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dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

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Heyyy love your work so much!! It’s so hard to find male reader writers and I’m so glad I found you! :] I have a request for a Bruce Wayne fic maybe reader is like a nurse for the justice league and starts to connect with Batman or something where reader is a interviewer and Mets with Bruce Wayne and Bruce actually feel like they care or something. I honestly just would like any more works by you!!!!

HEALING TOUCH

• BRUCE WAYNE x MALE READER

SUMMARY — You never expected to end up here—working alongside the Justice League, stationed in the Watchtower, healing the world's greatest heroes. For most of your life, you had resisted the idea of becoming a healer, rejecting the weight of legacy and expectation. But fate had other plans.

What began as a reluctant acceptance of your gift soon turned into something more. The work was unlike anything you could have imagined—treating injuries that defied science, facing wounds no medical textbook could explain. And among all the heroes you encountered, none fascinated you more than Batman.

Bruce Wayne was not an easy patient. He was guarded, stubborn, and treated pain like an old companion. He never offered more than necessary, never shared more than a clipped response. Yet, over time, something shifted. Through late-night treatments, quiet moments, and unspoken understanding, a connection formed—one built not on words, but on trust.

This is the story of how you, against all odds, found your place in a world you never intended to join. How you became more than just the League's healer. And how, without meaning to, you found yourself at the center of something unexpected—something unbreakable.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Violence.

WORDS! 4.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with a long awaited request! Thank you so much for the support🫶🏽 Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! ✨

For as long as you could remember, you had been absolutely certain of one thing—you did not want to be a doctor. This wasn't some fleeting notion, nor was it the rebellious whim of a child trying to carve out an identity separate from their family. No, this was something deeper, a conviction that had been rooted in your very core from the moment you were old enough to understand the expectations placed upon you. It was an unshakable truth, one that clung to you throughout childhood and well into your teenage years, as persistent as the heartbeat in your chest.

Perhaps it was because you had spent your entire life surrounded by medicine, watching as it consumed those around you. Your parents were revered figures in their respective fields, their names spoken with admiration and respect in hospitals and academic circles alike. Your siblings—each one older, seemingly more accomplished, and unwavering in their purpose—had followed suit, slipping into white coats as though they had been born wearing them. The family legacy stretched back generations; your grandparents had been pioneers, their contributions to medicine immortalized in textbooks and medical journals. It was, as far as the world was concerned, an unbroken chain, a lineage of healers whose purpose was clear from the moment they took their first breath.

And then there was you.

The youngest, the outlier, the one who had always felt like an anomaly within your own family. Everyone assumed your path had already been decided for you, that one day, you would take your rightful place among them. It was expected, as if it were written into the fabric of your very being. But no matter how many times you heard the words—"When you become a doctor..." or "It's only a matter of time before you realize it's in your blood"— you never once felt the pull they did. While your siblings devoured medical textbooks with a hunger for knowledge, you found yourself drawn elsewhere. Science never fascinated you the way it did them; anatomy and pathology felt like foreign languages that you had no desire to learn. Instead, you lost yourself in books that spoke of worlds beyond your own, of stories woven with magic, adventure, and possibilities unbound by logic. You longed for something different, something more.

Then, one day, everything changed.

You discovered you had the ability to heal.

It wasn't something you had asked for, nor was it something you had ever imagined could be real. It wasn't the practiced skill of a surgeon or the carefully calculated knowledge of a physician—it was something else entirely. It was a gift, an inexplicable force that pulsed beneath your skin, ancient and powerful. And though you had spent your entire life rejecting the path of a healer, the ability had found you anyway.

At first, you tried to deny it. You told yourself it was impossible, a trick of the mind, a coincidence. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn't some fluke. This was something that had always been inside you, waiting. Your grandparents had possessed it, this extraordinary ability that defied the rigid boundaries of science. But then, it had skipped a generation—bypassing your father, eluding your siblings—and somehow, impossibly, it had chosen you.

When your family learned the truth, their reactions were a storm of emotions. Your father, a man of unwavering logic and discipline, was furious. He had dedicated his life to medicine, to the pursuit of knowledge grounded in science, and now, his own child stood before him wielding a power that defied everything he believed in. Your siblings, who had spent years honing their skills through study and relentless practice, regarded you with a mixture of jealousy and resentment. To them, it was unfair—this gift had come to you, the one person who had never wanted to be a part of their world.

And yet, here you were, standing at the crossroads of fate, faced with a decision you had never expected to make.

Would you continue running from the destiny you had spent your entire life rejecting?

Or would you embrace the power within you and become the kind of healer no one had ever seen before?

It was never supposed to happen this way.

You had spent your entire life avoiding anything remotely connected to the medical field, distancing yourself from the legacy that loomed over you like an unshakable shadow. Your family had long since carved their names into history as healers, doctors, surgeons—people who dedicated their lives to saving others through science and skill. And yet, you had never once felt that calling, never once been drawn to the weight of responsibility that came with the profession.

But fate had a way of making choices for you.

It had started as an ordinary night, no different from countless others. The city stretched before you in its usual haze of neon lights and restless energy, the rhythmic hum of distant sirens blending into the background like an ever-present melody. The cool night air carried the scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and the streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional pedestrian or flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the pavement.

You hadn't thought much of the darkened alley at first. Gotham was full of them—silent corridors of forgotten corners, places most people knew better than to wander into. But something caught your eye, something that sent a ripple of unease through your gut. A figure slumped against the brick wall, partially obscured by darkness, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby lamp.

At first, you assumed it was just another casualty of the city's merciless grip—an unfortunate soul lost to the harsh realities of Gotham's streets. But as you stepped closer, your breath hitched in your throat.

It was him.

Batman.

The Dark Knight, the legend, the untouchable force of Gotham, reduced to a broken, bleeding man before your eyes. His armor was cracked in places, deep gashes running along his arms and torso. His cape, torn and soaked in blood, lay in ragged folds beneath him. Bruises had already begun to form along his jaw, painting his skin in shades of deep purple and black. And his breathing—God, his breathing was shallow, each ragged inhale a battle against the pain threatening to consume him.

If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't survive the night.

Panic surged through you. You weren't a doctor. You had never studied medicine, had never once held a scalpel or stitched a wound. And yet—

Yet, you could help him.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside him, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like an invisible force. This was Batman. The man who had survived the worst Gotham had to offer. The man who had always stood between the city and the monsters lurking in the dark. And now, he was dying.

Doubt clawed at you. What if it didn't work? What if, after all these years of trying to ignore it, trying to pretend you were just an ordinary person, your ability failed you now?

But there was no time for hesitation.

With a steadying breath, you reached out, pressing your hands against his battered torso. The warmth came almost instantly, blooming from within, spreading through your fingertips like liquid fire. It seeped into his wounds, into torn flesh and bruised bone, knitting them back together as if they had never been broken. The deep lacerations closed before your eyes, the jagged cuts smoothing into unblemished skin. The harsh, uneven rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing deepening as strength slowly returned to him.

And then—his eyes snapped open.

Even injured, even weakened, his gaze was sharp, piercing. A predator assessing a new, unexpected variable in the equation. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, his voice, rough but steady.

"What did you do?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I healed you."

The words felt foreign, like an admission you had spent years refusing to say out loud. But there was no denying what had just happened. No more running.

That night changed everything.

Word of what you had done spread faster than you could have anticipated. Batman was not a man who let the impossible go unquestioned, and he wasn't about to let you disappear into the shadows. He found you, sought you out, his mind already working through the implications of what you could do. He wanted answers—how your ability worked, what its limitations were, whether it was something that could be controlled, replicated, weaponized.

And before you even had time to process it, you were standing in the heart of the Watchtower, surrounded by legends.

Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash—names you had only ever seen in news reports and whispered about in awe—now stood before you, their eyes filled with curiosity, intrigue, and perhaps even a hint of wariness. They wanted to understand you. They wanted to know if your abilities could change the way they fought, the way they protected the world.

They wanted you on their team.

You—the person who had spent a lifetime running from the expectations of being a healer—were now one of the most valuable assets the Justice League had ever encountered. You weren't a doctor, not in the way your family had always envisioned, but your gift was something beyond science, beyond anything medicine could explain.

And for the first time, you weren't afraid of it.

For the first time, you understood.

You had never wanted to be a healer. But maybe—just maybe—you were meant to be one all along.

The job was nothing like a traditional nine-to-five. There were no scheduled shifts, no structured hours, no neat boundaries separating work from the rest of your life. The moment you agreed to join the Justice League Medical Team, you knew things would be different, but nothing could have prepared you for just how much your world would change.

