in the towers for you for hours on end. Little Jaehaerys didn’t mind, occupying his time by chasing a moth and tripping over the edges of carpets, with his little sister staring at him with her large, unblinking gaze.

The sky was starless that night.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

You spun around the hay-sewn dummy, driving your sword into its motionless form over and over again in rapid succession, until the dried wheat began to cave in beneath the force of your hits. The poor dummy was taking the brunt of your frustrations—with Larys, with the arranged marriage, with Aemond. Grunts of exertion rumbled from your lungs and cold beads of sweat dotted your hairline.

Sure, it could be worse, you had initially thought, trying your best to see the silver linings. But the more you thought about it—the idea of being tied down against your will to a Prince, almost permanently anchoring you to your wretched brother’s side…

That was no future for you. You deserved better than that.

Just as you lifted your sword to strike the dummy again, you could feel a familiar, infuriating stare burn into your skin. With precise movements, you pivoted on your heel and swung your sword around, slanting the sharp blade right up against Aemond’s throat. The cold metal kissed his skin, but didn’t press deep enough to draw blood. It was a threat of sorts. You’d been training for more than a decade of your life by now—and you were more than capable of knocking him onto his arse, just as you had all those years ago during your first spar with him.

The silver-haired prince cocked his head, single purple eye blazing with an unreadable intensity you couldn’t exactly place. Ever so slow, he raised both hands.

A beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.

You lowered your sword.

“Go away, Aemond,” you spat, tone heavy with betrayal.

Sensing this, he stayed rooted to his spot. “It is not I who arranged the marriage,” he whispered, in an almost conciliating manner. It hadn’t yet occurred to you that Aemond might’ve been just as upset as you were—after all, the choice had been taken away from him, as well.

You spared him no response, turning your back to him and raising your sword to stab the dummy once more.

His next words made you freeze. “I know not why you are so upset about this. Am I that detestable, Lady Strong? Or is it because you’ve already fallen in love with that oaf from House Piper? You do know that their sigil is one of a naked maiden, do you not? It is no wonder he lost his tourney so quickly.”

With a choked yell, you rounded to face him again, lifting your sword and bringing it down with staggering speed. Aemond, however, had anticipated this, easily rolling to the side and grabbing a discarded sword from the yard’s ground, parrying away with ease. Unrelenting, you pulled back to land another blow on him. His sword met yours halfway, the blades singing against one another. You gritted your teeth, practically snarling at your betrothed.

The hostility was quick to wane away the longer you stared at him. He was your friend—the boy you had grown so fond of over the course of the last half a decade. Your vision began to blur with unshed tears as you started to physically shake. A hot droplet meandered down your cheek. You let the sword fall limp in your grasp.

Furious with yourself and embarrassed beyond relief, you swiped away the tears with the back of your palm, lifting your gaze to meet Aemond’s.

Something had changed within his features. It had softened considerably, pale and glowing beneath the moonlight. His lips were parted, as if deliberating between words and action.

He chose action.

With no warning, Prince Aemond surged forward, sword clattering to his feet as his hands came forth to cradle your face within his palms. His fingers were cold against the sweltering skin of your face, but neither of you cared. His nose bumped against yours, foreheads knocking into one another. Your eyes locked with his, intense and tumultuous and molten with yearning. His lips were but a hair’s breadth from yours—tantalizingly close.

When you made no move to pull away, he kissed you.

It was a desperate embrace, needy and clawing and furious. It made your heart lurch within your chest, your breath crystallized to the sides of your throat, your eyes wrenching shut. Aemond stepped even closer, chest pressed up against yours, his knee slotting between your legs in a way that made your neck flush with heat. The grip he had on your face tightened, as if he were ensuring that you were real.

This was real.

You just about melted into his touch, one of your hands lifting to hold onto his bicep, the other still clutching onto your sword, not daring to let go.

It was only when his lips left yours for a second of air, did your eyes snap open, and the trance you had so easily fallen into began to thin away.

You placed both palms on his chest and shoved the prince away, breathing heavily and eyes wild. Frustrated and so very conflicted about how you felt for him, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and shot him an offended look, before storming away angrily.

The sword clattered to the ground with your departure. Aemond found himself staring at his own warped reflection within the blade. He loathed what stared back at him—a taunting of his own tarnished image, and wrenched his gaze away.

He would talk to you on the morrow, he decided. For now, he would let you go, knowing full and well that he would not be able to find you even if he tried.

After all, a dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can.

Aemond didn’t talk to you the next day, or the day after that. The two of you didn’t speak to one another for weeks on end. You were quite good at hiding from him, always turning the corner and hurrying away when you could feel his attentive stare begin to blaze into you, or relocating your training to the darkest nooks and crannies of the Keep just so he wouldn’t be able to find you. Even Helaena and her three lovely children you adored so much had barely seen you as of late, because you knew that being around her would make it easier for Aemond to come and speak to you.

You hadn’t meant to avoid him for this long, you really hadn’t. By now, you’d expected the two of you to talk things out, clear the air between you, and return back to how the way things were before. But the more you waited, the more conflicted you became about the kiss and your own feelings for him, thus prolonging your inevitable confrontation with the Prince.

The two of you had keenly noticed that the longer this game of silence had drawn out, the less it became one of true avoidance, and the more it grew to be like a round of cat-and-mouse. Sometimes, you’d even find yourself waiting in places you knew the prince would pass by, only to scurry away just as soon as he came. Aemond himself was enjoying watching you dance away from his grasp, just as much as he was frustrated with it. He’d get you eventually, he oft told himself. You’d come around.

Alicent had pushed back anything related to their wedding the sicker King Viserys grew—wanting to prioritize her husband’s health first and foremost above all else. It was yet another example of Aemond being pushed to the side in favor of another.

Around you, however, he never felt second. Sure, you also loved Helaena and her children, but he did not feel as if they were competition for your affections. It was why he enjoyed drawing out this game of chase with you so much—having your attention constantly devoted entirely to him made his pride swell and a fire kindle within his lower abdomen. He wanted you more than ever before.

It was why the news of his nephews and his half-sister returning to King’s Landing to rebuttal the challenge to the heir of Driftmark soured his mood so badly.

Upon their arrival, your game of chase had come to an end—effectively stealing away any and all of your addictive attention. He saw you far more often than before, but you hardly ever paid any mind to him, instead focusing on the plain-featured boys.

It’d been nearly a decade since you last saw them.

You were the only one to greet them when they arrived at King's Landing. It was a rather sad affair, with no one to welcome Rhaenyra and her sons but a young Strong—practically a nobody in a den of dragons. It was an insult on Alicent’s part—as if she were indirectly saying she had more important matters to attend to than Rhaenyra.

You didn’t quite care for their little rivalry—all you really wanted was to see your nephews.

The boys had grown so big. It startled you to see that Jace was practically a man grown now, with a sharp face and eyes exactly the same as your late older brother, brown hair straight and neatly groomed. Luke, on the other hand, had softer features like that of Rhaenyra, but bore his true father’s nose and mouth, with a head of dark, messy curls.

You ran forward to greet them, excitedly shouting their names with a permanent smile etched over your lips. Little Luke—you made a mental note not to call him that anymore, seeing as he was no longer little—was the first to embrace you, yelling your name and barreling forward to squeeze you into a hug so tight that all the air was pushed from your lungs. Jace was gentler with his approach, but you gripped onto him tightly all the same, pressing kisses to both of your nephew’s foreheads. Then, you kneeled down and took little Joffrey’s hand within yours, kissing his palm, and his chubby little cheeks. The little boy looked mildly confused as to who you were, since they’d left for Dragonstone when he was only but a tiny little baby. You stood back up to face the three of them.

“My, how you’ve grown,” you told the boys, patting Jace and Luke’s cheeks affectionately. “Feels like just yesterday we were little children together. I haven’t seen you since…”

Since Aemond lost his eye.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” commented Luke, a wide smile to his face. “It’s nice to see you, Y/N. We’ve missed you dearly on Dragonstone. Exchanging letters just isn’t the same.”

“It really isn’t,” you hummed in agreement. “But you’re here now—and I couldn’t be more happy.”

It was then that Rhaenyra and Daemon joined you, each holding a white-haired babe in their arms. They must’ve been Aegon and Viserys. Lips parting, you dipped your head in greeting, a bright, watery smile painting your complexion golden.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” you said.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she murmured, shaking her head and using her free hand to rope you into an embrace. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to watch you flourish into one.” Tears welled up in your eyes when she leaned forward and whispered into your ear, “Your brother Harwin would be so very proud of you.”

Your breath caught within your throat. “Thank you,” you told her, voice cracking with emotion. The purple of her eyes gleamed with gentle affection. You glanced, down eyes widening upon seeing her swollen belly. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Let’s hope the next one is a girl. You’ve had enough sons as it is.”

Your words made Rhaenyra huff out an amused laugh. “Yes, a daughter would be lovely. Though, you’ve filled that position for long enough, I would be happy with yet another son.”

A bright beam pulled your lips impossibly wider. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries and catching up, you said hello to little Aegon and Viserys, before urging them into the Keep, not wanting to keep them waiting after such a long journey. Luke had talked your ear off about how he had puked thrice over the side of the ship from his relentless seasickness.

The entire time, you pointedly avoided making any mention of your betrothal to Aemond, wanting to remain in blissful ignorance for just a bit longer.

The Red Keep was almost unrecognizable to the young boys. As the years passed without Rhaenyra there to watch over the kingdom in Viserys’ stead, the Targaryen heraldry was taken down, slowly replaced by symbols of the Seven in the form of erected stone statues and carvings of seven-pointed stars. The change had been so gradual that you’d barely noticed, but to Jace and Luke, it was a shock to see their home completely different to how it used to be.

You took them on a guide throughout the expansive castle, exchanging stories of their times throughout the years. They asked you how you’ve fared here, and you hesitated to tell them about everything going on with Larys, with Harley Piper, with… with Aemond…

Instead, you chirped on about Helaena and her children, and how they were always the brightest part of your day.

“Have you still been training on your own?” Jacaerys asked just as you rounded the corner to lead them to the training yard.

You paused, thinking back to all the late nights you spent clashing swords with Aemond.

“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “My brother Harwin would’ve wanted me to keep honing my skills, even after he’s passed.”

A grim look passed over the two boys’ faces.

Once they began descending the stone stairwell to the yard, Luke’s nose wrinkled in disdain. The court was full of training men, a cacophony of steel against steel, of thuds against dummies, and exerted grunts all echoing across the expansive grounds.

“It’s much smaller than I remember,” said Luke.

You spared the younger Velaryon a sweet smile. “Perhaps that’s only because you’ve grown much larger since last you were here.”

“It looks exactly the same to me,” Jace said, bounding down the last few steps to hurry to the rack of weapons. “Come on!”

Though Jace was willfully oblivious to the stares of the guards and the handmaids and all the rest that were in the yard, keeping his head held up high, Luke was aware of everybody’s eyes on him. Glaring, judging, and piercing every which way. He shifted uncomfortably beside you.

Jacaerys patted one of the large dents in a while, a wide grin to his handsome features. “See? I told you this would still be here! And you thought you could swing Criston’s morningstar. You almost took your own head off!”

Luke gave him a half-hearted grin, but it was quick to melt away when he whispered beneath his breath, “Everyone’s staring at us.”

The older brother pulled a sword from the rack and playfully lowered down into an attack position, Lucerys’ words largely going ignored.

“Of course they’re staring,” you stated matter-of-factly. “You are the Princess’ sons.”

Luke shook his head, dark curls flying about his forehead. “That is not why they’re staring, and you know it. No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if… if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”

Releasing a deep sigh, Jacaerys hung his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think, little brother,” he asserted.

You watched as Luke turned to you, as if silently asking you to back him. “Oh, Luke,” you murmured, unsure of what to say. “As I said before, you are Rhaenyra’s son, first and foremost—”

Before you could finish your sentence, a crowd from across the yard burst into raucous applause. Curious, Jace grabbed your hand, dragging you along to see what was going on.

It was Aemond—sparring against Criston.

Your heart sunk into your stomach. You hadn’t prepared yourself nearly enough to face him just yet.

At the sight of their uncle, Luke and Jace visibly tensed beside you.

He was beautiful—spinning around with ease and grace. Criston swung his morningstar at the prince, only for Aemond to duck, blocking the heavy weapon with a wooden shield. It splintered beneath the force, and he shirked it away to the side. Aemond used his speed to his advantage, dancing away from each of Criston’s swings, tactfully tiring him out. Seeing his opportunity when Criston’s arm dropped for but a millisecond, Aemond skidded around the ball-and-chain, pointing the tip of his sword right at his mentor’s throat.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slowly slipped from your lungs just as the audience began clapping again.

