#but once you strike gold you never let go | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 year ago

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Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Text

Eternal Blaze

- Summary: You go after Aegon with your dragon to fight at Rook's Rest.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N and has same shade of eyes as Aegon. The reader is bonded with a dragon called Starfyre. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 2 475

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You soar through the skies atop Starfyre, her gleaming silver scales reflecting the sunlight, with hints of pale blue and alabaster shimmering underneath. Starfyre’s powerful wings beat in rhythm with your heart, carrying you swiftly to the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. Below, the chaos of war unfolds, but your focus remains on the sky, where your twin brother and husband, King Aegon II, battles Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was.

The air is thick with the scent of blood and smoke. You can hear the clash of steel and the screams of men, but above all, you hear the roars of dragons. Starfyre lets out a fierce cry, a call to her brother and mate, Sunfyre, as you near the fray.

In the sky, you see them: Aegon on Sunfyre, his golden scales glowing fiercely, locked in combat with Rhaenys on Meleys, the Red Queen. Meleys clamps her jaws around Sunfyre’s neck, and your heart skips a beat. Without hesitation, you urge Starfyre forward.

"To Aegon, my love," you command, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Starfyre responds with a burst of speed, her silver form cutting through the air like a comet. You reach the battle just as Aegon lets out a cry of pain and fury.

"Y/N!" Aegon shouts, his voice strained. "Help me!"

You and Starfyre dive at Meleys, claws extended and jaws snapping. Starfyre's roar echoes through the sky as she rakes her talons across Meleys' crimson scales. Rhaenys turns her attention to you, her eyes blazing with fury.

"Y/N, you traitorous wretch!" she yells over the roar of the dragons. "You will fall today!"

Your only response is a determined glare as Starfyre breathes a stream of pale yellow fire at Meleys. The heat is intense, and the air sizzles with the clash of flames. Meleys releases Sunfyre, turning her wrath on you and Starfyre.

Aegon, though injured, maneuvers Sunfyre to attack from the other side. "Hold on, Y/N! For the throne, for our family!"

You nod, feeling the bond between you and your brother strengthen. Starfyre and Sunfyre, born of the same clutch, fight with a ferocity unmatched. However, Meleys is a formidable opponent, her jaws snapping dangerously close to you more than once.

Suddenly, Aemond and Vhagar join the battle. Vhagar's ancient form casts a massive shadow over the battlefield. Aemond circles above, waiting for the right moment to strike. The combined might of Sunfyre, Starfyre, and Vhagar seems overwhelming, but Rhaenys is undeterred.

"Burn them all, Meleys!" Rhaenys commands.

Meleys unleashes a torrent of dragonfire, and the world around you becomes a blaze of red and gold. You feel the searing heat as Starfyre is engulfed in flames, her scales sizzling. She cries out in pain, but you hold firm, determined to protect Aegon.

Aemond seizes the moment, Vhagar's massive jaws closing around Meleys. The Red Queen thrashes, but Vhagar's grip is unyielding. Meleys' death throes are violent, and in her desperation, she lashes out one final time, her flames mingling with those of Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Starfyre.

The sky is a maelstrom of fire and blood. You hear Aegon scream, a sound of both rage and agony, as Sunfyre crashes to the ground, one wing half-torn from his body. You reach out, but it is too late. You can only watch as your husband and his dragon fall in a blaze of fire.

"Aegon!" you scream, your voice raw with despair.

Starfyre, grievously injured, struggles to stay aloft. Her once gleaming silver scales are now scorched and bloodied. You hold on tightly as she begins to falter, the strength draining from her with each beat of her wings.

"Hold on, Starfyre," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Just a little longer."

But the effort is too great. With a final, mournful roar, Starfyre's wings buckle, and you begin to fall. The ground rushes up to meet you, and the world around you becomes a blur of smoke and flames. The sound of your descent is like thunder, a deafening crash that echoes through the battlefield.

As you fall, you think of Aegon, of your love and your shared dreams. You reach out, as if you could grasp him from the air. The last thing you see before darkness claims you is the shattered form of Sunfyre, and the knowledge that you fought together until the end.

The ground trembles beneath the onrush of Criston Cole and his men, their armor clanking and weapons drawn. The sight that greets them is one of devastation and heartache. Smoke and dust fill the air, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt flesh and dragonfire.

Starfyre, despite her grievous wounds, has crawled over to Sunfyre. Her body, a gleaming silver now tarnished with blood and ash, curls protectively around her brother. Sunfyre, his golden form marred and broken, lies motionless beneath her. The two dragons, once the epitome of beauty and strength, now lay in a pitiable heap, their breaths shallow and labored.

Cole’s eyes scan the battlefield until they fall upon the twins. Aegon and Y/N lie side by side, their bodies bruised and bloodied. Aegon’s one side is horrifically burned, his armor melted and fused to his flesh, the pungent smell of charred meat filling the air. His ribs and hip are shattered, his breathing ragged and uneven. Beside him, Y/N is no better off, her body covered in bruises, blood trickling from her nose and mouth with each strained breath.

“Over here! Quickly!” Cole shouts, his voice urgent and commanding. “The King and Queen need immediate aid!”

The soldiers rush forward, their faces pale with fear and determination. As they reach the fallen royals, Aemond descends from the sky atop Vhagar, the massive dragon landing with a ground-shaking thud. Vhagar’s ancient eyes survey the scene with an almost sorrowful gaze, while Aemond dismounts swiftly, his usual cold demeanor shattered by the sight of his siblings.

“Aegon! Y/N!” Aemond cries, rushing to their side. He falls to his knees beside Aegon, his hands trembling as he reaches out to touch his brother’s charred form. ��Brother, hold on. Help is here.”

Aegon’s eyes flutter open, pain and exhaustion etched deeply into his features. “Aemond…” he rasps, his voice barely a whisper. “Protect… her…”

Aemond nods, his eye glistening with unshed tears. “I will. I swear it.”

Y/N’s breaths come in shallow gasps, her eyes barely open, but she reaches out weakly towards Aegon. “Aegon…” she murmurs, her voice frail. “Together…”

Aegon’s hand, though shaking with pain, reaches out to grasp hers. “Always,” he breathes, the simple word carrying the weight of their bond.

Criston Cole watches, his expression grim but resolute. “We need to get them to the maesters. Now!”

The soldiers work quickly, lifting the twins with as much care as possible. Their bodies are fragile, and every movement elicits groans of pain. As they are carried away, Starfyre lets out a weak, mournful cry, her eyes following them until they are out of sight. She then curls tighter around Sunfyre, her protective instinct undiminished by her injuries.

Aemond stands, his gaze hardening as he looks at Cole. “Rhaenys and Meleys may be gone, but this war is far from over. We must regroup and prepare for what comes next.”

Cole nods, his face set in determination. “Aye, my Prince. We’ll see to the wounded and fortify our defenses. The realm needs its King and Queen alive.”

As they move to attend to the aftermath of the battle, Aemond casts one last look at the fallen dragons and his injured siblings. He vows silently that their sacrifice will not be in vain, and that the bloodshed at Rook’s Rest will be avenged.

In the depths of unconsciousness, you relive your last night with Aegon. The memory is vivid, as if it were happening all over again. The firelight from the hearth bathed your chamber in a warm, flickering glow. Aegon's eyes, the same shade as yours, were filled with a mixture of determination and a tenderness reserved only for you.

That night, the world outside ceased to exist. The war, the politics, the looming battle at Rook’s Rest—all faded away in the sanctity of your shared moments. Aegon’s touch was fervent, his kisses desperate, as if he were trying to etch the memory of you into his soul. You responded with equal passion, your hands exploring the familiar planes of his body, every scar and contour telling a story of shared history and love.

“Aegon,” you whispered, your voice a mix of longing and love. “Promise me we’ll come back to this.”

His lips trailed from your neck to your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “I promise, Y/N. We’ll always find our way back to each other.”

Your bodies moved in perfect synchrony, each touch, each kiss, a silent vow of your unbreakable bond. The world might be at war, but in that moment, it was just the two of you, lost in each other, making love with a fervor that spoke of both desperation and eternal devotion.

The memory fades, and you are pulled back to the present by a wave of excruciating pain. Your body feels heavy and foreign, each breath a struggle. Slowly, you open your eyes, the bright light of the room blinding you for a moment. As your vision clears, you see your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, sitting by your bedside, her face etched with worry.

"Mother?" you croak, your voice barely a whisper.

Alicent’s eyes widen in relief and she quickly leans forward, grasping your hand gently. "Y/N, thank the gods you’re awake."

You try to sit up, but the pain is too much. Every part of your body protests, and you fall back onto the pillows with a groan. Beside you, Aegon lies unconscious, his face pale and drawn, the sight of him sending a fresh wave of fear through you.

"Aegon…" you murmur, reaching out weakly towards him.

Alicent’s expression hardens slightly as she follows your gaze. "He is alive, but his injuries are severe," she says, her voice a mixture of relief and reproach. "You should never have gone after him, Y/N. You risked your life recklessly."

Her words sting, but you can see the fear and concern in her eyes. "I couldn’t let him fight alone," you reply, your voice strained. "He is my twin, my other half."

Alicent sighs, her grip on your hand tightening. "I understand your love, but you are the Queen. Your duty is to your people as well as to Aegon. If both of you were lost…" Her voice breaks slightly, and she takes a moment to compose herself. "The realm needs its King and Queen, Y/N. We cannot afford to lose either of you."

Tears well up in your eyes, partly from the pain and partly from the weight of her words. "I know, Mother. I know."

Alicent’s expression softens, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. "Rest now. The maesters are doing everything they can. We will get through this, but you must be strong. For Aegon, for the realm, and for yourself."

You nod weakly, the exhaustion overwhelming you. As you close your eyes, you feel Alicent’s comforting presence beside you, her hand never leaving yours. The last thing you see before sleep claims you again is Aegon’s still form, and you silently vow to be there for him, just as he has always been there for you.

The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering candles casting shadows on the walls. You are barely awake, drifting in and out of consciousness for days now. The pain is a constant companion, a dull ache that ebbs and flows with every shallow breath. The maesters have done what they can, but their prognosis remains grim. Your fate, they say, is now in the hands of the gods.

Aemond enters quietly, his usual confident stride subdued by worry. He pauses at the foot of the bed, his gaze moving between you and Aegon. Orwyle, who left a few hours ago, had briefed him on your condition earlier.

“She suffered severe internal bleeding,” Orwyle had explained, his voice heavy with concern. “Her fate is uncertain. We’ve done all we can. Now, we must pray.”

Aemond steps closer, his face a mask of determination hiding his worry. He sits beside you, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor in the storm of your pain.

“Y/N,” he says softly, reaching out to take your hand. “Can you hear me?”

You manage a slight nod, your eyes fluttering open. “Aemond…” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Our dragons… Starfyre and Sunfyre… how are they?”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, but he answers with as much calm as he can muster. “Both are grievously wounded but alive. Starfyre and Sunfyre are being tended to. Ser Criston ordered his men to feed them with the bodies of fallen soldiers until a steady source of cattle can be provided.”

A flicker of relief crosses your face. “Good… they need to be strong.”

Before Aemond can respond, Aegon stirs beside you, his face contorted in agony. He awakens with a gasp, his eyes wide with pain and fear. “Y/N… where is Y/N?” he croaks, his voice thick with desperation.

“I’m here, Aegon,” you whisper, mustering all your strength to squeeze his hand. “I’m right here.”

Aegon’s eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the pain seems to lessen. He clutches your hand tightly, his grip trembling. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads, his voice breaking.

“I won’t, ” you promise, forcing a weak smile.

Aemond watches the exchange, his heart heavy with emotion. He feels a surge of protectiveness, vowing silently to do whatever it takes to keep you both safe.

“I’ll get Orwyle,” Aemond says, standing up. “You need more care, both of you.”

He leaves the room swiftly, his mind racing with thoughts of how to ensure your recovery. As he walks through the corridors, he passes soldiers and servants, all bowing respectfully, their faces lined with worry. He finally reaches the maester’s chambers and bursts in.

“Orwyle, they need you. Now,” Aemond commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Orwyle nods, gathering his tools and potions quickly. “I will do everything in my power, Prince Aemond,” he assures, following him back to your chambers.

Upon their return, Orwyle immediately begins to tend to you and Aegon, checking wounds, administering potions, and murmuring prayers under his breath. Aemond stands by, his presence a silent promise of protection and support.

As you drift back into a fitful sleep, the last thing you feel is Aegon’s hand in yours, a small comfort in the midst of your suffering. Aemond watches over you both, his heart a mixture of hope and fear, determined that the gods will grant you the strength to survive this ordeal.

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #alicent hightower #aemond targaryen #criston cole #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x you #hotd x reader #hotd aegon #dragons #sunfyre #vhagar

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trashogram · 9 months ago

Text

He Chose You (Pt. 2)

Lucifer/Reader

Rated E for the smex coming next chapter I SWEAR. ((Also there will not be any non-con in this fic, so please don’t worry. You’ll see when you read.))

Tag Requests: @loslox, @for-hearthand-home, @navierkalani

‘The worst thing they could be are swingers.’

Your heart was racing, and you felt ridiculous for how uppity you felt at the prospect of having dinner with your two elderly neighbors.

Normally, meeting new people would cause a healthy amount of anxiety in you. You’d grown up into a recluse and upholding social niceties took most of your energy. It was even worse to be in their home, and among people that you likely did not have much in common with.

These were personal reassurances that you told yourself after denying the first invitation for dinner with the Farrows. The guilt you felt, paired with the subsequent relief of not having to spend more than five minutes with your chatty neighbor, stirred an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Of course you’d been unable to stop thinking about what a wretch you were, how karma was going to bite you on the ass for denying an old couple some company.

And oh Karma did come back to bite you. Hard.

You felt like you were hanging by a thread at work. Three weeks into the job and you’d already been reprimanded. Even the memory of your supervisor looking down her nose at you from the other side of her desk made your eyes water.

“We have a ‘three strikes’ policy here. I’m afraid this will count as your first.”

Never having been fired from a job notwithstanding, you felt like the idiot your parents always purported you to be.

If you’d have just stayed in your hometown, living off your parents’ good graces and kept your head down, instead of prancing out the door as if you had self-respect and no need for a safety net…

Maybe things wouldn’t be so dire.

Maybe you wouldn’t be on the verge of having a panic attack at this very moment, feeling the anxiety and restlessness from declining the previous invitation tenfold.

With a deep breath in and out, you crossed the hall with the hesitance of a mouse approaching a snap-trap. You knocked on the door to Unit 606 with a shaking hand.

There was a moment left to blanch at the realization that you hadn’t brought anything with you. Like the shittiest, most thoughtless guest ever.

——

“You made it!” Mrs. Farrow held her arms out dramatically. “Come in! Come in! You’re right on time! Oh and you look lovely dear!”

“Thanks.” You felt heat rise to your cheeks as the door closed behind you.

The layout of the apartment was a mirror image to yours, but you were overwhelmed by just how much stuff had taken up the space. From the kitchen to the living room, the apartment was brimming with kaleidoscopic color. Antique statuettes of unknown deities, handcrafted vases and sculptures in-set with gems and gold filigree, expertly framed posters of old Hollywood, and Persian rugs beneath well-worn furniture were visible from just a cursory glance.

It distracted you from the unusually bitter, earthy smell that assaulted you upon entering.

“Wow,” You said in genuine awe. “Your home is lovely.”

“Aw, you’re too kind sweetheart. Too kind. Here, let me take your shawl - we’ll hang it up on the rack here, see.” She took your cardigan and placed it on an old hat stand before steering you out to the living room by the back of your shoulders.

There was a man sitting in a leather armchair adjacent to the couch. He was wearing a tweed jacket and his silver-blond hair had been combed back finely to show a pale, wrinkled face and eyes so dark they shone almost black in the lowlight.

He looked at you with interest once you’d finally caught onto his presence, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Quack!’

“Lou!” You laughed as the duck came racing over on its little legs.

Without delay, the bird climbed onto your flats with an impatient flap of its wings, trying to balance while looking up at you adoringly.

You couldn’t help but reach down and pat his little head, murmuring ‘hellos’ and ‘how you doing buddy?’ softly and sweetly.

The man opposite you both smirked. “My wife was right. He’s quite taken with you.”

“I’m always right!” Mrs. Farrow called out from the kitchen.

You looked to the kitchen and back to, presumably, Mr. Farrow, an uncertain smile on your lips.

“Welcome to our home.” The elder man’s voice was almost hypnotically deep. His hand was outstretched and waiting. “Please excuse me for not greeting you properly. When you get to be as old as I am, your body does everything it can to make you stay put in one place.”

You shook your head. “Oh no, please don’t worry about it! I understand.”

Mr. Farrow’s smirk seemed to soften as you spoke.

“Please make yourself comfortable, my dear.” When he gestured to the couch, you awkwardly shuffled to sit down. Lou was right on your heels, loathe to spend even a second without your warmth.

The duck ended up snuggled on your lap after begging to be lifted as you sank into the plush sofa. And you were grateful, hugging Lou to you gently as if he were a plush toy.

It helped take your mind away from that spine-tingling feeling when it made a comeback — the way Mr. Farrow’s eyes glittered when he looked at you and his duck.

‘Oh god, they probably are swingers. And they lure in their targets with this crazy well-trained duck.’ You thought, punching yourself in the face mentally. ‘And you fell for it. Walked right into their den of debauchery. You stupid bitch.’

“Here’s some water, honey. We’ll save the stronger stuff for dinner.” You jumped in your seat when Mrs. Farrow appeared at your side, setting a glass of ice water down on the end table beside you.

You reached for the glass as its contents sloshed over the edge. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Farrow.”

Mrs. Farrow beamed.

“What did I tell ya, Warren? Isn’t she lovely? Just a peach. Lou is smitten.” She patted your shoulder. “And it’s Cassie, honey. Call me Cass.”

“You were right, Cass.” Warren Farrow intoned.

He took on a conspiratorial tone as he addressed you once more. “You must know, my wife hasn’t stopped talking about you since you met the other day. I wondered if she was preparing us for a new roommate.”

Heat flooded your face for the second time. “Aw.”

“Oh poo, as if you wouldn’a done the same.” Mrs. Farrow sniffed derisively. “Dinner in 5 minutes!”

Her exit left room for you to start a conversation, but you couldn’t find it in you to say anything. Mr. Farrow kept staring, smiling, which made you stroke Lou’s feathers for comfort that much more.

The silence lasted a little while, save for the clinking, crackling, thudding from the kitchen dining room. Aside from catering to Lou, you surveyed your surroundings in an effort to avoid bouncing your legs.

The Farrows didn’t have a TV, only a large fireplace that they’d positioned their furniture around. There were displays on either side of the grate. On one stood an oversized chalice with intricate, swirling patterns. The other had a statuette of a goat-headed figure sitting crisscrossed on a throne, one arm poised to reach out to the sky.

“Baphomet.”

You turned from the sight, head swiveling to face your human companion. He was eying you keenly again.

“O-oh, the statue is…?”

Warren nodded. “Baphomet. Conceived as a false god around the time of the crusades. Most people see him as a depiction of Satan these days.”

The association wasn’t too far-fetched, you figured with another look at the figure. Its goat-head and large horns were the most eye-catching thing about it.

“I apologize if the sight upsets you, dear. I hadn’t thought to remove it before your arrival.”

“Oh no, please. It’s alright.” You said. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s very interesting.”

The rumbling hum at your side seemed to signal approval, or maybe general geniality with your neutral response. “Are you religious by chance?”

You turned to Warren again.

“Ah, no.” You replied apologetically. “I grew up in a Christian area, but I was never very involved with the church.”

Warren nodded. “That’s just as well. The institution and its practices can be stifling. I was never very involved with it myself.”

“Religious artifacts have always been fascinating to me, however. There’s no shortage of temples and synagogues in this world.”

“Have you been to many? For the history?” You were genuinely curious.

The old man nodded again, stately and dignified even as he puffed up in his armchair like a peacock. “Cass and I are seasoned travelers. We’ve been to all 7 continents at least twice, seen the wonders of the world from the Hindu shrines in Malaysia to St. Basil’s Cathedral. I have a particular fondness for those countries surrounding the Mediterranean Sea. I was able to convince Cassie another trip to Rome wouldn’t put us in the poor house last year.”

Your little huff of laughter was sincere, though the idea of traveling to Rome - or anyplace outside of the familiar - sounded amazing. “I’d love to be able to do that.”

Warren’s head tilted to one side. “You’re quite young, I’m sure you’ll get the chance if you haven’t already.”

“Sure.” You scoffed before immediately falling into contrition. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me —”

“Dinner time!”

Mrs. Farrow hollered from the kitchen, stopping you from trying to come up with a suitable excuse for yourself.

Luckily, Mr. Farrow chuckled good-naturedly. He rose from his chair stiffly, legs visibly straining. “No need to apologize, my dear. But we best get going before the Missus comes out and drags us by our ears.”

——

All things considered, the dinner was perfectly fine.

The jitters never left your frame, but you had chalked that up to a simple byproduct of your skittish nature. The red wine that Cass had insisted upon you made you feel warm and solid, at least.

As did the fact that Cassie Farrow could hold entire conversations all on her own with very little effort or input from yourself.

“You got a boyfriend, honey? Or girlfriend? No shame in that at all. We may be old but by no means bigoted. We’ve been all over the place, seen so many things - what’s natural to you and me could be the furthest from, in certain places. Isn’t that right, Warren?”

“Men in Ancient Greece often had relationships with other men.” Warren replied. “Royals in Europe had extramarital affairs with different sexes. It was all about keeping the bloodline pure, but romance was a different thing altogether.”

“I haven’t dated in a while, actually.” You said. “It’s not been a priority.”

Cassie nodded, exuberant as she drank from her wine glass. “That’s good too! Plenty of independent women these days! It’s about time, I say.”

‘Quack quack’

Lou was beside you, red eyes locked in as he gazed upon you at the dining table. It made you giggle.

“Mm!” Cassie had a spastic moment. “I almost forgot!”

The chair lurched out from under the old woman as she rose and scuttled out of the room. It left you blinking, and out of the corner of your eye you saw that same smirk on Warren’s face before his wife had returned.

She had a small wicker basket in her arms.

“This is for you, honey. Housewarming present from your kooky neighbors across the hall.”

As she drew nearer, you caught a glimpse of the contents, some of which shone beneath the light of the overhead chandelier.

“Thank you! You really didn’t have to.” The basket was pressed into your arms and Cassie was back in her seat before you’d finished your sentence.

“Nonsense. It’s the least we could do. I still can’t believe no one welcomed you for a whole week!”

The basket was lined with shredded filler, and nestled in between were little gemstones and crystals.