The Watchtower—an advanced orbital station, the Justice League's headquarters in the vast emptiness of space—was now your home. You told yourself that the decision to live there was purely practical. Emergencies didn't wait for convenience, and every second counted when it came to saving lives. Being stationed on the Watchtower meant you could respond immediately, without the delay of transport from Earth. You understood the necessity of it. And yet, despite the logic, there were moments when you would stop in the middle of a corridor, staring out through reinforced glass at the planet far below, and feel the weight of it all settling in.

You lived in space.

More than that—you lived in the same place as the world's greatest heroes.

At first, it was overwhelming. Every hallway you walked down, every turn you made, you found yourself brushing shoulders with living legends. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern—names that had once seemed larger than life, figures who had saved the world countless times over, now passed you in the halls as if this were any ordinary workplace. Except it wasn't. There was nothing ordinary about it.

In the beginning, you kept your head down, strictly professional. They were the Justice League, and you were just their healer. You addressed them by their codenames, adhered to protocol, maintained the careful distance expected of any League-affiliated personnel. You did your job, and you did it well, ensuring that no matter how powerful they were, they had someone looking out for them when even their abilities weren't enough to keep them unscathed.

But things changed, subtly at first, in ways you barely noticed until, one day, you realized how different everything had become.

It started with the little things. The Flash—Barry, though you hadn't started calling him that yet—lingered after check-ups, cracking jokes, making it his mission to coax a laugh out of you. Wonder Woman, impossibly kind yet formidable, took it upon herself to check in on you just as often as you checked in on her. She would stop by the medbay, not just for treatment but to ensure you were eating properly, resting, taking care of yourself as much as you took care of them.

Even Batman, the most elusive of them all, had a habit of appearing unannounced. At first, you thought he was simply observing, studying you with that ever-calculating mind of his, trying to understand your abilities. But eventually, you realized that, in his own way, he was keeping an eye on you—not as an asset to analyze, but as a person he had come to trust.

And then came the moments that shattered the invisible walls you had unknowingly kept around yourself.

The first time Superman addressed you by your first name instead of "Doctor" or "Healer," it caught you off guard. It was such a small thing, and yet, the warmth in his voice, the familiarity, made it clear that you were no longer just another recruit to him. You were one of them.

Green Lantern—John Stewart—had been the first to insist you call him by his actual name, brushing off formality with an easy camaraderie. Soon, the others followed.

"Wonder Woman" became "Diana."

"The Flash" was "Barry."

"Green Lantern" was "John."

"Superman" was "Clark."

Even the most guarded of them, Batman, eventually became "Bruce"—though that one had taken significantly longer. And even then, you still only used it when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't expected any of this. When you joined, you had assumed you would remain in the background, tending to wounds and then retreating into solitude, never truly stepping into their world. But they had never seen you that way.

To them, you weren't just their healer.

You were one of them.

And despite all the years you had spent resisting the idea of being a healer, of belonging in a role that had always felt like a burden—you couldn't deny that being here, with them, felt right.

Months into your new job, you had seen injuries that defied all logic, wounds that no medical textbook could have ever prepared you for. Burns not from fire, but from alien energy blasts that left strange, unidentifiable scars. Fractures that should have been fatal, caused by impact forces no ordinary human should have survived. You had learned to treat injuries inflicted by magic, reinforced skin, and even Kryptonian physiology. Each case came with a story, and while some heroes eagerly recounted their battles—often in absurd, almost comical detail—others remained tight-lipped, offering only the barest explanations.

But no stories captivated you quite like Bruce's.

Batman was a different kind of patient. He never wasted words, never offered unnecessary details unless they were vital to treatment. He arrived in the medbay with injuries that should have left him bedridden for weeks, yet he treated them as minor inconveniences. A cracked rib, a dislocated shoulder, deep gashes that would have incapacitated anyone else—he sat through it all in silence, barely flinching as you worked. If you asked how he got hurt, his responses were clipped, single-worded: "Joker." "Bane." "Scarecrow." No elaboration, no unnecessary details. Just cold, factual acknowledgment.

At first, you didn't push. You had worked with enough patients to know when someone wasn't ready to talk. But you were curious—perhaps more than you should have been. It wasn't just the injuries themselves that intrigued you; it was how he carried them. The weight of Gotham clung to him, wrapped around his shoulders like an unseen shroud. He didn't just fight crime in that city—he bore its darkness, absorbed it into his bones.

And Gotham was your hometown.

You knew the streets he patrolled, the alleys he disappeared into, the villains he faced. You had grown up hearing about the chaos, the crime, the myth of the Bat who prowled the city's rooftops. You knew the fear Gotham instilled in its people—the way sirens became a nightly lullaby, the way danger lurked just out of sight. So when Bruce finally started talking, when he finally let slip the stories behind his injuries, it felt as if you were reliving every nightmare Gotham had ever breathed into your bones.

Of course, Bruce didn't start sharing because he wanted to. It wasn't in his nature to open up so easily.

Somehow, you made it happen.

Maybe it was the way you never treated him like an untouchable legend. Maybe it was how you never hesitated, never looked at him with pity when he sat on your exam table, half-broken but unwilling to admit it. Maybe it was your patience, your ability to hold your own in the long silences he used as armor.

At first, it was just small things—offhand remarks, fragmented pieces of information he let slip without thinking. "The cut isn't deep. Killer Croc caught me off guard." Or, "I didn't expect Scarecrow to use a new formula."

Then, slowly, those remarks turned into something more.

One night, while resetting his shoulder, you had casually mentioned remembering the sirens wailing across Gotham the night the Joker flooded the city with gas. Bruce's gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing, and for a moment, you thought you had crossed a line. But then, in that same low, controlled voice, he started talking.

He told you how he had chased the Joker across the rooftops that night, how the fight had left him with a broken rib and a chemical burn that had taken weeks to heal. He spoke in his usual detached, analytical manner, but there was something in his voice that sent a chill down your spine. The way he recounted it—haunting, precise, methodical—made it feel like you were right there with him, watching the city descend into madness.

And once he started, the stories didn't stop.

Every now and then, after particularly grueling missions, when exhaustion cracked through the iron barriers he built around himself, he would speak. Never too much, never sentimental, but enough. Enough to paint a picture. Enough to make you see Gotham through his eyes—the way the Narrows pulsed with desperation, the way Crime Alley still held ghosts, the way the shadows stretched long beneath the neon lights, swallowing everything whole.

He never told you why he shared these things with you, and you never asked.

Somehow, against all odds, you had become someone he trusted enough to talk to.

And in return, you listened.

The dynamic between you and Bruce was something different—something undeclared yet undeniable. It didn't happen overnight, nor was it something either of you had planned for. Bruce Wayne wasn't the kind of man who let people in easily. He kept his distance, his trust locked behind an impenetrable wall of silence, sharp glares, and an ever-present scowl. It was his armor, just as much as the cowl he wore. To most, he was untouchable, unreachable.

But somehow, despite all of that, you had found a way in.

And against all odds, he didn't seem to mind.

If you paid close enough attention, you might even say he enjoyed your company.

He would never admit it outright—Bruce wasn't the type for grand gestures or sentimental confessions—but over time, the signs became impossible to ignore. He lingered in the medbay longer than necessary, always finding some excuse to stay behind. A question about his injury, an offhand remark about the latest mission—little things that didn't warrant the extra time, yet he remained. He had a habit of showing up when the medbay was empty, as if he preferred your presence without the distraction of others. And when you teased him, poked at his brooding nature with easy charm and wit, the heavy silence that usually clung to him began to crack.

The first time you caught him smirking, you almost thought you imagined it. It was quick, barely there—a flicker of amusement before his mask of indifference settled back into place. But it happened again. And again. Until eventually, you stopped pretending not to notice.

And the stories—he liked yours just as much as you liked his.

You rarely spoke about your past, your family's legacy, the weight of expectations you had spent so much of your life trying to escape. It wasn't an easy thing to share, nor was it something you ever felt the need to explain to others. But with Bruce, it was different. He listened—not out of politeness, not to fill the silence, but because he genuinely cared.

He understood.

Of course, he did.

No one knew better than Bruce what it was like to be weighed down by ghosts, to live under the constant pressure of a name, a reputation, a path carved out for you long before you ever had a say in it. He never said it outright, but you could see it in his eyes, in the way he regarded you—not with pity, but with understanding. With respect. For the choices you had made. For carving your own path despite the pressure to be something else.

But more than anything, what Bruce appreciated most—whether he would admit it or not—was your touch.

It wasn't just your presence, the way you fit into his life without demanding more than he was willing to give. It wasn't just your sharp mind or the way you always saw through his carefully constructed barriers.

It was your hands.

Your gift.

The thing that made you unlike anyone else he had ever known.

Hal Jordan, never one to miss an opportunity for a joke, had once dubbed it your "healing touch."