“Well done, my Prince,” said Criston, setting down his weapon to yield. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

The purple of Aemond’s eye blazed as he turned his head away from Cole to face you. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he murmured, taking great pleasure in the way you physically stepped back. “Lady Strong, my sweet betrothed… have you come to train?”

Heat snaked up the skin of your neck and seeped into your cheeks at his words. My sweet betrothed. Jace and Luke both sent you deeply puzzled, almost affronted looks.

“Aemond, no, I—” you began, but he strode forward in no more than three steps, grabbing your forearm and pulling you to the center of the circle, much to Jace and Luke’s dismay.

The Prince paid no mind to your protests. “Criston. Give her a sword.”

The knight, none too fond of you ever since the first incident when you were only a child, thrusted a dull blade into your arms.

With your jaw set, you huffed out a curse beneath your breath, and stabilized yourself into a defensive position. If a fight was what Aemond wanted, then a fight was what he was going to get.

He struck first, darting forward to arc his sword into your side. You took half a step back and parried, guiding his arm up over your head and ducking beneath his swing. Using this to your advantage, you kicked at the back of his knee, sending him buckling down to the ground. A growl rumbled within his chest. Aemond was quick to react, twisting around to sweep his sword between your legs, knocking you back as well.

Winded and caught off guard, you desperately parried away his continuous strikes, the tip of his sword getting closer and closer and closer to your face. You scrambled to get back up on your feet, but Aemond was unrelenting, pressing on with no restraint. Aemond was practically on top of you at this point, his knee pressing nearly painfully into your thigh.

“Yield,” he hissed, breath hot against your ear.

You glared up at him. Briefly, you allowed your eyes to slip past Aemond, to the two young boys behind him, worryingly watching you.

Humiliated, you huffed out a shaking breath, wishing to just end this here and now. “I yield.”

The crowd began clapping for Aemond again, though, this time much more hesitant and sparse. Scandalous murmurs rippled through the audience. From the side, Criston smirked at your defeat.

Satisfied, Aemond stepped back, offering you his hand. You let him help you up, dusting your trousers off with a huff.

He briefly let go of your hand to wind his arm about your waist, tugging you closer. An internal part of you screamed in embarrassment, not wanting him to behave in such a way when Jace and Luke were right there—watching the two of you with bewilderment. He smelled of smoke and steel and leather, and you couldn’t bring it in yourself to push away. “You are skilled, Lady Strong—but your arrogance betrays you.”

“Arrogance?” you whispered back, eyes roaming over his expressionless features, your brows knitting together. “I let you win. Release me, Aemond. People are watching.”

The prince’s eye momentarily flitted down to your parted lips, then back up to meet your tumultuous gaze. He hummed in thought, before relinquishing his hold on you completely, swiftly turning to Jace and Luke.

“Nephews… have you come to train, as well?” he asked them, straightening himself, practically oozing with intimidation.

Jace’s mouth parted, still stupefied.

Before anyone could utter another word, a guard bellowed out, “Open the gates!”

The large metal gratings groaned as they were pulled open. Velaryon banners filled the training yard—and in the center of all of them, stood Vaemond Velaryon. Corlys’ brother, and, according to him, the rightful heir to Driftmark.

You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat.

Fear splattered clear as day over Luke’s features. Aemond only grinned at that.

The gardens were much more intimidating in the nighttime. Large statues of the Seven hid behind the rose bushes in a menacing fashion, and the fountain bore a seven-pointed star in the center that looked sharp enough to cut. You never frequented the place after sunset, deliberately taking Helaena and the children out on walks when it was still light out.

Nonetheless, it was one of the only few quiet places in the Keep where you could be sure curious ears wouldn’t be able to hear your whispers over the gushing of the water fountain. Though, you couldn’t be too certain that your brother wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows.

Jace and Luke were standing across from you, both of their arms crossed expectedly.

The older of the two seemed disappointed, as if he’d expected better from you. Luke, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, feeling as if you’d betrayed him.

“I’m sorry for not telling the two of you earlier,” you quietly said. “I couldn’t find a way to break the news.”

The silence stretched thin between the three of you.

“I don’t want it,” you said, wringing your hands nervously. “My brother, Larys, and the Queen are forcing this upon me. I had no choice in the matter. Aemond is my friend, as much as I know you two mislike him… he’s my friend. He had no say in the matter, either. I don’t know—perhaps I should just be grateful I’m betrothed to him rather than a pure stranger. He would not hurt me, I’m sure of it.”

Jacaerys’ expression seemed to soften upon your confession. It was no wonder you were so afraid to tell them. You must’ve been so confused and scared. Silent, the taller boy reached out to pull you into a hug, gently patting your back. Tears of relief began to well in your eyes—you’d truly been expecting them to turn their back on you.

“I… I feel as though my control of my own life is slipping right through the cracks between my fingers,” you whispered, voice crumbling with emotion.

You began to softly cry into Jacaerys’ shoulder. Luke joined in the embrace, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

The three of you stood in the eerie garden, each of you equally upset and uncertain for the future to come.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds…” Otto Hightower began, descending an instantaneous hush upon the throng of lords and ladies in front of the Iron Throne, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice in this—and all other matters.”

Otto’s last sentence made bile climb up your throat. Not too long ago, your own father held the position as Hand, and held it in a just, and unbiased manner. You were afraid you couldn’t say the same for Otto Hightower.

You stood a couple steps away from Rhaenyra and her sons, hands tightly clasped behind your back. To the right of the Iron Throne was Alicent and her children—Aegon with rumpled hair as if he had just rolled out of bed, Aemond with his gaze flickering back and forth between his nephew and his betrothed, and Helaena, who was staring at the warbling light of the torches on the wall. All you wanted to do was get this over and done with—the succession of Driftmark was not a subject you cared for, seeing as you strongly believed it should go to Luke. Bastard or not, it mattered little to you—he was Laenor’s son regardless of blood and deserved his own inheritance.

“The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

The man stepped forward, head held high.

“My Queen. My Lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies… House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin—his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Tongue as sharp as ever, Rhaenyra interjected, “As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No—you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”

Looking down at the Princess, Alicent raised her brows. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”

From the side, Aegon hid a snicker behind his palm.

Vaemond turned to Rhaenyra. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you—and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” Luke took a small shuffle back when Vaemond rounded his scalding glare on the younger boy. “My Queen, Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood. Not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above it all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor—the Lord of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.”

Satisfied, Otto nodded once. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”

Smug and confident he had swayed the decision in his favor, Vaemond stepped back to his respective side.

“Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

The white-haired woman took three steps to the center, one hand holding her large, pregnant belly.

“If I am to grace this farce with some sort of answer,” she began, already exhausted of the entire ordeal, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—”

Before she could finish, the doors swung open. Everybody turned their heads back. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was King Viserys.

The last time you’d seen him… was most probably longer than a year ago.

And how the tall and mighty fall from such grace. He was practically rotting away, skin patched and peeling, teeth gnarled and black, figure fragile and bent. The white of his hair fell in but sparse strands from his scalp where the crown sat, lopsided but gleaming nonetheless. A gilded mask was placed on one half of his face, hiding the decaying flesh on right cheek, and the pulsing cavern where his eye used to be. He hobbled forth on his cane, one of his feet dragging along behind him, not unlike your brother Larys, shoulders heavy with his cloak. He was in a great deal of pain—that was made abundantly clear with his wincing and groaning. But he pushed forth nonetheless, determined to voice his support for his daughter, Rhaenyra.

The guard by the door announced his presence: “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Shock fell upon the court at the sight of the King up and out of his chambers, much less walking on his own. It did not slip past you when Vaemond and Otto exchanged concerned looks. You bowed your head as Viserys passed by, biting down on your tongue.

The royal family seemed to have different reactions to the King’s presence. Rhaenyra was stunned into silence, which was quick to meld into one of subtle gratitude. Rhaenys turned her head away at the sight of her brother in such a pained state. Helaena smiled faintly, though you weren’t quite sure what she was smiling for. And Alicent appeared the most conflicted out of all.

“I will sit the throne today,” he told his Hand. Otto looked none too pleased, but dipped his head, stepping away to the side for Viserys to pass.

He began to lose his breath as he climbed up the steps, leaning forth on his cane. The crown slid from his head and clattered onto the stone floor. Prince Daemon—his brother—was the one to pick it up for him, and patiently helped him up the rest of the steps to his seat. He gently placed the crown back on Viserys’ head, before stepping back down to stand beside his wife.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” said Viserys, breathless. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys.”

His older sister lifted her head. “Indeed, Your Grace.” With cautious strides, she made her way forward. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The two boys… betrothed? Just two minutes ago they were both barely tall enough to reach for supper in the middle of the dining table, and now they were already going to get married? Though, you supposed you were speaking rather hypocritical, as you had just gotten betrothed not too long ago yourself.

Muted frustration befell Alicent’s expression.

“Well… the matter is settled. Again.” The King blew out a sigh. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Clear disdain painted itself green across Vaemond’s face.

“You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

Confused, Viserys’ brows drew together. “Allow it?” he echoed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Suddenly raising his voice, Vaemond turned and jabbed a finger straight in Luke’s direction. “That is no true Velaryon! And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Desperate to keep the accusations at bay, Rhaenyra pushed Luke behind her. “Go to your chambers, boys. Vaemond, you have said enough!”

Taking great offense to his words, the King said, “Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

The man shook his head. “You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine.”

Gasps rang out across the court. What Vaemond had just said to the King was treason.

Despite this, on Vaemond continued, “My house survived the Doom—and a thousand tribulations more! And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…”

Prince Daemon cocked his head, challenging, “Say it.”

“Her children… are…” said Vaemond. “BASTARDS!”

The audience murmured scandalously. Your brows raised in shock, gaze wildly swinging from Luke to the King.

Vaemond was not yet done, having one final blow to serve. “And she… is… a whore.”

Disgust coiled within your stomach. It made you even angrier to see a smirk toy with the corners of Aemond’s lips.

Viserys angrily limped onto his feet, unsheathing his dagger. “I… will have your tongue for that!”

In a blur of black and red, Daemon swung his sword as quick as a bolt of lightning, cleaving it clean through Vaemond’s head. A sick squelch of flesh and blood and steel rang across the court, quickly blending into the startled shrieks of Lords and Ladies. You had flinched back, hands raising to cover your mouth.

Helaena had gasped the loudest, her hands flying to rest over her ears and hurriedly turning her face away from the grotesque sight. From all the years you had been her dearest friend, you knew blood was one of the few things she could not handle.

Right beside her, Aemond had stepped back, hand defensively falling to his sword. His purple eye was wide and trained onto the body, but quickly flicked up to look at you, as if ensuring that you were alright.

Though you couldn’t see Luke’s expression, you could see the way his shoulders flinched and his feet began to panickedly shuffle away.

Vaemond’s body fell to the ground, dark red blood dripping over the stones and meandering into the cracks and crevices.

Satisfied, Daemon observed the blood begin to graze the bottom of his shoe. “He can keep his tongue,” he commented nonchalantly.

“DISARM HIM!” screamed Otto. Half a dozen guards drew out their swords, pointing it straight at Daemon.

“No need,” said the Prince, cleaning his sword with the bottom of his shirt, uncaring of Vaemond’s blood getting all over him. He sheathed the steel and backed away with a small, victorious grin.

It was then that Viserys collapsed back onto the throne, groaning in pain.

“Call the maesters!” Alicent yelled, rushing up the steps to her husband. “Please, my love, you must take something for the pain!”

“I will not cloud my mind…” said the King. “I must… put things right…”

The King commanded a supper—with all of his family to attend, as this was the first time they were all gathered in the Keep since nearly a decade ago. Seeing as you were now betrothed to his second son, you supposed you were officially considered part of the family now. Though, you had considered yourself one of Rhaenyra’s daughters ever since childhood.

Your handmaidens had washed you in a tub full of flower petals, the warm water heaven to your tense muscles. They scrubbed you with soap that smelled of honey and milk, a sweet scent that pleasantly burrowed beneath your skin.

Afterwards, they laid out a dress for you. It was a beautiful, dark green garment with golden linings, no doubt a gift from Queen Alicent. The dress fit you perfectly, falling over your form like a stream of water over a stony bank. The collar was modest enough, but dipped down just beneath your clavicle bone, where a necklace of gleaming silver pearls rested against your sternum. As you stared at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice that the dress looked nearly black in certain lighting.