“There’s jade and ruby in there, and I believe there’s moonstone as well.” Mr. Farrow recalled. “Is that it, Cass?”

“Yes, yes, and carnelian too. It’s all scattered about there, with the Scrabble and the socks and the hand cream and oh!” Mrs. Farrow laughed. “Forgive us honey, we saw that little rubber duck and just had to get it for you.”

There was a little rubber duck. It was a novelty type, with a tiny red jacket and a tiny black top hat.

“It’s a carnival barker. No, it’s something like that. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Your nose scrunched in thought. “Oh, a circus ringmaster!”

“Exactly! See, what’d I tell you, Warren? She loves it!”

“I believe I was the one who suggested it.” His voice carried through the otherwise silent dining room.

“Oh well maybe it was, so what. She likes it. Don’t you, honey?”

“Yes, but…” You felt funny again. Tingly. “This is too much. Really. You’re both so kind but I can’t accept this.”

A hand laid gently on your shoulder and you looked up at a frowning Warren Farrow. “It’s no trouble at all, my dear.”

“The cost must’ve —”

“No cost, really. Gemstones and crystals are quite popular these days. You can find them all over. And the little trinkets are just the same. Given to you in good faith of course.” He patted your shoulder gently.

You swallowed, eyes once again roving over the little mundane treasures. Silken feathers brushed against your ankle under the table and you met those red eyes, sparkling like the crystals in your basket.

Lou was such a funny little thing. So expressive, he looked as if he were waiting as he stared at you.

So funny.

… You felt funny.

Perhaps the anxiety from before was doubling back, just like that prickling sensation. It was less of a tingle and more a shiver or chill as you sat there.

“I think it’s about time for dessert, don’t you?” Mrs. Farrow was saying somewhere far away. “You like chocolate, sweetheart? I made mousse, all fancy-like. It’s not as fancy as the kind you get at that restaurant downtown, the Ivy, but they’ve got fancy ingredients and such…”

Reaching up to wipe the sheen of sweat from your forehead, you felt heat coming off from between your temples. With a shaky breath, you slumped down in your seat.

The basket was gone.

Your chair was scraping against the wooden floor as it was pulled out from the table.

“Are you feeling alright, my dear?”

Wrinkled hands swept the hair from your face as your eyes rolled in their sockets. Words couldn’t get past the cotton-dry feeling in your throat.

“It’s the wine, the wine. Said she’s not much of a drinker, it has to be the wine.”

Cass’s voice was dampened and thick, like it was trapped underwater.

Or perhaps you were trapped. Your head was spinning, limbs heavy as if you were a puppet sans strings. You had to be picked up from under your arms like a toddler and pulled upright.

The next second you were walking through your neighbors’ kitchen, the door held open for you.

“Maybe we oughta call a doctor? Honey, can you hear me?”

“I… yes. I can hear you.” It felt like an Olympic feat, but you spoke clearly. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s happening.”

You stumbled against the wall and strong arms caught you when your knees buckled. It was Mr. Farrow allowing you to lean on him, solid as a rock.

“Cass is right, you had quite a bit of wine.” He said. Another pat to your shoulder.

Did you? You could’ve sworn it was just a glass.

Your apartment was barren and blank, the smell of laundry comforting against the memory of that earthy incense smell.

“Get some rest, honey. We’re right across the hall.”

“Thank you.” You breathed, lying on your sofa bed. “Again, I’m very sorry. Thank you for the welcome.”

“Oh no, thank you.”

——

When you opened your eyes next, you were shrouded in darkness. The outline of your entertainment system was in front of you, and the kitchen at your right.

It was raining outside; little raindrops smattering against the glass. The sound was normal, no longer muffled until you were straining to hear it.

‘Well that’s good.’

The heavy feeling in your arms was still present.

‘That’s not so good.’

You felt perfectly sane and hysterical at the same time. It was like being caught in the eye of a storm. The danger had abated momentarily, but would begin again shortly.

Your door opened, and in your peripheral you saw a shadow cut across the wall as a new figure emerged from the hall.

You squinted in the dark. ‘Lou?’

The duck’s silhouette stilled as if you’d spoken aloud. You could feel something shift in the air, tension breaking through to your mind when it could not seize your body.

That shift grew stronger, sucking in the air around it until a dazzling flash and crack of light blinded you.

Lou’s shadow was gone. Or… it had changed. The shadow on the wall wasn’t a duck anymore it was…

Your blood ran cold as the man stepped into your apartment and let the door close behind him.

“Hello there!”

#hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel

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swanscript · 3 months ago

Text

in which you're aegon's legally-wedded and never-bedded wife - who cares so little for him that even he's noticed.

It is the hour of the bat, deep into the velvety night, and you'd had it all planned out. Your sheets are fresh. You've bathed in lavender scented water, and spent half the day drying your hair carefully by the fireside so it won't become ruffled. You've just slipped on a rose-coloured robe of the finest Dornish silk, and wriggled delightedly into bed when it happens.

The door to your bedchambers explodes open, and Aegon staggers in, roaring a drunken sea shanty.

Oh, how you hate men.

"So hey, the bonny sailors go

To Sothoryos with a rising 'ho'!"

"Aegon," you start, pushing yourself up on your pillows with the air of someone explaining something to a very stupid child. "It's late. I'm tired."

Aegon stops dead when he sees you, sitting prettily in his bed with your arms folded in bemusement. You don't think he expected to see you here. You often sleep in a different room, and when sharing his bedchambers you make it a point to keep him firmly on the other side of the mattress.

Aegon and you both know the castle staff whispers rumours of your strange and sex-less relationship. You don't care.

Aegon might, but you've decided not to care about him either. He's aware of your cold indifference - which is why he's so surprised to see you here.

"....well," he says, swaying where he stands. "If it isn't...my frigid lady-wife. Here to ice me out again?"

You don't rise to the bait. "I'm here to sleep. You're welcome to do the same."

"Oh, I'm welcome, am I? Welcome in my own bed?" Aegon hiccoughs, slowly undoing the clasps on his velvet jerkin. He lets it thud to the floor (you can bet a hundred gold dragons he'll trip over it first thing tomorrow) and begins to traipse your way. "Am I permitted to finally lay a finger on my lawful wife, or will she only let me hold her hand for appearance's sake at banquets?"

Hackles rising, you bite back at once. "Am I permitted to have a husband who doesn't fuck a different whore every night? Who doesn't reek of of alcohol? Am I permitted to not be abandoned each day for taverns and brothels? Am I permitted to sleep or must I take your leave for that too, lord-husband?"

If Aegon were sober, he might have a scalding remark in response. But the ale has filled his mind with mush, and all he can do is scowl and sulk. It doesn't please you to see him so miserable. Your heart isn't in the fight either.

Your husband thuds onto the bed with a heavy sigh, narrowly missing squashing you.

"...help me with the clasp then, if nothing else," he mutters, pointing at his bejeweled belt buckle.

Sighing, you concede, reaching forward and undoing the cool metal. It clicks apart under your deft hand, and you steal a glance up at your supposed husband.

Months of marriage, and the times when you've ever really looked at him are few and far in between. After a disasterous bedding ceremony and so many days of neglect, the two of you have learnt to not acknowledge each other's presence. As a result, Aegon's face never fails to stand out as unique to you.

Soft cloud of wispy silver hair. Eyes of pale amethyst. The classic Targaryen look - striking colour palette, ghostly shades of old Valayria. The hint of feminine features from his mother softens him. He looks lost now, his pouty mouth softly sagging with defeat. A little verbal joust with you has leeched all the revelry out of him. Right, now, soundly beaten as he is, Aegon is difficult to despise.

You tug the belt out of its loops and he mutters his slurred gratitudes.

"Can you do the rest on your own?"

He grunts in affirmative. You retreat back to your side. Both of you feel the invisible wall being drawn up between once more.

You know, when you really think about it, you suppose Aegon is a handsome man. When he's not drunk. Or bothering you just before you sleep with sappy, obnoxious questions.

"Do you love me?"

You stop in the middle of adjusting your coverlet. "What?"

Aegon is looking at you with not a hint of a joke in his eyes. He repeats the impossible possibility. "Do you love me?"

In daylight, you would have sneered at his question and swept off in a swirl of silk skirts to resume your royal day. Now, with moonshine softening the need for sharp exteriors, you decide to humour his question. No one is around to use your words against you, at least. You feel your guard lift an inch.

"Love you?" you ponder, leaning back against your richly embroidered pillows. "...I think I would be...distressed, if you died. But love you- I don't even like you." You glance his way, contemplating. "Yet."

Aegon looks at you with doubtful lilac eyes. "So there's hope?"

"Don't be too optimistic."

His face, already miserable with the weight of alcohol and fractured familial relationships, turns slightly more sour. You're not foolish. Aegon's agonies don't have much to do with you. His mother, hell-bent on making him king, and his brother, hell-bent on undermining and embarrassing him at every opportunity are his chief worries. You've never seeked to hurt him politically. But you've always remained distant, watching him carefully like a narrow-eyed cat and hissing if he gets too close. There's only so much your pride can allow after being man-handled into a strategic marriage so roughly.

But right now, weak and addled as he is, you can afford some kindness.

"Don't look so down, Aegon," you say softly. "Perhaps I'm Dorne. Eternally un-won by Targaryens."

The gentleness works - Aegon unticks like a clam and lets words come pouring out.

"I keep thinking... really feeling as though you would prefer my brother Aemond over me. Or that he would like you, at the very least. And that grasping bastard, Jacaerys." A flash of anger splits Aegon's face. "I see how he moons over you across the dinner table. Like he'd like you lay you out on his dinner plate and take bites out your skin. Take what's mine. My wife, by law if not by her own will. Mine. My skin. My soft, soft skin. I should kill him. Cunt."

Weak, you think, watching his messy torrent of emotions. Your father would have flayed you living for such risky honesty in a world so tightly controlled by reputation. Always say less than necessary. Never trust anyone, ever.

As it is, you carefully file this new information away in your head. Aemond desiring you in a marriage seems in line with his ambitious nature - your family's legendary wealth would serve him well. You doubt he cares for you as a person.

And Jacaerys.... you've seen him ogling at you a couple of times when you're really dressed to the nines, but you doubt it's anything worth thinking about. Men have always watched you in that hungry way. You have genetics to thank for that, nothing more. It doesn't aid you, ultimately.

Aegon is still muttering away darkly. "I should kill him. Cut off his riding chains so he goes screaming into the sea the next time he mounts his dragon. I think that'll fix him-"

"Don't think," you interrupt, rolling your eyes. "You're not particularly excellent at it, from what I've heard. I heard you thought Sir Arryk was a particularly buxom woman from behind."

Aegon sniffs. "An engraved band in his hair. What was he prettying up for, the flagstones in the corridors? I don't fancy a preening peacock guarding me."

"See, Aegon, you're lying again. And it's unneeded and strange. You were only drunk and made a wine-swayed misjudgement," you say wearily. "And you don't think he's a peacock. You think you're a peacock. You've been matching your socks with your shoes since the day I knew you."

Aegon laughs, soft and bitter.

"If you know me so well, why do you pretend your dislike is only from distance? ...you hate me because you know me. You've always...always hated me."

In sulking speech, Aegon has slowly tipped in your direction, his head inches from yours. He's too drunk and too non-commital to rearrange himself. You allow his hair to touch your silk sleeve. Pink fabric, his ash white hair fanning across it.

Then, without even really thinking or caring, you sigh and pull him onto your chest to hold him there like a babe.

"I've already said, I don't hate you."

Aegon is too drunk to jab or pull back. He lays there. You run fingers through his hair, smoothening the scattered strands into place, sorting his thoughts into neat furrows. Sleepy tears spread a wet spot onto your robe. You allow it, even through fuzzled bafflement at such weakness. What does he want, to suck on your teat? He's older than you, yet you're centuries harder. Aegon - too soft a boy for his over-reaching mother - falls asleep in barely sated turmoil, on your chest like a barely grown child.

You allow it.

#game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd season 2 #aegon ii targaryen #aegon the second #tom glynn carney #hotd one shot #aegon targaryen x reader

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yuoimia · 1 year ago

Text

one chance

summary: you give them one chance. how do they use it?

characters: alhaitham, diluc, neuvillette, wriothesley.

notes: will be a part 2 (i think), suggestive in alhaitham and diluc’s, petnames, gn! reader, kinda messy, wc: approx 200-250 each.

alhaitham

The only source of light came from the weary beams of the iridescent crescent moon, glowing high above the starry skies of Sumeru City. Shining onto the home underneath.

Two people casting hazy shadows on the hardwood floor, moving lazily to the gentle rhythm of the vinyl playing on the record. An occasional ring of spirited laughter escaping into the noiseless night, usually followed by a hushed but lively chuckle.

—

The only word that comes to mind is surreal.

Perhaps because the moment could be considered just that. It’s piercing you so beautifully, the thousand words electrifying the air between you, threatening to strike at any moment. His eyes, so vividly green and captivating, all tender and kind, capturing yours like a kiss.

“For once, someone’s speechless,” comes a proud voice of the person responsible for leaving you in such a mess. You can almost feel the smugness cascading off him, tripling as he so wonderfully decides to snake an arm around your waist. What do you say? He’s not wrong, oh certainly not, but your pride would surely never recover if it were to go through such a torturous experience.

“It’s okay,” he replies, tilting his head down towards your collarbone, short puffs of breath making you shiver. “I’ll have to make sure this one chance is all worth it.”

diluc

The evening breeze brings forth many aromas—the subtle scent of grapes on vines, the earthy fragrance of the nearby forests—all mixing into one radiant feeling of home. Cicadas that hum lowly as dusk settles in, the sunset gleaming in the near distance, spilling onto the front porch of Dawn Winery.

It’s beginning to get colder, and the knitted cardigan wrapped around you is starting to prove useless. Yet, you refuse to move. He promised, you remind yourself, staring more fiercely into the ombré of warm colours dappling the sky. He promised, you repeat in your mind again, again and again.

—

“I promised,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against the wool of your cardigan. “Did you think I’d break it?” Gentle and precise hands cup your face, lifting it towards his. His eyes are searching, curious, but warmhearted. It makes you dazed—a sudden desire to plunge into his embrace, washing out all other rational thoughts.

“Maybe,” you answer, bolder than he anticipated. He raises his eyebrows as you continue on. “Don’t you think you need to make it up to me?”

neuvillette

Dust on the bookshelves is threatening to make you sneeze.

The books are in pristine condition, you note. Perhaps opened a few or so times. It’s a shame how none of them peak your interest; the boredom drowning you by the second is starting to make you agitated, an obvious understatement.

You’re on the verge of madness. The luxurious rug lining Neuvillette’s office with the matching teal and gold curtains is far too vibrant, and the elegant flowers you once admired half an hour ago are sickening.

You sigh loudly, letting out a few groans, before contorting into a questionable position in the grand chair. Horizontal, legs and arms splayed out, eyes closed.

How much longer is the trial going to last?

—

When you wake up, you’re not in his office anymore.

Instead, you’re in a dimly lit bedroom. Ghostly familiar, the delicate feeling of silk below your head, the comforting warmth of the sweetly scented covers, and most of all, a faraway voice calling out your name.

“(name).”

A soft tug of a hand pulls you into an upright position.

“Darling… please, I've made you dinner. Open your eyes for me, please.”

Languidly, you do.

The sight is stunning, captivating, and completely unexpected that it renders you speechless. A small candlelit table, fit for two, covered in a divine array of foods that remind him of you, your favourites.

As if he knows what you’re thinking, he smiles, leading you to your seat before his.

wriothesley

Last week, Wriothesley called you into his office because he couldn’t decide what tea to order.

Yesterday, Wriothesley called you into his office because he wanted to share his tea with someone.

Also yesterday, after you had finished the (delightful) tea and cakes, you warned him that you were giving him one last chance.

“Don’t call me in unless it’s an absolute emergency, alright? This is the last time.”

Something about that agreement felt off, like that you had forgotten to mention a crucial component—that singular missing piece—the one he would almost certainly seize.

You had shrugged it off, focusing on your daily commissions, when suddenly, in the corner of your peripheral vision, an all too familiar, all too dreaded silhouette walks towards you.

“Excuse me, the Duke wants to see you. Again.”

—

You want to slap that winning grin off his face.

“Tea?” Wriothesley asks hopefully, lifting up a tray of teacups before cautiously lowering them down at your expression. “Come on sweetheart, this is an emergency. At least, I consider it to be one.”

This situation is testing every last drop of your patience. Incoherent murmurs stream out of your mouth as you lightly push his tray of teacups to the furthest side of the table.

“This is all quite lovely,” you strain, glaring into his amused eyes. “However, I’m failing to see the actual emergency you had called me in for.”

“Emergency?” Wriothesley asks, pleasantly surprised, edging the teacups a bit closer to you. “Why should there be an emergency, darling? Everything’s perfect.”

#genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin drabbles #alhaitham x reader #diluc x reader #neuvillette x reader #wriothesley x reader #anya writes ✧.*

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qwimblenorrisstan · 4 months ago

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The Clandestine Culinarian | Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel requires a deadly poison, and the only place he can get acquire it is through a bakery in Hewn City, and in the process grows closer to you, the owner of the shop, and is there for you when tragedy strikes.

Word Count: ~3.1k

Warnings: A lil bit of angst, mentions of blood, weapons, family death, nudity (taking bath), poisons, nothing explicit.

A/N: Got a little carried away with this, but I had a dream abt it so I think it’s the chosen one, hope you enjoy <3

Masterlist | Next

Requests are open!

Azriel found himself all ready for his newest mission, leathers on, Truth-Teller sharpened, siphons gleaming, however, there was just one thing he needed…

In truth, he hadn’t been surprised when Rhys asked him to take care of a group of Halflings that were lurking in what had been Hybern’s lands, attempting to create even a shadow of the power the fallen King had once possessed. Though Azriel could easily just slip in and slaughter all of them, Rhys advised him to exercise caution with this. Azriel was always cautious, silent as a mouse, moving in and out of the shadows at will.

Rhys didn’t want to have the blood of those Fae on his hands, and would rather have it seem like someone took them out quickly and quietly. And the way he wanted his Spymaster to carry this out? With volucrae, one of the deadliest poisons that had been discovered, and hidden.

“A single vial would cost a fortune, Rhys.”

He said, watching his High Lord closely. The poison cost a fortune for many reasons, as it had no scent, no taste, and didn’t cause any discoloration or effects to what you planted it in. It worked quickly, as well. Within minutes of consuming it, your body would start to shut down, and you would slip into death before you could even register what was happening. The only reason it was so rare was because the way to attain it was deadly.

“I’ve already done the math, you need one and a half vials to thoroughly poison their food supply.”

Rhys replied, his expression holding a look that said Azriel was not getting out of this, no matter what happened.

“Where would that even sell in this Court?”

He asked, though a part of him already knew the answer. The most wicked things were sold within the most hateful and wicked environment, which in this Court, was most likely..

“Hewn City.”

That didn’t surprise him, but what Rhys then said next had him very skeptical about anyone wielding the poison, let alone willing to sell it.

“There’s a bakery not too far from that brothel we visited once, a bit up the street and to the left. You’ll know it when you see it. When you get inside, tell the woman at the counter that you’re looking for a mulberry pie, but you’d like to adjust the flavoring.”

Rhys said, that annoying smirk on his face that said he knew he was right, that this would work, and that he could already see Az’s begrudgingly thankful look.

“Fine.”

Azriel said with a huff. Before he could even mention how he would pay for it, Rhys handed him a pouch of gold coins.

“Our secret.”

He said, before going back to the paperwork that sat in stacks in his office.

The shadowsinger stalked off, gathering his things before he went off to the balcony, and took off, headed to one of the places he’d prefer never having to look at again. Hewn City.

*********************************************************

It was business as usual for you; baking up the pies and assisting your coworkers, who were only family if not the closest of family friends, as they worked the shop alongside you.

Not too many customers today, which wasn’t unusual, as Hewn City wasn’t exactly the most profitable place to put a bakery. The citizens here were exactly how they’d been her entire life, harsh, bitter, and hateful to the very end, and their taste in pastries reflected that so clearly it was almost funny.

However, a face she recognized walked in while she had taken a break from kneading dough to work the register. She could easily spot the shadows that shrouded his being and trailed behind and onto him in the shop. The shadowsinger, otherwise known as the Spymaster of Night Court.

She’d heard plenty of rumors about him, most, if not all being terrible awful things, but a customer was a customer, and judging by the fact that she assumed he wasn’t here for baked goods, a potential client was a potential client, no matter who they were.

“Welcome to Baked Goods, how can I help you today?”

You asked the man, with your customer voice and smile being worn. He seemed to scan over you for a moment, his gaze sharp and piercing, and intimidating, before he spoke.

“I’d like a mulberry pie, but I would like to adjust the flavoring.”

His dark, smooth voice replied. He hadn’t even glanced at the menu. We didn’t serve mulberry pie. That was your confirmation that he knew what he wanted and for the right price, he could get it.

“Sure, I can get that for you. What kind of flavoring are you looking for? Weaker tasting, smelling, we could even adjust how it looks if you’d like it.” Do you want it to be noticeable?

“The weakest flavoring you can find.” No.

This Spymaster caught onto the game fast, you’d admit. Then again, the High Lord had probably told him of it, as he occasionally came by for his favorite mulberry pie, just to keep you in order, as some of the local females looking to break free of their forced marriages also happened to like mulberry pie.

“I can take you back for you to see our selection if you’d like?” Do you want to see our collection and pick one out?

“Yes.” I’ll pick it.

And so, you led him around the counter and to the back of the bakery, and as you opened one of the cabinets that was empty, with remnants of flour in it. Reaching in, and using your hands to unlock a mechanism in the back of the wooden cabinet, the back of it came off and swung open like a door.

You walked inside, and he followed. It was an old stone passageway, stairs leading down, down, down, thick with humidity, their every sound echoing due to the cave system at the bottom of it.

After minutes of walking, they reached the bottom. It had shelves full of vials and bottles of all sorts of poisons, all undiluted and in any sort of form. He studied the wall a minute and then gestured to one of them. It was a bottle you hadn’t dared to sell in all the years you’d owned it. Hell, you had almost grown attached to the thing, like a little friend, always there, lurking and waiting inside the dark tunnels of this place.

“Volucrae?”

You asked him, studying him with suspicion and intrigue in your gaze. What could he possibly need that poison for? Sure, he was a Spymaster and a honed killer, but she wouldn’t give that away easily.

He gave a little nod, holding out a heavy pouch of pure gold coins. You took it, opened it, and counted the amount. It was more than enough, you would admit. Not looking too happy about it, you gave him the amount for his money, one full vial, and about one half.

And then you both walked out, gave him a cookie as a parting gift, and he was gone, just like that.