Bruce had scoffed at the term when he first heard it, muttering something about Lanterns talking too much. But that didn't change the truth of it. Your hands, your power, were something he had come to rely on—not just because they mended broken bones and sealed wounds, but because, for a man who had spent his entire life in pain, your touch was the closest thing to relief he had ever known.

You could feel it in the way his shoulders eased ever so slightly beneath your fingertips, in the way his breath steadied when your power coursed through him. He never flinched under your touch, never pulled away like he did with others. He trusted you, in a way he rarely trusted anyone.

He didn't have to say it.

He never would.

But in the way he let you work on him without protest, in the way his ever-tense frame relaxed, in the way his eyes lingered on your hands as they moved over his injuries—you knew.

And that was enough.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dc #batman #justice league #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x male reader #gay #batman x male reader

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blue-ink-pearls · 1 year ago

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Fig Isn't Meant to Be Cassandra's Paladin, Bucky Applebees Is

As most of us have realized since Ankarna's original domain was revealed, Fig is clearly supposed to be her paladin. The archdevil of rebellion united with the goddess of conviction and justice would be an incredible force for fighting wrongs, for inspiring revolutions, and creating true positive change.

But Fig wasn't wrong that Cassandra would be immensely helped by having a paladin swear themselves to her. Even though Kristen is an extraordinary cleric, she's only one person.

When we first meet Bucky Applebees in Junior Year, he is filled with doubt and uncertainty. He's a paladin of Helio, the same religion (cult) that Kristen fled from and he has been forced to take on the role of protector to his younger brothers that Kristen once held as the eldest daughter. He hasn't told his parents about the gold Kristen gave them, he thinks he's going to hell for lying, he misses his sister but thinks she's living in sin (maybe?), and he's curious about what beer tastes like (but never mind, he doesn't want to know. He bets it would be great. For sinners, would love it.).

When Cassandra dies/is kidnapped, Kristen first feels a connection to her goddess again when she thinks of how her doubt and uncertainty led to her escaping that life and finding freedom from Helio and her parents.

Ally: "I think she spent so much time trapped and feeling, like, super wrong, that doubt and mystery actually feel like a really beautiful escape, and more true." Brennan: "The concept of escape hits you. And for a moment you hear (clicking). And all of the locks on the windows and all of the locks on the doors of this room just open slightly. A little bit of divine magic flows through you....[W]hen you thought of escape, you thought of, yeah, embracing the unknown gives you the strength to leave a bad situation. Escape."

Bucky, Bricker, and Cork are still trapped and now that Brennan's brought Bucky back into the story, I don't think the season is going to end with Kristen leaving her little brothers in an abusive home life when there's every possibility for them to find safety and acceptance at Morded Manor.

I believe that if Kristen is able to help her brothers get away from their parents and the Church of Helio*, then Bucky is going to need a new god to follow. Why wouldn't Bucky, a scared, uncertain 14 year-old kid, not follow a goddess in the image of his older sister, whose very essence is that "whenever you're in the dark, I'm here holding your hand."

Kristen has always had a hard time doing the work of growing her church, of telling people about Cassandra. I think she'd find it easy to tell her siblings all about Cassandra when she's trying to help them find enough doubt and uncertainty in what they've known all their lives, that they'll have the courage to escape too.

*Also, there's definitely going to be further exploration of the Church of Sol, and by extension the Church of Helio, as they were 100% involved in what happened to Ankarna and Kristen is probably going to try to keep Bobby Dawn away from Bucky, just as she absolutely rejected Buddy Dawn becoming her brother's mentor.

#fantasy high #fhjy spoilers #kristen applebees #fig faeth #bucky applebees #fantasy high junior year #fhjy

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slu7formen · 1 year ago

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luke castellan x fem!reader

Luke has been making fun of your ‘unnecessarily absurd beauty routine’ —as he liked to call it— for the past week, so, you decide to drown him in it, just to see how much he can handle.

warnings: just a single use of the word b1tch, fluff at the end <3, little use of yn

reminder: english’s not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistakes

₊˚⊹♡

i. the eyebrows

“Ow, ow, ow! That hurt!”

“No it didn´t!”

“Yes, it did!”

“Shut up and hold still”

“Ow! You´re pinching my skin, you bitch!”

“That was fully on porpuse”

A chorus of laughter erupted from the nearby bunk beds. Most of the boys, Luke´s half-siblings, gathered around you both, enjoying the show, eyes gleaming with mischief as they witnessed their usually stoic and confident counselor reduced to a whiny mess. Luke´s head was leaning on your thighs as you plugged his eyebrows with some dangerously sharp tweezers.

“See, that´s what you get for making fun of a girl” Travis Stoll, the elder of the Stoll brothers, joined in, a smirk on his lips. "We all warned you about messing with her” he pointed towards you.

“Shut up, Travis!” Luke spat.

You enjoyed the way his face was turning red, from embarrasment and because he was trying so hard to hold back his tears.

“You know, Luke” you started, plugging on another thin hair which earned you a little curse whispered from his lips. “You can always just, give up on the bet”

You found yourself enjoying the sight immensely. The perfect Hermes´ cabin counselor who'd spent the past week mocking your beauty routine,– here he was, sprawled across your lap, a prisoner of your tweezers.

“There´s no way in hell I´m letting you beat me that easily" he declared, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

You couldn't help but smirk. The bet had been born out of sheer frustration. For the past week, Luke had been relentless in his teasing about your beauty regimen. He'd mocked the meticulous way you cared for your eyebrows, the endless battle against unwanted body hair, the whining about the occasional pimples even when you spent a good twenty minutes locked in the bathroom cleaning your skin. He'd called you high-maintenance, a slave to societal expectations, and everything in between.

Finally, you'd snapped. "Alright, Castellan" you'd declared, eyes blazing. "How about a little bet? If you can handle a full day of 'girl stuff,' I'll clean your cabin for a week"

The look of surprise on Luke's face had been priceless. He'd scoffed, of course, overconfident and utterly clueless about the sheer torture involved in waxing, tweezing, and mud masks. But fueled by his arrogance, he'd readily agreed.

Now, here you were, watching him squirm on your lap like a fish, a testament to his underestimation of the situation. A wave of satisfaction washed over you. It wasn't just about winning the bet, though that was certainly a perk. It was about showing him, in a slightly sadistic way, that there was more to "girl stuff" than he thought. It was about proving that self-care wasn't about vanity, but about feeling confident and comfortable in your own skin.

“As you wish, little baby”

Chris suddenly appeard in your vision, the satisfaction on his face plagged as if he was enjoying this more than you did. “You know, yn” he called out, you momentarily stopped, accidentally giving Luke a break. “Luke has a little hair situation going on under his arms”

“What!?” Luke blurted out. His siblings laughed again.

“He does?” you asked Chris, looking down at Luke and patting his head like a little kid.

“Oh, yeah” Chris smirked. “Maybe that could be the next step, don´t you think?”

“I´m gonna-” Luke tried to get up from his bed, hands reaching out towards Chris. He took a step back just as you grabbed Luke by his shoulders and pushed him down again towards your lap.

“I´m not done with you yet, tough guy. But Chris´ right. Get your hairy armpits ready”

ii. the waxing

You pulled out a box of waxing stripes. Luke, oblivious to the impending torture, was too engrossed in examining his newly sculpted eyebrows in the hand mirror you'd provided. A satisfied smirk played on your lips. The eyebrows looked fantastic – perfectly groomed without being overly feminine. Because yes, he asked you to keep them as close to their natural shape as possible.

“Shirt off” you declared.

His head whipped towards you, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. His half-brothers, mirrored his action, erupting in a chorus of whistles and catcalls.

"Excuse you?" he sputtered, h is voice a touch higher than usual.

"Damn," Connor drawled to you. "at least ask the guy out first"

You rolled your eyes. Luke shot him a withering glare, but beneath the bluster, you could see a flicker of nervousness.

You held up the waxing strips. “It´s time for your armpits, champion” you announced with a playful lilt in your voice. You began rubbing the strips together to warm the wax.

He whined, pulling his camp t-shirt over his head, revealing his well-toned torso, and throwing it over a nearby bunk. You stole a glance at his body for a microsecond, a slight red blush coloring your cheeks. His brothers were quick to start a echo of whistles.

He flopped down heavily on the bed, one arm raised awkwardly above his head. To your surprise, there wasn't as much hair as you'd anticipated. But that didn't diminish the sheer terror radiating from him. You stifled a laugh. "Relax, Luke" you said, your voice gentler now. "The tenser you are, the worse it'll be."

His brothers leaned in closer, their eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them. You carefully pressed the strip against his skin, smoothing it down with the practiced ease. He held his breath, his entire body tensing in anticipation.