It was strange to be so dressed up—you weren’t quite fond of skirts and dresses in the first place, finding it much easier and practical to don trousers for everyday use, uncaring of its impropriety. People of the court often joked that House Strong no longer had a Lady, as you were often seen doing traditionally male activities, such as sparring and educating yourself. You paid them no mind—fighting and reading made you no less of a Lady than all the other women in court.

There was a knock to your door just as the handmaidens finished with pinning up your hair. They rushed to swing it open, Princess Helaena stepping in with a mild grin to her lips, though it was not enough to mask the sadness in her face.

“Helaena,” you said, surprised at her sudden visit, grasping her hands within yours. “It’s lovely to see you. It feels as if we’ve hardly spoken as of late.”

The memory of Vaemond’s blood and Helaena’s distraught flashed at the forefront of your mind. If only you had the chance to speak with her afterwards—but Alicent was adamant on sending her daughter straight to her chambers that instant.

“Are you… are you alright?” you gently asked, not wanting to pry. “After all that happened earlier today… I know how much you mislike blood.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Princess wispily replied, carefully sidestepping the subject that made her queasy. “I miss you. The children miss you.”

A lump formed in your throat. “Oh, how are the little terrors? I promise to take them out on a promenade soon.”

“They are well. Jaehaerys never ceases asking about you,” she replied, before allowing her gaze to roam over your attire. “You look wonderful, Y/N. It is surely a rare sight to see you so dressed up.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat. “Well, I’ve certainly never had to go to a supper as important as this one. I’ve hardly ever had a reason to dress up in such a way before. Thank you, though. You’re looking radiant as ever, as well.”

Helaena smiled at you, wide and genuine. It disappeared after a brief moment, and her plum-hued eyes seemed to mist over.

“A storm is on the horizon,” she murmured. “A dance of dragons. They will keep dancing, even once the music has stopped. They care naught for when their feet begin to bleed.”

The Princess’ strange words echoed in your head for the next few hours. What had she meant by that? Before you had the chance to ask her what she was talking about, Helaena had excused herself to go check on the kids before dinnertime, floating out of your room as if she hadn’t just spoken the most mystifying words to you.

Overwhelmed and desperate for fresh air, you made your way back out into the gardens. The sun was just barely beginning to set, spilling soft clementine and dark tangerine hues across the canvas of the sky.

You stood in front of the water fountain, watching the clear water burble over the stone and fall into the pool below.

It was not long until your betrothed came to join you, his hands neatly clasped behind his back.

“Lady Strong,” he greeted with a dip of his head. “You are more beautiful than ever before, which says much as you were already beguiling enough to begin with.”

Firmly, you shook your head. You were still angry at him for humiliating you in front of Jace and Luke earlier that day. “Stop it, Aemond. Do not speak your sweet lies to me. I have no taste for your saccharine words.”

“Tis not a lie, Y/N,” he whispered your name, all soft and heavenly on his tongue. “You are beautiful.”

You blew out a frustrated breath. The two of you stood in a precarious silence for a moment longer.

The muttering of your question shattered the quiet between you. “Are you not upset, Aemond? About the betrothal?”

The Prince hummed, and took a few seconds to consider what you were asking. Finally, he replied, keeping his eye trained on the fountain. “I’m glad it’s you,” he simply said.

Your breath hitched within your throat.

Rotating on his heel, Aemond was now fully facing you, lifting his hands up. Cold fingers grazed over your jaw, before he cradled your face in its entirety, the pads of his thumbs smoothing over your flushed cheekbones. It was not unlike the first time he had kissed you—but there was something softer about this atmosphere.

Acceptance. Affection. Yearning.

His purple iris darkened, the orange light of the setting sun bathing him in a warm glow. Shadows arched over his face, only highlighting his most handsome, sharp features. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to his lips, curled with fondness, lax with temptation.

Aemond could see the conflict dance about your visage.

He dipped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lips grazing against your hairline.

“I shall see you at supper,” he whispered into your skin.

With that, he stepped back, dipping his head respectfully, and left you in the garden, completely alone with only your tumultuous thoughts to accompany you.

Candles were lit everywhere, the flames warbling in the air, melted wax dripping down the sides. The servants were still placing down dozens upon dozens of dishes—ranging from grilled cod, to seared mutton chops, to creamed potatoes, to various platters of fresh fruits and cheeses. Chalices of wine and honeyed cider were passed around, all full to the brim.

You were seated with Helaena to your right, and Aemond to your left, at the end of the table. From across the room, Rhaenyra had flickered her gaze from you to your betrothed. She had only received the news from her sons moments ago, and was still processing the shock of it all.

From the center of the expansive feast, Viserys began to speak. “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”

“Prayer before we begin?” asked Alicent, ever the religious figure.

Viserys agreed, nodding his head weakly.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Daemon rolled his eyes in exasperation at the Queen’s last sentence. You clasped your hands together as she prayed, but kept your eyes open. Luke mirrored you, shooting you a look as if to say, “Do you do this every day?”

With small movements you shook your head, and the younger boy could only suppress a smile in response. Aemond kept his head down and his eyes closed as he listened to his mother’s prayers. He’d always been the more devoted out of the two of you.

Once Alicent was done, Viserys said, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons… Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena. The daughter of my former Hand, Y/N Strong… will marry my second son, Aemond. These marriages will further strengthen the bond between our great houses. A toast to the young princes… and their betrothed.”

Chalices raised, everybody took a sip. You exchanged a look with Aemond, offering him a small smile as you drank from your cup. Tentative, you reached beneath the table to take his hand—a truce of sorts. It was your silent way of telling him that you were willing to move forth with the marriage—that you were glad it was him, as well. Aemond showed little reaction, other than a small twitch of the corner of his lips, nearly reminiscent to that of a grin.

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” said Aegon to the dark-haired prince, somehow already quite drunk. Jacaerys set his jaw but paid him no mind other than that.

Again, King Viserys spoke, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys. The future Lord of the Tides.”

Luke’s betrothed, Rhaena, clinked her cup against his. “You’ll be great,” she told him kindly, eyes gleaming with warmth.

Unrelenting, Aegon bent to the side to lean closer to Jacaerys. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that…”

With a sharp tongue, Baela whispered, “Let it be, cousin.”

Jace scowled. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, grabbing another cup of wine and knocking it back in no less than a few seconds. “Aemond is well versed in the art of bedding—are you not, brother?” Before giving him a chance to respond, Aegon continued on with his rambling. “I took him to the Streets of Silk when he came of age. Didn’t even see him come out! Must have been enjoying himself. At least Y/N will be in good hands… though I am always willing to show him the ropes lest he forgets how to man the ship.”

The eldest prince’s words made your skin flare with heat. Aemond’s grip grew tighter around his own cup, but he remained silent as ever. You were only grateful that the adults at the other side of the table were too busy chattering amongst themselves to hear the obscenities the children were speaking of.

With great difficulty, Viserys made to stand up. He nearly buckled under his own weight, but a gnarled hand shot out to rest against the table, steadying himself before he could fall forward into a bowl of soup. The mask that was tied to the rotten side of his face gleamed with the warped reflections of the candlelight.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” With trembling fingers, the King began to untie his mask, revealing the decaying flesh in all its glory for everyone to see. His empty eye socket was sunken and dry. “My own face… is no longer a handsome one—if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer amongst you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly.”

Tired, the King settled back down into his seat with the help of his wife. Alicent’s eyes were pained and misted over with unshed tears.

With pursed lips, Rhaenyra suddenly stood up, holding her chalice up high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

As if wounded, Alicent reared back slightly and blinked away her tears. She refused to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” Surprising you, Alicent stood up, holding her goblet in her hand. “I raise my cup to you and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.”

The rest of you drank to the toasts, an amicable atmosphere settling over the family.

Always one to ruin the mood, Aegon stood up, making his way over to Baela, pouring himself another glass of wine. He leaned down close to her, murmuring, “I, uhm… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

At his limit, Jacaerys slammed his fists against the table, rising to his feet and glaring at Aegon. The white-haired Prince slunk back to his seat, a salacious grin toying at his mouth. Startled by the sudden noise, Alicent and Rhaenyra looked to Jace, who was now awkwardly standing up.

It surprised you when Aemond let go of your hand to stand up himself, as if challenging Jace, his single eye blazing with an unreadable expression. Your gaze bounced back and forth between the two, unsure of what was going to transpire between them.

Jacaerys pursed his lips, patting Aegon on the shoulder, with a bit more force than necessary. “To Princes Aegon and Aemond, and the Lady Strong. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. To my uncles, as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

Aegon cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the formalities thrust upon him. “To you as well,” he begrudgingly grunted out once his mother shot him a warning glare.

Reluctant, Aemond sat back down, and reached underneath the table to take your hand once again. He sought your touch to console the bitter green wildfire that roared within his chest.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” muttered Helaena as she fidgeted with a wooden carving of a cockroach. Suddenly, the Princess stood up, a dazed glimmer to her expression. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad… mostly, he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.” With a sweet smile, she sank back down into her seat. The rest of the table glanced at each other awkwardly, whilst Aegon just pulled at his face in exasperation.

In an effort to save the atmosphere, you stood up with your chalice in hand. “There have been many toasts this evening,” you murmured, a bit intimidated. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the first time you had the King’s undivided attention. “But I’d like to direct one to Princesses Rhaenyra and Helaena. The former, I owe the deepest of my gratitudes for treating me with kindness throughout my childhood, and taking me in as if I were her own. The latter, sweet Helaena, for being my dearest friend for years, and hopefully for many more to come. As I am to be married to Aemond soon, I look forward to being both of your sister-by-laws.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you kindly, raising her glass to drink to your toast. Helaena did the same, beaming into the rim of her chalice. The Queen, however, was far more reluctant to touch her goblet at your toast—which had pointedly avoided any mention of her.

“Good,” said the King, weakly nodding at you. “Let us have some music. Please, eat, everyone.”

A soft symphony of strings and bells and drums began chiming away, and you contentedly began digging into your food, nearly ravenous after all that waiting.

A few minutes into the feast, Jacaerys bent towards his betrothed, murmuring a polite, “Excuse me.”

He then made his way around Aegon, to Helaena, offering his hand for a dance. Surprised, the Princess took his arm and Jace led her away to the dance floor. You watched with a warm smile gracing your expression, happy that your friends from opposite sides seemed to be mending bridges together.

The table began engaging in amicable chatter—Luke and Rhaena were excitedly speaking about dragons and their eating habits, Rhaenyra and her husband began quietly laughing at how he already managed to splatter crab sauce all over his tunic, and Alicent spoke with her father about the gradual changes in weather.

“You and my brother will make a fine pair,” slurred Aegon, his eyes fixed on you as he lounged back on his chair. “He’s had his gaze set on you ever since childhood.”

“Is that so?” you responded, casting a fond gaze to Aemond, who only shook his head with amusement. “I can’t say I wasn’t the same. After all, how could I take my eyes off the handsome Prince who rode the largest dragon in the world?”

A ghost of a smile graced Aemond’s face. He was never one to take compliments well—for they were sparsely ever given to him.

Aegon, always one to spoil the mood, quipped, “I heard rumors that red-headed Piper idiot stole your maidenhood.”

Aemond’s head snapped towards his brother. You gritted your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him. “Lord Harley Piper was a friend. There was no romance between us, sexual or otherwise,” you hissed, lowering your voice to a whisper.

“Really? And here I thought my brother was marrying a whore,” snorted Aegon.

Before either you or Aemond could react, Helaena flounced back to the table with a joyful beam, taking your arm. “Come dance with us, Y/N!” she exclaimed, breathless and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Jace stood behind her, grin equally wide and hands clasped behind his back.

You shot a look at Aemond, as if telling him not to lash out at his brother during such an important supper, and stood up to join Helaena and Jace in their dance.

None of you were really that good—you hadn’t danced in years—but it was great fun, nonetheless. You twirled Helaena in your arms until she grew delightfully dizzy, and Jacaerys accidentally trod on your feet thrice, but you only laughed harder each time, cuffing his shoulder affectionately.

Amidst your dance, Alicent called for the guards to take the King away, for he was tired and aching. He departed the room with one last look to his family—all united, together as one.

It was surely a beautiful, rare sight to behold.

One that was destined not to last.

The dance came to an abrupt halt when Aemond suddenly slammed his fists against the table, so hard that the platters of food clattered with the sudden force. The music suddenly stopped, and all the conversations ceased. You turned your head away from your dance partners to see what was going on.

Oh.

In front of Aemond was a roasted pig, still sizzling with oil. And all the way across the table, Luke was not-so-discreetly hiding a laugh behind his palm.

Oh, no.