*********************************************************

Azriel walked out of that ‘bakery’, wondering how Rhys knew about it, and why the hell he hadn’t shut it down yet. They were illegally selling poisons, possibly even trafficking them and buying them from someone. Problems for later, he reminded himself as he took a bite of the cookie he’d been given by the girl as he walked out.

The vials of valucrae were safely secured within a pocket, the glass was reinforced. Whoever had bottled it must’ve known exactly how deadly it was.

He had no idea how that girl or her shop had gotten her hands on that. To even make the poison was incredibly dangerous, first having to take down one of the ancient, cunning beasts that lived in the darkness of the Illyrian Steppes, using their blood and drying it, turning it into a fine powder, and storing it.

Nonetheless, he had a mission to get done.

And so, with a flap of his wings, his shadows trailing behind him, he set off for what had been Hybern’s lands. The mission was simple.

The lands were still scorched and covered in a certain heavy feeling, the remnants of the war and the mass destruction and carnage that had followed. The halflings were gathered in the center of the lands. They seemed to have congregated together in a group of around 25, having tents and temporary homes, a large campfire in the center, and one tent that his shadows whispered to him that held the food.

He crept up, opening the vials with a silent pop, and slipped into the tent. They all seemed to be asleep at this point. And with a flick and movement of his wrist, the poison was sprinkled into their daily rations, and after smoothing it into the wet meat. The flakes turned transparent as they got wet and just like that, they weren’t even noticeable anymore.

Cleaning his hands off religiously, and scrubbing it off of his hands, he then took off silently into the night, his large, leathery wings flapping as he went back home, to Velaris.

*********************************************************

The shadowsinger had been visiting more than usual over the past few months, you realized, as you saw him coming into the shop again, another order of mulberry pie with adjusted flavoring, and you led him down to the ‘basement’ again.

The air of the stone passageway felt different this time, tense and dripping with something other than humidity.

The little drips that echoed through the stairway and the sounds of their feet hitting the stone were the only ones. Neither spoke. They reached the bottom eventually, where the familiar shelves with vials and bottles waited.

“What’ll it be this time, Azriel?”

You asked, one brow raised as you watched him. He was undeniably attractive, pretty, almost. His lean and muscular body, his golden hazel eyes, or his short, almost boyish style of black hair. His large, powerful wings, or the scarred hands that you had wondered many times what had happened, but never dared to ask.

He opened his mouth to speak, and that was when the entire world exploded.

*********************************************************

Fire licking up his face and body was the first thing he processed, the second was Kier’s men at the top of the stairway, blood already dripping from their blades, the wooden cabinet’s secret door splintered into pieces and shoved open. His shadows writhed in agony.

With a glance towards the girl, he quickly realized that she didn’t seem surprised, or particularly shocked, but looked like a little bit of her died with every drip of the blood from the men’s swords onto the ground. She was very close with her coworkers, he had observed that immediately. They had been a team and some legitimate family that were just bakers working here.

“Follow me.”

She said, and before he could even draw Truth-Teller, she grabbed his arm and began running, dragging him at first, then leading him through the convoluted cave tunnels that were behind the bottom of the stairwell. She ran with a practiced ease through these caves, as if she’d done it many times before. As if she’d practiced running as if she’d known that Kier’s soldiers had been lurking around the corners of her shop and watching every customer a little too closely to just be a coincidence.

He didn’t have time to think about it as he heard some of the soldiers close behind. Some had gotten lost in the tunnels due to her winding through them.

Her voice didn’t waver, it was firm. Sad, but recognizing that this wasn’t the moment to grieve.

The tunnels winded down and up until even he could barely keep track of them, despite his centuries of practice memorizing the layouts of the most complicated structures. They soon surfaced on the edge of Hewn City, and without even thinking of the potential consequences of his actions, the political repercussions that they could cause, he grabbed her, scooped her up, and took off.

*********************************************************

At least the adrenaline had kept her from thinking of the loss when you’d been running. Here, during this terrifying flight, you got plenty of time to think all about your family members who had been in that shop.

Your cousins, both willing to help just to have a job and get paid in the awful economy of Hewn City. Your uncle, just happy to be involved in the family, and also a male who hadn’t ever been able to explore his passion for baking, always told it wasn’t masculine. Or your sweet little niece, who had absolutely no idea what was happening at all, but was generally just happy to be there and spend time. Not to mention how many pastries the girl had snuck off of the shelves.

All gone.

You had seen the blood dripping off of that steel. You knew that Kier had been watching your shop a little while more than usual, and you’d practiced escape routes and alarm systems with the family and workers, but it had all fallen apart. They had been waiting for Azriel to arrive, you were sure of it.

You couldn’t stop the tears that welled up and fell as you were curled up against the shadowsinger’s chest while he flew, making her stomach churn. His shadows, cool and soothing against your skin, seemed to almost wipe your tears away, attempting to comfort you the best they could.

The colorful city of light came into view, Velaris, the city of starlight, she’d been told. It was beautiful, she’d admit. It felt like it was spitting in her face, taunting and mocking her for what her family hadn’t had the chance to see, and now wouldn’t ever get the chance to see. Azriel went to a specific house overlooking a large river, The Sidra, his shadows whispered to you, their voices thin and quiet, barely more than a whisper. It seemed to be a townhouse, a beautiful one at that, he arrived at.

*********************************************************

Azriel landed, and slowly set you on your feet. You looked very unsteady and probably about to throw up. That was a common reaction from someone’s first time flying, assuming it was your first flight ever. He couldn’t imagine any other male flying you around, knowing it would never happen, but even the thought of it sent a little pang of jealousy that he knew wasn’t appropriate through his mind.

“Rhys’ and Feyre’s home. You’ll be staying here.”

He said simply, his voice firm but not empathetic. The tears had mostly stopped, but as soon as he guided the female inside, only to meet a concerned and curious Rhys sitting on the couch with Feyre, who looked equally confused, it started back up again.

She managed to give a basic explanation between tears, and he filled in any details Rhys asked for that she couldn’t or wouldn’t provide.

“You can stay here until we find a solution, and definitely until things calm down. I’ll…talk to Kier.”

Rhys reassured her, eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed Azriel’s hand around the female’s waist. He shared a glance with Feyre, a little too long for his comfort, before giving Azriel a nod. He was to take the poor thing to a room, and most likely console her. He wasn’t too great at the latter, he thought.

His mission was complete, but at what cost?

*********************************************************

You had met the High Lord before, but never his Inner Circle other than Azriel. He led her to a spare bedroom in the townhouse, leading her inside and closing the door behind her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He asked. His voice was calm and deep as it had always been, but filled with a sort of sorrow that told you he’d lost many people close to him as well. He knew your pain.

“I don’t know, I just…they’d still be here if I hadn’t..”

You stammered out, before words turned into choked sobs, and choked sobs turned into him sitting beside her on the bed as you wept into his chest. His warm, scarred hands rubbing your back soothingly as you cried.

You cried until you couldn’t anymore until the loss consumed her so wholly that it was a black pit you couldn’t crawl out of.

“It’s not your fault. Kier gave the order to murder them, not you.”

An order he would make Kier pay for, even if he got himself killed in the process.

“Take a bath. It’ll help.”

He said, and you knew he was right. A bath might help. You managed to get up and stumble over to the bathroom, starting a warm bath, and peeling off your clothing before settling into the water. You barely managed to rub some shampoo into your hair before scrubbing it back out.

You sat in that tub for a while, sitting and thinking, reminiscing about your family, grieving all you could for them. Maybe a little too long. Before you knew it, you had slipped into unconsciousness.

*********************************************************

Azriel had waited for almost two hours for you to come out of the tub now. He would admit that he felt more than a little creepy just waiting, but he felt it was necessary, as something deeply instilled in him told him to stay, and to wait to make sure you were okay.

He didn’t know when he’d suddenly become so protective over you, it had crept up on him until he hadn’t even realized how much he wanted to shred Kier’s men to pieces for upsetting you and threatening you.

When you hadn’t come out and almost two hours and thirty minutes had passed, he cracked open the bathroom door, only to find you fully asleep and naked in the bathtub. It felt wrong, looking at you while vulnerable, and so he closed his eyes and let his shadows guide him as they helped pick you up.

The shadows, doing what he willed, dried you off, before slipping some clothes on you that were fresh spares. He laid you in the bed, tucking you in.

He stayed there longer than he’d like to admit, watching you peacefully sleep, and for some odd reason, his shadows wouldn’t let him leave the room. They tugged him to a nearby armchair, and using the shadows as an excuse, he fell asleep a few hours later while watching over you.

The shadows seemed to not want to leave your side.

Almost as if they knew something he didn’t.

Part 2

#acotar fandom #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #light angst #family death mention #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel comfort #comfort #light fluff #angst #might make a part 2 if this goes well

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death---dealer · 5 months ago

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Empathy. ( Noa x Human! Reader.) Part Six.

me: i hate cliffhangers me: whoops.

Title: Empathy. Fandom: ( Kingdom of the ) Planet of the Apes. Rating: T. Pairing: Heavily Implied Noa x Human!Reader. Words: 6.2K. Summary: You had shown Noa empathy once and had to explain it. Was he able to reciprocate? READ THE SERIES HERE. ●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・●・○・

Mouth agape, you found words beyond your comprehension. What were you supposed to say to an Ape who just gave you back your freedom? Who salvaged you from mere moments away from death, holding you in an almost animated state as you drifted in and out of consciousness before tendering to your wound, always so diligent, always so careful. The words ‘thank you’ sprang to mind, but between the tears falling down your cheeks, wave after wave of relief and grief striking at your senses and numbing your fingertips and toes, that seemed juxtaposed.

Of course you were thankful, the Ape who gave you such an opportunity had to know that. What he didn't know was why you were crying, face contorted almost to the point of unrecognition, salt exploding on your tongue when you gasped and sucked some tears into your throat. Coughing slightly, you raise a hand to cover your mouth and then wipe at your eyes in a bid to get yourself grounded again so you could say something, say anything to Noa who looked at you like he’d just clipped your wings instead of giving them back.

“Why?” You finally managed to peep something out of your lips despite your mouth being incredibly dry and desolate.

Earning to phrase more than that, your mouth fell lax on your face as you looked at him, green eyes looking back with the glow of the firepit illuminating the undertones of gold that lingered delicately along the landscape of his irises. This was a question that wasn’t needed. In what right mind where you to even ask why you were being let go? It wasn’t as if either of you really had the intentions of you staying beyond the care they gave. Noa had told you once, and you wondered if that was going to be his answer here.

The Eagle Clan, unlike the others of the valley, did not kill humans unless they were an extensive threat, and they certainly did not mercy kill. It never rested well with you that that’s the only explanation you’d gotten. Your hands rolled into balls at your side, the encapsulating white nature of them from the pressure of your grasp was evident to Noa’s eyes which were quick to dart to your face. You didn't appear angry. Why? Why heal me? Why just let me go like that’s it?

The idea arose in your mind, a bitter hypothetical that you just wanted to throw in his face but you refrained in fear of the possibility of him snapping and frankly attacking you. They say they’re peaceful, but how peaceful are they? You could have been a terrible human, done terrible things and these Apes, this… Noa just wanted to believe your words when you told him that you weren’t a bad one, a leap of faith off a terribly built bridge. A bad Echo, like he and his friends had seen. You could leave here and tell other human groups about the danger, about the existence of a Clan that did not want to kill humans by law, but chose to save them. They’d never believe you, the other humans.

They’d find it a joke, they’d hunt down the Clan out of fear like you were irrationally considering at the moment. They scared you, the way that Noa looked at you and understood what you were saying with a deeper level of understanding scared you.

You could tell them the Apes were a threat, the thought beaten into your mind from years upon years of hearing the same thing. They could be coming to kill all of them, and burn this place to the ground so the village was nothing more than a heap of ashes that you’d parade around in. He wanted to believe your words just as much as you wanted to believe theirs but no matter how many nights you spent awake here, tossing and turning and muttering like a madman about it, trying to come to some semblance of understanding, it never became clear to you. Two dominant species, one slightly advantageous from a number stand point, could not co-exist together. Noa had to know that, you knew it better than most, a flash of red hit your eyes.

You wanted to scream at him for not answering you. You wanted to shake him into submission. Nothing but a pitiful silence blanketed over the two of you as Noa intently contemplated his answer, which was not typical. When you had asked why all of this happened, it was the same answer. Always the same set words and phrases that were always enough to tide you over until you asked again, futile, but eager to hear something different from the male Ape.

Bile bubbled at the back of your throat at the meager thought that you enjoyed the drawing of Noa’s vocals - so strained, delicate around some words and more aggressive with others. He spoke often to you but used a mix of sign language and speech with the others. They could have been using signing to talk about what to do with you right in front of your face and you’d have no idea. His voice was always gentle though - settling you into a moment of peace when he’d come for meals, when he’d stay a bit longer than either of you felt was necessary. You just wanted him to speak, even if the answer was not one you wanted to hear.

“Why?”

“Eagle Clan does not-” "Why?” “I… don’t understand…” Noa quipped at you and came forward on all fours. Instinctually, your shoulders tensed up in preparation of being attacked - it never came but you fell into a rather tedious stare down with him. There was no way to get him to understand, it was such a human element, that morbid curiosity to know more about the metaphorical saviors and why they’re just letting you go.

“You call tell me all about the Eagle Clan and that they don’t kill humans who aren’t threats,” You uttered to him and un-balled your hands from your side so you could push a piece of rebellious hair behind your ear. Noa watched the movement and flex of your fingers, subconsciously his elongated fingers moved along with yours against the ground. “I get that, that’s all you’ve ever told me but… I just want to know… why you’re doing this to me. Why just heal me and then let me go? A-aren’t you worried I could bring other humans back here?”

From the look on his face it was obvious that the thought had transpired for Noa. It was a heavy weight on his shoulders, the idea that you were worse than he bargained for. But, taking chances was what Leaders needed to do and the shift in his demeanor when he thought about just keeping you prisoner was uncomfortable. All he yearned for was to be better than he was, to do something beneficial for his people, for their advancements. He could feel his Father inside of his mind, like a guiding hand at times but this was past that and Noa found himself straggling for advice from Koro even though he had gone to fly with the Eagles of the past. Noa felt alone and isolated in his thoughts, the only solace that came was when he’d think about Raka, or when he’d preen Eagle Sun in meditation. The young Ape was worried. Beyond that, he was terrified to lose everything again.

“Echo could…” He hated himself. Oh, how the loathing set in to his shoulders, his spine and his ribs with passionate fire as he proceeded and pushed himself apart from the fear of the unknown, “Could stay… With the Eagle Clan.” Your eyes widened, tears still bubbling at the corners. “Wh…” “Make agreement,” Noa was setting forth a transaction, you realized and tried to bring yourself down from the terror that rose in the back of your mind that he was even capable of that and understanding it as a means to get what he wanted. Intelligent, far away from what humans had thought. “You stay, Clan can offer you food, shelter…”

He paused and looked over at you. There was something written on your face that he was unable to read. Your eyes were staring at him, widened almost to the point where Noa wondered if you were ever going to look at him with normal gazes, your mouth had fallen open, jaw slacked a bit. He could see the sheen of saliva against your tongue as you grappled, wanting to speak but nothing coming to fruition.

There was another part to this. There was no reason to keep you unless he himself got something in return. That’s how transactions worked, that’s how you played a game with invisible chips. You braced yourself, it had to be something awful. Had to be otherwise Noa would just come out and say it, at least, that was your assumption. You had no way of knowing, you barely knew him.

“You tell me about Echo’s. How… do they live, what… beliefs they have.” You blinked at that. If you weren’t all there and able to process, at first glance, this seemed like an incredibly good deal. You got the assurance of safety from being with the clan, you got fed and could say goodbye to the nights of lost sleep due to starvation, you’d get shelter, no longer having to brave the cold of winter and sweltering of the summers. All in exchange for… you telling him about your culture, about how humans are. It was incredibly biased, you didn't speak for the whole of mankind but from the earnest look he gave you at the proposition, he’d already weighed that into this calculation.

“For how long?” Noa didn't need to think that through as he replied quietly, “As long as you are able to help me understand.”

“Understand?” "The ways of Caesar.”

●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・●・○・

It was like you had forgotten how to speak. The ideas in your mind were rampant and ripe, the opening of himself to you was more than a draw, it was yearning and pulling you in with an invisible point of gravity. Sickening, but all the more delicious on the tip of your tongue. You took your time to trace the outline of his open hand that presented itself to you.

Swallowing back a choked cry was easy enough as you raised your head to get a better glance at it, but the tears were still fresh against your skin and kissed the delicate nature under your eyes like a thousand bricks. Your eyelids were red, you knew, your lips felt chapped and your mind was stagnant now after being so flooded. Unable to think, unable to process. You… had no idea what to reciprocate with, and no doubt lingering in your position was pure torture to the Ape who was holding out for you to do something.

There was nothing, you felt a small push in your chest as your heart rose to beat against the base of your neck - uncomfortable and all encompassing, you felt like you were being suffocated. Like Noa had a hand against your throat and he was pushing in with all his strength to get the last of your breath for his own selfish intent. You’d let him, your voice rang inside of your head, the first thought to finally leave your battered mind. You’d let him touch you like that if it meant you were able to feel him against you.

Your shoulders dropped in some form of disappointment that you were able to will yourself back into a state of awareness. You had wanted to drift into nothingness and let your mind follow suit, maybe then you could get a break from the pull you had toward the Ape in front of you and the subsequent push you found yourself contemplating when you thought about it too long. The push you gave yourself, backwards, away from Noa, away from his hand, so open and ready for you. You were grasping at the ground with your hands, someone pulling at your feet and no matter what you tried, you were unable to leverage onto anything to stop from being pulled right under.

There were no indications as to what Noa was doing when your mind finally caught up to itself; this was in nature similar to how you had seen other Apes apologizing, but he had nothing to be apologetic about. His question? Completely reasonable, unlike the absolute thrush of agony that laid out as a result. Your emotional response had to have startled him - the crying had to have been off putting, your hands wrapped around yourself blocked Noa from reading you. None of it is Noa's fault, you told yourself over and over again as you stared at his hand. The rise and fall of his shoulders captivated your attention, how frantic it was. He was breathing through his nose, you could tell from the nature of ragged inhales and exhales.

Maybe this entire thing could have been avoided if you were just truthful with him in your answers before, if you didn't seek to keep a part of yourself to yourself. That wasn’t the case anymore, it felt like a radical transformation happened and you were reeling from the turnaround, dizzying in nature, enough to make your stomach surage in a pleasurable way when you took time to think about it. The fact that you became so dependent on Noa, that you didn't find yourself wanting to burrow away from you own being and you wanted to share it with him. It scared you. It terrified you. And all you wanted to do was run away. The grasp he could have on you if you went for it and placed your own palm into his own, the sheer force of his elongated fingers encasing yours, holding onto it in a bid to never let go. Your mind flooded. Why would he never want to let you go? Human. Echo.

The overbearing thought of having to unravel yourself was smothering. You didn't want to - you liked the hold you had on yourself, compressing into what felt like nothingness. The seething fire of your ribcage pressed so snugly into your knees, your arms holding themselves around your kneecaps to keep formation. All so soothing, all so lonely and encapsulating. You met eyes - lush grass coloring poured into you and for a second, maybe more as you often found yourself lost in Noa’s eyes, as you returned the stare, you felt like you were going to be picked up and drifted off.

Noa didn't falter - he steadfastly kept his hand out for you, shifting forward an inch or two on his feet to beckon the silent question again that he was posing with his hand. Noa felt like he was encased against you. The wall that had been stacked brick by brick by the two of you was demolished and laid pitifully on the ground covered in dust and ashes.

You… needed to accept him, Noa pleaded inside of his mind and shut his eyes pensively, waiting and drawing close to the line of impatience. He didn't know what he would do if you were to reject this moment, to choose to go on with your life and force him to deal with the consequences of getting emotionally involved with an Echo. He’d never trust again, he’d never bring himself to. That was incredibly finite but Noa refused to rationalize any further.

What he wanted from you - what you wanted from him was known to both, was never spoken to either.

“I don-- I don’t know what you want.” Whispering softly, your voice came to a taper of a stop when you felt tears exploding down your face again.

You were so weak, you weren’t even able to accept whatever it was that he was offering, as if Noa knew that himself. He didn't. The same tug you had that sought for more but always hesitated and pulled him back was more than evident when his hand shifted mid-air, backwards towards himself. A moment's worth of hesitation before he thrusted it back forward. He was not weak this time. He refused to fall back and let forces take away from the good of his life. Noa had to burden that enough with the loss of his Father. He’d wrestle and fight aggressively against any forces stopping him now.

“Echo word…” Noa’s voice was remarkably smooth but you knew better. The shaking around the words was evident, the dip in his tone was more than forthcoming. He was holding himself together by a thread. “Told me once…Noa… Noa feels what you feel.”

Empathy.

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Solace was found in his mind when there weren't heavy conversations happening. They were frequent, and Noa enjoyed listening to what you had to say. He’d sit and process for a few days, maybe more if he had thoughts regarding the Echo topic he had chosen to ask about, and would come back to you with inquiries days later but… He also liked the languid silence that encased you when there wasn’t any pressure to talk.

The shift of your bodies next to each other, Noa’s shoulders bracing with dexterity as he worked with both hands, your fingers tightly at work on your own personal hobby. He thought about the delicate touch that your hand had against the twine you were working on making. The fleshed out wood, splintered into thin angular pieces as you essentially braided to your heart's content to complete a piece that was only a few inches in length. Most likely for jewelry, Noa thought to himself with a small chuckle.

While you were not good at basket making, you did excel in the realm of making necklaces or bracelets, the intricate detailing you used with beads made of rocks, some smooth, some flushed and coarse, most were black or gray in color, naturally rounded by years of beating around the bottom of the river floor. Some red from the valley clay, some more blue and blistered with black in the cracks, some even carved from wood.

Lightly placing a hand against the small pouch the Eagle Clan leader kept near his chest, he thought about it a bit longer. Inside held a gift from you, which at the moment of giving, you had been uncharacteristically nervous. It was a bracelet you had made for him, but without ever actually touching his wrists, you had made it inadvertently too small but Noa still kept it on himself and often liked to think about the smile you had given him when he accepted it, pushing aside notion that it was special when you gifted Anaya and Soona similar pieces. As you should, Noa was no different to you than they were.

Acquaintances by circumstance, friends by choice.

The detailing that went into your work was always attentive, much like how Noa worked Always, he found parallels and dwindled on them but was too oblivious to take note of the way your eyes fell when he was near, so similar to how he would look at you when you were not paying any attention; seemingly the only time the young Chimp was able to look at you with a softer touch.