You inhaled sharply yourself, then you ripped the strip off in one swift motion. Luke let out a yelp that would have made a banshee proud. His face contorted in pain, and his free hand clenched into a fist. His brothers erupted in laughter, their amusement fueled by his pain.

"Alright, alright" you said, trying to sound sympathetic despite the laughter bubbling in your throat. "Deep breaths, Luke. If you don´t relax, it´s gonna hurt more"

He glared at you, his voice laced with a hint of betrayal. "Easy for you to say."

Ignoring his grumbling, you ripped off another strip. A chorus of gasps filled the room, and Luke let out another yelp, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.

"See?" you said, holding up the strip adorned with a few stray hairs. "Not so bad, right?"

He wanted to murder you.

"Don't you use anesthesia for this?" he wheezed after a particularly harsh pull on his other armpit, his eyes watering slightly.

“We´re not babies, Luke” you replied, shaking your head. "Just good old-fashioned grit and determination. Besides, you wouldn't want to miss out on the full 'girl stuff' experience, would you?"

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity —at least for Luke—, you finished. His armpits were as smooth as a baby´s butt. His brothers, unable to resist themselves, reached out and slapped the freshly waxed skin, earning them a swift kick each from a now-furious Luke.

iii. the skincare

"Skincare? Seriously?" Luke asked, sitting down on your bed, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You all went to your cabin to continue his so claimed ‘girl´s day´. You would´ve paid to take a picture of your sisters´ faces when they saw you walk in with a bunch of boys following you behind.

“Just lay down, princess” you declared “I´ll bring my stuff”

He leaned back against the your pushy pillows, getting comfortable.

“First time on a girl´s bed?” Chris asked, earning a few laughs from his siblings.

“Shut up” Luke spat.

You came back with your washbag, full of different products that nearly gave Luke a heart attack. You had to assure him that this time, this wasn´t gonna hurt. At least not the first part, but you kept it a secret.

"Alright, beautiful” you teased. “Let’s get started. First thing’s first. “Cleansing”

You dipped a soft washcloth in warm water and began gently wiping away the dirt and sweat from his face. Luke closed his eyes, a look of unexpected serenity washing over his features. You noticed him get loose under your touch, a slight smile playing on his lips, and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of surprising compliance.

“Wow” he said. “This is actually quite nice”

"See?" you said softly. "This isn't so bad"

He opened one eye, a playful glint mirroring your own. "Not bad at all" he admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice “Guys, you should try this."

The Hermes´ cabin boys leaned in closer, their usual boisterousness replaced by a quiet attentiveness. They watched as your fingers moved with a practiced ease, cleansing Luke's skin with a tenderness they hadn't seen before. They saw you take some cleanser, and rub it softly against Luke´s skin.

They all exchanged glances, a new kind of curiosity flickering in their eyes. Usually, the sight of anyone touching Luke, let alone his face, would have elicited a barrage of teasing. But seeing you, your movements gentle and practiced as you gathered a gentle cleanser, they found themselves strangely mesmerized.

"Well, he looks chill" Connor added. "Could you clean my face sometime, yn?"

You chuckled, throwing a playful glance thorwn at him. "Maybe later, Connor. Right now, it's all about Luke's glow-up."

Next came the toner, followed by a light moisturizer. Luke remained surprisingly still, his eyes closed, a contented sigh escaping his lips from time to time. His brothers, bored by the lack of drama, started to get bored.

Just as you were about to get some eye patchs, your eyes drifted on a little tool inside your washbag; your blackhead remover. An idea came up to you.

"Alright, Luke" you announced, a hint of warning in your voice. "Time for the fun part."

You reached for a steaming hot towel and pressed it gently against his nose and forehead. He inhaled deeply, the steam opening up his pores.

"This feels so nice" he mumbled, his voice muffled by the towel.

A slow grin spread across your face. "Oh, it gets better" you said, an evil spark in your eyes.

You grabbed the blackhead extractor and, with practiced ease, began gently removing the unwanted blemishes.

Suddenly, Luke's eyes flew open, a look of pure horror replacing his previous serenity. "Wait! What are you doing?" he shrieked.

"Shh" you hushed him playfully. "Relax. These little guys gotta go. Trust me, it'll be better for your skin in the long run."

"But it hurts!" he whined, swatting your hand away with a surprisingly weak attempt.

"Just a little pinch" you reassured him, your voice a mockery he hated. "Besides, if you don't remove them now, they'll grow bigger and poppier, and that will hurt even more."

Luke opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his lips as you expertly extracted another blackhead. This bet was getting a little harder to beat than expected. He winced slightly, then a defeated sigh escaped his lips.

“So, Connor” you called. “You wanted to be next, right?”

iv. make up

"So," you began, a sly smile playing on your lips as you settled into the chair across from Luke, "you think makeup is easy, right?"

"Shouldn't be that hard, I guess" he mumbled, trying to sound confident. Inside, however, his stomach churned with fear and worry.

You gestured towards your desk, which was now overflowing with an array of colorful tubes, palettes, and brushes – an arsenal of beauty products foreign to the boys' eyes. "Alright then," you declared, a playful lilt in your voice. "Here's a little game. I'll show you each product and you have to guess what it's for. Every one you get wrong? Goes on your face."

Luke's eyes widened in horror.

"Wait, what?" he sputtered, a nervous tremor in his voice. "You can't be serious!"

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "But Luke, you just said makeup was easy. This is your chance to prove it!"

"This is cheating" he mumbled, looking betrayed. "You never mentioned makeup in the bet!"

"Technically," you countered, holding up a finger, "it's still 'girl stuff’, as you call it”

A groan escaped Luke's lips. He shot a desperate glance towards his brothers, hoping for some kind of intervention. Charles Beckendorf, who allegedly decided to join the fun, just grinned towards him.

"Don't chicken out now, Luke" he said, arms crossed over his chest. "You can always give up on the bet and let her win”

Luke glared at his friend, silently cursing the day he ever agreed to this ridiculous wager. He sighed dramatically, slumping back on the bed. "Fine" he mumbled, defeated. "At least try your best to make me look decent."

“That´s not gonna be on me, dear”

You couldn't help but laugh at his misery. You reached across the desk, picking up a sleek black tube with a silver cap. It felt cool and smooth in your hand.

"What do you think this is?" you asked, holding it up for him to see.

Luke squinted at the tube, his brow furrowed in concentration. He recalled seeing something similar in movies, actresses applying it with a flick of their wrist. An idea flickered in his mind.

"Eyeliner?" he ventured, his voice laced with a hint of uncertainty.

You arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Huh, correct”

You set the eyeliner aside, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes. Next up, you picked up a thin, wooden-looking tool with a pointed tip. There was a small, round piece of what looked like colored chalk attached to the end.

"Alright," you announced, "round two. What is this?"

Luke studied the object carefully. It did resemble a pencil, but the colored tip threw him off. He wracked his brain, trying to recall anything similar he'd seen in the vast array of makeup products on your desk.

"Uh… a pencil?" he finally ventured, his voice lacking conviction.

You burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the cabin. Tears welled up in your eyes quickly, blurring your vision slightly.

"A pencil, Luke?" you wheezed, wiping a tear from your cheek. "It’s a lip liner"

Luke's cheeks flushed crimson.

"Lip liner?" he echoed, his voice barely a whisper. "For what? Do I need to draw on a bigger mouth?" He gestured to his own lips, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his voice.

You shook your head, stifling another giggle. "No, no need for a bigger mouth. Lip liner helps define the shape of your lips."

With a shake of your head, you said, "Now the fun part begins. Bring those lips here, handsome."

Luke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face hovering a few inches from yours. The air got filled with a strange tension, probably because his brothers walked closer so they could get a better look. His breath hitched slightly as your fingers brushed against his skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

“You´re lucky this is the same shade as your natural lip color” you whisper.

“Yeah” Chris adds. “Maybe you should wear it more often, handsome” he reaches out his hand to squeeze Luke´s cheeks, but he´s quick enough to slap his hand away.

“Shut up”

The minutes that followed were filled with a more lighthearted energy. You continued the game, Luke surprisingly getting a few things right – foundation, and even a surprisingly good guess on a shimmery eyeshadow palette.

But he wasn't without his misses. The concealer, a light, creamy formula designed to camouflage blemishes, ended up being applied liberally under his eyes, leaving him with a ghostly pallor that had his brothers doubled over in laughter. Then came the blush. A delicate peach shade, turned his cheeks a comical shade of fuchsia thanks to your deliberately exaggerated application with a fluffy brush.

His brothers, fueled by this new display of comedic gold, howled with laughter. Charles, wiping tears from his eyes, wheezed, “He-, he looks like a baboon in heat”

"Oh man" Travis howled, clutching his stomach. "This is even better than the armpit wax"

Next came the eyelash curler, that strange-looking contraption that promised to create dramatic, fluttery lashes. The moment you held it up, Luke's eyes widened in suspicion. He snatched it from your hand before you could ask him what he though it was.