“Final tribute,” said your betrothed, lifting his glass. There was a dangerous fire to his eye. “To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

No, Aemond, you silently begged. The Prince kept his gaze trained on Luke, refusing to meet your desperate stare.

“... Strong,” he finished, after an extensive pause.

“Aemond—” Alicent began.

“Come,” her son quickly said, cutting her off. “Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.”

From right next to you, Jace gnashed his teeth together. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why?” asked Aemond, feigning innocence, pushing away from the table to step closer to Jace. “‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

A gasp lodged in your throat when Jacaerys dove forward, landing a punch right into Aemond’s face.

“Jace!” yelled Rhaenyra.

It did little effect on the taller man, and Aemond’s head merely snapped to the side but his body remained rooted to the same position. A smug smile etched across his features. Simultaneously, Aegon rose to his feet and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his collar, shoving his face straight into a searing hot platter of fish.

“A gift for the new Lord of the Tides!” Aegon cackled with glee, indulging in the chaos.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” commanded Alicent to her sons, but neither of them listened to her.

Scrambling forward, you tried to stop Aemond from retaliating, but he shoved Jace so hard the younger boy went sprawling against the dance floor. Jace was quick to get back up on his feet, an angry growl erupting from his throat. Before he could reach Aemond, two guards sprung forward and held him back, another pulling Luke away from Aegon as well.

You found yourself torn between the two sides, resulting in an indecisive dance between Jace and Luke struggling against the guards, and your betrothed smiling into his cups.

Queen Alicent got to him before you could, grabbing her son’s arms roughly. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she hissed.

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Mmh, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs. It wounds me so, seeing as my sweet betrothed is soon to be my family, as well,” said Aemond, ripping his hand away from Alicent.

Breaking free of the guard’s hold, Jace made a charge at Aemond again.

“Wait,” Daemon ordered his stepson, striding in between the two boys before they could bash heads with one another once again. Jacaerys immediately halted in his motions, though not without great restraint.

Stern, Rhaenyra turned to her sons. “Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now.”

The two boys were reluctantly led away by the guards, shoulders drooping with both embarrassment and anger.

Daemon released a sigh, fixing his gaze upon Aemond. They stared at each other for a moment longer, before Aemond huffed out a small, discontented hum, and began walking away.

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra,” you told the Princess, so very tired of the ceaseless fighting and the constant torn feeling within you.

The stern expression she held softened when she looked at you. Her hand came away from her pregnant belly to rest gentle upon your cheek. “It is not your fault, sweet girl. Go on… get some rest. I shall have the servants send up food to your chambers since you didn’t get to finish your supper.”

With a grateful bow of your head, you took your leave, bidding Helaena and the Queen a quiet good night, before hastening out of the dining hall, and up the stairs to your chambers.

Your feet ached and your head pounded with stress. What a day it’s been.

Imagine your utter shock when you gently opened the doors to your bedroom, and slowly shut them behind you—only to turn and see your betrothed standing by your desk, scattered with quills and stained bottles of charcoal ink and stacks upon stacks of unopened letters you had yet to read or send off.

“Aemond,” you whispered, brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

The Prince remained silent, watching you keenly as you strode forward, until you were nearly nose-to-nose with him.

“What is wrong with you?” you murmured. Just moments ago, you were ready to forgive him, move on with all your grievances and accept your betrothal with not another thought. And he went and ruined it—all because his hatred for Jace and Luke were greater than his affections for you. “Are Rhaenyra’s sons that much of a bane that you must go out of your way to insult them?”

“And why do you care so much for them? For two little boys that you knew a lifetime ago? It is I who stayed by your side your entire life. It is my sister Helaena who never strayed from you. They have done nothing but leave you in their dust, retreating to Dragonstone with their tails tucked between their legs at the first sign of danger,” murmured Aemond, hands coming forth to grip your forearms, drawing you nearer to him.

“Because they are family,” you choked out. “And I love them. They are like brothers to me.”

A tantalizing hum fell from Aemond’s lips. He dipped forward, running the tip of his nose along the curve of your exposed neck, inhaling the addictive honey-lavender scent wafting from your skin. “Oh, but they are not your brothers, are they? Say it, my love. They are not only my nephews… they are yours, as well.”

“No…” you said, breathless when he began laying kisses along your heated skin. You couldn’t resist his deliberately light touches, melting against him for more. It was humiliating, how easily you caved for him. “What you are saying is treason, my Prince. Please, just think about what you—”

“There is no one else in the room but us,” he murmured, gently biting into the junction between your shoulder and neck. “Just us, jorrāelagon. You need not hide your true thoughts from me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t. I just can’t. Aemond, please… put this to rest. They are Rhaenyra’s sons, without question. That is all that matters.” You lifted a hand to grip his chin, forcing him to look straight at you. “If you have but a shred of affection for me… you will stop this relentless fighting. Do it for me, Aemond. It pains me that the most important people in my life are constantly at odds with one another.”

A beat of silence stretched thin between you. He dipped his head once more.

“Yes, my love,” he whispered, leaning forward until his nose was slotted against yours. “For you.”

For that moment, you let yourself believe him. And you allowed yourself to love him, unconditionally and without restraint—for it was only you and him in your chambers, and no other was there to waver your opinion.

You released your hold on his chin to wind your arms around his neck instead, tugging him close and melding his lips over yours. A soft sigh fell from your lungs. He tasted of fresh fruit and earthy smoke, something you wished to drown yourself into.

You began blindly walking in the general direction of your bed with Aemond’s guidance, falling against the feather-stuffed mattress once it hit the back of your knees. The entire time, you refused to separate from his kiss, willing to suffocate from lack of air if it meant you got to continue kissing him.

It briefly occurred to you how improper this was—you were not yet married to Aemond, after all. But you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, and neither did Aemond. He wanted you now—and judging by the look in your eye, he knew you craved him equally so.

He began reaching behind you, unlacing your dress and yanking the dark green fabric off your shoulders, shoving it down your chest and abdomen and hips, kicking the nuisance material away once it bunched to the bottom of your legs. As he began to expertly undo your shift beneath it, you hurriedly tugged his tunic off, a button ripping loose in your haste. Aemond could only smile at your desperation. You swallowed heavily upon seeing his toned chest, seasoned with training.

“It is a shame,” he gruffed once he finally got your thin shift off, admiring you in all of your nude glory, shamelessly allowing his eyes to roam over your breasts and arched back. “The dress looks so much prettier on your floor.”

You groaned at his words, yanking him back down to meet him for another kiss. It grew more frantic as more time lapsed—all tongue and teeth and bites and moans. A throbbing ache flowered between your legs—not a foreign sensation, but certainly the first time it was to be vanquished by something other than your own hand.

“Aemond, please,” you pleaded, unsure of what you were asking for. “I need you, please.”

“My sweet betrothed,” said the Prince, hands wandering up and down your sides, occasionally moving to squeeze your breasts and pinch your stiffened nipples, before moving further down, purposefully avoiding the sensitive parts between your thighs. “I’ll give you everything.”

With one final kiss to your lips, Aemond shifted himself further down your body, trailing his hot tongue along your skin in his wake. He met your gaze once he gently pried your legs open, his pretty hands gripping your thighs tightly.

The sight he was met with made his cock twitch angrily within his briefs. Your cunt was drenched and glistening with your arousal—and it was all for him. A greedy sense of possessiveness consumed him whole. You were his, and his alone.

He blew a stream of cold air right against your clit, which made you suck in a sharp breath, unconsciously bucking your hips closer to his face in a desperate seek for relief.

A pleasured cry—verging on a sob—tumbled from your lungs when Aemond surged forward, lips wrapping around your sensitive button, his tongue curling in the most devilish of ways over the bundle of nerves. Wailing his name, you fisted the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do with yourself. Aemond just about moaned into you, one hand letting go of your thigh to prod your slick hole, slowly pushing in two fingers.

“Oh, please—Aemond!” you groaned, simultaneously trying to pull away from his touch and pushing yourself closer to his face.

“My good girl,” he praised, the vibrations of his words against your cunt making you keen with undulated pleasure, as he began pumping his fingers in and out of you. “You taste heavenly, jorrāelagon.”

A gasp hitched within your throat once Aemond yanked your hips closer, practically burying himself within your thighs.

“Aemond, my darling,” you sobbed, one hand falling into his hair, tugging at the long, pale strands, and the other squeezing your breast. “I’m going to…”

“Cum for me,” your betrothed said, unrelenting as he circled his wicked tongue along your clit.

And who were you to disobey the Prince?

With a breathy shout, you were pushed over the edge, clenching viciously around his still-thrusting fingers. Your orgasm slammed into you like a tidal wave, leaving you winded with green stars dancing about your vision.

“That’s it,” murmured Aemond, gently pulling away once you came down from your high, the lower half of his face gleaming with your arousal. He crawled back up your form, shirking his trousers off, leaving him just as nude as you, save for his leather eyepatch still fixed over his scar. His cock—long and hard and angrily weeping with pearly beads of precum, slapped against his lower abdomen.

You pulled him down again, kissing him with wild abandon, sighing when you realized that you were tasting yourself on his tongue.

He flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. Despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. You whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. Aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

He was a monster—and no amount of sweet talk would be able to change his mind from such a cemented fact. Not even from you, whose opinion he valued the most in the world.

“I love you,” he whispered, nose brushing down your jaw, still appreciative of your efforts nonetheless. “You are my everything. My heart, my soul, my life. I only wish for nothing but your happiness.”

You wrapped your legs around him, his throbbing cock pressed right against your fluttering cunt, clenching around nothing in anticipation. Lowering your voice to a whisper, you gently bit at the outer shell of his ear. “And I love you, my darling Aemond. All I wish for right now… is your cock inside me.”

Your lewd words made his length throb impossibly harder. “Your wish is my command,” he softly replied.

And with that, he eased himself inside of you. Your warm, pulsating cunt was gripping him like a vice, a shuddering groan choked out from his lungs. You mirrored his reaction, squeezing your eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as he began to rock into you.

With each snap of his hips into yours, you found yourself murmuring his name like a mantra, pressing sloppy kisses to his bare shoulder. One particularly hard thrust had you scratching angry red lines down the expanse of his back. Aemond didn’t seem to mind—in fact, this only seemed to spur him on further, as he growled an obscenity, grabbing your ankle to throw over his shoulder and slamming his length back into you with no abandon.

Your eyes rolled in the back of your head once he snaked one of hands down to thumb at your clit, eliciting a lewd moan from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So good, Aemond,” you cried, cunt spasming around his cock once the beginnings of your second orgasm began creeping up on you. “Cum inside… oh—make me yours, darling, please!”

A near animalistic noise tore through Aemond’s chest and he began to pound his cock deeper into you, the thought of you growing round with his child filling his thoughts as he desperately sought his own release. You tightened around him one last time when your orgasm surged forth, so hard that it had Aemond’s quick rhythm faltering. With a broken groan and a mutter of your name, he spilled his seed into you, thick spurts of white coating your slick walls.

A content hum danced between you once you kissed him again, easing into a wince when he slowly pulled out of your overstimulated cunt. He drew back to watch his seed drip out of you, hot and thick and so very arousing, it nearly made his cock hard all over again.

“You did so well for me,” Aemond murmured into your sweaty skin, freckling kisses over the bridge of your nose and over your eyelids, hooded with exhaust. “Are you alright?”

“Quite,” you replied, smiling at him kindly. “I suppose Aegon was right. I certainly am in good hands.”

The Prince hung his head, shaking it fondly, mildly embarrassed by your praise. “Do not speak of my brother while we are in bed, dear betrothed. It is unseemly,” he said, though his words lacked any true bite.

“Forgive me, Aemond. I seem to forget my manners when I am with you,” you said, a laugh dancing alongside your words. “You make for a grand distraction.”

“Mmh, do I, now? I am glad to be of service.” Your betrothed gathered you in his arms, easing you down amongst your pillows and brushing away loose strands of hair that stuck to your damp skin. “Rest, my love.”

You let yourself acquiesce to his words, sinking into the comfort of your bed.

“Stay,” you whispered sleepily, pressing a light kiss to the back of his palm. “Stay with me.”

And Aemond did so, with little protest. His eye was soft and his touch was loving as he laid down beside you, holding you close to his chest, nose buried within your hair.

You fell asleep hopeful that night. Hopeful that your soon-to-be husband loved you more than he hated your nephews. Hopeful that perhaps marrying Aemond was the best thing for you. Hopeful that things would be alright, eventually.

Hopeful that a war was not on the horizon.