The male Ape next to you was carving out chunks at a time from the wooden piece in his right hand, a meter or so in length, hopefully to complete a fishing spear that was more suitable for your smaller hands. He had seen the struggle only recently - a few days ago at the river with Anaya and Soona and the absolute embarrassment you had at trying to hold up Noa’s spear but to no avail. You had nearly toppled straight into the water, face first when the spear left your hand from the sheer momentum it garnered from its distributed weight. The wood was thick and heavy and you explained to him quietly that you didn't have the upper arm strength to use it.

This sort of tandem dance, without Soona or Anaya, was what Noa and yourself found when not conversing. Not that there were complaints, there were none and you found yourself enjoying the spotted glances you got of him, taking in the close details of his face and his body language.

The smoothing of his forehead, brow now taking a less intimidating stature, his shoulders laxed with trust that had been built between the two of you, his eyes so intensely focused on the task at hand. Your breath hitched in your throat when you looked at them and somewhere deep inside of your subconscious, you wanted nothing more than to have him look at you with that primal intent. Unbeknownst to him, moments like these were now your seldom favorite.

You drew a deep breath in, Noa could hear it as his head tilted to the side so he could look closer at the spearhead he deemed worthy to use for your fishing spear, “I’m sorry about your Father.”

That tore Noa out of the daydream he was holding onto while his hands suddenly found themselves finnicking around a spearhead and the piece of wood he was working with. You never brought up topics of conversation around him, it was always the other way around. Noa had figured that maybe you just didn't care - you were both with each other to fulfill a sense of duty and you never delved too far into personal issues at this point. He had asked you about yours, having been shut down and you only got glimpses of his own - probably in a bid to get you to trust him further if he showed a bit of openness.

The topic of conversation was completely out of left field and for a second it felt like you had a serious case of not being able to keep your mouth shut and knowing your place - you had only talked about his Father once before a few days ago during your last intent session of conversations, when you had to help him come down and explain that things were not his fault. There was nothing tethering either of you to continue that topic of conversation but you found yourself reaching for it. Sure, your thoughts that he was not to blame were based in truth from what he had told you about the events.

How the fire consumed almost all his Clan, how Noa fought to the edge of his life against Sylva, a Gorilla who then took his Father away. Noa never went into detail about that, and you were surely going to consider yourself lucky if he continued this particular means of speaking to you. You wanted to, you felt your chest surge with unbridled selfishness. You wanted him to talk to you about it and wrap you into his embraced words with fever. Noa never quite shook the feeling away from his chest that consumed his senses when he thought about it but when he looked at you, the warmth of your gaze, he placed the spearhead and wooden shaft down on the ground in front of him.

It was his fault, he had not been fast enough to warn his people. All those lost that night, all those lost when Mae betrayed him and having to come to terms that they were gone and his Clan was more thinned as a result. How could he not put the blame on himself when he leaned so heavily into his Father’s ways now and never appreciated them in their entirety until they were gone? He shifted with discomfort and looked over at you momentarily - the eye contact lasting less than a second before he looked back at his hands. You recognized it, mentally slapping yourself on the head at the fact that you were so bold as to bring it up.

“Why Echo apology?” He finally asked, quiet and reserved, he had his chin tilted downwards so you couldn’t see his face properly. That was a terribly good question, you posed to yourself and looked down at your hands in a mimic of Noa’s action. One that you couldn’t bring yourself to quite garner an answer for. There was nothing said as Noa looked over at you, kindly twirling a piece of twine between your fingers. You were lost in deep thought, he knew the crease of your forehead very well. “Just…” You spoke so caressingly that Noa was entranced to watching your lips form the words, “It’s called empathy.”

There was a tug inside of you to just fess up why you actually were offering an apology. It made clear sense to you that the concept and grasp of empathy was strewn between the two of you. There was no vivid detailing to you that Noa even understood what that meant - the pull to offer condolences instead of apologies because you knew how it felt, that he wasn’t alone and neither were you. That line between yourself and Noa shifted but you couldn’t bring yourself to acquire any personal artifacts to back up your words. You swallowed, finally able to feel your saliva coating your throat so you could speak properly. Echo word, echo explanation.

“It’s uh…” You cleared your throat and pressed onwards, “That feeling you... get when you share a feeling with someone, or at least understand what someone else is going through.” Noa narrowed his eyes at you in a tranced confusion. Share… feelings? He waited patiently for you to continue, to give context but it didn't come. You were looking back down at your hands again, unable to make contact with Noa’s gaze. You were opened and then closed in such a quick fashion that it left him feeling secluded, reaching for an answer you weren’t going to get him and leaving him all the more confused than before. Silence surrounded the two of you again, this time, Noa felt like he was trying to swim to the surface of breathing but found that he was willingly letting himself be submerged innately.

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Trying to swallow, you found it difficult as your throat closed at his words. This was something known to the Apes but they didn't associate a word to the emotion until you told him about it in a fleeting moment of rare openness of the past. That habit of saying sorry for the most mundane of things, things that had nothing to do with you, came from a place of empathy especially when you explained it using his Father’s death as an example. You never explained your based premise, and how you knew how it felt, you just… Sunk your eyes into Noa’s, so deep that you had an imaginary grasp on his lungs, and whispered to him that you were sorry. Nothing else in that moment mattered - it didn't need to.

There was no fear anymore, you had torn past that months ago when you noticed the gaze he gave you would soften, when you noticed the way he talked to you smoothed… All terror gone, replaced by the morbid hope that there was something more happening, that he would allow something more to happen. You’d always pinned it on loneliness - on wanting a sense of belonging. There was no more of that, it was evident in the way you looked at him when you were in the throes of conversation, how you leaned towards him when you were standing close to one another. You had always wanted him to reach out and now that he did? You were frozen. Noa’s mind was relentless with deprecation. You were going to reject this. There was no benefit to you to accept, there was no way for you to know what it meant, to know that it meant more to Noa than at first glance and that gave the Eagle Clan leader pause as his mouth fell open and he panted quietly next to you, eager and desperate to ease some of the oppressive state his lungs found themselves in, his heart felt like it was going to fall right out and bury itself into the ground to escape the absolute torment.

He could make you, he thought. He could take it upon himself to be more forthcoming and force you to accept his offering. Maybe… he muttered to himself and tilted his head to the side in contemplation, maybe that’s how Echo enjoyed it. Would you? Would you want him to grab your hand in his and force the action onto itself? The idea was entrancing, the ghosting of your fingers against his, scrabbling to let go as he shoved you down to submit. Swallowing lightly, even Noa thought that a bit extreme. He had always played along to your comforts, your desires and wants. To dive into his own like that could end in disaster, injury to you surely or you ultimately leaving him as it dawns upon you that life here, life within the Eagle Clan, was not as satisfactory as you had wanted it to be when his initial offer for you to stay arose.

It was one of empathy, he tried to convince himself, one of understanding. He knew how it felt to lose someone with great meaning, he just wanted to let you know without words that he understood the mental twisting you were going through. That’s just what he told himself to ease the pain of rejection a bit more; this was a mutual understanding, similar in nature to when you agreed to stay with the Eagle Clan. There couldn’t be emotions, there couldn’t be any senses entrapped with ideas that anything more could actually bear fruit for either of you.

Chimpanzee. Ape.

Noa squeezed his eyes shut at the feeling of your fingers barely grazing against his palm. At first, he thought it was just his imagination playing tricks on him, there was no way that you had moved forward and he didn't notice. Noa always noticed the most subtle of your movements, even the less graceful ones that left you embarrassed. He took solace in that for the time being, your face scrunched as you told him it wasn’t funny that you had tripped, that your balance was not on par with his own. How you looked at him, how you looked away, reddened flushed against your cheeks.

For a split second, the fur on his shoulders rose at the sensation, anticipating more than what you were giving him. He’d let you go on - grab at him in frustration, dig your fingernails into him, he deserved it. Leading his eyelids forward, he slid his gaze open and dropped it. You hadn’t moved your hand away, instead, you were placing the pads of your fingertips against the calloused nature of his palm, almost like you were aiming to trace the lines that encased his skin there.

So… so soft, he wanted to break them all, every one of your phalanges, every one of your tendons, all the way up to your wrist. Just some feeble attempt to make you his, mark you as his. You had no idea what you were agreeing with this time, you didn't feel like asking which Noa found a bit of a relief at knowing he didn't need to provide a tender answer right then when your fingers twitched against his skin. Noa, in all honesty, had no idea what he was asking of you either. The decimation of his thoughts exploded before him, before he had time to put them in a safe spot.

The redness of your eyes and nose rubbed away, tears along your cheeks, drying now, but fresh ones still held their grasp at the corners of your eyelids. The glow of your small fire pit illuminated the air around you and gave the illusion that your hair was encased in a delicious afterglow of orange and mild yellow. He stopped breathing, at least that's how it felt to have you holding him. You were… holding him like he mattered to you. He couldn’t stop himself from the mild obsession about it, knowing that when the intricacy broke and you asked him to leave, he was going to still feel your fingers burning holes into him. He wanted nothing more than that, if he were rightfully honest.

You had seen it done between Noa and Anaya, an embrace of sorts where they grasped at each other's forearms. Temptation bit you. Would… Would Noa be accepting of that if you pressed inwards? If you touched intimately, in private? Would he shake it off in denial and tell you that it had passed the line he had drawn for himself? What did it mean to Apes when they did that?

It was a burning question you had since you had first seen it, but it seemed so far out of your grasp to ask Noa what it meant when you were there to give him answers, not the other way around. It’s not too far from a side hug, it wasn’t like a hug of familiarity and mutual feelings it was more of a … a mutual understanding, you put it lightly in your mind to hinder the annoyance that this pull towards each other was more than just your imagination.

You opened your mouth to stagger out a phrase, though you had no idea what you were even going to talk about but Noa broke the contact first and dropped his hand in the air so you weren’t connected anymore. Your fingers splayed for him, following downwards before you brought your hand back towards you to tightly spring around your knees once again. He had no reason to linger, you told yourself, he had no reason to want to touch you, in all your Echoness.

Finding your eyes resting on the fire, you lightly brought your head up to watch as the flames bustled against themselves, fighting for some dominance back and forth before becoming one larger entity. Bile rose in your chest like a bee sting - gross and infected around the edges, you felt like you were going to throw up. You had broken down in front of him from a question he posed and you accepted his apology in return, never looking at the action as more than that. As Noa had intended it to be looked at. An acceptance of himself.

An acceptance that this was going to work, one way or another.

You accepted an apology.

He was denied satisfaction and knowledge that you… felt the same as he did.

The way he shifted his body away from yours made you want to crawl away, it looked so defensive. It was obvious from the tightening of his shoulders, his hands setting on knuckles on the ground below, that he was deeply focusing on the introspective of what happened. Never in the moment as it happened, Noa had a tendency to drive himself down with thoughts afterwards. It was an apology he was asking for, you finally put two and two together. He was apologizing to you for even asking that question again, one that he knew would garner him an unfavorable response due to your lack of having answered it before. You accepted the apology without a care. Without reserve and now you two sat in petulance, grief riding on you and shame rising against Noa.

“Noa I---” You were weeping to apologize to him. He had done nothing wrong, you needed to tell him that. You needed him to look at you like he always did - with marvel and wonder, like you actually meant something to him rather than just a means to get knowledge that was outside of his grasp. Your fingers slicked across the skin of your arms and tightened themselves.

“I have… one more thing I… I need to know…” He told you, looking out the window pensively. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, he was solely focusing on the sky outside, looking through the small window of your hut that was often covered for privacy as it drifted from a midnight navy to a pitch black. Midnight, maybe later.

“D...-” Noa stuttered and clamped his teeth together out of minored frustration. Gritting his teeth against each other, he relished the feeling it gave him, so coarse and mean, enough to keep him grounded to ask, “Do--- Do you think about leaving…” Me? He wanted to prospect but couldn’t bring himself to do that. “Leaving the Eagle Clan? To find more Echo’s? To--- Have a family, not Apes who don’t understand. Noa want--- I need… To know.” ●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・●・○・ Tag list: @ohwaitimthewriter @hera-annwn @saturnnie-03 @filliandkili

@hadesbabygurl @supergoat12 @moonchild1433

@kaenalsha @unsteady-bitch @whamsworld

@yummyfanta @nuhteyam @babylockley @edynmeyer1 @callsignwidow @moonlightnyx

#noa #noa x reader #noa x human reader #planet of the apes x reader #pota #planet of the apes #kotpota #kingdom of the planet of the apes #mae #proximus caesar #fanfiction #fanfic #owen teague #emmy writes

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thebenjiblackwoodexpress · 4 months ago

Text

The Blackwood Knight prt.8

Disclaimer: I wrote this because Victoria is a Shakespeare girlie and loves Romeo and Juliet. She also loves Crimson Peak, which inspired the last two parts.

Description: Benjicot resorts to drastic measures to win back his lady's trust and love, having accidentally placed doubt in her mind as to his true intentions.

Part 7

Playlist:

Gold Rush~ Taylor Swift

The Way I Loved You~ Taylor Swift

How You Get The Girl~ Taylor Swift

Adore You ~ Harry Styles

Warnings: female reader. Nothing else I don't think. Robb being an iconic twink with access to the blueprints for Bracken Hall and too much sass for Westeros to handle.

"Let me get this absolutely crystal clear in my mind. You described your union as 'mutually beneficial'!" Robb cried incredulously, striking Benjicot on the shoulder from behind, as he sat slumped onto a desk in the library of his ancestral seat.

The glow cast by the lit lanterns, attached to the ancient stone walls, cast shadows over his face which bore signs of the deepest distress.

"It sounds beyond reprehensible when you repeat those words, words which I most bitterly regret. I did not mean them in the way that both yourself and my lady have interpreted them, but it makes them no less acrid when you repeat them." He responded dejectedly, slumping his head once again upon the desk.

Mumbling almost incomprehensibly so that Robb had to tilt his head down towards his friend to hear him.

"What can I do to make amends? She hates me. I fear she will never speak to me again."

Robb cast a contemptuous look at his friend before retorting.

"You bloody fool. Not only did you make her sound to even my indulgent ears like a prize to be bartered between Houses, but you also did so with the very fiend from whose taunts you once defended her. Can you not see that you have made a shy, sweet girl who loved and trusted you feel as if the one person who she believed cared for her and would protect her above all others was nothing more than a cipher of the bullies she has sought to shield herself from?!"

Seeing Benjicot's increasingly pained expression, as he roughly gripped his hair in both hands, Robb relented a little.

"The damage you have done in your carelessness will be very difficult to remedy. You must show her that you love her and value her above all else. Words are not enough."

Lifting his head, Benjicot's expression became resolved as he turned it to meet his friend.

"I will, even if she will never again allow me to be in her presence," He struggled to continue, the thought causing him physical pain, "I must at the very least convince her that my love for her was never a lie. I cannot bear the thought that I have only cemented her insecurities. That I have born my own part in making her feel as if I mocked her...just like her contemptuous cousin."

At this, he began to rise.

"I must see her."

Perking up at this and slapping his friend approvingly on the back, Robb moved to lift his sword from the table and responded.

"Glad to hear it. I'll get the Lads together and we can defend your flank whilst you hop over the border and get on your knees to beg your lady for forgiveness, you're favourite past time I know."

Looking at him with mild irritation, Benjicot rose, placing a firm hold on Rob's shoulder.

"Whilst I greatly appreciate the support, I must go myself. She's shy and frightened enough of me, after my misdemeanor, and I don't want you and your cronies scaring her off before I can even apologise."

Laughing at this, Robb retorted smugly.

"More likely you're afraid of her falling in love with me. Fear not, my interests lie in another direction entirely, but I'll hold off if you are determined. Of course Kermit will be devastated not to have a free shot at a Bracken, but I will assuage him."

With this, Benjicot nodded at his friend before rising quickly and striding from the room, through the halls of Raventree as he continued to ruminate with anguish on the distressed face of his lovely lady and the part he had played in causing her distress. He would explain that he loved her and valued her above all else. That he meant every word he had said to her. That he would protect, serve and adore her if she would only let him, only forgive him. He would beg for her forgiveness, even if she could never herself love him again. It would be enough if she would only permit him to continue in her presence as a loyal knight.

It had been a day since Y/N had fled from the man she had come to trust and love, the only one she believed had ever cared for her and seen her as more than a shadow in the background of life....mistakenly. After Aeron had carried her back to her quarters in Bracken Hall she had locked her doors and allowed no visitors, barring her handmaiden.

She spent the intervening hours between that of the previous days events and the advent of night on her balcony, her still pained ankle raised on a cushion on her chaise, as she read of Visenya. She was mentally and physically retreating to the shelter of her room and her books, determined never to open her heart to another person, as she had so foolishly done this time. She was silly to believe that Benjicot could love her for herself, rather than the political promise she could represent for him. She had trusted him where she had never invested anyone else with such trust. She had begun to gain in confidence in her dreams, her beliefs, and in his love, all for it to be shattered in a moment. Her embarrassment at having opened her heart to another person, to revealing herself so freely, where she was always so careful to be a shadowy presence in others' lives, was overwhelming, as she sunk further into her seat and further into herself.

Wrapped in these painful thoughts, it was a few seconds before she heard a muffled voice calling her name from the direction of the dark expanse underneath her window. Rising carefully from her seat, using the pillars lining the portico of the balcony to balance herself as she moved towards the edge of it, she looked down to see the hopeful and desperate expression of the man she both hated and loved. Seeing her come into view, his face lit up with irrepressible delight, before quickly falling when she began to quickly turn away, book pressed protectively to her chest as she made to retreat to her room. She did not want to speak with him.

Seeing her retreat, he quickly called out.

"Please my love, please, I entreat you to let me explain what you overheard in the woods."

Stopping where she was, she turned and moved once again back to the edge of the balcony.

Speaking quietly and timidly, but not so much so that he could not hear her, accustomed as he was to listening for her quiet voice, she responded.

"Please leave, I do not wish to speak with you now or henceforth. I can't understand why you are here now when you have made it abundantly clear that I myself am not what you seek. I would like you to leave."

Taking a deep, pained breath, Benjicot's expression underwent several changes before it became resolute and he stepped determinedly towards the pillar bolstering the balcony from the ground.

Confused at his movements, Y/N became panicked when she realised he was climbing the pillar, frozen in position. It wasn't until he had swung his leg over the top of the balcony and had landed gracefully that she turned to flee, forgetting her injured ankle in the attempt, causing herself to stumble and hold onto a nearby pillar for support. Feeling gentle hands enclose around her elbows, she heard Benjicot speak quietly near her cheek.

"Please don't run from me, my love. Your ankle is still injured. Please just allow me to help you."

Looking down with concern at the ankle in question, he slowly, with great caution lest his lady should be offended, raised her arm around his neck and held her waist, fully supporting her weight so that he could place her on her chaise.

Distressed to see his lady look away from him, her expression betraying embarrassment as well as displeasure, he knelt before her, bending his head low, before gently, reverently holding her hands in both of his own.

"I will not disturb you further if you do not wish it, but I must convince you of the truth of my feelings for you and beg for your forgiveness for making you believe otherwise."

Stopping him abruptly, Benjicot immediately desisted in deference to her speech, so important was anything she had to say to him, even if she meant only to order him away from her forever.

Speaking quietly, she interrupted him.

"I already heard what both you and my cousin said of me when you believed me not to be listening. I know that your protestations of love for me were all a ruse and that you were both in league together."

Benjicot's expression betrayed the deep pain he felt at her response, drooping his head to rest it on her knees.

"I can never apologise enough, nor beg for your forgiveness enough, for making you believe such a horrific notion. I had never spoken to your cousin of you before that dreadful moment, except when I first had the honour of meeting you. You were never just a bartering tool between us. I would break his legs if even tried to make such a suggestion. I had only meant to convey to him that I would repair the conflict between our houses so that in choosing me as your husband you would not also be choosing to abandon all that you knew. It is my mistake that I so brazenly worded my intent, my love." He added, casting his face down in desperation.

"I have loved you since I first saw you sitting with your nose tucked into your histories under the Brackentree and have persued your love ever since. I have meant every word I have said to you since, and will continue to prove it to you in any way thay you will allow me."

His lady slightly turning towards him, Benjicot grew at once desperate and hopeful that she would listen to his entreaties, gripping her hands tighter in his as he raised his face to hers, hoping to convey the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

"You speak very elegantly but I now know that you are so to all ladies and that this charade is not reserved for me alone."

Reaching out to touch her face before quickly retracting his hand once he saw Y/N move away from him in discomfort, he instead responded.

"Whilst I would consider myself to be a gentleman, there is only one lady I would traverse miles of enemy land and scale walls to get to." Saying this with a gentle smile, he continued to gaze upon her reverently.

When she did not respond, he removed a brown leather volume from its place, stashed underneath his cloak.

"I found this in my library and I thought it might be of interest to you."

Hesitantly reaching to take the volume from his hand, she examined it before opening it.

As she did so, he interposed "May I?" Pointing at the book.

He turned the pages to an earmarked section, coloured with a rich illustration of a knight kneeling in homage before a queen.

"This tells the story of a knight loyal to his queen above all else, swearing to protect, serve and..." He hesitated "love her for all of his life".

She gazed curiously down at the illustration in her hands as he spoke.

"I thought you would like to have it, even should you order me away from your presence now. But I should like it to serve as an illustration of the devotion I feel towards you and as a reminder that I will always protect and adore you, even if only as your knight. Without any conditions. Without any expectation for you to love me in return. Just....let me adore you." He faltered staring up at her penitently, anxiously awaiting her response.

It was a few agonising moments for Benjicot before Y/N raised her hand towards his shoulder, causing him to hold his breath lest he frighten her in his shock. Delicately placing her hand on his shoulder, she placed the other one on his other shoulder, causing him to subconsciously lean into her touch.

Looking timidly away from him, she began to speak.

"So you really did not mean that I was a...political tool."

Leaning further towards her face, he quickly refuted such a notion.

"I would thrash any man who suggested it. You are my lady, my love."

Gazing into his eyes searchingly, she seemed to find what she sought in them, and leant her head gently upon his shoulder.

Shocked, yet rejoicing at her affectionate gesture and in the comfort she seemed to look to from him, he lost no time in wrapping a protective arm around her waist, pulling her into his torso as he held her head gently in his other hand. Closing his eyes in relief, he held her like that for a few peaceful moments, scarcely believing that his love had forgiven him and that she had initiated their embrace. Taking it as a sign of the trust she had reinvested in him to protect her heart as well as her person, he solemnly swore in his own mind to guard it with more sucess than he had yet done as of late.

She pulled away too quickly for his liking, wishing as he did that she could always be so close to him.

"How did you even find your way here with impunity, let alone my balcony?"