"What the hell is this!?" he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mixture of disgust and fear. "You girls like torturing yourselves with these things?"

You reached out and gently took the curler back. "No torture involved" you replied. “And since you know absolutely nothing about it…"

He tried to look defiant, but a flicker of uncertainty betrayed him. "I know what it is" he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

"Oh really?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Then what is it?"

You handed him the curler and watched as he fumbled with it, his big hands clearly not designed for such delicate work. He eventually gave up with a defeated sigh.

"Okay" he grumbled, handing the curler back to you. "Do your worst."

The final touches were a disaster, a glorious, hilarious disaster. Every fiber of Luke's being screamed in protest as you handed the brushes over to his merciless brothers.

“Come here, Lookie-Pookie” Travis cooed, his voice dripping with mock sweetness as he leaned in with a thick brush loaded with sparkly eyeshadow. Luke recoiled, swatting his hand away with a glare.

"Don't touch me!”

“Come on Luke, give us those pretty little lips. We need to make sure they're nice and kissable” Beckendorf joined, opening a little lip product tube he wasn´t sure what it really was.

Luke wanted to melt into the floor, his face burning hotter than the volcanic eyeshadow now smudged across his eyelids. The audacity, the betrayal! His own brothers, the supposed bastions of masculinity, were gleefully participating in this humiliation.

“Maybe some of this highlighter will make him look prettier”

He couldn´t believe his own brothers knew what highlighter was except for him.

As he looked at his reflection in the mirror, a mix of horror and amusement washed over him. He never thought he'd feel so violated by makeup. But somewhere amidst the frustration and embarrassment, a strange sense of camaraderie bubbled up. His brothers, usually his biggest tormentors, were doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down their faces. And you, the leader of this whole mess, were practically glowing with barely suppressed mirth.

Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of Luke's lips. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. Sure, he looked like a technicolor disaster, but the shared laughter, the fun, it felt strangely… good. He glanced at you, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Gods” he breathed, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "This is the best day of your life, isn't it?"

You couldn't help but laugh, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that filled the cabin. "Hell yeah it is" you replied as you offer him make up wipes.

v. the reconcile

Night had fallen, painting the sky with shimmering stars. The campfire illuminated the campers´ face, its flames dancing higher as the Apollo cabin filled the air with joyful camp songs. Laughter mingled with the strumming of guitars and lyres, creating a symphony of pure summer camp bliss.

The fire itself danced in response to the campers' emotions. It roared a little higher with every burst of laughter, dimmed momentarily during a quiet story, and flickered with a playful intensity as the Hermes boys, fueled by their mischievous exploits, recounted their version of the day's events.

You sat by the fire, poking a marshmallow with a stick, watching the scene unfold. Their narrative, of course, focused heavily on your supposed "torture" of Luke. Specially the Stoll brothers; they painted a picture of you as a ruthless makeup artist, a waxer who pealed Luke´s skin off and left his face shining like marble. Meanwhile, Luke simply sat there, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You noticed the Hermes boys regaling other campers with their story, punctuated by bursts of laughter. And yes, you didn´t like to admit it but, you'd lost the bet. Technically. But watching Luke handle their teasing with surprising grace, a hint of amusement in his eyes, filled you with a strange satisfaction.

You were there by yourself for a few more minutes. The camp sounds filling your ears as you tried your best not to stuff your face in all the toasted marshmallows your sisters offered you. Your hands felt tired, because yes, even though what you did was not too much for you to handle, Luke squirmed and behaved like a worm covered in salt, which only made your work harder.

Just then, a figure settled in front of you. Luke. He held two sticks, each crowned with a perfectly toasted marshmallow. He offered one to you, his usual smirk replaced by a genuine smile.

"Truce?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

You couldn't help but grin, accepting the marshmallow with a playful jab. "Truce"

He sat beside you, the marshmallow on his stick disappearing in one swift, hungry bite. Suddenly, you leaned in closer, feigning seriousness. "Oh dear" you said, your voice laced with mock concern.

Luke raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What is it now?"

"You've got a blackhead. Right, there" you declared, pointing to a non-existent imperfection on his nose.

His eyes widened in mock horror. "No way! I´m not letting you touch my face again" He swatted at your hand playfully, but you were quicker.

"Hold still, you wriggly worm" you teased, pretending to grab his nose. A playful fight ensued, a flurry of limbs and laughter. You managed to land a swipe at his cheek with a gooey bit of marshmallow.

Finally, breathless with laughter, you both settled back down, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the quiet camaraderie. As you bit into your marshmallow, a comfortable silence settled between you.

"So, about that bet" he began, wiping his marshmallow-streaked hands on his cargo pants.

You turned to look at him, still chewing on another marshmallow and a piece of melted chocolate. "Yeah?"

"I don't want you to clean my cabin" he explained.

"Why not? I lost the bet" you replied, surprised by his sudden declaration.

He looked at the sky, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. "Yeah, but… We're kind of a mess, actually. I would feel bad if you did it alone."

"Aww, Castellan, are you worried about little ol' me?" you teased him, squeezing his cheek playfully. He blushed a deeper shade of red, looking positively flustered.

"Maybe" he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

"Okay, here's a deal" you continued, trying to cover your own blush. "I'll clean your cabin, but you have to help me. I really don't wanna get into dirty-underwear-business."

Luke considered this for a moment, then a grin spread across his face. "Deal. But I'm warning you, there might be some things you shouldn´t even try to touch with bare hands. And I mean Travis´ and Connor´s bunks”

From a distance, a group of campers — a mix of Hermes, Apollo, and Hephaestus cabins —watched your exchange with keen interest. The playful teasing, the way your hands brushed as you made your deal — it was all too much for their already overactive imaginations.

"I bet you fifteen bucks he's gonna ask her out by the end of the week" an Apollo camper, Lee, declared.

Chris snorted. "That's weak. Twenty bucks says he does it tonight."

hiiya, just thought I could write something different to what I usually do. hope you enjoyed <3 🩷

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #pjo series #pjo #luke castellan x you #luke x reader #luke castellan one shot #luke castellan fic #luke castellan imagine #pjo x reader #pjo x you #luke castellan x female reader #luke castellan x fem!reader #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan imagines #luke castellan x yn

1K notes · View notes

spicy30 · 5 months ago

Text

Modernness of 1400s 008

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

(Repost with extra things added at the end)

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (Smut towards the end)

Not proofread

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon

WC: 13.7k

You smiled faintly as you sat on the bed sipping your lemon tea, watching Jacaerys read the paper in his hands. But the smile quickly faded as his expression darkened, his displeasure palpable.

“You would dare insinuate such a thing about me?” His voice was sharp, laced with anger.

Well, it made sense. No one liked being called a bastard or having uncomfortable truths thrust in their face.

“Your tongue could be cut off for this if anyone were to see it,” he said, crumpling the paper in his fist. His glare cut through you like a blade. “Daemon cut off the head of the last man who dared speak this of my siblings and I.”

You held out your hand, silently asking for the paper back, but he ignored your gesture. Instead, he turned and tossed it into the fire. You sighed, leaning back on the bed, watching the parchment curl and blacken as the flames consumed it.

“I am no bastard,” Jacaerys declared, his voice heavy with conviction. “I will be King of Seven Kingdoms one day.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sighed as the door slammed shut behind Jacaerys, his anger reverberating through the walls like an echo of a storm. You’d expected resistance, perhaps some pushback—but not this. He wasn’t just upset; he was wounded, his pride cut to the quick by what he’d read.

“Well, that went well,” you muttered under your breath, glancing at the fire where the crumpled paper now curled and blackened in the flames.

You hadn’t meant to offend him, but it was clear your words had struck too close to home. Perhaps you’d miscalculated, underestimated how deeply the whispers of bastardy weighed on him. You had hoped to appeal to his pragmatic side—to make him see the value in your endeavor, in the power of investing in the commons. Instead, you’d touched a nerve, and now your plans to roll into making headlines were as ashes as the paper he had burned.

Lying back on the bed, you stared at the ceiling, frustration bubbling under your skin. This was a crucial step to it all. Not only would this plan elevate your standing but his as well and after a while once you’ve made enough money from your Miswak business then you’d release the first newspaper. The idea of starting a newspaper had seemed brilliant—a way to not only disseminate knowledge but to secure your own position, perhaps even sway public opinion. But without the proper momentum, it was little more than a pipe dream.

You frowned, replaying the conversation in your mind. Jacaerys’ reaction wasn’t just anger—it was fear. Fear of losing legitimacy, of being reduced to the whispers that haunted his lineage. Perhaps there was another way to approach him, a way to channel that fear into something productive.