There was a cold stillness to the air the next day. Jace and Luke left early in the morning back to Dragonstone before the sun had a chance to rise, with solemn goodbyes and grim faces. You knew not when you were going to see them again.

It weighed heavy on your shoulders as you sat beside Helaena, sharpening one of your daggers with a small whetstone. There was a certain uncomfortable feeling twisting about your stomach—but you couldn’t quite tell what was wrong.

You had tried distracting yourself by playing with the twins, gifting them new wooden dragons you had bought from a carver in town, but it was not enough to take your mind off of the unsettled feeling within you. When the twins hadn’t worked, you thought about Aemond, and the time you shared last night… along with the early morning following, with his touch sweltering and his voice gruff from slumber.

It still didn’t work. Perhaps you were just having an off day.

“It is our fate, I think, to crave always what is given to another,” said Helaena, working on her embroidery of a spindly black spider with a red abdomen, seeming impervious to your nervous state. “If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.”

“Balancing the scales,” you murmured. The princess hummed in agreement.

All of a sudden, Alicent burst into the room, strides quick and fists clenched into the fabric of her emerald-hued dress. Otto was hot on her heels, though his expression did not betray nearly as much as that of his daughter’s.

“Where is Aegon?” she asked, eyes wild.

The two of you exchanged worried, yet curious glances. Lifting her shoulders, Helaena stoically replied, “Not here.”

“He’s not in his room?” clarified Otto, as if angry at the two of you for not having kept an eye on the Prince.

You had to fight the scowl threatening to make an appearance across your face. Helaena dipped her head to avoid eye contact with her grandfather, but you held his gaze with a squared jaw.

Gnashing his teeth together, Otto turned on his heel and marched right out of the room.

“Father—” Alicent said, but he was already long gone.

The Queen glanced at the twins—Jaehaerys, babbling his father’s name and clapping his hands together, whilst Jaehaera only tightened her small grip around the wooden dragon you gave her.

“What has happened?” whispered Helaena, addressing her mother directly, something she sparsely ever did.

A morose expression folded over her features. Alicent sat beside Helaena, a film of tears misting over her eyes.

“Your father…”

Helaena’s usually calm features twisted into one of anger. Viserys was hardly a father to her. “There is a beast beneath the boards,” she hissed, repeating her whispered words from yesterday’s dinner.

Alicent’s conflicted eyes searched her daughter’s distraught form. “Oh, my dearest love…” She reached out to hold Helaena, but the Princess frantically flinched closer to you, smacking the Queen’s palms away.

“No, no,” she whispered, crossing her arms across her chest, as if to shield herself from her mother.

Crestfallen, the Queen shifted her stare onto you, her fists clenching even harder around her dress. It did not escape your notice when her pupils darted down to glance at the freshly-sharpened dagger in your lap.

“What has happened to the King, Your Grace?” you asked, tone cautious and wary not to overstep any bounds.

Before she could reply, Aemond stepped from the shadows out of seemingly nowhere, a jaded, nearly haunted look of realization befalling his features.

The King was dead.

Aemond’s hand tightly clasped yours as you sat in front of the crackling fire pit. The dagger you had sharpened was clutched in your other palm, having not left your side for even a second. These were dangerous times—the scales had never been this lopsided before.

Alicent paced in front of the chairs a few feet away, murmuring incoherently under her breath at the puzzling disappearance of her eldest son.

Not too long after, Ser Criston Cole made his way into the chambers, shutting the door behind him. “Prince Aegon is not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace. Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him.”

The Queen hung her head. “Ser Erryk knows Aegon… he has the advantage.”

Both your and Aemond’s heads turned at her words. There were treasonous schemes brewing within the Keep, that was made abundantly clear. If Alicent was not the one who sent Erryk after Aegon… it must’ve been Otto Hightower. Known to show little remorse, you could only guess that the Hand wanted his own grandson on the Iron Throne rather than Princess Rhaenyra. A sinking feeling twisted your guts upon realizing that he not only intended to usurp Rhaenyra with Aegon, but to be rid of her entirely, knowing full and well the Princess would never bend the knee to her younger brother.

Criston glanced at you with an obvious disdainful suspicion painted crystal clear over his face. For once, however, you were on Alicent’s side on finding Aegon before Ser Erryk did. You would rather Aegon be crowned King than Rhaenyra be executed.

“I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it.” She stepped closer to the knight, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Everything you feel for me… as your Queen.”

The Dornish man bowed his head. “I will not fail you.”

Surprising you, Aemond declared, “We shall come with you.”

Head snapping towards the two of you, Alicent strode away from Criston to her son. Aemond’s hand fell away from yours to hold his mother’s forearms in a placating fashion.

“That would not be my desire, Aemond. If anything has happened—”

“Cole needs us, Mother. Ser Erryk isn’t the only one who knows Aegon’s doings. Y/N has spent many a night prowling the streets outside the Keep. She knows much about the nooks and crannies Aegon might be hiding within.”

It was no secret that you often used to sneak out of the castle during your childhood, eager to see King’s Landing outside of the Red Keep. The habit continued on during your teenage years, where you would often explore trade markets and smithies. By now, you knew the town as if it were the back of your hand.

Though reluctant, Criston bobbed his head in agreement. A quiet sigh slipped past Alicent’s lips, and she let go of her son. You brushed past her, following after your betrothed straight out the door.

You may have hated Aegon, but you’d do anything to keep him away from Otto and his treasonous hands.

As Helaena had mystically informed you yesterday—a storm was on the horizon. A dance of dragons.

“Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day,” said the Prince, dark grey cowl pulled over his long, silver hair. You and Criston both had matching cloaks draped over your shoulders. The cobbled steps of King’s Landing were uneven and often damp with an unknown substance. People milled about, chattering loudly and without care. None of them had a clue that war was upon them. “It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least that’s what I understood him to mean.”

“How pleasant,” you replied, voice dripping with contempt for his older brother, and your soon to be brother-in-law.

“I don’t follow,” Criston said, brows furrowing.

The Prince leaned forward. “He said, time to get it wet.”

Criston recoiled ever so slightly in disgust. “Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.”

You scoffed at that, rolling your eyes to the side.

Humming, Aemond tilted his head. “He paid half a dozen whores and thrust them upon me, then left the room. Two of the girls there were younger than I, barely ten years of age and trembling like leaves… never before had I been more revolted by my brother. I crawled out of the window and ran back to the Keep.”

You glanced appreciatively to your betrothed, finding yourself once again glad that it was him you were to be married to.

Leading the two men in front of a wooden door, you gestured for them to knock, stepping back to give them space. It was a pleasure house—one of the most popular in all of King’s Landing. Aemond’s single eye roamed the building, a spark of recognition dancing within the mauve of his iris. This was where Aegon had taken him all those years ago.

The door creaked open, revealing a woman draped in a sheer assortment of yellow silks and dozens upon dozens of golden jewelry littered across her skin. She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Ser Criston, glancing at you and Aemond right behind him.

“Sometime last night, we… misplaced our drinking companion,” said the knight. “Knowing that he has been, in the past, a patron of your fine establishment, we thought to inquire here as to his whereabouts.”

“Describe him,” replied the woman, bracelets clinking loudly against one another with every small movement.

Cole shifted his weight from foot to foot, before quieting his voice to a mere whisper, nearly lost to the crowd. “That is… a delicate matter. You see, the man we seek is the young Prince Aegon. I may trust, I hope, in the discretion of your trade.”

The woman let out an amused chuckle. “The Prince is not here,” she told him.

“Has he been here as of late?” you asked.

Curious, she laid her eyes upon you, roaming over your cloaked form. “Not as of late. Years ago, yes.”

“But more recently?” pressed Criston.

She shook her head. “He does not frequent the Street of Silk any longer. His tastes are known to be… less discriminating.”

“Meaning what?” Criston queried.

The woman smiled, wisely keeping her cards close to her chest. “I wish you luck, good Ser. And my best to your friend.” She swiveled her intense gaze to Aemond, who had bowed his head. “How you’ve grown,” she told him.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. With a hum, he took your hand, and began leading you away from the whorehouse, Criston in tow.

“It seems you were mistaken to Aegon’s habits,” said the knight.

“He could be in the hands of mercenaries, on a ship to Yi Ti. He could be dead, for all we know,” Aemond replied, nonchalantly speaking of his brother’s death as if he were discussing tomorrow’s dinner.

You allowed a hollow, humorless laugh to bubble within your throat. “It would be a cause for celebration, would it not?”

Criston sent you a sharp glare. “Let us hope, for your Queen mother’s sake, that is not the case.”

On you strode, twisting and turning through the narrow streets. The further into King’s Landing you walked, the dirtier the roads became, and the more poor, homeless folk were seen scrounging through trash for food and drinking out of barrels of muddy water. The air was humid and stank of rotten flesh.

“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” spat Aemond, growing frustrated at the fruitless search for his wretched brother. “‘Tis I, the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, and I who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…”

Aemond bit down on the inside of his cheek, effectively stopping himself from continuing his sentence.

It upset you that he was behaving this way—just yesterday he had whispered his promise into your ear that he would halt his treacherous tongue. Had his words meant nothing to him? The death of his father had surely spun his mind into one of frantic chaos, despite his calm outer demeanor.

Pursing your lips, you could only gently reply, “There is no doubt that you are the better brother, Aemond. It does not deter the fact that we have to find him—lest your half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, be murdered by his command under the influence of the Hand.”

Your betrothed parted his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

“I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given,” Criston told Aemond, stepping closer to the younger man.

Aemond quietly grunted in frustration. “We can’t find him, Cole. You are a decent man with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own, and he’s welcome to them. I’m next in line to the throne—should they come looking for me… I intend to be found.”

Your lips trembled as you staved away the burning within your nose, threatening tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It seemed that Aemond was truly far gone in his thirst for revenge, for power—you were a fool to believe his promise, even for a short second.

It was growing more and more dangerous for you to stay in King’s Landing, surrounded by venomous Greens. You had to hold your Black-biased tongue, for it could now result in treason of the highest orders, and, consequently, your death. You were to pose as a Green now, for the sake of your own safety.

Helaena’s words from all those years ago rang in your head. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.” Masters of trickery—beautiful and deceitful, both equally true.

The Prince could feel the slightest of regrets once you pulled away from him, surging several feet ahead with angry steps. Your loyalty to Rhaenyra and her sons knew no bounds, and Aemond was well aware that if it came down to it, you would've chosen them over him. He loved you, truly, more than anything in the world—but his deep-rooted hatred for the Blacks had festered strong for the majority of his life. That was something that not even you could remedy, no matter how much you tried.

It was by pure luck the three of you happened upon Sers Erryk and Arryk, along with Otto Hightower, speaking to the infamous White Worm by a spice market. You followed the twins in front of a great Sept—where Mysaria had hidden away Aegon for safekeeping.

Not five minutes later, a familiar voice began shouting out obscenities and colorful curses to his captor, Ser Arryk. Criston brandished his sword, and you unsheathed your dagger beneath the protection of your cloak.

“I do regret this, friend,” said Cole, blocking their path.

Seeing this as a chance to flee, Aegon kicked at Arryk’s foot and sprinted away, down the Sept’s wide stairwell. Criston engaged Arryk in combat while you and Aemond darted away to chase after Aegon.

Quick on your feet, you were the first to tackle Aegon to the ground, shoving the Prince’s face into the uneven stone of the ground. He choked out a yell, flailing about beneath you like a fish out of water.

“No! Stop, you wretched woman! Stop!” he cried once you grabbed his arm to yank him up. Aemond came to the other side of his brother, helping you drag him up. The older Prince began to laugh maniacally when he punched you across the face, sending you reeling back with stars dancing about your vision.

A growl caught in Aemond’s throat and he grabbed at the lapels of his brother’s tunic, hauling him closer. “I was hoping you disappeared,” he said, voice dripping with venom.

Purple eyes gleaming, Aegon asked, “Is our father truly dead?”

“Yes,” replied Aemond, “and they’re going to make you King.”

A sick feeling twisted within your stomach.

Equally angry at his brother’s words, Aegon spat a thick glob of saliva right into Aemond’s only eye, trying his best to escape the two of you, to no avail.

“Let me go!” he screamed when the both of you grabbed his arms. “Let me go! Brother! I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty—I’m not suited!”

Aemond barked out a dry laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

With surprising strength, Aegon shoved you away, gripping his brother’s face in his filthy hands. “You let me go—and I will find a ship and sail away.”

His proposal was most certainly a tempting one—even Aemond had given pause to his words, freezing in place. If Aegon were to be presumed dead… he would be crowned King, and you would be his Queen.