Smirking at this, Benjicot threw his cloak dramatically over his shoulder to amuse her with his antics.

"I of course practiced great stealth, opting for a cloak and daggers approach."

Raising a disapproving eyebrow at him but with her mouth turned up at the corner, Benjicot rejoiced to have made her smile and to have amused her.

"In truth i just walked past the Red Ford and straight until i found Bracken Hall, i wasn't too worried about encountering any Bracken men. I'd just run them through if they tried to prevent me from reaching my Love. As far as finding your balcony goes, i was just blessed to see your pretty person upon it....and my good friend Robb also has an encyclopedic knowledge of Bracken Hall, having planned to storm it so many times." He added, slightly sheepishly.

Rolling her eyes at him, lightly swatting his chest.

"You're crazy."

Smirking again he rose to put his arm against the wall by her face, leaning his face towards hers.

"Crazy about you."

"And ridiculous," she added, laughing.

Reaching out to hold her chin gently in his other hand he leaned in further, before whispering in response "ridiculously in love with you", as his lips crashed onto hers, his arm moving to encircle her waist and support her weight as he did so.

Breaking the kiss, he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, gazing up at her as if she were the sun.

"Can i come and see you tomorrow?" He asked tentatively, unable to fully conceal his fear that she would still order him hence.

"I'd rather you didn't risk your life in such a dangerous attempt. I can always come to meet you."

Frowning at this, he stroked the back of her cheekbone with his nuckle.

"You think i would allow my darling to cross that distance with an injured leg when i can cross it myself?"

Seeing her blush at his appellation, he smiled and reached forward to increase her blush by kissing the corner of her mouth.

"I think not. I have no fear of your Bracken bannermen. Although I do fear having to inform my disapproving lady love that i've despatched all of them because they tried to stop me from seeing her."

Benjicot walked away from his lady love's balcony that evening, not before blowing her a kiss, and silently rejoicing that she had forgiven him and permited him to remain in her presence and in her heart.

@lovebabe18-blog @poppyflower-22 @ithilwen-blackwood @spinachtz @lady-callisto @twistytimesandthoughts @abookloverlawyerfan-blog @mymoonempress @drwho-ess @dancingbaek @aemondslove @cheendrella

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #benjicot blackwood #aeron bracken #davos blackwood #benjicot blackwood x reader #house blackwood #benjicot blackwood oneshot #benjicot blackwood imagine #benjicot x reader #bloody ben x reader #house of the dragon oneshot #house of the dragon imagine #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd oneshot #hotd imagine

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ancha-aus · 19 days ago

Text

Ghosts & Medium AU Drabble - Slow Morning

I ended up deciding to write a tiny thing on this :3

Just for fun :D

No edit's or beta we going.

*----------------------------------*

Dust is laying in his bed. Nice and comfortable in his blanket. An old knitted one he and Ash found in a yard sale ages ago.

He sighs as he moves around a bit. His movement is limited but it is warm.

Dust relaxes as he just enjoys laying in his bed. The last job in the mansion filled up his money reserves. He had his coffee and smokes and put money aside to do groceries later.

Oh right...

He needs to actually get up and get groceries.

Ugh he just really doesn't want to.

It had been the first time in ages he had less stess the past week.

Normally Dust had to double check his accounting and money to make sure he could pay for his food and make sure at least the water kept running. The payload from the mansion job had meant he was able to actually pay his bills and pay rent again.

Getting a bit of a positive note with the landowner. Who was high beyond believe.

The guy may not be able to remember when people had to pay but he knows who paid him. Meaning as long as Dust pays him once ina while he stays in the good books with the landlord.

Dust had been sure he did everything he had to do and could just lay in bed for the day. rest more and just sleep.

Sadly.

He has to get up.

Dust groans as he tries to stretch only to find himself still limited in movements.

Oh. Right.

He slams his left and right arm both down next to him. His right arm hits his mattress. but his left arm! that one strikes gold as he feels it connect with someone.

Nightmare chuckles "Good morning."

Dsut glares at him and tugs on his arm "Stop crawling into my bed. and let go."

Nightmare looks amused at the arm he has captured against his sternum "i mean. You gave me your hand freely." he smirks as he catches his hand and kisses it.

Dust continues to glare as he tugs harder on his arm "You know very well it wasn't giving anything."

Ngihtmare hums and shrugs as he lets him go "Fair enough." and Nightmare stretches out on the mattress and Dust makes sure he isn't staring as he quickly looks for clothes before just giving up. He needs coffee before anything else.

He leaves his room and stumbles into his living room. Just some coffe... then he will get dressed and smoke before going to get groceries and-

Why does it smell delicious in here?!

Is one of his neighbors cooking?

Dust looks around and notices that his house looks... cleaner? THe windows are all open and everything has been put away and cleared. the couch has his spare blanket and pillow still on it but the blanket is folded and put to the side with the pillow on top.

Any leftover dishes are cleared from the area and the floow looks clean? dirt free at least.

Dust looks over and spots Cross's body in the kitchen. by the stove making food.

Dust blinks and wlaks over "Cross? Since when can you cook?" He knows Cross never really cooked. He always ate with the other priests and can make some sandwiches and salads but not actual food. But it can't be Killer as Dust knows Killer can't cook at all. He confirmed this as well when they were both eating dry cereal.

Cross's body pauses for a moment before looking back at him and- wait... that isn't cross?!

Cross speaks calmly "Good morning Dust. I expected you to still be asleep." he turns back to the stove "Take a seat pelase. I will have breakfast ready soon."

Dust stares in shock. "Horror?"

Horror nods as he focusses on the food "Correct."

Dsut blinks. Since when does Horror possess Cross? Wait. He looks aorund and spots Killer glaring at Horror and Cross pouting with his arms crossed. Dust blinks and looks abck at Horror "Why... why are you possessing Cross?" Horror never did that before. Said he found it disrespectful.

Horror hums as he calmly cooks "After the last mission you were tired. And with us not being able to help you with your work or getting money I got thinking. I decided you should have a calmer morning, which included not being groped all night by either Killer or waking up wiht Cross's body half humping you." Killer shouts a loud hey and pouts wiht a glare as Cross hides his fac enad mutters about his body just doing it and him being sorry.

Horror looks amused at them before he continues speaking "Especially now there was money for actual food." he turns a bit "I already went grocery shopping for you with the money you put aside for it and cleaned the living room and kitchen. Once you got your breakfast I am going to take a look at your bathroom and bedroom." and he turns back to the stove.

Holy shit.

No offense to Cross...

But holy shit Horror should possess the body more often.

Dust gives a slow nod "okay... cool... I will just... euh... Coffee..." he moves over to his coffee pot and feels ready to cry when he sees it is already filled and it seems like Horror bought the good coffee?! Oh but those are so expensive but so good. Maybe... okay maybe once... he can just enjoy the nice treat for a while. He will buy the cheaper store brand when this one is all finished. He fills his favourite mug, a mug that looks like a silly slime from some game he used to like when Ash still had his old computer to game on. Dust deeply inhales the scent of coffee and sighs happily.

He takes his mug and grabs a smoke before going towards the open window. There is a chair already ready there with an empty ashtray.

He gets comfortable as he enjoys his drink and smoke in peace.

Oh it has been so long since he last had the chance to enjoy both of these. Money had been much too tight for him to indulge himself this much but after everything? He needs this so badly.

The door of his bedroom opens and Nihtmare walks out fully dressed. He takes a moment to study everything in the room before looking amused "Interesting..." he chuckles at how angry Killer looks before he moves towards the couch. He takes a seat and takes one of the many books Dust has on supernatural things and Nightmare starts to read it.

Dust finishes his smoke and leaves the ashtray by the window as he goes get a new mug with coffee.

Ash looks smug at Killer and Cross as he berates both of them for trying to violate Dust as Dust sleeps and Dsut goes back to ignoring them.

He fills his mug and Horror hums "Food is ready."

Dust blinks "already? Okay. euh..." he looks back and realises his tiny table is already set. He takes a moment to just wander over there and take a seat. He sip his coffee and a moment later Horror walks over as he balances a few plates.

Dust feels his mouth water as he stares at the stack of pancakes. the waffles with chocolate syrup. There is even a plate with french toast.

Oh gods he is so much more hangry than he thought he was.

Horror puts down a plate for himself as well before going to his side and putting downa glass with milk and another glass with orange juice "it is important to stay hydrated. and before i forget."

Dust suddenly feels teeth against his cheek and he freezes. The silence is deafening.

It is just a soft kiss to his cheek before Horror pulls back wiht a chuckle "There is interest. But I know you are busy and stressed. I just wish for you to know. Enjoy your breakfast." and he takes his own seat to eat his meal as he happily ignores Killer and Ash shouting at him.

Dust feels his soul pulsing fast as he tries to get his mind to catch up on what just happened.

Since... since when does? why does? Horror of all people?!

Dust ends up picking up his fork and eaitng a bite. Only to feel the fodo melt in his mouth and the intent to almost knock him over.

Care. Love. Affection as a whole.

It has been so long since he last ate food with intent in it. It tastes so much better than anything he has eaten since... since forever.

He hears a snort and looks up to see Nightmare looking amused at Killer laying it into Horror for trying to steal his one true love and future mate. and that Horror has no shame for trying this.

Horror hums as he eats another bite and mutters about it not being Killer's choice and an alternative is sharing.

Dust feels his mind pause as Killer just looks thoughtful. Cross looks horribly offended and embarressed as he stresses once again that they both need to stop using Cross's body to flirt with Dust.

Dust decides to just enjoy his breakfast. He has no idea when the next chance will be to get an actualy meal with intent in it.

He just enjoys his treat and happily eats the meal. Just a moment for him to enjoy good food, nice coffee and later another smoke.

Dust is selfish. He may not deserve these things but he wants them. and so he will enjoy them.

#utmv #ghosts & medium au #dust sans #killer sans #cross sans #horror sans #nightmare sans #Dust has a good monring for once.#he only needed to beat one person groping him.#and he got his welldeserved smoke and coffee #and horror is being the bestest guy ever.#he saw how tired dust was.#waited until killer and cross distracted each other.#and snatched the body for a ride.#he cleaned the living room and kitchen. made sure to air the area out.#then grabbed the grocery money and went to get food.#Dude has been wanting to pamper and take care of dust for a while now and he finally saw his chance.#and he got to kiss Dust's cheek!!#Horror sees it as a great success :3

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writingficsanddaydreams · 1 year ago

Text

His Eyes

Mihawk x gn!reader

Summary: you may dislike eye contact, but that doesn’t make his eyes any less mesmerizing

Content: some fluff, a little romance. They’re on a mission. Reader is autistic.

A/N: this is a shorter piece, just a snippet of an idea really, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So now I’m making you all think about it too! Like all my stories, Mihawk is based on a mix of his live action personality, and the little bit I know from watching some of the anime and reading the manga quite literally years ago.

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Dracule Mihawk. A great warlord of sea. A man so powerful that his very presence makes others stop and step back wherever he goes, who can freeze a person in place with just his intense, piercing gaze.

You love his gaze.

You love the color of his eyes, the way that lantern light plays across the striking yellow, bringing out those hints of gold. You love the shape of them, the way his eyebrows furrow, that little line that forms above his nose when he’s so focused. You love how he can seem to command a room with his gaze alone.

His eyes are mesmerizing.

“How is it you can stare at me, yet request I avoid the same?”

His words send a shiver through you, one that strengthens as he turns that gaze briefly your way. His arm is is draped carefully across the back of the tavern booth, his fingers just brushing your shoulder.

You shrug and smile—just a little smile, the one you practiced because you know it secretly makes him pleased, even if smiling doesn’t come naturally to you.

“It’s not like I command you,” you tease, even as you draw your knees closer to your chest to better balance your sketchbook and lean slightly into him. You like sitting like this, both because it lets you naturally look away when he does decide to stare at you, and because you love the feeling of his nearness as you lean slightly into his side.

“Hmm.” He turns his gaze away. You quickly peak up at him and are pleased to see the slightest twitch to his own lips, a hint of his own smile.

He’ll never show it, not here in this tavern where every other person subtly watches him. But it’s there, and you’ve enjoyed drawing it out of him since you started working together as temporary partners. Especially since you started to be something more…

You turn back to your own work, drawing your fountain pen across the thick sketchbook paper.

A line here. A small adjustment there. You let yourself fall into the art, even as you listen to the conversations murmuring around you.

The din of voices can be overwhelming at times, painful even when so many noises echo together, but useful. You’ve learned ways to manage it, found tools to let you block out the sound when it’s too much and learned how to sort through the sounds when you do have the energy for it. Now you sit and listen, letting your art pull you slightly away from it all, even as snippets of conversation come and go.

“…can’t believe that seller cheated me! I…”

“…Mihawk here…?”

“…will drink you under the table…”

“…think Garp sent him? Does he know we…”

You still your pen, glancing only slightly up from the page. That conversation was from not too far away. The targets.

“You noticed them too,” comments Mihawk, in that eternally bored, yet oh so confident tone.

“What now?” you ask, turning your gaze back to your sketchbook. “Capture them here or flush them out?”

If you were working alone, you would probably wait for them to leave on their own, then follow them and complete the mission once away from all the noise and bustle of the tavern. But it’s fun to work Mihawk’s way as well, to see just what it is that makes him so simultaneously feared and respected. You find it fascinating how he toys with his targets at times, as if a job is simply a game to him.

“It has been quiet lately. A chase might be entertaining.”

You grin, even as you carefully try to capture a slight shimmer of light in your sketch.

This is the part you find so fascinating.

The way he can inspire or horrify people with just a glance. The way he moves so carefully and intentionally through his work, even as he sometimes treats it as a way to relieve the boredom of being truly the best. The way he knows how good he is, knows his power and wears it like a cloak.

You know the moment he turns his gaze from a casual analysis of the room to a hunter spotting its prey.

It’s in the slight gasps as that muted conversation staggers to a halt. The sharp sense of fear that drifts through the tavern. The way Mihawk’s intense gaze cuts straight through the crowded tables and towards the targets, even as everyone else breathes in relief that it’s not aimed at them.

You’ve done this just enough times now to know that soon your targets will try to leave, try to flee.

Then it will be time to act.

For now though, you enjoy leaning into your warlord, carefully drawing your pen across a sketchbook page as you capture the dangerous beauty of his vivid eyes.

#dracule mihawk #mihawk #mihawk x reader #one piece x reader

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604to647 · 4 months ago

Text

Strawberry Shortcake (part 2 of 2)

13.4K / Frankie Morales x fem!reader

Summary: How are you supposed to avoid Frankie when your son and his daughter are becoming best friends?

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Angssssst and mutual pining. Single parenthood, mention of the death of a spouse, divorce (no detail). Mention of f!masturbation, slow burn, nicknames (Shortcake, baby, hermosa), minor appearance by TF boys. Everyone is a dummy. Wee bit of spice for these dummies at the end (no spoilers but let’s just say Frankie may be a dad, but he's also daddy).

A/N: Uhhhh sorry for the word count 🫣 Thank you so much for the lovely reception to Part 1 🥹🍓🍰The feel of this part is very different than the first; due to the setting of Part 1, it was a lot more sensual. This part is more domestic, almost a friends-to-lovers slow burn - I hope people who liked the first part will still find it enjoyable 🫣 Unfortunately, Frankie does not get 🍴😺 in this part (spoiler) which is honestly just a darn shame, so I wrote an Epilogue that I will post together with Part 2, which is a bit more of mixed vibe of the two previous parts. Thank you for reading!

Part 1 / Epilogue / Series Masterlist 🍓🍰

Strawberry dividers by @saradika-graphics 😘🍓

It could be two seconds. Possibly a whole minute. Maybe even ten.

You honestly can’t tell how long you and Francisco stand outside the kindergarten class room staring at each other.

At a loss for words, you don’t even know how to begin a conversation that you couldn’t have imagined ever having. You never thought you’d see Francisco again, and certainly not under these circumstances – that he has a daughter is entirely news to you, though not unfair. Afterall, he didn’t know you have a son. During your time together, you had omitted certain personal details out of self preservation and it would seem, so did he.

After you had left the club, Francisco remained an ever-present figure in your fantasies: your handsome and courteous gentle giant who made you feel safe and desired, and whose touch you only knew once – a first and last kiss that still makes your body strum just to recall. His soft looks and soulful expressions dominated your nighttime dreams and sometimes even your daytime ones. He wasn’t supposed to come to life.

And yet, here he is, standing in front of you looking even more striking than you remember. Your memories failed to capture the way his brown eyes fleck with gold, or the way the facial scruff you loved running your fingers through is adorably patchy in that one spot along his left jawline. His hair is slightly longer than you remember, but the curls that peek out from beneath his familiar Standard Oil cap look to be just as touchable as the ones you’d twist around your fingers in that private room at the club.

Your fingers itch as if recalling some latent muscle memory, but it’s Francisco who moves first.

Stepping forward, he approaches you with his hand out to shake yours, “Hi, I’m Frankie. Valentina’s dad.”

Oh.

That’s what you’re doing. You’re pretending you’ve never met before.

Your heart constricts painfully in your chest as you reciprocate his gesture and introduce yourself as your son’s mother. Francisco’s smile at your name is kind, but you see nothing more to it behind his eyes.

It’s not lost on you that this is the first time Francisco has reached out and touched you of his own volition. Unless you counted that soft kiss you had felt on your back after he helped you redress on your last night together; in this moment, you think you must have imagined it – perhaps it would be best not to count it at all.

Frankie’s warm, firm hand lets go of your softer one as quickly as he had grasped it, darting past you to shake the hands of the other parents standing in the same hallway. You turn and smile, introducing yourself as well, and for the next several minutes your small group of parents makes small talk about your children and continue to sneak peeks into the kindergarten classroom until the teacher comes to close the door with a reassuring smile.

Once the remaining parents have said their polite goodbyes, you turn to look for Francisco but find that he’s already left the building. You see his retreating figure halfway down the path to the parents’ parking lot, walking hurriedly.

He can’t get away from you fast enough, you realize, devastated.

You manage to hold your tears in until you park outside of work. Sitting in your car, you sob stupidly. You had thought of Francisco every day since you left The Midnight Palace. Wondered if he had been hurt when he had come back and found out you had left. Thought about what he might be doing and if work at the hangar was less stressful these days. Fantasized about where your relationship might be if you had met and dated like regular people. Heard his soft voice in your head while in bed, guiding your hand between your legs and bringing you to a thundering climax to images of his handsome face, playful smirk and lustful gaze. But never in your wildest imagination did you think he would pretend not to know you.

The rest of your work day is filled with free floating thoughts about Francisco popping up to distract you from your work - all depressing.

Could he be married? You suppose you had never asked, just assumed he wasn’t from the lack of ring. With some distress, you allow that you didn’t know he had a child - a hidden wife wouldn’t be too farfetched.

Suddenly ashamed, you realized that while there had definitely been some kind of connection, due to the nature of how you met, every physical advance had been made by you. You were the one who had pushed forward your physical relationship, taking every next step that he had never asked for.

No. You can’t bring yourself to believe it. The Francisco you had met didn’t seem like the type to cheat – he had been honourable, respectful, kind. But then again, it’s possible you didn’t know him at all, you concede sadly.

Maybe his reaction this morning’s reaction had been due to shock. You had felt it as well, and you suppose everyone processes the unexpected differently. Perhaps after school you’ll get a chance to speak with Francisco, or rather Frankie, and the two of you can figure this out together.

But pick-up goes much the same as drop-off. You see Frankie among the other parents waiting in the hall, amiably chatting, and though he acknowledges you with a small nod when he sees you join the conversation, he otherwise ignores you. You’re grateful for when the bell rings, not sure how much longer you can maintain a neutral expression and keep the tears prickling the corners of your eyes at bay.

The children stream out of the room in a sudden burst of activity, each ramming themselves into a waiting parent, excitedly chatting about their day. Your full attention happily turns to Raynor, and you don’t even realize that Frankie has left until you see him drive by on the way to your car, Valentina’s smiling face pressed up against the back window waving wildly to your son.

And it’s the same every day after: simple salutations and impersonal small talk at drop-off and pick-up. More often than not, Frankie barely looks at you - he’s never rude or unkind, but disappointingly detached and uninterested. It’s as if those summer nights in that private room never happened, or worse, they did but didn’t mean to him what they had meant to you. It becomes painfully clear to you that they didn’t.

Some time during the third week of school, an epiphany hits you like a ton of bricks: he’s embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. And while you don’t think it’s warranted, you can empathize. Maybe he’s embarrassed to have seen the mother of his daughter’s friend half naked. Or maybe he’s embarrassed that someone outside his army buddies knows how often he frequents a strip club. As far as you could tell, he had been candid and honest with what he did choose to share with you in that room, and perhaps he hadn’t expected those raw and vulnerable feelings to be known by someone he would see nearly every day. Maybe he was just embarrassed by it all, you. It crushes you that what are cherished memories for you would cause Frankie any distress, but you’re not so unfeeling that you would want to force him to feel any more discomfort than he already does.

So, you don’t push and you don’t engage; you let Frankie ignore you and even though your heart is broken, you can’t find it within you to harbour any malice towards this man who was once the source of so much comfort and desire.

This works as well as it can until Raynor starts asking if he can have a playdate with Valentina.

“Just call her.”

Completely useless advice. His friends are full of absolute nonsense suggestions.

Frankie has no idea what to do. You’re slipping away again and he has no clue how to coax you back to him. And neither do Santi, Will or Benny, apparently.

Every recommendation they make is predicated on Frankie having not made a total ass of himself since the start of school. So absolutely useless. Frankie presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and groans in frustration. You’re an idiot, Morales.

On that first day of school, he had been so preoccupied with comforting Valentina that he hadn’t noticed you until you turned around in that hallway. It was you – in a much more covered up state of dress, hair and face softer in the light of day that he had been used to, but it was you.

A million emotions race through his very soul the second he recognizes your face: shock, disbelief, relief, desire being the most prominent. Frankie’s immediate instinct is to pull you into his arms and cup your pretty face in his hands – to trace every slope and line with his fingers (and maybe his lips) to make sure you were real.

Fuck. He had missed you so much.

Returning to The Midnight Palace two weeks after that unforgettable kiss, Frankie had been confused, then worried when you weren’t there. He knew you were planning on going back to your lab assistant job at the end of the summer, but that wasn’t supposed to be for a few more weeks. Your unexpected absence left him hallow and worried, realizing that he actually knew very little about your life – something could have happened to you and he would never know. He had sat stage side with the boys, fidgeting and anxious the whole night; eyes darting to the employee entrance every time there was movement - thinking, hoping you might walk in and flash him that drop-dead gorgeous smile of yours that he took comfort in every day.

But you never showed.