Or maybe you needed to reconsider your approach entirely.

With a groan, you sat up and reached for another scrap of parchment. If one plan had burned to ashes, you’d simply write another.

As you dipped the quill into the ink, your mind raced, crafting a new strategy to salvage your ambitions. You would make this happen, whether Jacaerys liked it or not. You had the power to not only dispel the whispers of his supposed bastardy but to elevate him in the eyes of the public. All he needed to do was play the part—charity work, good deeds, the sort of gestures that swayed hearts and silenced doubts. It wasn’t as if you had outright called him a bastard. You had merely hinted at the fact that many questioned his parentage.

The quill hovered over the blank parchment as hesitation crept in. Perhaps appealing to his pride had been the wrong approach. Jacaerys carried the weight of his mother’s legacy and the crown’s fragile legitimacy on his shoulders. Reminding him of those vulnerabilities had backfired spectacularly.

You leaned back, sighing softly. Rhaenyra was far beyond your reach—her image, tarnished as it was in the eyes of many, would take years to repair. Years you weren’t sure you had. But Jacaerys? With him, there was time.

Your connection with Jacaerys, tenuous yet genuine, was the strongest bond you had in this foreign and unforgiving world. By chance—or perhaps fate—he was the only one who truly knew where you had come from. That trust, fragile as it was, couldn’t be squandered. Not if he was destined to sit the Iron Throne.

You sighed again, setting the quill down without writing a single word. Instead, you rubbed your temples, trying to soothe the tension that had built there. Every idea, every alliance, felt like a gamble with stakes higher than you’d ever faced. But that was the game, wasn’t it? Survival, ambition, power—they demanded risks, demanded precision.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” you called, your voice steady despite the weariness that weighed on you.

The door creaked open, revealing a servant carrying a tray with a small meal and a goblet of wine.

“Prince Aemond sends his regards,” the servant announced, setting the tray down on the table. “He hopes you will be well enough to join him in Aegon’s Garden later this evening.”

You blinked, surprised by the invitation. You hadn’t seen Aemond since waking—what had it been? An hour ago? Maybe more. Time blurred when you were preoccupied with conserving energy and dealing with Jacaerys.

“Thank you,” you replied, glancing at the tray but feeling no appetite. “You may take the meal. I’m not hungry. Bring me a bowl instead, and the drink I requested earlier—with mint leaves, please.”

The servant hesitated for a moment, bowing before gathering the untouched tray.

As the door closed behind them, you stared at the flickering flames of the hearth. Aemond’s invitation hung in your mind. Why now? Was he scheming, as he so often did, or was this genuine concern? With Aemond, it was always hard to tell. But whatever his motive, you couldn’t afford to ignore the opportunity. Every move counted, and every player in this game could be a piece—or a threat.

You looked over to the deep purple dress draped neatly over a chair for when you felt well enough to wear it.

A gift from Dragon Stone or that's what Jacaerys said anyways when he gave it to you.

You looked down, relishing the freshness you felt. You had been bathed in warm water, changed out of your nightgown into a fresh one, and now sat on the bed.

Yet, despite all this, it would not make up for the fact that your toothpaste and your toothbrush were still in King’s Landing. It was fine—you made do by swirling wine in your mouth as a makeshift rinse and chewing on mint leaves for freshness. For hydration, you had your electrolyte drink, but for now, the warm lemon tea in your hands was enough, its soothing tang chasing away the bitter taste lingering on your tongue.

You were feeling better. The weakness in your legs persisted, but other than that, you were fine—or close to it. Still, the bed felt uncomfortable beneath you. Your leg bounced restlessly, as though your body rebelled against stillness. There was a gnawing pressure on your chest, a nagging sense that you should be doing something. It felt akin to the dread of an overdue assignment or the guilt of idleness in the face of obligation. Simply lying there felt... wrong.

With a sigh, you picked up the quill again, determined to turn this restless energy into something productive. But before the tip could touch parchment, the door creaked open. Instinctively, you set the quill down as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. (Which, in all fairness, you had.)

It was the maid from before, carrying your requested items. You thanked her, dismissing her with a polite nod. Once the door clicked shut behind her, you set the quill and parchment aside, rising from the bed to stretch. Your legs protested slightly, sore but functional. Testing your balance, you took a few tentative steps before making your way to the table.

Grasping the wine goblet, you took a mouthful, swishing it around before spitting it into the bowl the maid had brought. The sharp tang of the wine lingered briefly before you repeated the process once more. Satisfied, you set the goblet down and reached for the one containing your electrolyte drink. The sweet, salty flavor slid down your throat, a welcome balm to your fatigue.

Once finished, you returned to the wine goblet, repeating your makeshift cleansing ritual until the vessel was empty. Finally, you sank back into the bed, cradling your warm lemon tea. Its soothing warmth eased the last remnants of discomfort as you chewed on the mint leaves, savoring their cool freshness.

You tested your voice, speaking softly to gauge its steadiness. It came out rough, but you felt refreshed enough. It would have to do. Your gaze shifted to the dress hanging on the chair, and you weighed your options—stay here in your room, feigning rest, or muster the strength to get moving again.

The decision wasn’t an easy one. Staying in bed meant avoiding any further strain on your still-recovering body, but it also meant stagnation—and you hated feeling idle. On the other hand, getting up and dressed meant facing the world, the people, and their expectations, all of which felt daunting in your current state.

You let out a small sigh, running your fingers through your hair. The pressure on your chest hadn’t lifted. If anything, it intensified with the thought of staying put. You didn’t have the luxury of time or inaction. You had plans to set in motion, alliances to strengthen, and a reputation to build.

Your hand lingered on the fabric of the purple dress as you finally stood, testing the weight of your legs beneath you. They trembled slightly, but held steady enough. “One step at a time,” you muttered to yourself, pulling the dress off the chair.

The rich fabric felt heavy in your hands, but it's regal hue gave you a small sense of determination. Dressing wasn’t quick—your movements were sluggish, and your limbs protested with every stretch and pull—but eventually, you managed to fasten the last clasp. You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. You looked pale, but presentable. That would have to suffice.

You walked to the door, resting your hand on the handle. For a moment, you hesitated. Would they see through you, sense your exhaustion beneath the polished exterior? Shaking the thought away, you straightened your spine. Let them. You would have to endure worse than this.

Pulling the door open, you stepped into the corridor. The faint sound of activity echoed through the halls, servants bustling about their duties. You paused for a moment, deciding your destination. Aegon’s Garden, as per Aemond’s invitation? Or perhaps you could seek out Jacaerys again, try a softer approach this time?

Your steps carried you forward before you’d fully decided, the chill of the stone floor beneath your feet grounding you as you made your way.

As you moved through the corridors, you noticed the occasional servant pause to glance your way. Their eyes darted toward your dress, your hair, the faint pallor in your cheeks. You met their gazes with a calm, steady expression, your head held high despite the weight pressing on your chest. You couldn’t afford to look weak, even if every step felt heavier than the last.

By the time you reached the courtyard that led to Aegon’s Garden, the chill of the air nipped at your skin. You hesitated, clutching the edge of your dress as a gust of wind teased at the fabric. The garden lay ahead, its labyrinthine pathways lined with flowers and in the center of it all an obelisk. You lifted a brow looking at it before humming and walking the path. Aemond’s figure was unmistakable, standing near a stone bench with his hands clasped behind his back. He was waiting for you.

You took a deep breath, straightening your posture as you approached. The sound of your footsteps on the stone path drew his attention, and he turned, his single eye sharp and calculating as it swept over you. He said nothing at first, his gaze lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“You look better,” Aemond finally said, his tone neutral, though there was a faint trace of amusement in his voice. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

The wind nipped at your skin, making you shiver as you crossed your arms. "Yeah, me neither," you muttered, shaking your head. "You didn’t think to meet somewhere inside?”

“I like the wind,” Aemond replied, his tone laced with a small jest. His lips twitched as if holding back a smirk. You rolled your eyes and sat down on the cold stone bench, wincing slightly as the chill seeped through your dress.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment. You let your gaze wander across the garden, there were large columns all around and grand statues of Dragons. It looked so familiar yet so different. You couldn’t place it but you swear you had seen something like this before.

“I saw my nephew leaving your room,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice was calm, measured. “He looked… irate.”

You turned to him, your mind scrambling for a response. What could you say that wouldn’t give too much away? After a brief pause, you shrugged. “A petty argument.”

That was technically true. Of course, the matter had been far more than petty, but Aemond didn’t need to know the intricacies of your interactions with Jacaerys.

“About?” he pressed, his curiosity sharp, probing.

You tilted your head, giving him a side-eye. “Curious, are we? You know, curiosity killed the cat.”