“The Queen awaits,” said Criston, pulling Aegon away from Aemond, having bested Ser Arryk in combat.

You let out a soft sigh of relief. At least, with Aegon by his mother’s side, there was no way he would order the execution of Rhaenyra. The battle has been won, but the war was still lost.

Aegon was still to be crowned King.

Once you returned to the Keep, you had locked yourself in your chambers, refusing supper. You had little appetite, and hadn’t the heart to face any of the Greens. Aemond had stopped by to check on you, knocking on your door.

You opened it reluctantly, face streaked with reflective tear tracks and eyes red-rimmed.

“Aemond, my love,” you whispered, allowing him to step into your chambers. “I fear I am no longer safe in King’s Landing.”

It broke your heart when your betrothed had no words of comfort to spare you—for you were right to worry. As a supporter of Rhaenyra, you weren’t safe here.

The Prince remained silent, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And though the two of you were enemies on rival sides of the war—you still loved him for the man underneath all that. And Aemond would never stop loving you, no matter how much he hated his nephews, and his half-sister.

For just a couple hours, the two of you allowed yourselves to be free of thought. No Blacks and Greens, no Princes and Ladies, no violence and hatred.

Only you and him.

The butterfly and the dragon.

Aegon’s crowning was witnessed by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people. You were forced into a bright green dress by Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, your hair done up and silver jewelry pinned around your neck, and to your ears. You stood beside Aemond, playing your role as the faithful wife-to-be. On your other side was Helaena, in a dress of sweet blue, and her watering eyes trained to the ground. In front of you was Alicent, in a dark dress of viridescent hue, a golden seven-pointed star resting on her chest, her face grim.

“People of King’s Landing!” announced Otto Hightower. “Today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King, Viserys the Peaceful… is dead.”

The crowd murmured in surprise upon the announcement.

“But it is also the most joyous of days! For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

Shock spread across the audience. After a few moments, they began to cheer and clap. Your insides roiled with disgust at their blatant disregard for Princess—now rightfully Queen Rhaenyra.

Not too long after, trumpets were sounding, and Aegon began walking down a pathway cleared for him by Goldcloaks. His silver-white hair shone, standing out starkly from the crowd. His expression was stony, and the corners of his eyes were red with unshed tears.

“It is your good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this! A new day for this city—a new day for our realm! A new King to lead us!” announced Otto.

Queen Alicent pressed a kiss to her eldest child’s head and led him forward to the Septon. Aegon knelt down before him. Helaena stared at her brother-husband, purple eyes misting over.

“May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” With each sentence, the Septon dipped his thumb in blessed water and dragged the finger across Aegon’s brow.

The crown was then given to Ser Criston Cole, to place upon Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” he proclaimed, resting the heavy silver ring against Aegon’s silver locks. “Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Aegon rose to his feet. Criston and Alicent bowed their heads before their new King. Helaena set her jaw, looking none too pleased that her monster of a husband was now the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but bowed slightly nonetheless. You were next, dipping your head ever so slightly—a deceitful butterfly.

“All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” said the Septon.

“Aegon the King!” bellowed Criston.

The crowd burst into raucous applause.

The newly crowned Targaryen let his eyes roam over the audience. They were all cheering… for him. All his life he’d been searching for praise, for validation, and now they were all giving to him on a silver platter.

“Aegon the King!” they all screamed. “Long live Aegon!”

He unsheathed his Valyrian steel longsword, Blackfyre, and held it up with a victorious smile. The crowd cheered loudly with every thrust of his sword into the air, and he spread his arms out, feeling powerful for once in his life. A ghost of a smile crossed Alicent’s lips. Helaena shut her eyes tightly.

A beast beneath the boards.

The ground shook as the stone of the floor gave way. Plumes of dust and smoke filled the air. Screams of terror erupted from the throng of common folk and they scattered every which way.

The shrill roar of a dragon echoed loud and true. It was Meleys, the Red Queen of dragons, her scarlet scales rippling with each movement, having burst out from the Dragonpit below. Dozens of onlookers were trampled beneath her large copper-hued claws as she snarled out an ear-splitting screech.

Out of pure instinct, Aemond had grabbed your arm, pushing you behind him protectively, placing himself in between you and the large dragon. You gripped his shoulder tightly.

Once the smoke and debris had vaguely settled, you could start to make out her rider—Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen who never was.

Alicent grabbed her eldest son, standing in front of him, terror painted across her features. She shoved Criston towards Helaena, ordering him to protect her.

The large dragon growled as she prowled closer to the royal family—smoke falling from behind her bared teeth and golden eyes blazing. Rhaenys watched you from above, eyes narrowed. For a moment, she caught your stare, bowing her head ever so slightly in your direction.

It was as if she were offering you a way out. She was well aware of your strong allegiance to Rhaenyra, and your fondness for her granddaughters’ betrotheds.

You glanced at Helaena, then to Aemond, and swallowed the lump in your throat. How could you find it in yourself to leave them both?

The Princess met your eyes, her purple ones softening ever so slightly. “Go,” she mouthed silently, nodding once. Tears blurred your gaze.

Ever so slow and trembling slightly, you stepped out from behind Aemond, much to the rest of the family’s shock. Aemond held onto your wrist, unwilling to let you go—how could he? How could he let go of you, the person he was meant to marry? The woman he loved with the entirety of his being?

You turned to your betrothed just as a hot tear slipped down your cheek.

“Goodbye, my love,” you murmured, voice cracking with emotion as your free hand lifted to cradle his cheek. You surged forward to kiss him, one last time, uncaring of the onlookers. It was quick and chaste and you could only wish for it to last longer. Raw despair and anguish and muted fury flickered across his pale visage all at once. “Let me go, Aemond. I love you, darling, please, let me go.”

Not so long ago, you were begging him to stay. And now you were asking him to let you go.

You were the only thing he had left to himself—for everything else in his life was not truly his. The two of you belonged to each other, Aemond knew this to be true… and yet you were still leaving. He refused to cry, but could feel his throat burning with restraint. If he didn’t let you go, he feared the dragon would burn his entire family alive. His wretched brother, he would’ve been alright with, but his sweet sister and mother deserved a better fate. Aemond set his jaw, and loosened his grip on you.

You rotated away just as the second tear fell, and strode towards the terrifying creature that was Meleys. The rest of the Greens remained rooted in their spots, deathly afraid of the beast in front of them. She lowered herself for you to climb on behind Rhaenys—your green dress ripped loudly in your haste. The dragon’s scales were warm, nearly burning to the touch.

Alicent shut her eyes, accepting what she thought to be her fiery death.

No dracarys ever came.

Instead, the dragon only planted her feet and bellowed out another loud, ear-splitting shriek—a warning of sorts.

With that, Rhaenys urged her dragon to turn and fly over the terrified citizens, away from King’s Landing. Cold wind blew against your face, drying your tears, and undid the intricate hairstyle your ladies-in-waiting had worked so hard on. The two of you were going to Dragonstone, where Rhaenys was to inform Princess Rhaenyra that her father passed away and her half-brother had just been crowned King.

A clashing symphony of sorrow and relief buried deep within your chest.

You craned your head back as Meleys soared away, hoping to look upon Aemond and Helaena one last time—but they were too small to see, growing into blurred figures in the distance.

Lucerys could not take his eyes off of the map of Westeros, intricately carved into stone. His hand reached out to graze over that of Driftmark—which was to be his, when Lord Corlys Velaryon passed away. It felt as if there was a heavy stone sinking within his stomach.

“There you are,” said his mother, which made Luke’s gaze snap upwards.

Rhaenyra strode towards her son, both her hands rested on her pregnant belly.

“The Sea Snake is going to die, isn’t he?” asked Luke.

Shocked at his sudden words, Rhaenyra began to say, “Luke—”

“I can’t be Lord of the Tides! Grandsire was the greatest sailor who ever lived. I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor! I’ll just ruin everything, mother. I don’t want Driftmark. It should’ve passed on to Ser Vaemond,” the young boy said, brows furrowed.

Rhaenyra shook her head, long silver hair swaying over her shoulder. “We don’t choose our destiny, Luke. It chooses us.”

“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir. You told us so, Mother. Grant me the same mercy—I do not want Driftmark.”

Her features softened, understanding her son’s turmoil.

“Do you want to know the truth of it?” she asked, voice quieter. “I was frightened. I was four-and-ten… same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—but it was my duty nonetheless. And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance.”

Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, casting his gaze to the side. “I’m not like you,” he murmured.

His mother tilted her head. “In what way, sweet boy?”

“I’m not so… perfect.”

Rhaenyra could only smile at that, stepping closer to her second son and cupping his face, kissing the skin right beside his dark brown eyes. “I am anything but,” she whispered. “My father looked after me and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”

A small, accepting smile danced over Lucerys’ expression. He nodded, before noticing the guard approaching the two of them from behind.

“Good morrow, Princess,” said the guard, making his mother turn to face him. “Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback, with Lady Y/N Strong accompanying her. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon.”

Shock flashed across Luke and Rhaenyra’s features. They hadn’t received any news of either of your plans to visit. Though he had just seen you a few days ago, Luke was excited to see you once again—you had never been to Dragonstone before.

“She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” the guard added.

Luke’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d have to wait a bit longer before he could greet you.

Your legs were sore from the long ride, and wobbled as you began walking into the large castle, hot on Rhaenys’ heels. It was not long until the guards led you into a large, expansive room, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited the two of you.

“Princess Rhaenys. Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?” she acknowledged as soon as she spotted the older woman, with not a clue about her father’s passing. Her purple eyes lit up when she saw you, but her expression quickly melded into one of unfiltered concern. You were a mess—dress ripped, cheeks still-damp with tears, lips bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten them in the midst of your anxiety. “Y/N, sweet girl, what is the matter? Are you alright—?”

Princess Rhaenys’ sharp words cut Rhaenyra off, loud and echoing. “Viserys is dead.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Daemon turned upon the unexpected news, eyes wide.

“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin… your father, possessed a kind heart.”

Rhaenyra’s expression faltered.

“There is more,” continued Rhaenys. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

A sudden jolt of pain struck within Rhaenyra’s belly. “They crowned him?” she murmured, eyes darting between you and Rhaenys in disbelief. The green dress you were wearing finally made sense.

“How did Viserys die?” asked Daemon, heartbroken over his lost brother.

“I could not say,” said Rhaenys. You remained silent, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

Pain lacing her tone, Rhaenyra asked, “How long ago?”

“A day ago, perhaps two,” said the older woman. “I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations. Y/N tracked down Aegon in an effort to keep him away from Otto Hightower, so as to not order your execution.”

If it were under any other circumstance, Rhaenyra would have smiled at you gratefully. But she couldn’t, doubling over in agony as more rivulets of pain struck her stomach.

“Viserys has been slain,” said Daemon, anger rising within his voice.

Affronted, Rhaenyra spat out, “Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon?”

“She did. I refused her,” replied Rhaenys.

“And yet you are still alive,” hissed Daemon, gaze suspicious and sharp.

Rhaenys cocked her head. “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”

For the first time you arrived, you spoke, voice hoarse. “There were thousands of people there, all bearing witness to Aegon’s coronation.”

“They crowned him before the masses,” Rhaenyra said, horrified at the news.

Rhaenys nodded. “They will see him as their rightful king.”

Accusingly, Daemon gritted out, “That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne and you could have burned them all for it.”

Rhaenys stood her ground, remaining endlessly calm and patient. “A war is likely to be fought over this treachery—but that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”

Tears glossed over Rhaenyra’s eyes. She glanced at you, practically her daughter in every way but blood and name—aware that your life was in danger now that you had run away from the Greens.

Another wave of pain. She cried out, hands splaying out over the table in front of her. With frantic motions, Rhaenyra reached under her dress.

Her hand came out from beneath the fabric bloody.

“The babe is coming.”

Rhaenyra had stripped down to her shift, walking around her chambers with her hands on her hips and breathing irregularly. She was sweating profusely, skin a blistering shade of red and silver hair sticking to her sticky flesh.

The midwives were all murmuring to themselves, unsure of what to do and how to help her, especially when Rhaenyra kept waving them away, telling them, “Just fuck off!”

Even the maester appeared worried, murmuring low beneath his breath to the eldest midwife, “Her term is far from complete… this should not be happening.”

Rhaenyra had stormed up to them, growling out behind gritted teeth, “It is fucking happening!”

“Keep your head about you, Princess,” the midwife crooned. “We’ve done this five times before—just keep your spirit and the sixth will be no different.”