And two weeks later you still weren’t there. After Frankie had sulked for hours, terrifying the new cocktail waitress with his scowl, Will had taken pity on him and asked Sasha, the dancer from whom you borrowed the strawberry scented glitter gel that he loved so much, and that’s when he finally learned that you had left three weeks ago.

Frankie was despondent. He hadn’t felt the way he felt about you in a really long time and he had harboured secret hopes that the two of you might try take what you shared in the private room out of the club, into the real world. After one too many pep talks from his friends, he finally worked up the courage to ask you out only to discover you gone for good, leaving him no way to find you. The boys tried to cheer him up by offering to buy him a lap dance, but Frankie had refused – he didn’t want it. He wanted you. He had cut the night short and hadn’t joined his friends at The Midnight Palace since; he didn’t need your absence thrown in his face on a regular basis.

He dreams of you constantly. Hazy, dimly lit dreams illuminated by that smile he can’t forget; flashes of soft curves and barely-there wisps of fabric that laid snug overtop. Your lithe fingers dance into his mind’s eye until his sensory memory kicks in and his skin prickles while he sleeps, remembering how it felt when you would touch him – silky soft caresses along the worn lines of his face, lips, hands that always made him long for more of you. He wakes up hard and missing you more than when he went to sleep, deflating when he remembers that he’ll never feel your touch again.

Now here you are and it’s not a dream. You’re here. Close enough to touch.

But just as Frankie is about to reach for you, two things happen simultaneously. The first is he realizes the two of you aren’t alone and that a few other kindergarten parents stand behind you. He suspects that you might not want to share your reunion with strangers or field any potential questions about how the two of you might know each other.

The second is that he’s hit with a wave of crippling doubt. What if you weren’t happy to see him? Maybe you hadn’t thought and dreamt of him every day since that last, incredible encounter together like he did you. Afterall, you hadn’t left him a note or any way to contact you; perhaps you had put him out of your mind and left him behind as a memory of the summer, much like you did the club.

So, at the very last second Frankie pivots and shakes your hand, introducing himself then immediately does the same with the other parents, not wanting to single you out in front of them.

The look of hurt on your face flashes for only a millisecond, but Frankie sees it. He immediately regrets his actions, but as the subsequent minutes tick by, filled with inconsequential small talk among the parent group, he can’t think of a way to recover and like a coward, he runs.

Frankie meant to start over with you at pick-up, but once more the two of you aren’t alone so he again opts for a polite interaction over an overly familiar one. And then his priority is Valentina, as yours was your son, and the chance to reconnect once again slips through his fingers.

It’s same the next day and the next, and the following week and the one after that, until it’s been so long and the list of things left unsaid between the two of you grows overwhelming, that even if you had missed him and wanted to rekindle something, you most certainly didn’t anymore. Maybe you even hated him a little.

So, Frankie resigns himself to having what he can of you without crossing any lines, just like it was for him back at the club. He steals glances at you at school when you’re not looking and catches up on your life based on what he overhears you sharing with other parents or when he’s lucky enough to be part of the group you’re addressing. The more he learns about you, the more he admires you – you make juggling parenthood and an impressive career look easy. You were still the sweet and gentle creature he had fallen for over the summer, but now he knows you to be whip smart and a wonderful mom. He didn’t think you could be any sexier or more beautiful than how he remembered you, but he’s happily proven wrong day after day.

And you still smell like strawberries.

Sometimes it takes all of Frankie’s self control not pull you into his embrace and spill out his feelings right there in front of your children’s hung artwork, so he tries not to look at you too much.

His heart calls for you. But you aren’t his to have. Maybe you never were.

It’s possible that Frankie may have just gone on living with this ever-present dull ache in his heart, resigned to being near but so terribly far away from you, if it weren't for his darling precocious daughter who insisted on being best friends with your son.

Fed up with her father’s evasive answers and non-committal promises of talking to you about a playdate, young Valentina Morales decides that she’s going to try her hand at those “good decisions” her teacher is always talking about. She and her best friend Raynor whisper secretly as they exit their classroom at the end of the day, looking up in tandem when they’ve stopped right in front of you.

“Raynor’s mom? Could Raynor and I have a playdate?” Valentina smiles sweetly.

“Oh!” they’ve surprised you but not really - Raynor has been ask for the same for the past two weeks. Your son and his best friend look up expectantly at you, eyes full of hope and excitement – manipulative little buggers, you chuckle to yourself. Valentina’s little smile is especially beguiling; Francisco must never be able to say no to this face.

Francisco. Right. You look up to see Frankie looking at his daughter with a mortified expression – you almost laugh out loud. Yep, it’s clear who the boss in the Morales household is.

You kneel down to get to the kids’ level, “Alright. How about this, girly-pop? I’m taking to Ray-ray to the aquarium this weekend and if,” you pause here for effect and reiterate again, “if your father says it’s okay, you should definitely come with us and we can get lunch, and catch the walrus show, and stick our hands in the touch pools until they tell us to stop. What do you think?”

Valentina and your son nod their little heads eagerly. You smile at them and then up at Frankie, the two of you exchanging soft, familiar smiles.

“What about right now?”

Your head snaps back to your son and his friend, the two of them now smiling conspiratorially.

“Mama, Valentina says her and her dad are going to the park right now. Can we go too?”

Ohhhh… you had underestimated these two. Completely unable to come up with an excuse on the spot, you open and close your mouth two or three times, “Well… um… I’m sure that… uh…”

Frankie saves you, “If you’re free, we’d love for you and Raynor to join us at the park. It’s the one a few blocks from here and we were just going to walk.”

You look at Francisco, wide-eyed. This might be the most he’s spoken to you since the start of school; this smidgen of attention shouldn’t make your heart beat the way it does, but you feel nervous and maybe even excited about spending some time with Frankie after all this time. Dumbly, you nod. The children cheer and high-five each other.

The walk to the park is short and easy, the children happily skipping hand in hand ahead of you and Frankie – but between the two of you, there is a vague undercurrent of tension that settles in the pit of your stomach as you walk. This is the first time since the club that you’ve been alone with Frankie – it’s funny, in the private room you wore nothing but your underwear and never felt as exposed as you do now.

The children run straight to the playground as you and Frankie settle on a nearby bench, sitting on opposite ends with snacks for the kids laid out between you.

Frankie opens a Tupperware container full of cut vegetables and unscrews a little container of ranch dip, sucking his fingers clean of any overspill; you can’t help but stare, practically drooling at the sight of him popping his thick, meaty fingers between his plush lips. When Frankie catches you looking, he chuckles and you avert your eyes quickly with a smile.

To save face, you say the first thing that comes to mind, “That’s a lot of snacks.”

The two of you share an easy laugh while Frankie offers you the container and you gladly select a few cucumber slices.

“Gotta have all the options,” explains Frankie, “Valentina changes her mind about food constantly. Never know if this is the week she decides grapes are evil.”

“Oh, Raynor is the same way. Some days I feel like the lunch I pack him is just performance art for the teacher.”

There’s a pause of quiet after you both chortle at the ridiculousness of your children’s eating preferences. It’s not uncomfortable, but it is palpable.

You find yourself obliged to fill the unaddressed divide between you and Frankie; you’re almost loathed to broach this topic, but you can’t be sure this new pleasantry isn’t a one-time thing so tentatively you ask, “Does Valentina’s mom ever do drop-off or pick-up? I work at home at night as part of my flexible hours arrangement so I can do both, but it can’t be easy as a mechanic and pilot.”

It’s the first time either of you has made even the slightest allusion to having known each other previously, and though you look nervous to have done it, Frankie finds it a relief that you broke the ice.

“Twice a month I work weekends to make up the hours, but the boss isn’t that strict – it’s Pope,” he grins, and you do too, having forgotten that his friend helped run the hangar Frankie worked at.

“Oh my goodness! How is he? How are Will and Benny?” you ask amiably.

“They’re all great – I don’t see Will and Ben as much as I do Santi, but at least once a week, they come by for tea time with Valentina,” Frankie grins.

Your giggles at this image are so pure and unadulterated, Frankie feels his heart lighten just from the sound. You seem to have forgotten the part of your original question about Valentina’s mom, but Frankie hasn’t, “… and Valentina stays every second weekend with her mom. Friday night to Sunday afternoon… so no school stuff.” He flits his eyes to the playground to check on the kids who are playing some type of pirate ship pretend, and mouths the word ‘Divorce’.

“Oh,” you nod, sympathetically, “I’m sorry.” You realize this explains why Frankie would only come in to the club every second Friday.

“It’s okay,” says Frankie, matter-of-factly, “it’s better this way. We’re both happier. And I think that’s a good thing for Valentina.”

You nod because you vehemently agree. From what you’ve seen of some of your friends’ marriages, divorce is hard on kids, but an unhappy household is worse. You follow Frankie’s lead and watch the kids for a bit too before you hear him hesitantly clear his throat, “And Raynor’s dad? He isn’t one for pick-up and drop-off?”

Eyes shiny, your tone is gentle, “Raynor’s dad passed when he was just a baby. He never knew him.” It’s been over five years and your grief still comes and goes, sometimes sharp, other times dull. Sometimes Raynor will do something that reminds you so much of your late husband, you find yourself locking yourself in the bathroom and sobbing. Other times, the resemblance will fill you with nostalgia and joy, and you’ll startle your son with your seemingly sudden burst of affection – you never really know how it will go, but you’ve learned to let it come in whatever form it chooses; just feel it and ride it out. Today, here with Frankie, it’s a small tug to your heart that prickles just a little so that tears mist your eyes but don’t spill over. You glance over at Frankie who’s looking at you with such a kind and loving expression that you have to turn away, afraid your naïve heart will misinterpret his look for feelings that don’t exist; you finish softly, “It was a car accident.”

Frankie feels his heart clench upon learning that you’re a widow. He would have never guessed. At the club, and during the limited time he’s spent with you at the school, you always seem to carry yourself with such an unflappable grace - voice gentle and laughter ready and light. That you do so having suffered such tragedy in your life makes him admire you more than he already does; Frankie’s heart is bursting with emotion and his hands itch to pull you in for a hug. Instead, he clenches his fists and says with as much tenderness as he can, “I’m sorry for your and Raynor’s loss.”

“Thank you,” you say softly; you don’t detect any pity in Frankie’s voice – only sympathy and compassion. You’re grateful for him.

You wouldn’t have predicted it, but this small moment of vulnerability seems to wash away all the awkwardness and hesitancy that you and Frankie never even acknowledged. Your conversation flows easily afterwards, much like it did back in that private room when you would sit in his lap and the two of you would just talk. Talking to Frankie now is as easy as it was then - he’s as good of a listener as you remember and his own stories and comments are shared with an infectious light humour, engaging and inviting. In fact, you end up so engrossed in the conversation, you absentmindedly eat half of Valentina’s snacks – for which Frankie teases you mercilessly. In response, you pull secret snack bags out of your purse and he doubles over in laughter, “You’ve been holding out on me!”

When the kids have had their fill of play and snack, your foursome starts on the walk back to the cars. During this time, you easily pull from Valentina that she prefers your snacks over her fathers; you mockingly pat Frankie on the shoulder and declare that it’s about variety. When Valentina pointedly says to you she hasn’t forgotten about the aquarium playdate, Frankie leans over and whispers, “Now we know why she said your snacks are better,” and you giggle uncontrollably. Frankie thinks his heart might burst out of his chest.

And that’s how your friendship with Frankie Morales begins.

He comes to aquarium on Sunday and the visit is beyond pleasant, all the more so due to the company – you and Frankie hang back while the kids walk hand and hand from exhibit to exhibit, only being called forth when they need an adult to read from info cards about the exotic marine life. The two of you chat animatedly with no awkward pauses, the only breaks coming from gentle looks exchanged when you pause to take in the happiness and joy of your children.

You have to admit, in the darkness of the aquarium, Frankie looks exceptionally handsome – reminding you a little of how he looked in the dim lighting at the club. The shadows cast by the watery tanks accentuate his strong jaw line and aquiline nose, making Frankie’s already striking profile all the more breathtaking. When you unexpectedly see him through the jelly fish tank, a gasp escapes on the soft exhale of your breath at how his expressive eyes catch the light reflecting off the water; he’s really so beautiful. You quickly look away so not to be caught in your ogling – the two of you have only begun to reconnect as friends; you don’t want things to go back to being awkward and stilted just because you can’t keep things appropriate.

The walrus and seal lion show put Raynor and Valentina in such high spirits, that you can’t bear to separate them so soon after; all agree to extend the playdate longer to a fun and lively dinner, where you and Frankie show off your crayon colouring skills on the restaurant placemats. The children declare your masterpieces to be a tie.

Your renewed ease with one another and Raynor and Valentina’s fast blooming friendship lead to more afterschool park playdates with Frankie during the week and you hosting playdates at your house on the weekends. Every so often, Frankie’s friends will organize an activity for the kids; it might be a small cookout, some mini sports game for the kids (t-ball, soccer, touch football), or even one of those famous tea parties that Benny likes so much – but Uncle Santi, Uncle Will and Uncle Ben welcome your son with open arms and you couldn’t be more grateful.

You don’t have any brothers, and one thing you’ve always felt a little insecure about is the lack of male figures in Raynor’s life – you don’t think it means anything’s missing, but the truth is you don’t know how what you can’t provide impacts your young son. You’re thankful for the positive male camaraderie energy and filial love that Frankie and his friends demonstrate and shower upon your son; when you tell Frankie this, his heart shatters and soars at the same time. He finds single fatherhood to be more challenging that he’s sometimes willing to admit, but in some ways, he chose it with open eyes – he can’t imagine what it must have been like to have Raynor’s father, your partner, ripped from you, and have to carry forth taking on both parental roles. Frankie thinks you’re doing a more than admirable job and when he tells you so, you cry a little.

You’ve watched Frankie as a father: he’s kind and doting, gentle and patient when he needs to be, and models for Valentina how to be selfless and considerate. Ever aware of his own and his daughter’s limits and boundaries, he keeps her safe while encouraging her in the most energetic and supportive way in all her endeavours. You find Valentina to be a charming, smart and forthright child, capable of a wonderful mix of compassion, sweetness and playfulness – her outgoing personality is such a welcomed compliment to your son’s sometimes more cautious nature; Raynor’s own strong confidence often tempering her impulsiveness. She’s such a lovely friend to Raynor and you find that you love her very much. You attribute so much of what you love about to Valentina to her fantastic father; for him to compliment your own parenting means the world.

As the months go on, the children’s ever more frequent playdates tie you and Frankie together for most days and even some nights. Daytime play easily extends to include dinners at your respective houses, and somehow dinners start to transition into movie nights on your couch that are spent with the four of you under blankets and passing the popcorn back and forth. On that first night of many where the kids fall asleep before the movie ends, you agree with Frankie that it would be a potential disaster to move Valentina too much when transporting her home and risk a full out melt down – you offer the guest bedroom as a much more amenable option. A relieved Frankie sleeps on the couch.

The next morning, the two of you wake before the children and meet in your kitchen, already bright with sunlight streaming in through the big bay window that overlooks your backyard. You realize with an ache that Francisco does smile at you in the morning light the way he used to in the club: soft and disbelieving. You hope he can’t hear the loud beating of your heart as you make coffee, and try to settle the racing of your heart before the two of your sit at your kitchen counter and enjoy the luxury of a warm cup of coffee in the quiet, a rare respite from needing to cater to the needs of your small children. The quiet conversation during what becomes a regular weekend morning occurrence is always comforting and comfortable; it confirms what you’ve always known: Frankie Morales is a catch.

During these tranquil mornings, there’s always a moment when you have to catch yourself from falling into the dangerous trap of admitting just how attracted to Frankie you are. Sometimes you do deep breathing exercises while you rinse out the coffee cups, other times, you’ll have to step away to ignore how sweet Frankie is when he draws smiley faces on the kids’ waffles with the whipped cream. But you always have to do something. You can’t let yourself fall for Frankie.

As your children grow closer, so naturally do you and Frankie, but neither of you ever bring up your past together at the club. Not a word about how you met or what you shared those months in the summer, and certainly no mention of that last night where you bared your body to him and the two of you shared a kiss that still haunts your dreams. Any time one of you alludes to something about the other that you could have only learned during your time together in the private room, you carry on without acknowledging how you might be privy to that tidbit. It’s as if it never happened. And while those summer months live in your memory as a time when you had felt special and desired, you accept it doesn’t hold the same sentiment for Frankie.

Frankie. Always Frankie. You never ever call or think of him as Francisco. Francisco is a man who only exists in your dreams – a fantasy who openly desired a you who was sexy, in control and mysterious. He was kind, respectful, and made you feel gorgeous and wanted. For your own sanity, you force yourself to separate him from Frankie. Frankie is the father of your son’s best friend. You’re no mystery to him: he sees you at your most frazzled, tired - when you forget it’s pizza day or when you’re so late for drop-off that you’re still tucking your shirt into your skirt while rushing Raynor down the path to school. He’s kind and respectful as well, but about different things – he understands your struggles as a single mom and knows just how to lift your spirits and encourage you when you need it the most or lends a helping hand with the kids and household tasks before you even had to ask. He makes your life happier, lighter.

Francisco had been yours for a short time, and for that you remain grateful, but he wasn’t someone you would ever hold or kiss; you’d never know him like you had known him for those sweet summer months. He was gone.

Frankie is your friend. He’s here now and you don’t ever want to lose him.

You don’t conflate the two men because you can’t – it’s too dangerous to want something that isn’t meant for you. So, you mourn Francisco and you cherish Frankie, always holding yourself back from loving him, except perhaps in the deepest, most secret chambers of your heart.

Raynor’s birthday party is in full swing. You found one of those bouncy castle rental places that set-up inflatables in people’s backyards for a totally reasonable price and now your backyard is full of happy, bouncy kids having the times of their lives tumbling and scrambling through giant blow up houses and castles; there’s even a maze that ends in a massive ball pit. There are kids from school, kids from the neighbourhood, a few of your friends and co-workers’ kids, and even some kids whose moms have moms that play mahjong with yours. Raynor is over the moon and as far as you’re concerned, the more the merrier.

Frankie and Valentina had come over before the party started; Valentina wanting to give her best friend his present early and maybe sneak in some extra bouncy castle time. While the kids bounced, Frankie helped you set-up tables and chairs and inquired if he could run the BBQ for you; you had protested, saying that you would be able to handle it, but Frankie insisted. Now that the party is underway, you have to admit that between greeting all the kids and parents, supervising the bouncy castles and making sure that drinks and snacks are readily available, you would have struggled to cook lunch as well. As a bonus, you admit, grinning to yourself, Frankie is looking pretty good at the grill.

Getting an early start on dishes before prepping the cake, you have the perfect view of Frankie through your kitchen window; turning over hotdogs with his tongs and plating cooked hamburger patties in an adorable blue apron, Frankie looks positively delicious. His tan face brightened by his good mood and sweat from the heat of the grill dotting his rugged neck, he’s smiling a smile that reveals his elusive dimple as he takes pride and joy in his domestic responsibility.

Maybe, you think, just maybe you can allow yourself just one moment of fantasy where the food Frankie’s currently grilling is the main course to a side salad you’re preparing in the kitchen of the house the two of you share. And he’ll come in when the meat’s done the way he knows you like and wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing sweet, but hungry kisses to your neck before murmuring cheekily that he really could eat. In your daydream, you squeal when he spins you around with blinding speed before sighing into the slow, tender kiss pressed to your lips.

And perhaps your imagination might even take your make believe even further if at that exact moment you didn’t see Amanda, your mom’s mahjong friend’s daughter sauntering up to the grill flirtatiously. The happy illusion you conjured dissolves as you watch her chat up Frankie and put her arm on his bulging bicep just before his piercing brown eyes crinkle and he throws his head back in a loud laugh at her touch.

Immediately, your eyes fill with tears and the devastating scene in front of you blurs. Unable to stop them from spilling over, you strip off your dishwashing gloves and run to the bathroom as quickly as you can; locking the door behind you, you lean over the sink and sob.

Stupid. Stupid. Why are you crying? Frankie isn’t yours.

If anything – he’s less likely to be yours than anyone else’s; the two of you forever separated by your shared past at the club that embarrasses him so. And yet, you can’t help wanting him, and not even Francisco, but Frankie – the considerate man who derives simple joy from helping others, whose unwavering support has made you a more lighthearted, joyful parent, and who has readily taken up the mantle of being a calm and stable presence in your son’s life. It seems this same Frankie can also be flirty and coy, but that was for other women. Not you.

Stupid. Stupid. He doesn’t want you.

But you still wanted him. Gosh, you wanted him so much. But he isn’t yours to have.

It's so dumb to cry over a boy, you tell the tear-stained you in the mirror. You grin, imaging yourself saying that to an older Valentina one day; but even that small comfort is ripped from you as you realize with sadness that it may not be your place. No. Frankie will meet someone, it’s inevitable. He’s sweet, smart, funny and kind, and stupidly gorgeous – one day, there will be a woman who captures his heart and then you’ll have to give up your friendship for fear of succumbing to a broken heart.

Wiping away your tears and cleaning up the best you can, you tell mirror you to get it together. It’s your son’s birthday – today is about him and not your pathetic pining over his best friend’s father. The comically accusatory look you give yourself galvanizes you enough to exit the bathroom, and you walk back to the kitchen ready to finish your chores and check in on the party. Instead, you find the object of all your desires and the source of your current distress waiting for you in the kitchen.

---

Frankie’s sweating – the BBQ is hot and the party guests are gobbling up everything he cooks before he even has a chance to put more on the grill. As sweltering as it is, he’s very glad to play grill master if it means one less thing for you to have to do. He’s spent most of the party watching you juggle your multiple roles with hurried grace: mom, party host, snack fetcher, drink refiller, clean-up crew, boo-boo fixer. When he saw you bravely dive into the ball pit to help a child find her lost shoe, he had grinned to himself so goofily he almost burned the chicken wings. He didn’t think he could be more hopelessly in love with you, but he should have known you would prove him wrong, as you often did with matters of his heart. The only downside to being stationed at the BBQ is that he hasn’t spent any time with you today. He thinks he saw you duck back into the house with a stack of dirty dishes – have you eaten today? He closes up the grill and does a quick check on Valentina and Raynor before plating you some food and heading in.

He's just been standing in the kitchen wondering where you were for a few minutes when you emerge looking a bit off coloured and somewhat startled to see him.

In what has now practically become second nature, Frankie forces his body to ignore the near constant urge to reach out to you – his immediate impulse being to hold you close and stroke your face with his fingers to soothe and comfort you. You wouldn’t want that, though.

Instead, he shows his concern another way; holding out the plate of food in front of him, he looks at you with some tenderness, “Have you eaten, Shortcake?”