Aemond’s brow arched slightly, and he gave a faint scoff. “Your sayings need refinement if you ever intend to pass yourself off as a scholar.”

“Oh, alright then,” you retorted with mock indignation, turning your body to face him fully, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “How about this one: ‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’” Nothing like a good bit of Shakespeare, even if he wasn’t considered a philosopher.

Aemond coughed, but you weren’t fooled. The cough was covering a laugh, and you couldn’t help but grin at his reaction.

“No? It doesn’t work?” you teased, leaning forward just slightly.

He met your gaze, one brow raised in that familiar, almost condescending way of his. “It’s not the worst,” he admitted, though his tone was begrudging.

You laughed softly, the sound light and unguarded. “Well, then. Best to write it down before it’s lost to time. I’ll even autograph it for you. That way, when I’m hailed as the greatest scholar this world has ever seen, you can boast to your future children that you have an original work of mine.”

Aemond’s lips twitched again, this time leaning closer to a smile. “Ambitious, aren’t we?”

“Always,” you quipped, lifting your chin slightly. “But then, isn’t ambition what makes life interesting?”

Aemond’s eye gleamed with something unreadable, a mixture of intrigue and quiet approval. “I thought you said danger made life interesting, which is it?”

You turned away from him tapping your lip. “Both.” He breathed out a small laugh.

Once more, a quiet silence settled over you both, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. You glanced at Aemond, only to find him lost in thought, his eye fixed on the distance.

Suddenly, a daunting realization struck you, and your eyes widened in horror. “Oh my goodness!” you gasped, covering your mouth with your hand.

Aemond turned his attention to you, a faint crease forming between his brows. “What is it?” he asked, his tone cautious but curious.

You let your hand drop, shaking your head as a disbelieving smile tugged at your lips. “You know what I just remembered?”

He hummed lightly, a sign he was listening, though he gave no indication of guessing.

As if this day couldn’t get any worse. You let out a short, humorless laugh before looking at him. “Your mother is supposed to take me to the Sept today to meet a septon.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, an amused glint in his eye. “Has my mother roped you into the Faith? I must admit, I did not take you for one to be swayed so easily.”

“This… this is just perfect.” You threw your hands up in mock celebration, the gesture stiff and exasperated. “Mistake after mistake. God, what is she going to think of me? She already turned her shoulder to me when those rumors went around.”

Aemond chuckled softly, the sound low and dry as he leaned back on the bench, resting one arm along the backrest. “They’re not rumors if it really happened,” he said, his tone laced with mild amusement.

Your jaw dropped, and you turned toward him, pointing an accusatory finger. “Excuse me? That is not the point here! And in any case you’re not helping. Goodness gracious, what is she going to think when I arrive back at King's Landing with the very son she thinks I slept with!?”

“We did.” Aemond offered no help.

“Stop!” You stood abruptly, brushing past Aemond. Your cheeks burned, but you ignored the heat, pushing it down as best you could.

“To King’s Landing, then?” you asked, turning to face him with a composed expression. “If you would be so kind.”

Aemond gave a small nod and rose to join you. The two of you walked through the halls of Dragonstone, the air heavy with the scent of stone and sea. The architecture here was starkly different from that of the Red Keep. It captivated you—the use of arches, intricate and advanced, drew your attention most. While the Red Keep was impressive, Dragonstone’s arches were a feat of engineering you hadn’t seen before.

Columns stood tall, carved into the forms of dragons and other mythical beings. Every corner seemed alive with artistic expression: mosaics depicting Valyrian legends, frescoes painted in rich hues, and relief carvings that told stories you could only guess at.

“Who made this place?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence as your gaze swept over the intricate designs.

“It was a Valyrian stronghold long before House Targaryen settled here,” Aemond replied evenly, his eyes following yours. “It has stood for centuries. The name of its creator has been lost to time.”

You hummed thoughtfully, running your fingers lightly over the edge of a carved column. “I see. That explains it.”

Aemond glanced at you, curiosity flickering in his expression. “Explain what?”

“I’ve never seen architecture like this in King’s Landing,” you said, your voice tinged with admiration. “The Red Keep has its carvings, sure, but nothing close to this scale or intricacy. It reminds me of…” You trailed off, your mind reaching for the right words.

Roman architecture came to mind—grandeur mixed with purpose. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

As you turned a corner, your gaze caught on a large sphinx adorning the entrance to what could only be the Great Hall. Its imposing presence made you stop in your tracks.

“The Gift of the Nile…” you murmured to yourself, a small smile tugging at your lips before you turned to Aemond. “Can we go to Old Valyria?”

He lifted a brow, clearly surprised by your request.

“I’d like to see more architecture like this,” you explained, gesturing to the intricate carvings. “And maybe—just maybe—they had advanced systems, like waterworks, that could help me…” You stopped yourself, not wanting to sound too eager.

Aemond’s response was immediate. “No.”

Your face fell. “Oh. Why not?”

“It’s forbidden,” he said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Why?”

“The death of Princess Aerea Targaryen,” he replied.

“Who’s that?” you asked, genuinely intrigued.

Aemond stopped walking, his expression darkening slightly as he considered his next words. “Aerea was a Targaryen princess who claimed Balerion the Black Dread and flew to Old Valyria. When she returned, she was…” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “She brought something back with her. Something that killed her in the most gruesome way imaginable.”

You frowned, your mind racing with questions. “What did she bring back?”

“No one knows for certain,” Aemond said, his tone sharper now. “But whatever it was, it was enough to deem Old Valyria cursed. No one who ventures there returns and by law, anyone who attempts will be executed.”

You bit your lip, looking back at the sphinx and the grandeur around you. If Old Valyria held answers, it was clear those answers would remain just out of reach.

Afterwards you walked in silence with him. It was a shame they didn’t build a water system inside Dragon Stone, but then you’d suppose you wouldn't have to create one. You tried not to feel too dejected, but it was a shame. What a marvel it would be to see the place or origins for Dragons and the place with this kind of architecture.

As both you and Aemond walked a door opened and out came the younger brother…Lu—something. You were horrible with names, and then an even younger brother followed. This one is unfamiliar to you.

“Nephews.” Aemond greeted curtly. It was clear he did not hold fond feelings for them, if the first night you saw them together wasn’t enough to confirm then this sure is. Aemond did not hold back the crude look in his eye, not even for the little one.

“Uncle.” The oldest one responded, holding his little brother behind him.

If it wasn’t for the situation you’d be smiling at the act. How cute.

“My Lady.” The older brother nodded in your direction and you smiled back.

“My Prince?” Was that the proper title to use?

“Lucerys.” He quickly added.

“No I knew that, I was just wondering if that’s the proper title.” Had to make a quick save. It was rude to not remember people. You smiled and looked down at the little boy. “And who is this?” You bent down to his level looking at him.

He—no Lucerys— gave a flat smile. “My younger brother Joffrey.”

You looked towards Joffrey. “How cute. Hello.”

The young boy only gave you a look before looking up towards his big brother. You breathed out a smile before standing up straight once more.

“I presume you leave back to King’s Landing?” Lucerys questioned you and your eyes looked back towards him. You’d call him preceptive but it doesn’t take a genius to know you and Aemond were leaving.

You nodded. “Yes, thank you for the hospitality and the dress. It was very kind of you.”

“T’was the courtesy of my older brother. DragonStone welcomes you.” Lucerys responded. It was very diplomatic in the way he spoke. It was strange seeing a boy of his age speak so formally. You felt as if your own vocabulary wasn’t enough.

“Oh, yes, Prince Jacaerys. He is very kind. Where is he, may I ask? I’d like to bid him a farewell before I leave. It will be quite some time before I see him or you again.” If things went the way you predicted, you wouldn’t see them until Rhaenrya’s coronation, which you hoped was a ways away.

“He is in the middle of a lesson with our Maester.” A shame. You needed to apologize but if you pressed you were sure to lift some brows. In any case you needed to return to King’s Landing. A nervous feeling settled in your stomach imagining Alicent’s reaction.

“I see. Well please give him my regards and many thanks for the dress.” You nodded and left with Aemond. The walk down the stairs was silent like most of your moments with Aemond. You looked out to the sea and relished the breeze even if it did chill you. Realistically this would be the last time you’d be on Dragonstone. God you wanted to live here, even if you did get sick here. The fresh air was worth it.

After another thirty minutes of you trying to get onto Vhagar both you and Aemond were flying back to King’s Landing. The ride was silent. You felt awkward just sitting there hanging onto him.

“Tell me how you claimed Vhagar?” If there was one thing all men loved, it was to talk about themselves. Aemond seemed particularly prideful about his house and of course his dragon. Though what you really wanted to ask was what happened to his eye, but of course because you were raised with manners you didn’t ask.