“Get off, get off, get off me!” Rhaenyra hissed, yanking herself away from the fussing midwives. “Ow, ow, oh…”

Salt pricked the corners of her eyes when she turned her head in a frustrated manner, gaze landing on you. You were in the corner of the room, having been the one who ushered her here, hands shaking and cheeks damp with a constant stream of worried tears. Your mother had died giving birth to you—and you couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Rhaenyra died in front of your eyes, as well.

“Sweet girl, darling, fetch me some water, please,” she gasped, breathless, reaching out to you with a wince.

With a frantic nod, you scrambled to the bedside table to pour Rhaenyra a cold cup, rushing to the woman who had taken to leaning against a stone pillar, chest heaving. A cry left her throat as she felt another wave of pain overtake her body.

She collapsed into you as she screamed through the pain, and you braced yourself with her weight, clutching her close to your chest.

“Drink, Princess,” you urged her, holding the rim of the cup to her chapped lips. Rhaenyra tipped her head back and swallowed a few mouthfuls to quench her dry throat, nearly choking as agony struck her belly once more.

Ten minutes later, Jacaerys and Lucerys were summoned, descending down the stairs to their mother’s chambers with confused and concerned expressions.

“Mother?” asked Jace, mouth parting upon seeing you by Rhaenyra’s side.

“Fuck!” groaned Rhaenyra, huffing out a warbling breath. She turned to look at her two boys, both their brows furrowed and worry splayed plainly over both their faces. “Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed.”

Both the boys straightened at the news, their eyes widening with shock.

“The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned King,” Rhaenyra said, through bouts of intense pain.

Jacaerys’ jaw set. “What is to be done about it?”

“Nothing yet,” she replied.

“Where is Daemon?” asked her eldest son.

“I don’t know. Gone to madness—gone to plot his war,” she bit out, lips trembling.

Furious that his stepfather wasn’t by his mother’s side, Jacaerys turned and began striding back up the stairs. “Leave Daemon with me,” he said.

“Jace!” called Rhaenyra. “Jacaerys!”

Jace halted in his strides.

“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command. Do you understand?”

The young man dipped his head in a nod, and he disappeared out of the room.

Her purple eyes landed on Luke, appearing frightened beyond belief.

“Are you going to be alright, mother?” he whispered.

“Yes, sweet boy,” she replied, the lie falling off her tongue easy. “Go. You mustn’t see this.”

Hesitating once more, Luke caught your eye, and you gestured for him to leave, a reassuring warmth to your gaze. The boy scampered away, leaving you to Rhaenyra once more.

As soon as her boys left, she bent at the waist and began screaming again, nails digging into her thighs. You were the only one she allowed close to her, barking at the midwives to stay away anytime one of them tried to get near her. But there was little you could do, and so you just pressed a cold, soaked cloth to her head, wiping away her sweat and drew her hair away from her face.

The seconds blurred into minutes.

Blood stained her shift.

The minutes blurred into hours.

“Get out, get out!” she screamed at the babe within her, voice breaking, teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack beneath the pressure.

The hours blurred into half a day.

Her agonized yells rang so loud it echoed across the entirety of Dragonstone. After a long while of strenuous pushing, blood pooled out from beneath her shift—and a minute later, a sick squelch befell the chambers as the stillborn baby came out of her. Its small, undeveloped body fell to the stone floors.

The babe was a girl.

And she was silent. Unmoving.

The midwives all turned away with tears in their eyes.

With tired, shaking, bloodied hands, Rhaenyra fell to her knees and picked up her baby, wrapping her shift around its tiny form. Red soaked through the fabric, drenching her skin, her hair, her face.

You wanted to cry some more—but you forced the burning urge away, steeling yourself to stay strong for Rhaenyra. And so you sat beside her, with a hand resting upon her shoulder, face stoically set.

The two of you stayed that way for the rest of the day, long after the sun had set, with Rhaenyra rocking her dead daughter in her arms and her other daughter dutifully by her side, swallowing down her tears.

Sparse few attended the funeral.

Visenya, the babe’s name was. Rhaenyra had whispered it to you right before she had gotten up to wrap up her daughter in linens for the burning.

It was a dreary event, the sky covered with grey clouds and the oceans quietly lapping at the shores of Dragonstone. You stood beside Luke, his hand held tightly within yours. Rhaenyra did not cry, for she had done so for hours on end and had no tears left to spare.

A familiar figure passing through the thin crowd made your brows raise in surprise.

“I mean no harm, brothers,” Ser Erryk Cargyll said when two guards drew their swords upon him. The man took off his helmet, kneeling down before Rhaenyra and Daemon. He then pulled out a golden crown from his satchel, presenting it to the two. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

It was, by no means, a lavish coronation. After all, it was unexpected and sudden, and took place during the funeral of her stillborn daughter.

But it was better than any amount of gold could ever buy for Aegon.

Daemon took the crown from Erryk and placed it upon Rhaenyra’s head. He was the first to kneel. “My Queen.”

The rest of her people followed suit, bending the knee towards the true Queen.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” announced Daemon, standing at the head of the stone-carved table of Westeros. “Your Grace.”

Rhaena Velaryon offered the Queen wine, and Rhaenyra graciously took the chalice, beckoning for her to come closer to the war table, along with her sister Baela.

You stood beside Jacaerys, staring at the glowing markers on the table, eyes fixed upon King’s Landing—where Helaena and her darling children were. Where Aemond was.

“What is our standing?” asked Rhaenyra.

Swiftly, Daemon replied, “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch—I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

A maester chimed in, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, along with Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace,” said the maester. “With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” Rhaenyra said. “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position, and that we will support him, should it come to war.”

Seeing as Grover was the head of the overlord house of Harrenhal, you knew much about the man, and were also aware that he was not one to put trust in. Feeling the need to speak up, you cleared your throat. “If I may, Your Grace—Lord Grover is old and sickly. He is bedridden, and far too aged to act with haste. It would do us well to address his grandson and heir, Elmo Tully, instead. Ser Elmo is sensible and loyal to a fault. He would surely support your cause.”

A ghost of a proud smile traced Rhaenyra’s expression. “That would be wise, Lady Strong. Maester, see to it that you do as she says.”

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” asked Ser Erryk.

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath,” said the maester. “With House Stark, the entirety of the North will follow.”

Rhaenyra toyed with the ring about her finger. “We cannot speak to Storm’s End with surety—Lord Borros Baratheon will have to be reminded of his father’s promises first.”

Finally, the Queen turned to face Rhaenys. “What news from Driftmark?”

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” said Rhaenys.

Still ever so suspicious of her, Daemon narrowed his eyes. “To declare for his Queen?”

Rhaenys did not wither beneath his glare. “The Velaryon fleet is in my husband’s yoke. He decides where they sail.”

“We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support, then,” said Rhaenyra, “just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet. What of our enemies?”

Fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword, Daemon replied with a venomous tongue, “We have no friends amongst the Lannisters. Tyland has served Otto Hightower too long to turn against him… and he needs the Lannister fleet.”

“Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth,” said Rhaenyra.

Daemon huffed out a breath. “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

One of the lords began speaking from the other end of the table. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth slackened. “The Greens have dragons as well—”

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer,” said Daemon, counting off on his fingers.

“Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war,” replied Rhaenyra, tone sharpening.

Unrelenting, Daemon pressed on, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

“And who is to ride them?” asked Rhaenyra, baffled.

“It does not matter. A dragon needs no rider to be an asset. We have thirteen to their four. I have another score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now, we need a place to gather—a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.” Daemon stepped around the table to place a marker on the map. “Here, at Harrenhal. And Lady Strong is our key to that—she is its rightful heir, after her older brother Larys Strong—and he is not a favorable man. The people there are more likely to bend the knee if they know we have their Lady’s support. We’d cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

Surprise filled your expression at the mention of your hometown. Though you’d never been to Harrenhal, you knew Harwin and your father were well-liked. Perhaps they could be swayed in your favor instead of slimy old Larys, as well.

Before anyone could respond to Daemon’s hot tongue, a guard ran up to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Your heart leapt to your throat. Could it possibly be Aemond?

“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies,” said Daemon, already making his way out of the room.

Fully expecting to be sent to your private quarters, you were shocked when Rhaenyra laid a hand on your forearm. “Y/N, my sweet girl, you are of great value in this war. You are quick-witted in the political tongues of battle and a good fighter. You shall come with me.”

You blinked in surprise, before bowing your head. “Yes, My Queen.”

Otto Hightower was most certainly not a sight for sore eyes. His face was set in stone, powerful and commanding and pretentious all at once. This was the most power he’s held in his entire life, and he was relishing in it.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of his Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,” he uttered, somehow managing to look down upon Daemon despite him being taller than Otto. “Where is the Princess?”

From the skies, Syrax’s roar rumbled the very clouds with its piercing volume. She descended upon the bridge you were standing on, yellow scales rippling as she lowered herself for Rhaenyra to climb down.

The knights Otto had come with cowered at the sight of the golden beast.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto greeted, not even bothering to bow in the slightest.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” she coldly replied. “And you all are traitors to the realm.”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name… in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.” After a beat of silence, Otto took it as his cue to continue talking, despite Daemon’s restless fiddling with his sword. “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. Return Lady Y/N Strong to her husband-to-be, the King’s younger brother, Aemond. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be reaffirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark, and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court—Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, and Viserys as his cupbearer. Y/N will be treated well and married to Prince Aemond, after which she can choose to live with you on Dragonstone if she so pleases, until it is time for her to collect her inheritance of Harrenhal with Aemond. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Otto Hightower was a clever man, with a sharp tongue of persuasive influence.

But Daemon saw right through him, scowling deeply. “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto reaffirmed. “He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and has the Conqueror's name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—houses that have also received and are at present, considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra clasped her hands together. “Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me, when King Viserys named me his heir. Has that perhaps slipped from your mind, Lord Hightower?”

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess,” reminded Otto. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

With deliberate steps forward, Rhaenyra marched towards Otto, grabbing the Hand of the King’s pin on the front of his coat, tossing it somewhere over the stone bridge. “You are no more Hand than Aegon is King. Fucking traitor.”

Otto seemed unmoved by this.

“Grand maester,” he said, holding out an awaiting hand.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered under his breath from beside you, fingers clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.

The maester gave Otto a worn piece of paper—one that Rhaenyra seemed to recognize from her childhood growing up with Alicent.

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other,” he said. “No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth, along with his withered cock!” spat Daemon. “Let’s end this mummer’s farce.”

With that, he drew his shield, prompting every knight present to also pull out their swords. You wrapped your hand around the hilt of your dagger, hidden within your cloak, but you made no move to unsheath it just yet.

“Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself,” growled the white-haired Prince, ever the impulsive hothead.

A tear slipped down Rhaenyra’s cheek as she stared down at the page. From behind Otto, Syrax gave an outraged growl upon seeing her rider upset.

“No,” Rhaenyra said, glancing back at her husband with a warning stare. Daemon put his sword down and hung his head with a sigh, deeply frustrated he was denied the pleasure of cutting off Otto’s head. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.”

With that, Rhaenyra turned to leave. Daemon followed close behind.

“Lord Hightower,” you said, drawing his attention to you. “Tell Prince Aemond he is on the wrong end of the scales. Tell him I will be forced to balance them, whether or not he is on my side. He will understand what this means.”

With not another word further, you turned on your heel, striding away from the former Hand, hurrying to catch up to Rhaenyra.

The next morning was much busier than last night. More lords had keener insight to offer, and plans were starting to roll into place.

“The Lord of the Tides,” announced Erryk Cargyll, “and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

You paused in your conversation with Jacaerys to watch the Velaryons descend the staircase. Baela came to Jacaerys’ side, the two of them nodding at each other stoutly. Rhaena strode over to Luke, a bright smile to her face, which was equally mirrored by the young boy.

Corlys’ cane echoed loudly as it stamped against the floor. There was a slight limp to his step, but there seemed to be nothing else dire in terms of his condition.

“Lord Corlys,” greeted Rhaenyra. “It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

The Sea Snake leveled her with a calculating gaze. “I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” He hobbled closer to the stone-carved map. “Your declared allies?” he asked, glancing at the markers strewn across the table.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said.

“Too few to win a war for the throne,” surmised Corlys.

Rhaenyra hesitated, before saying, “Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope is the fools’ ally,” the Sea Snake said.

The Queen drew herself to her full height. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me.”

Corlys cocked his head. “As did House Hightower, if I can recall correctly.”

Tone sharp, Rhaenyra responded, “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

The Lord of the Tides found himself at an impasse for a reply. He glanced back at his grandchildren—Jace and Baela, along with Luke and Rhaena.

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor,” said Corlys. “Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace.” He bowed his head low to his Queen.