Heart racing upon hearing this long lost term of endearment, you’re too stunned speak, able only to silently shake your head in response.

Frankie knows that you’ll come up with some excuse to put your needs behind that of the party goers, so he puts the plate down on and guides you to sit before you can do so, “You have to eat. I’ll keep an eye out on things from here.”

Admittedly, you’re starving and the food Frankie’s brought you smells mouth watering good; with a small nod of thanks, you acquiesce. For several minutes there’s a comfortable silence while you eat and Frankie looks out the window to keep watch on the party. Between bites, you gaze adoringly at the handsome profile of the sweet man before you - he knew you hadn’t eaten and he came to take care of you, feed you with food he cooked himself. Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness and quietly you say, “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”

Frankie looks back at you. He doesn’t need to ask what you mean, “I didn’t think I should. Not in front of the other parents.”

You nod, understanding, “I guess it would be rather embarrassing to have to explain.”

Brows furrowing, Frankie looks at you for a beat before turning to face you fully, trying to keep his voice even, “I want you to know, I would never tell anyone about the club… please know, I’m not embarrassed by it and I don’t think you should be either… not saying you are, just that you don’t have any reason to be… but some people can be weird and judgemental about that kind of thing… I want you to rest assured that I won’t ever put you in a position like that.”

It’s the first time since the start of the school year that Frankie’s acknowledged how the two of you met or even mentioned the club – it never occurred to you that his avoidance of the topic was to protect you. For the billionth time since you met him, you’re touched by the considerate nature of this man, “Thank you, Frankie. I wasn’t worried that you would, but I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Always, Shortcake.”

The two of you exchange a soft smile, not unlike the ones you used to share back at The Midnight Palace, as if you’re each thinking back to your time together there. Afraid of becoming too wistful, Frankie jokes lamely, “Plus, I would be outing myself as a loser who has to pay a beautiful woman to talk to me every two weeks.”

Even if he’s saying it like a joke, there’s an undercurrent of melancholy to Frankie’s tone that you don’t understand – but you try to reassure him anyways, “No, no - don’t say that, Frankie. I could never think you’re a loser. And it was never about the money for me – I wanted to talk to you, really.”

Lifting his cap and running his hand through his hair before rubbing the back of his neck, Frankie chuckles softly, “Ok, thanks… that’s good to hear.”

It strikes you that he may be looking for some similar reassurance that you won’t “out” him, the way he had assured you, “And same here. I would never share that about you. You’re right, you never know how people might react to that kind of thing. I look back at the time we spend together so fondly and I’m so very appreciative of how well you treated me… I could never forgive myself if how we met somehow caused you any problems, or got in the way of anything you wanted. So, please don’t worry about me telling anyone either.”

Your wording choice seems a bit odd to Frankie, but still, his heart perks up a little to hear you say that your memories of your time together at the club are pleasant, and he simply says, “Ok, thank you.”

You didn’t realize that having this unspoken thing between you and Frankie had been like an albatross around your neck, but suddenly you feel a lot happier and cheery. Having finished your food, you clean up after yourself and head to the fridge, chirping, “Do you mind helping me with the cake?”

You know Frankie’s answer without even seeing him nod; this generous man has never turned down an opportunity to help you. When you place the cake in front of him, he beams, “Oooh! Strawberry shortcake! My favourite.”

Smiling, you say somewhat shyly, “I remember.” Your mind immediately travels back to sitting in Frankie’s lap, scantily clad, the very glitter gel that inspired him to tell you this fact about himself spread generously over the ample curve of your breasts. Frankie’s mind goes straight to the same memory and his face reddens.

Practically stuttering, you try to explain, “… but that’s not why I made it! Raynor requested the cake!”

Your flustering doing nothing but endearing you to him further, Frankie can’t help but tease, “Sure, sure.”

You swat at his arm, playfully, “He did!”

Grinning, Frankie lets you off the hook, “Okay, okay - lil’ dude has good taste in cake then.”

And though your heart is still far from healed, this is the best you’ve ever felt around Frankie, so reminiscent of how he and you would flirt and tease back when you first met, easy laughter always coming naturally to the two of you. You smile gratefully at him and pretend not to notice when he steals two strawberries off the top of the cake while you go to get the candles.

---

“Hey, come look.” Frankie calls to you softly from the kitchen doorway that leads to the living room. Putting down the containers of leftover food you were trying to fit into the fridge, you wander over to be greeted by the sight of Raynor and Valentina completely passed out on the couch.

A smile comes over your face when you hear their peaceful snores and you whisper to Frankie, “Can I admit something to you? It’s been ages since Raynor dropped his nap, but sometimes I really miss it.”

“Oh, I know. Sometimes I want to say to Valentina that she might be willing to give up naps, but I never agreed to forgo MY nap.” The two of you chuckle heartily.

If it were Friday or Saturday, you would offer to let them sleep and then stay up for a late sleepover, but tomorrow is the start of the school week, “What do you say we let them sleep for… an hour? Enough to burn off today’s sugar, but not too long to ruin bedtime?”

“Sounds good. I can help you clean up.”

You try to protest, Frankie has already helped so much with the party today, “Oh! Don’t feel like you need to at all! You’ve already helped me so much today, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. You really can just put on some TV or something. Sit and relax, I’ll bring you a drink.”

Frankie cocks his eyebrow at you, and it takes you a minute to realize the humour in you offering to serve him a drink.

“No! That’s not what I was… shut up!” you laugh, spinning to return to the kitchen with Frankie following, snickering.

The two of you in good moods start to do the dishes, you washing and him drying – him knowing where to put things away, having done this with you many times over the last several months. It’s quiet and comfortable. You hum to yourself a little, and while you seem content – the party having gone off without a hitch, Frankie can’t help but remember the sad look on your face from when he had come into the kitchen earlier to bring you food. He could have sworn you had been crying.

“You had an okay day, Shortcake?”

You nod, “Just a little tired, maybe? But it was so worth it. The kids all had so much fun!”

It was just like you to put others before yourself, Frankie thinks; he finds it to be one of your sweetest traits, but wishes you would take care of yourself too. Maybe let someone take care of you. He tries to push down the plea from his heart that wishes he could be that someone.

He’d like to think he’s gotten rather good at reading you after all this time together and is sure that there’s something still bothering you. While he dries the dishes, he thinks back to your conversation earlier; it had a been a long time coming and he’s glad the two of you finally ripped the band aid off the one topic you never seemed to talk about. He didn’t know how heavily your opinion of the time you shared in the private room mattered to him until he heard you say that you looked back upon it fondly. Upon him fondly. That you hadn’t thought him a total creep. He had felt a weight lifted off him immediately, and in truth, a little hope started to burrow into his heart that maybe that time had meant something to you the way it did him. He suddenly recalls something you said that he remembers puzzling over, but hadn’t asked you about at the time.

“What did you mean earlier when you said you didn’t want how we met to ‘get in the way’? Get in the way of what? You said something I wanted.”

“Oh,” you look down, embarrassed at the tears that are starting to form at just the thought of Frankie dating, “I just meant… like you said, sometimes people get weird and judgmental about strip clubs… and if you were interested in someone… like that girl, Amanda? I wouldn’t… I mean…” You’re tripping over your words. The last thing you want to talk about is Frankie being interested in someone else, the whole concept feels like a vice around your heart. “… you shouldn’t be judged for something like how you and I met before they get a chance to know you. You’re so sweet and respectful, and just kind and such a good father… but… I… any girl would be lucky to date you. And I would never want to get in the way of that,” you finish lamely.

“Is that what you want, hermosa?” Frankie takes a step forward, causing you to look up.

There’s a look in Frankie’s eye that you haven’t seen before. No, wait – that isn’t exactly true. You’ve seen it before but on Francisco’s face. It was the expression he had sometimes when you would just look at each other, no words exchanged – one filled with longing and desperation.

“You want me to date other girls?” he practically spits out the words, as if they don’t belong anywhere near his mouth.

You don’t know how to answer, except honestly. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” you say quietly.

Frankie looks at your fallen face and thinks he might have to walk back his earlier self assessment that he knows how to read you. You seemed sad, disappointed – but why? A big part of him just wants to comfort you and make you feel better, regardless of the cause of your unhappiness; but another part of him, the part where hope had been planted earlier and is starting to grow at a rapid pace, watered by the mere idea that you might care at all who he dated, has to know if you feel something for him. His selfishness wins out and he decides to go for broke, “It matters to me what you want.”

Your eyes soften at this declaration, and the downturn of your mouth rights itself slightly into a quizzical ‘O’, but still you say nothing so Frankie presses on.

“It matters because I’ve thought about you every single day since I met you. The whole summer, all I thought about your sweet laugh and the way you always smiled at me like what I was saying mattered to you. And how those pretty eyes of yours would light up every time you said something you already knew was really funny and you were just waiting to see if I would catch on and laugh. I thought about what it would be like to take you out, court you, treat you like you deserve. Hold you without a time limit,” the look Frankie gives you at this confession is of both despair and relief, as a dam has broken and now nothing can stop his words from overflowing.

“And since that first day of school when I found you again, I’ve only thought of you more. I think of the way you’re so full of patience and compassion, and that your son is so kind and considerate because of you. And that my daughter and I are so lucky to have you both in our lives. I think about how Valentina told you once that she liked those cheese biscuits you made, and now every time you bring her a snack, there’s always at least one included. I think about how you always take of others and how everyone around you is happier for being in your presence. I think about how I want to take care of you too. I think about how I used to think you were beautiful in that club, but now you blow me away time I see you at school, or in the park, or when we’re just hanging out with the kids. I think the way you look in the kitchen on those mornings when it’s just you and me before the kids wake up is the most gorgeous a person has ever looked. It makes me think about how much I wish I was waking up next to you instead of just meeting you in the kitchen. I think about what it would be like to fall asleep holding you. I think about making you feel good, the way you deserve to feel good. I think about what it would be like to take you to bed and make you scream my name.” You’ve never heard Frankie talk like this before and your breath hitches in your throat – this is everything and more that you’ve always dreamed of hearing him say; you’re afraid to interrupt, for fear he might say it’s a mistake and take it all back.

Frankie seems to collect himself, calming, “Did you know the night I went to the club and you were gone, I was going to ask you out?” You shake your head, you didn’t know – you had harboured your own hopes, of course, that you and Francisco might see each other outside of the club, but the possibility seemed so slim and laughable, you had never even spoken them out loud.

“The guys finally hyped me enough to convince me you might say yes. I wasn’t sure, you know? I only saw you every two weeks, and I thought I was probably making more of our time together than it really was… it would have been perfectly within your rights if you were… just doing your job, you know?” Frankie is miserable at the thought. In truth, he still harbours this insecurity – since the two of you have reconnected, you haven’t given him any indication that you had thought him as more than just some patron you had to entertain every two weeks. Then again, the two of you never spoke of the time at the club at all; he had worried that this was a sent message in and of itself. Moreover, you haven��t said anything since he started his confession and he’s starting to think he might just be humiliating himself and ruining your friendship at the same time.

You shake your head violently. No, no, no. This won’t do at all! You really don’t know how Frankie could have ever thought that, but then again, you had thought he was ashamed of your time together – you can’t let another minute go by without him knowing how you felt, how he made you feel, “No, please, Frankie – don’t ever think that please. It wasn’t my job – I never went to the room with anyone but you. I never wanted to go with anyone but you. I only wanted you. I looked forward to out time together and every two weeks never felt like enough. You were so sweet and respectful, and you made me feel so perfect and desired, and so very cherished. I wanted you more than you know, Frankie. Everything that happened in that room, everything I said, everything we did – I loved it all. It was real to me.”

“Yeah?” Frankie’s feels hope he’s never felt before when he sees you smile and nod, “When you weren’t there, I was so confused. You didn’t say goodbye, so I didn’t know if something had happened to you, or if you were sick, or… I don’t know. Then I realized, you didn’t owe me a goodbye – I was just some guy whose lap you sat in…”

“Oh baby,” you reach out to touch his face. Baby. Frankie closes his eyes and leans into your touch.

“I’m so sorry! I wanted to leave you a message, but I… didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what was okay to ask from you. Maybe I was just a girl who sat in your lap, you know?”

Eyes still closed, Frankie nuzzles deeper into your palm, “No, hermosa… you weren’t. You’re so much more than that. You’re everything to me.”

Tears now prick at the corners of your eyes for a much happier reason and you cup Frankie’s face fully in your hands and soothe him by scratching his scruff, hoping he’ll recall the affectionate gesture as you say sincerely, “I would have said yes.”

“Hmmm?” Frankie revels in the feel of your soft strokes on his face – this simple but loving gesture taking him back to the club when he had you to himself, when his want for you always simmered close to the surface but where he wasn’t allowed to let it boil over. But he’s not at the club now.

Smiling wide, your heart bursts with joy and affection for this sweet man in front of you that you’ve wanted for so long - you never want him to be unsure of your feelings for him ever again, “I would have said yes, if you had asked me out.”

“Yeah?” Finally allowing himself to believe that you return his affections, that you’ve always felt the same for him as he did you, Frankie opens his eyes and allows his grin to overtake his face.

He’s so cute and boyish when he smiles like this – you spy that cute dimple making its appearance again and you beam back, “Yeah.”

Happy emotions spilling over, Frankie breathes out the question that he’s wished to ask since the first night he laid eyes on you, “Can I touch you, Shortcake?”

Voice husky and so full of need you’re practically vibrating, you nod with conviction, “Yes please, Francisco.”

Upon hearing his full name roll so sweetly off your tongue, the only name you ever called him back at the club, Frankie closes the remaining distance and is on you in an instant - lips crashing to yours with a force that nearly knocks you off your feet. His hands immediately encircle your waist to catch you just as you throw your arms around his neck and pull him close.

It’s another first kiss of sorts, this one needy and expressive and full of emotions previously thought unrequited. You kiss Frankie like you can’t quite believe you are, part of you still can’t - by some miracle of a second chance, he’s here: Francisco is here and he’s real. And he’s also Frankie, who knows you in the real world and still wants you. The very thought makes you dizzy and you take off his worn cap so you can thread your fingers through his soft curls for something to ground yourself.

Your mouths clash and tangle, every brush of your lips is frenzied, desperate, greedy. Frankie urges you to open your mouth to his and when you welcome him, he licks in, over and over, exploring and claiming every soft moan you emit as his own. His tongue slides alongside yours reassuringly and lets itself be captured by your teeth; you teasingly tug and suck on the muscle before letting it invade your mouth once more.

You’ve dreamt about your and Francisco’s first kiss a hundred times, but this, this first kiss with Frankie is something for the books. He can touch you – his hands won’t stop touching you and it makes your entire body sing. Frankie cradles you head in his big hands and lightly tugs your hair back so that you arch into to him. Once he’s satisfied, his hands roam your back, stroking up and down your spine with that just right pressure that toes the line between relaxing and electrifying; you want to melt into his touch and let him caress you with this type of reverence everywhere. Then when his hands wander down over the plush globes of your ass with feather light touches, you giggle from the ticklish feel only to dissolve into a puddle when he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and kneads – his hands so big that the tips of his fingers nearly graze the core of you that’s already warm and clenching just from all this kissing. And throughout all this touching, as if to make up for lost time, Frankie never stops kissing you. He kisses you like he’s been starving for your touch, because he has – and now that he’s been given the go ahead to satiate his hunger, he positively devours you. You think you might pass out from the way Frankie kisses.

As he continues to overwhelm your senses, Frankie slowly walks you backwards towards the dining table and helps you hop on top; without being asked, you spread your legs to accommodate his width as he presses himself against your centre; unable to help from grinding against him, you’re sure Frankie can feel how wet you are through your leggings. You lean back, putting yourself on display and he takes the invitation readily, kissing down your neck sensually and teasing you slowly - a marked contrast from how greedy he’s been with your mouth. First, he lets loose breathy groans by your ear right before lightly nibbling your earlobe and leaving you shivering. Then, Frankie places fluttering kisses that alternate with the nuzzling from his strong nose below your ear; the subsequent transition to open mouth kisses, all nips and sucks, down your neck that ending in the laving of his tongue across your collar bones has you gasping for air.

Lightheaded and giddy, all you can do is take and whimper words of praise that have Frankie moaning against your skin:

“Oh god, Frankie, that feels so good.”

“Fuck, baby, right there… yes, oh god, right there.”

“Never stop, please. Please, Francisco, I’ve wanted this for so long, I – OH!”

Frankie’s hands have found your chest, groping and palming – somehow managing to zero in on your nipples even through the layers of your shirt and lingerie. He pinches and twists, tugs and rolls as you throw your head back and positively whine. Chuckling into the sweet spot at the bottom of your neck, he murmurs, “Can’t wait to see you in some slutty lacy thing again, Shortcake.”

You’re practically bucking into him now - wet and throbbing, all the build up to this moment has the waves of your desire and arousal cresting shamefully quick; you’re starting to feel the telltale coil below your belly tighten when you realize with a start - “Frankie! We can’t! The children!”

Frankie looks like he wants to say something else as he pauses in his efforts, but he stops and presses his forehead to yours, panting, “Right, the children.” And mutters something about how this might be worse than the no touching rule.

You giggle.

Looking at you with a mixture of unadulterated joy and devotion, Frankie finally asks, months in the making, “Next weekend when Valentina’s at her mom’s, can I take you out, Shortcake? Like a real date? Dinner?”

Shyly, you nod, “It’s a date, Francisco.” And you press your lips hard to the giant grin that spreads across Frankie’s face, catching a glimpse of that dimple you love so much before closing your eyes and sighing in happiness.

---

*Bzzzz*Bzzzz*

“Hey Frankie!” Already laying into bed, you answer your phone - giddy when you see the caller ID.

“Hey Shortcake.” You can hear Frankie’s smile.

“I miss you already.”

“I miss you too, baby.”

“Did everything go okay with bedtime?”

“Uhhhhhhhh….”

“Same here. Valentina fought sleep like it was her job.”

“Raynor tried to bribe me with a ‘it’s my birthday’.”

“Little devils,” Frankie chuckles good naturedly, unable to hide his affection for your children.

“Totally. We can’t ever let them gang up on us! It would be the end, I fear.”

“Can’t be the end, baby. It’s only the beginning for us.”

“I’m so excited for our date, Frankie.”

“Me, too hermosa. I’m going to wine and dine you like you deserve.”

“What about the other thing you said you wanted to do, Francisco?” You’re feeling cheeky.

“The other thing?”

“Something about making me scream your name?”

Immediately, he’s stuttering, “Oh… fuck, sorry. I- that was out of line. I promise, I don’t expect anything like that…”

“Frankie.”

“I would never put any pressure on you for sex or for anythin-“

“Frankie.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you might like to make me scream your name right now?” Suddenly shy, you cover your face even though Frankie can’t see you.

His head spins, “Wh- oh, fuck. Yes, baby.”

Your voice breathy and low, “You want to know what I’m wearing, Francisco?”

“More than anything.”

“I’m wearing that black lacy bra and panty set from the club,” you had put it on after getting ready for bed, inspired to set the mood for a solo session starring Frankie, but then he had called.

“The one from our last night together?”

“Mmmmhmmmm…. Do you remember, baby?”

Frankie groans, picturing you and the lace set so perfectly in his mind, “Remember? I can’t get the image out of my mind. You know what it felt like to see you at school everyday in your pretty work clothes and know that underneath is the sexiest, hottest body I’ve ever seen?”

“Tell me what you liked about it, please.”

“So polite, baby. Such a good girl.”

You actually whimper. “Thank you, Frankie.”

“Love your pretty mouth, Shortcake. And love how that pretty lace sits on those curves of yours. Your ass bouncing just right, peeking out below the fabric. Love how those gorgeous tits of yours look, ready to spill over the tops of your bra.”

“Ohhh… Frankie baby. If we were back in that room and you could touch me, what would you do to me?”

“Holy shit, hermosa. So many things…”

“Tell me, please.”

“First I’d ask you to dance and touch yourself like you did the last time, but over your bra.”

“Nghhh-huhhhh.” You feel a warmth spread over your skin, remembering how sexy and desired Francisco always made you feel.

“Are you touching yourself right now, baby?”

Fingers tingling from just his voice, you run your hands over your breasts, softly rubbing and massaging, imagining your small hands are his. “Yes, Frankie.”

“Good girl, baby. Feel those pretty tits for me, ‘kay? I want you to grab them, be a little rough with them.”

“Oh god, yes…”

“How do they feel, hermosa?”

“The lace is smooth but the edges tickle my fingers. My tits feel so soft and full, but Francisco, baby… they’re aching for you.”

“I’m right here, Shortcake. Hook those little fingers of yours in your bra and think about me pulling those lace cups down and playing with your pretty nipples when they pop out.”

“Please, yes… daddy.” The honorific just falls from your mouth, wrapped around a soft moan that emanates from the very chest you’ve now uncovered. Yes, he may be a dad, but right now, as you arch your tits up towards the ceiling towards his imagined touch, Frankie is also your daddy.

No one has ever called him that before, but fuck if Frankie’s dick didn’t just twitch. “Oh fuck, baby… Daddy’s going to take real good care of you.”

“Feels so good… they’re so hard for you.”

“If I we were at the club, I’d roll them in between my fingers, pinching and pulling on them until you cried out, hermosa.”

You tug a little harder on your nipples at his words, before letting them drop, letting your breasts jiggle, “It hurts… but it hurts so good, daddy.”

“Let daddy kiss it better, Shortcake. You’ll feel even better when I suck on your pretty tits, baby, don’t you think?”

“Ohhhh goddddd, yes please, daddy. Want you sucking on my nipples and flicking them with your tongue.”

“Holy sh-. Run your thumbs over them gently, ‘kay? I wanna suck on those pretty peaks until you cry. I still remember them from that night, so perky and pointy. Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Francisco. I love being your pretty girl.”

“You are my pretty girl. Tell me what my pretty girl wants now.”

“I wish you were here to touch me, baby.” Your voice comes out needy, bratty.

“Need your words, hermosa. Where? Tell me where you want my fingers and daddy will give you what you want.”

“My pussy, please. I want you to touch my cunt, daddy.”

“Didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth on you, baby.”

“I’m going to keep my lips and tongue on those gorgeous tits of yours and start to drag my hands down your sexy body. Think I’ll take my time tickling your stomach and hips.”

“Then when you’re squirming and begging for more, that’s when I’ll dip my hand down the front of those lacy black panties.”

You follow the guidance of his words and goosebumps rise on your skin in the wake of everywhere you drag your fingers. “Ohhhhh... baby. You’re making feel so good. I’m so wet, Francisco.”

“Want you to tell me, baby - are you touching that pussy the way you want to be touched?”

“Yes, daddy. I’m petting my pussy so slow and gentle and I love it, but I don’t want you to be gentle.”