Gratitude shone through Rhaenyra’s expression. “You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys. But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it shall not be by my hand.”

Surprised, Corlys’ brows shot up. “You do not mean to act?”

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” said Rhaenyra. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

Allowing yourself to play the fool for once, hope clutched at your ribcage. Rhaenyra would make for a good Queen.

“The consequence of my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory, this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already,” Corlys told Rhaenyra with a firm nod. “The triarchy has been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Stepping forward, Rhaenys offered, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

You studied the positions of the Blacks on the map before voicing your input, “With the Narrow Sea obstructed by the Velaryon fleet, King’s Landing can be easily surrounded, and a bloodless siege could be levied onto the Red Keep. It is a strong castle, but more than vulnerable, given the right number of knights and extensive knowledge of the inside. I know the castle like it’s the back of my hand—along with the secret tunnels to smuggle people in and out unseen. Once the Keep is impregnated, the Greens’ would be forced to surrender.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you, perhaps the first time she’s genuinely smiled since the death of her daughter. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

The maester bowed his head. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

From beside you, Jacaerys spoke, “We should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens—and they’re more convincing. Send us.”

Corlys regarded his grandson with an impressed look. “The Prince is right, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra nodded her head once after a moment of thought. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north—first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. Lady Y/N will go with you, Luke. She is quick-of-tongue, has been trained in the art of combat, can bargain against Lord Borros’ temper if need be, and is around the same age as his four daughters. Hopefully that will make for some common interest.”

Surprise rippled around the room, but you determinedly bobbed your head once.

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace,” you said, earning you a warm dip of her head.

“We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore,” Rhaenyra proclaimed. “And… the cost of breaking them.”

The waters lapped voraciously against the tall, stony cliffs, the sea’s waves crashing loudly against them. You turned your gaze up to the sky, watching the dark, heavy clouds slowly shift with the whistling winds.

There was a storm on the horizon.

And it’d be your second time mounting a dragon.

“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men,” Rhaenyra said to her sons. “And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms… we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers—not as warriors.”

Luke sent a worried gaze to his brother and then to you. He was frightened and terribly nervous, of course he was—this was the first time he’s been sent off for something this high of importance—but he was immensely relieved that you were to go with him. He knew you were a formidable fighter, even if they were avoiding violence, it was comforting to know that he wasn’t going to be alone.

“You must take no part in any fighting,” Rhaenyra told them, expression solemn. “Swear it to me now, under the eyes of the Seven.”

“I swear it,” said Luke without hesitation.

Jacaerys took a moment longer to follow after his brother. “I swear it,” he parroted.

“You as well, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said, turning her dark purple gaze to you. “I need this ordeal to be bloodless.”

“I swear it, Your Grace,” you whispered, bowing your head. “I’m honored you trust me with such a task.”

A smile traced Rhaenyra’s lips. The rolled up pieces of parchment in her hands shifted as she held one out to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than is mine. I would hope that as young men, the two of you can take a mutual liking to one another.”

Jacaerys nodded determinedly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra regarded her eldest son fondly, before turning to the younger boy. She noted the unadulterated worry in his eyes.

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And… Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm—and his dragon. I expect the both of you will receive a very warm welcome.” The Queen smoothed down his cloak, and brushed his curls away from his face.

“Yes, Mother. I mean, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, an affection glint to her eyes. Her sweet boy… grown far too quickly.

Finally, she turned to you, handing you the parchment. “Lord Borros is a temperamental man, but you are smart—smarter than most your age—I have faith you will easily persuade him for support. Let us hope he will see his daughters within you… you and his eldest, Cassandra, are of the same age.”

“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” you said.

Rhaenyra cupped your face, dipping forward to slant a chaste kiss upon your temples. “I will see you soon, daughter. Get to it, then.”

A warm smile brushed across your features. You pulled away, bidding Jacaerys a warm goodbye, before walking away with Luke.

“Are you ready?” he asked you.

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

The two of you grinned at each other, nervous.

You placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before he could mount his pearlescent dragon, Arrax. “Luke… everything’s going to be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The younger boy rolled his eyes. “I should be the one saying that to you—I’m the one with a dragon.”

With that, he mounted the small beast, commanding Arrax to bend down so you could climb on, as well. The dragon seemed to purr contentedly when you stroked his pale scales.

And to the dark skies the both of you took, the howling warnings of the wind falling upon deaf ears.

Storm’s End was cold and dreary and grey all over. Pinpricks of frigid rain stung your skin.

The flight was short but uncomfortable, as the winds made for a difficult journey and the saddle was really only made for one person, since Arrax was still a young dragon. Nonetheless, Luke helped you down, and the two of you made for the castle.

A shrill roar in the distance made the two of you flinch, looking west to see Vhagar in the distance, shrouded with cold fog and smoke, more than five times the size of Arrax. The two of you exchanged worried glances.

Aemond was here.

Fear clutched at your chest.

Determined, Luke stepped forward to the guards manning the castle doors.

“I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.”

The guards nodded, turning to lead him through the massive stone archway.

Thunder rumbled angrily through the sky, rivulets of white lightning carving pathways between clouds.

Somehow colder inside than out, you drew your blue cloak closer to you, sticking close behind Luke.

The guards brought the two of you into the castle’s great hall, where Lord Borros was seated upon a stone throne. He was a burly man, with a mane of black curls and a thick beard shadowing his jaw. To his left were his four daughters, each tall and dark-haired and fair of skin.

To his right was your betrothed.

He was calm as ever, hands clasped behind his back, foot tapping rhythmically against the ground. His purple eye was fixed on you, expression unreadable. You could feel your heart stutter within your chest—despite everything, you missed him terribly.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” announced the guard. “Lady Y/N, of House Strong.”

Luke shifted uncomfortably at the sight of his uncle.

“Lord Borros,” he started, voice trembling. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.”

The Baratheon lord showed little interest in the young princeling. “Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.” He began laughing to himself, loud and hollow, bouncing off the cold stone walls of the castle. “What’s your mother’s message?”

With your head held up high, you stepped forward to hand the Lord the bound scroll. He eyed you with disdain, a sigh falling from his lips.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!” he yelled, his patience growing thin. Borros was not a man of words, and could not read for himself.

Aemond’s stare pierced into Luke, nearly scalding. Subconsciously, Luke rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The maester stepped forward to read for him, before bending down to whisper the message into Borros’ ear.

Fury painted itself golden across his grizzled features.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” he echoed, voice booming with anger. “King Aegon at least came with an offer! My swords and banners in exchange for a marriage pact!”

Your eyes widened, and you chanced a glance to Aemond. Had he offered his hand to one of the Baratheon girls? Had he already cast you to the side as if you were nothing?

“Aegon’s youngest brother, Daeron, is to wed one of my daughters. Prince Aemond was just negotiating dates and dowries,” said Borros in a boastful manner.

A strange sense of relief befell you, one that you didn’t quite understand.

“If I do as your mother bids… which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Voice quaking, Luke shook his head. “My lord… I am not free to marry. I’m already betrothed.”

“So you come with empty hands,” said Borros, an incredulous scoff following his words.

A slight smile crossed Aemond’s features. You gritted your teeth.

“My Lord, if I may,” you began, holding the Baratheon’s graze strongly. “It matters not what we offer. This is a warning to you, from the Queen. The might of the Velaryon fleet has already sworn fealty to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause. Winterfell has never forgotten their oaths and will support Her claim, along with the entirety of the North. The Tullys and the Arryns and dozens more great houses are also to be loyal to the Queen’s cause. Will you be willing to risk your own noble house against the strength of the Blacks if war is to come?”

Borros Baratheon was stunned into silence. He wasn’t a man easily swayed, stubborn to a fault—but your words had struck a chord within him. The threat of the entirety of the North was not one he could hold defense against, not to mention the Velaryon fleet, the Vale, and the Riverlands.

A grumble resounded in his chest. Borros was not one to back down. “Rhaenyra has taken House Baratheon for granted far too long. A son—a male heir—is of higher order than a daughter. Aegon is the true King.”

You pressed forth, “Lord Borros, I beg you to think about the future of your house—”

“NOT ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU!” he shouted, effectively cutting you off, thick brows drawing together. You fell silent, angrily biting down on your tongue. The burly man drew out a heavy sigh, addressing Prince Lucerys once more. “Go home, pup. Tell your bitch of a mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not a dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

The both of you stiffened at his blatant disrespect.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord,” said Luke.

The two of you turned to take your leave of the blasted place.

“Wait.”

You froze in place, turning only your head to see Aemond staring straight at his nephew.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm with my dear betrothed… trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he said, words as sharp as knives.

Luke straightened himself, remembering what he swore to his mother. “I will not fight you,” he told his uncle. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge,” said the one-eyed prince. You protectively moved to stand in front of Luke. Aemond hummed at this, regarding you with a heated stare. He reached behind his head to pull off his leather eyepatch—where a gleaming sapphire was placed within the scarred socket. Memories of when he had bared himself to you fully and wholly that one fateful night flashed across the forefront of your mind. You yearned for that time back. “No… I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine. Just one will serve. I would not blind you. Hm… I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

With that, he reached down into his coat, brandishing a curved dagger. He tossed it down to the ground in between you, the blade glowing with the light of the torches lining the walls.

Revenge was consuming him. He was angry—infuriated that the Blacks had stolen his wife-to-be, and now they were parading about the realm, falsely claiming Rhaenyra to be the rightful Queen.

“Aemond, stop this madness,” you hissed, stepping closer to him, your hand resting over your own dagger hidden within your cloak. “He will do no such thing.”

“Mmh, then he is craven as well as a traitor,” said Aemond.

“Not here!” bellowed Borros.

The prince paid him no mind, surging forward with quick steps. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!”

You met him halfway, just as he scooped up the dagger he had tossed. One of your hands found his chest and you shoved him back, the other coming forth to slant your dagger right against Aemond’s stomach. The prince met your eyes briefly, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw regret dancing amongst the mauve of his iris. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Touch my nephew and I will cut you open from head to toe,” you threatened in a hushed whisper, lips grazing his ear.

Aemond found himself chuckling lowly at your slip up. “So you finally admit it, my love. He is a Strong, just as you are, hm? Look at this sad creature, my sweet betrothed… little Luke Strong, the bastard. He is drenched. Is it raining outside or has he pissed himself in fear?”

With a growl, you shoved at him again, which only barely made him take a step back.

Luke had drawn his sword, hands trembling around the hilt.

“NOT IN MY HALL!” yelled Borros. “The boy came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof! Escort Prince Lucerys and Lady Y/N back to his dragon. Now.”

Luke sheathed his sword, and Aemond twirled the dagger in his grasp, before doing the same. You were the last to put your weapon away, glaring at your betrothed with the might of a thousand suns.

“For what it’s worth, Aemond,” you told him as a lump formed in your throat, “I’ve missed you. Or, at least—I miss the man you used to be.”

You did not wait to see his reaction.

Instead, you turned to tell Lucerys, “Go, Luke. I will stay and try to barter with Lord Borros. With time, I think I can convince him.”

The princeling shook his head, wet curls flying. “No, Y/N, you must come home with me. We can tell mother together!”

You brushed his damp hair away from his face. “I can do this, Luke. Go. I will see you at Dragonstone—I shall take a ship back.”

Reluctant, Luke nodded once, before rotating on his heel and heading out the door.

When you looked back, Aemond was already gone. Unease settled within your chest.

The storm seemed to have worsened—the rains were far heavier and the gusts of wind were stronger. You made your way out of the castle to watch Luke go on his young dragon.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Your eyes widened. Aemond must have already taken her to the skies—no doubt to torment his nephew further.

Or… or worse than torment…

You ran out into the muddy clearing, screaming Luke’s name. Your voice was lost to the storm. Frantic, you made your way out of Storm End’s walls, desperately trying to see through the thick fog.

“LUKE!” you screamed. “AEMOND! No, no, no…”

Vhagar’s rumbling roars echoed loud and true over the stormy seas of Shipbreaker’s Bay.

Raw terror sank its dark hands around your ribcage, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

In the faint distance, you could see parts of a pale dragon streak from the sky.

A fluttering wing membrane.

A spined tail.

A gnarled talon.

A dragon head.

And along with it, the corpse of your nephew, falling down, down, down, into the waters below…

You screamed your throat bloody until your voice gave out.

In three days' time, you would find yourself back in Dragonstone, and be the one to tell Rhaenyra that her son was dead. You were weathered and broken, and had to write the words out for your own voice had failed you.

Daemon was enraged upon hearing the news.

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son,” he had said. “Lucerys shall be avenged.”

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