“I know, Shortcake, and I’m not going be. Waited too long for this to be gentle. Tell daddy how wet you are.”

“I’m so wet, daddy – I’ve soaked through these panties and I’m dripping out of my needy hole.”

“Can you hear how I’m spreading it everywhere, even all over my swollen clit?”

“Holy fucking shit, Shortcake, the mouth on you.”

“I’m your dirty girl, Francisco. My dirty mouth is all yours. Wish I could take your cock in this mouth.”

“Jesus. Baby, I’m supposed to be making you scream, not the other way around. Slip a finger into that slutty little cunt for me, hermosa.”

“Ohhhh god yes, baby, I’m tight. My pussy is hugging my finger so close. Wish it was yours.”

“Oh, Shortcake, if you wanted it to be me, you would need to add a finger or two.”

You hiss at the stretch, “Gahhhhhhh – oh fuck, Frankie! It’s too much.”

“How many, baby? How many did you add while you were thinking of my thick fingers?”

“Two more, daddy. It’s too much, please.” Whining now, you feel stuffed and full, the slight sting turning you on even more and a fresh wave of arousal coats your hand.

“No, don’t take them out. Need you to stretch out your pretty hole for me.” Frankie’s tone is dark and stern, and it makes you clench down on your slippery fingers.

“Uhhhh... Fuckkk. Francisco, I can take it. Please.”

“Baby, your fingers are no match for this dick. This dick is going to ruin you.”

“I can feel my pussy gushing and dripping down my wrist.”

“If we were back in the club, I’d take your hand and lick those fingers until you were clean.”

“Frankie. Mhhmmmhhhhmhhh.” You make sure Frankie can hear you stuff you glistening fingers in your mouth and every single slurping and smacking noise you make as you lick them clean of your own juices.

“So fucking dirty. Fuck, I’m so hard for you baby. Need to get you ready so I can feed you my cock. You want that, Shortcake?”

“Yes, oh yes please daddy. All I ever wanted back in the club was to sink down on your thick cock. Wanted you to fuck me till I was cock drunk and dumb.”

“I’ll give you everything you want, baby but we have to prep that greedy cunt of yours, okay? If you want my cock, put three fingers back in baby.”

“So big, daddy.” Sighing, you ease your wet fingers back in; the squelching sound of your fingers sliding through your slick makes you quiver with anticipation.

“Do you know now much I wanted to taste you when we were in the club?”

“Oh god, Francisco. Please.”

“Wanted to run my tongue over that pussy of yours. I knew it would be the prettiest pussy I ever saw.”

“Your pussy, baby. This pussy is only yours.” You sigh at the simple truth of your words as you work your fingers in and out of your cunt, pretending they’re Frankie’s.

“You still have my pussy stuffed full of your fingers, Shortcake?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl. Now use your other hand to rub your little clit and pretend it’s me stroking it with my tongue.”

“Uhhhhhhh, nghhhh, fuckkkkkkk, Frankie… your tongue feels so good against my slippery clit. Are you touching yourself, baby?”

“Got my cock out the minute you told me you were wearing that same slutty lingerie you wore at the club, hermosa.”

“Did you like what I wore at the club, Francisco?”

“Hell yes, sweetheart. Everything you wore made me so hard. You made me so fucking hard. Made me want to rip those skimpy outfits off of you with my teeth.”

“I wish you did. Wish you were here to do that right now.” You look down and see your tits, having spilled over the band of your bra, bouncing while both of your hands are stuffed in your panties, and you visualize looking down past your feet and seeing Frankie’s gaze upon you with his big dick in his meaty hand, “Stroke yourself for me, daddy.”

“Stroking my cock right now, imagining what it would feel like in your tight little pussy, Shortcake.” His hands glide over his length, throbbing just from thinking about the way you’re stretching out your cunt so that you can take him.

“Wanna feel your thick cock in my pussy, Francisco. Can’t wait for you to ruin me.”

“Going to wreck that little hole of yours, hermosa.”

“Need you so bad, daddy. Can you hear how wet you’re making me? I’m going to come so soon.” The wet sounds of your fingers pumping in and out of your pussy fill your bedroom - an obscene percussive beat to the song of your moans and cries; your arousal leaking down your ass and making a mess of your sheets underneath. Frankie can hear it all and your whorish symphony urges him thrust into his fist faster to keep up.

“Keep rubbing that clit for me, Shortcake.”

“Wish I could see you, baby. Wish I could see what your pretty face looks like right now, imagining my fingers curling deep inside that sweet pussy.”

“Can’t wait until you give me that dripping wet cunt and I show you what I want do to you.”

“Please!! Francisco. I’m close! Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“I’m going to lick your clit until it’s swollen and puffy then I’m going to suck and nibble it with my teeth until you push my head away.”

“Gonna pound into that pretty pussy until your walls are stretched and bruised.”

“You won’t be able to breath. I’ll punch every breath out of your lungs.”

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream that this is my pussy.”

“My pussy.”

“To fuck.”

“To ruin.”

“To wreck so no other man will ever be able to fill you the way I do.”

“Fuck you the way that I do.”

“Fuck you stupid like I do.”

“Fuck you until you don’t know your own name.”

“Fuck you until you’re just a cock drunk slut who isn’t good for anything other cock.”

“My cock.”

“Frankieeee! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…. Frankie I’m coming…. I’m coming, daddy, I’m coming!” You seize and cry out to his name, chanting it over and over like a prayer as your orgasm overtakes all your limbs and you arch off your bed, practically pushing out your fingers from how hard you’re clenching down.

“Ohhhh fuck, hermosa.” Frankie’s grunts are followed by heavy panting, his uneven breaths as he comes down from his high like music to your ears.

“Daddy, I came so hard.” You giggle as you wipe your cum covered fingers on your stomach.

“Me too, Shortcake.” You can hear him grinning through the receiver.

“Really? I made you feel good, Frankie?” You wish so much that he was next to you right now.

“Always, baby. You always make me feel good. The best.”

“Good. You made me ruin my sheets.”

“And I made you scream my name.”

“Just like you promised.”

“I always keep my promises, Shortcake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I promise I’m always going to take care of you, baby. Never letting you go again.”

“Oh, Frankie… how did I get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one, hermosa. My perfect woman, screaming my name while she comes. I’m living in a dream, I swear.”

“I always come so hard when it’s you, Frankie. But it’s never been like this.”

“Yeah? You touch yourself to the thought of me a lot?”

“Yes, daddy. Always you.”

“I think of you all the time too, hermosa. Always make such a mess, just like I did tonight.”

“If we were together right now, I would clean you up with my tongue.”

“Fuck… baby, you’re going to make me hard again.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Francisco.”

“That’s what I’m going to make sure of, Shortcake. You’re always going to have a good time with me. Going to make sure you come every time.”

“I believe you, daddy.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. The moment I met you in that club, I knew you would make me feel so good with your hands. And your tongue. And your cock.”

“Jesus... Baby, what did I say? Don’t start what you can’t stop, because if you keep talking like that I’m going to be hard again really soon.”

“Well, I’m still sloppy and wet, daddy. Ready to scream your name again.”

“You’re a dream, Shortcake. I’m going to make sure you come harder than you ever have. Tonight, tomorrow, every day after.”

“Promise, Francisco?”

“Promise. And I don’t break my promises.”

“Ok, daddy. Show me what you got. Just remember, tomorrow is a school day, so we can’t be up too late.”

“I also don’t make promises I know I can’t keep, Shortcake. Now be a good girl and take off those messy panties.”

Epilogue

Tagging a few people who commented on Part 1 they were interested in Part 2 (thank you! 🥹): @aurorawritestoescape @magpiepills @pastelpinkflowerlife @southernbe @heareball

@mermaidxatxheart @nandan11 @mellymbee @jessthebaker @milla-frenchy

@littlemissoblivious @tuquoquebrute @inept-the-magnificent @posting-my-time

#frankie morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #no y/n

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fqreverwinter · 8 months ago

Text

“enchanted”

— — — —

relationship: loki x fem!reader

summary: you meet loki in a chance encounter at the winter ball, and he absolutely steals your heart. but the encounter ended much too soon, leaving you wondering if he ever felt the same way.

warnings: none! :)

word count: 3.2k

notes: WOW has it been a while! i honestly lost interest in posting, but i never lost interest in writing. i finally had the energy to finish this short that i began after speak now (tv) was released last summer, and i couldn’t not share it. so please enjoy!!!! it is inspired by enchanted (tv) by taylor swift!!

masterlist

The grand ballroom of the Asgardian palace was aglow with warm lights and excited chatter. The golden walls radiated from the energy of the party. The floor was filled with men and women: talking, dancing, laughing, and drinking.

It was the annual winter celebration ball. Royalty, politicians, and socialites from all nine realms were invited to Asgard to celebrate the winter season and accomplishments from the past year. It was an exclusive yet highly-anticipated event. Everyone dreamed of an invite to the party. Ladies commissioned dresses months in advance, hoping to be the most beautiful girl there.

It was your first year in attendance. Your parents had gone ever since you were born. Your father was a consult to the Asgardian throne, hailing from Vanaheim. He traveled across the realms at least twice a year, always including this illustrious event. You dreamt of going since you were little. You constantly daydreamed of the dress you would wear, how you would do your makeup, and all the boys that you would dance with.

At sixteen, you were finally of age to come. Your mother helped you pick out the dress you were currently donning: a stunning dark green ball gown, draped in velvet and adorned with gold pearls. It was everything you could have ever dreamed of. You felt absolutely stunning.

However, the ball itself was dreadfully boring to you. You expected to be blown away by the crowd, having the most enriching conversations and dancing until dawn with a handful of young men. But you were stuck against a pillar, crossing your arms as you scanned the floor.

You were let down. In your mind, this ball was a scene for magic and ultimate grandeur. It was a fairytale - something you would have read in a book when you were little. But now that you were here, you realized it was nothing like that. It was a political scene, a show of wealth. There was nothing for you to do; no boys to whisk you away or girls to gossip with in the corner.

A few people spoke to you in the beginning when your parents were still by your side. They asked you about basic things, such as your studies and your interests. Nothing deeper than surface-level information. You faked smiles and laughs during these conversations, ignoring the pit of disappointment deep in your stomach. As your parents disappeared deeper into the party, so did your social interactions.

The golden walls once lit with excitement became dull. Everything seemed like a facade. There was no real beauty in this room. It was a show, an insincere display for you to judge others and for others to judge you. It no longer seemed like a privilege to be invited, more like a formality.

You sighed and leaned further into the pillar. You looked around, noticing others faking laughs and making faces at those they did not like. You wished you were home in bed with a book, not hiding in a corner in a dress that was feeling gradually more suffocating.

Suddenly, you saw him. A pair of striking blue eyes met yours from across the room. Your heart skipped a beat as you locked in on him. Unable to look away, you took in his features: those beautiful eyes, raven hair, pale skin, sharp cheekbones. He was tall, thin, and utterly graceful. But his eyes—oh, those eyes. They were bright yet broken, sparkling yet sad. You felt like you could see his whole life in his eyes. They were fixated on you, as you were fixated on them. He seemed to be searching his mind, perhaps wondering if he had seen you somewhere before. Your mind began to race when you noticed his silhouette moving closer and closer to you, pushing past others in the crowd. His eyes were still focused on you.

He made his way up the steps, now just a few feet away from you. You reached for the emerald charm on your necklace and began to nervously fidget with it as he approached you.

"You don't seem too pleased to be here," he said with a smile.

Your mouth ran dry. His voice was smooth and deep, cutting through the chatter like a knife. It was so attractive and charming, but shocked you at the same time. And that smile. He seemed so sincere in a place filled with falsities. Yet, he still came off playful and fun. You cleared your throat and collected your thoughts.

"Yes, well, it's awfully dull if you don't get off on gloating."

He laughed, "Says the girl in the green gown that takes up half the room."

"I had different expectations for tonight," you muttered, looking down. He chuckled and extended his hand.

"Loki."

You looked back up at him, his hand still out but yours still gripping your necklace.

"Like the prince?"

"I suppose so," he replied. Your eyes widened as you finally took his hand, shaking it lightly as you said your name.

"To be quite frank, I am also bored out of my mind. What do you say we get out of here?" Loki asked with a mischievous grin.

You furrowed your eyebrows. "To where?"

"Not far. Just around the corner. We'll still be close enough to keep an eye on the party."

You nodded hesitantly. He tightened his grip on your hand and began to lead you out of the ballroom. He took you through a small door just on the other side of the wall. You were both outside now, the cold winter wind biting your skin. You tensed up in the chill.

"Are you cold?" he asked with a puzzled look.

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Honestly, I've never been bothered by the cold. But here, let me help you."

He dropped your hand and flicked his wrist. You suddenly felt a weight on your shoulders, followed by a warm sensation. You looked around and noticed that a cloak appeared out of nowhere and was wrapped around your body. Your jaw dropped in disbelief as you looked over at him.

"How did you do that?"

Loki smiled. "Just some light magic. Do you feel better?"

You nodded. Your stomach was filled with butterflies. How was this happening? Just a few minutes ago, you were facing the reality that there was no magic, no princes, no dreams coming true. Was this in fact a dream? Had you fallen asleep against that pillar?

Another cold breeze snapped you into reality. This wasn't a dream; this was really happening.

"Are you from Asgard?" he asked.

"No," you answered. "Vanaheim. My father is a consult to the throne. This is my first year at this ball."

"Ah. Well, it doesn't get any better. I can assure you that," Loki said, making you laugh.

He guided you to a golden bench in the middle of the gardens. It sat amidst all of the bushes and flowers that went without blooms in the winter. It also overlooked the windows of the ballroom, allowing you to peek in and see everyone still talking and drinking. It was the perfect place to escape the party.

You sat next to Loki as he began light conversation. You talked about basic things, but then you slowly realized how similar the both of you were. You shared a love of literature, of nature, of horses, of magic—though Loki practiced it while you were just fascinated by it. He showed you a few tricks, such as conjuring a butterfly or making the few falling snowflakes pause mid-air.

The conversation grew deeper and deeper. He confessed his feelings of self-doubt and disappointment from living in the shadow of his glorious older brother. You confessed your feelings of loneliness and longing from being an only child with two busy parents. You found solace in this conversation, finally knowing that there was someone out there who felt just as dissatisfied as you did. It was like you found your missing puzzle piece.

Loki was just absolutely charming. He made you feel wonderstruck; you were completely enthralled by him. From his quick quips to his heartfelt words, you hung on every sentence he spoke like it was the most beautiful thing you ever heard. You wanted nothing more to than just sit here forever listening to him talk while looking into his gorgeous blue eyes.

You lost track of time. You had no idea how long the ball lasted, but you honestly did not care. All you wanted was for this night to last forever. You did not want to stop talking to Loki.

"Hey, I think they're playing the waltz," Loki said mid-conversation. You both turned to look inside and noticed couples joining together. Soft music began to play. You smiled when you spotted your parents in the back, holding each other and spinning around.

Movement in your peripheral caught your attention. You looked up and saw Loki standing with his hand extended.

"May I have this dance?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

You laughed and took his hand. Before you even had a chance to stand, he pulled you out of your seat and into his arms. You gasped as you fell into him.

"Heavens, Loki!" you said through laughter.

"Oh, loosen up," he replied.

You got in position and began to dance together. The faint sound of the orchestra carried through the bitter cold wind. But you didn't mind.

Loki's blue eyes were once again locked with yours. Your heart was beating out of control. He was so charming, so beautiful, so perfect. No one ever listened to you like he did tonight. No one ever talked to you like he did tonight. He made you feel wanted, seen, and absolutely adored. It was hard to believe that you didn't even know him six hours ago. Now, your thoughts would be consumed by him for days to come.

It was a chance meeting, but it completely changed your life. This was the ball you dreamed of. You were so glad you finally found it.

The dance came to an end. The music was replaced by the sound of applause and the Allfather making an announcement. But the two of you didn't care. You stayed in his arms, gazing up at him. He was smiling down at you.

"It was so wonderful to meet you," he said softly.

"You too. Thank you for turning my night around."

"Of course. You made mine a million times better."

You smiled as he began to lean in. Your eyes fluttered shut as you began to feel his breath against your lips. You leaned in to finish the kiss, but were stopped by someone calling your name.

"There you are!" your father yelled as you stepped back from Loki's embrace.

"We've been looking for you!" your mother said. "The ball is over. We must be going home."

"Oh, well—," you began.

"No. Say goodbye before we miss our carriage back to the Bifrost."

You sighed and turned back to Loki. "Thank you, again."

"Surely. I hope to see you again soon."

He gave you a soft smile as your mother grabbed your wrist and quite literally dragged you away. You stumbled with her quick pace until you caught up, yanking your wrist back. You looked behind you one last time as the palace grew distant, trying to see if you could spot the beautiful prince. But unfortunately, you were too far away. Your heart sank as you sighed, following your parents into your carriage.

“Who was that? Was that one of the princes?” your father asked as the carriage began to drive away.

You nodded, “He and I were both bored, so we decided to go outside and talk.”

“Bored?” your mother said with a laugh. “Isn’t this the ball you’ve been looking forward to since you were a little girl?”

“I guess the actual event just wasn’t for me,” you shrugged.

Eventually, you reached the Bifrost and took your journey back to Vanaheim. When you got into bed that night, the memories replayed in your mind. Your heart warmed but longed for the prince that whisked you away so elegantly. He was handsome, charming, intelligent…. just simply enchanting. You fell asleep with the hope that you would actually see him again.

Over the next few months, Loki never left your mind. Though it was one small interaction, it left a lasting impression on you forever. You were completely enamored by him. His voice, his striking blue eyes haunted you in your sleep. So many nights did you fall asleep praying that he still felt the same way, that he wasn’t in love with anyone but you.

The spring came and went on Vanaheim. Since the realm was known for its exquisite nature, the outdoors were absolutely gorgeous. The trees were in full bloom; the hills were adorned with bright flowers and green grass; the lakes sparkled in the afternoon sun. You spent so much time sitting in the garden of your family’s cottage, just reading and daydreaming about the Asgardian boy that stole your heart. Everything was about him; you even read his name as the male protagonist in all of your romance books, picturing that those were your story that got the happy ending.

Your father went to Asgard again at the beginning of summer for a few days to deal with some business. You begged and begged for him to take you, but he repeatedly refused. It broke your heart to know that you were so close yet so far from seeing Loki again. You did not want to wait for the winter to finally have another dance with him.

When your father returned, he had a bright smile on his face. He sat you and your mother down at the kitchen table for a big announcement.

“Family,” he began, “we are moving to Asgard.”

Your mother’s face dropped as you gasped, a smile forcing its way onto your lips. Did he actually just say that?

“What do you mean, dear?” your mother asked him.

“Old Vidar has finally decided to retire as the live-in ambassador from Vanaheim. They have elected me as the replacement. In two weeks, we will start our lives in Asgard.”

You cheered and ran to give your father a big hug. He laughed and hugged you back, albeit a little confused by your reaction. You immediately ran to your room as you started to pack while your mother pried him for more information.

Two weeks later, you were loading up the carriage to travel to the Vanir palace to access the Bifrost. You were more than excited; you could not wait to finally see your prince again. As happy as you were, there was some sense of doubt still stuck in you—What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he had moved on? It had been nearly seven months since you last saw Loki. A lot can change in that time.

But you chose to remain hopeful as you began your journey to Asgard. You felt the warm sensation of the Bifrost and suddenly, you were back in the golden room of Heimdall. A carriage was already waiting on the rainbow bridge to drive your family to the palace, where a feast was to be held to honor both the outgoing ambassador and your father.

Once you had your luggage arranged in the carriage, you began the drive to the castle. It felt like the drive was taking ages. Your knee bounced with excitement. Your mother placed her hand on it, and you turned to look at her. “Sorry,” you muttered under your breath.

Finally, you arrived. Your heart was in your throat as you spotted the royal family on the golden steps of the palace. They came closer into view as your carriage approached the castle. Then, you saw him.

His raven hair was slightly longer, he was a little bit taller, and he stood with more confidence. Finally, his striking blue eyes locked with yours again. You saw right through him again—all the happiness and pain that he’s experienced. But you couldn’t quite get a read on how he was feeling. Did he move on? Was he still as infatuated with you as you are with him?

Your head hurt with anxiety. You prayed that he still thought about you as much as you thought about him.

The carriage slowed down and pulled alongside the steps. Your father stepped out first, offering his hand to help your mother out and then you. The three of you stood in front of the royal family. You nearly quivered underneath their intimidating stare.

“Welcome, Henrik and family. We are thrilled that you will be joining us in Asgard as diplomatic figures from Vanaheim. We look forward to working with you,” Odin declared.

The three of you bowed. Guards escorted you up the stairs as you began to follow the family inside the palace. You looked at Loki with a smile, but he remained stoic, turning around and following inside. Your heart shattered in your chest. Holding back tears, you looked down and kept walking.

Something grabbed your arm and pulled you back. You gasped as you fell right into a familiar pair of arms. You looked up, meeting the blue eyes you longed to see after nearly seven months.

“Loki,” you whispered, a small smile growing on your face.

“Did you think that I’ve forgotten about you?” he said with a playful grin. “How could I forget the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen?”

A heated blush rose to your cheeks as you giggled, shocked by his forwardness. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close, enjoying the feeling of being in his arms again.

“I was so scared that you had moved on,” you confessed. Your face vibrated against his chest as he let out a deep chuckle.

“I couldn’t possibly have moved on. Your name was the only one in my mind ever since that night.”

You pulled back, looking at him with disbelief. “Really?”

He laughed and nodded. “Really. I could not get your face out of my head. It drove me quite mad, honestly.”

You laughed, mostly still in disbelief. This couldn’t be real. How could this beautiful, charming prince—one that definitely could have any maiden he desired—be so infatuated with you?

“My parents will probably be taking yours on a tour of the palace before dinner, so that gives us about an hour to do whatever we want,” Loki said with a smile.

“A tour? Shouldn’t we join them?”

He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll give you a tour some other time. Why don’t we catch up first?”

You nodded with a big smile. He went to remove his hands from your waist, but you stopped him, placing your hands on top of his.

“Wait,” you said, moving your hands to cup his face. “I want to try something first.”

Loki grinned, then he leaned in and closed the gap between you. Finally, you felt your lips on his, and it was magical. You draped your arms around his neck as he deepens the kiss, moving his lips against yours. After a few moments, he pulled away, leaving you absolutely breathless. He smiled at your flushed face, then released his grip on you and grabbed your hand.

“Follow me, I want to show you the courtyard.”

With a smile, you let him lead you away from the steps. He talked to you, but you were still in a daze. You couldn’t believe that you got so lucky; you felt absolutely enchanted to meet him.

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