You felt him inhale deeply before exhaling. “I was ten. I went to the funeral of my aunt Laena.” You pursed your lips. Now where had you heard that name? Goodness, you really needed to start trying to learn people’s names.

“Aegon and my nephews made jests about how I did not have a dragon. They went as far as to find a pig and give it wings.” You exhaled slowly trying not to laugh. When pigs fly is a common saying. They basically told him he'll get a dragon when pigs fly. That was funny. Though you supposed it evened out. Aemond now rides the largest dragon. “When my aunt passed I took the opportunity and claimed her. I flew her that night and nearly fell off.” You looked towards the side imagining flying a dragon by yourself.

No way. You would definitely fall off.

“My cousins, Baela and Rhaena felt robbed. Rhaena to date still has no dragon and wanted to claim her mother’s dragon.” Oh. It was in the conversation you had with Jacaerys. Laena was their mother. You lifted a brow, not that he could see it, but essentially he stole an heirloom.

If that happened to you, you’d fight with him. Not even a full year of your mother passing and you stole my dragon!? Yeah, you’re just asking for a beating.

“I fought off my cousins and nephews. I lost my eye that night.” Woah! Two for one. The tale of how he claimed Vhagar and how he lost his eye. Nice. “Lucerys cut me across my face and now I lack an eye.”

Well now it made sense. His curtness towards Lucerys and the little one…Joffrey? Well in all honesty you would’ve done the same. Maybe not cut out the man’s eye, but definitely would’ve given him a good beating.

“All because you claimed Vhagar?” Somewhat justified in your eyes, but right now in the air, you need to cater to this man as much as possible. You had no idea what he was thinking half the time.

Aemond nodded and you hummed.

“Would you have done it?” He questioned and thought about it.

“Truthfully?” Aemond nodded and you looked off to the white fluffy clouds. “Yeah. I probably wouldn’t have taken your eye, that was excessive, but you would’ve had your arse handed to you, because what do you mean you stole my mother’s dragon? I would've been mad as hell.” You shrugged, hugging him tighter as Vhagar shifted.

“A dragon chooses their rider. Vhagar chose me.” You felt Aemond tense under you. Clearly this was something that still affected him today.

“Well yeah, but I mean, the week of the funeral. Way harsh, no?” You looked over his shoulder to look at him, occasionally closing your eyes as his hair blew into them.

“I saw an opportunity and I took it.” Aemond looked over before looking forward again.

“Well you can’t argue with that I guess.” He did have a point. You suppose if you were desperate enough to prove yourself, you’d take any opportunity you’d have.

As King's Landing came into full view, you leaned forward with a hopeful glance at Aemond.

“Can you drop me off directly at the Keep? I’d really rather not go through the streets.”

“No.”

“Wha-!?” You gawked at him, incredulous. “What if I catch some horrible disease and die? That’d be my blood on your hands!”

“How tragic,” he replied dryly, not even sparing you a glance.

You huffed, and leaned to look at him over his shoulder. “Fine. Then can you at least take the blame for this? The queen might actually call for my head.”

“No.”

You gave a sigh of frustration. “You’re insufferable.” Your grip around his waist loosened. “What if just kill myself right now? Drop me off Vhagar.”

Aemond’s head snapped toward you, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “Because I refused to fly you straight to the Red Keep and shield you from my mother’s wrath when it was you who got sick, begged me to take you to Dragonstone, and then decided to swim in the sea, catching a fever and prolonging our stay?”

“Yes,” you replied simply, fighting back a grin as you teasingly loosened your hold, feigning a dramatic gesture of letting go.

Aemond sighed, his eyes narrowing in a mix of annoyance and begrudging amusement. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly, unable to hide the victorious smile that spread across your face.

Vhagar landed gracefully atop Aegon’s Hill, her massive claws gripping the stone with practiced ease. You slid off her saddle and onto the top wall of the Red Keep, your boots meeting the solid surface with a soft thud. The wind tugged at your hair and clothes, and you took a moment to steady yourself, glancing down at the sprawling city below.

“Grateful yet?” Aemond asked as he dismounted, his tone tinged with dry humor.

“Ecstatic,” you replied sarcastically, brushing nonexistent dust off your sleeves as you turned toward him. “Though I’m fairly certain your mother will find a reason to scold me for arriving this way.”

Aemond smirked, unbothered. “If my mother knew half the things you’d done recently, she’d have more than just scolding in mind.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your cloak. “Well, we’d better not keep her waiting. Lead the way, oh noble escort.”

Aemond arched a brow but said nothing, motioning for you to follow as he began descending the narrow stone staircase leading into the Keep.

The hallways inside the Red Keep were a stark contrast to the airy heights you’d just left. Shadows danced along the walls, illuminated by the flickering glow of torches. Servants scurried past, casting curious glances in your direction but keeping their heads low.

“You’d think by now they’d be used to seeing me, it's been like two months, near three,” you murmured, catching a maid’s startled gaze before she quickly looked away.

“They’re not accustomed to guests who arrive atop dragons and make a habit of disrupting court life,” Aemond quipped, his steps steady and purposeful.

You shot him a sidelong glance but chose not to respond, instead focusing on the task ahead. The weight of your pending audience with the Queen sat heavily in your chest, and you couldn’t shake the nagging worry about what awaited you.

As you approached the familiar double doors of the Queen’s private chambers, you paused, looking at Aemond. “Should I start with an apology or wait until she accuses me of something first?”

“Start with silence,” Aemond replied with a smirk, stepping forward to knock on the door. “That is what Aegon does.”

“I’m not Aegon. That's her son, and I don’t go around screwing anyone I see or from what I’ve heard.” You looked up towards Aemond who had a knowing look and a raised brow. “Okay it was one time and, by technicality, there was no ‘screwing’” You put air quotation marks around screwing. Did he know what those meant?

“My mother will not see it as such and neither will the Seven.” There was a mocking undertone and your top lip lifted in slight annoyance and disgust.

“Thanks for the reminder, Your Grace,” you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to add it to the list of things I’ll repent for in my nonexistent confession to the Seven.”

Aemond’s lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, you couldn’t tell. “You could try feigning humility. It might soften her glare.”

You folded your arms, leaning against the cool stone wall. “Humility doesn’t suit me. It does not befit the greatest scholar that ever was and ever will be.”

Before Aemond could respond, the door creaked open, revealing Ser Criston Cole standing guard just inside. His sharp gaze swept over you and then to Aemond before he gave a slight nod. “The Queen had looked for you for some time My Lady”

Ser Criston always looked at you as if he had some problem with you. Well if you had to take an oath of celibacy, you’d think you’d be a little grumpy too. Sex depravity is a horrid thing, especially once you’ve had it. You looked over Ser Criston with a small smile. A good looking man. No way he was a virgin. He had to miss the action. Probably the reason he was such a stick in the mud.

“Her grace is in her chambers. I’m sure she will be pleased to see you.” He spoke but it was clear his attention was on your companion.

“Lovely,” you muttered under your breath, straightening up and smoothing down your cloak as Aemond motioned for you to enter first.

Inside, Queen Alicent sat near a roaring fire, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression was calm but guarded, the same look she always wore when addressing someone she didn’t entirely trust—or perhaps someone who constantly tested her patience.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a small curtsy, inwardly cringing at how stiff it felt.

Alicent’s eyes flicked to Aemond briefly before settling on you. “You’ve been absent for some time,” she began, her tone measured. “I trust you have an explanation.”

You opened your mouth, but Aemond cut in smoothly, stepping to your side. “It was my doing, Mother. I took her to Dragonstone.”

Oh thank god.

Alicent’s brow arched ever so slightly as she looked between the two of you. “To Dragonstone? For what purpose?”

“Rest and recovery,” Aemond replied. “She fell ill during her stay and required quieter surroundings.”

You glanced at him, thanking him ten times over in your head. Alicent’s expression softened just enough to make you think she might buy it—or at least not press further.

“And are you well now?” Alicent asked, turning her focus back to you.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you replied swiftly, forcing a polite smile as you suppressed the nerves bubbling under your skin.

A tense silence hung in the room as Alicent gestured to the chairs by the fire. “Sit. We have much to discuss.” Her eyes shifted momentarily toward Aemond, her meaning clear. “Aemond, you may go now.”

You glanced at him, searching his face for any sign of resistance. Instead, Aemond offered a subtle sigh, his lips pressing into a thin line before he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The heavy thud of the door closing behind him seemed to echo in your chest.

As you took a seat by the fire, Alicent’s unwavering gaze pinned you in place. Her expression was stern, her composure sharp as a blade. Whatever this was about, it was clear you were in for more than a casual conversation.

“Your Grace,” you began, hoping your voice didn’t betray the apprehension building inside you.

“The results,” Alicent interrupted, her tone curt. “I want them. I have extended your time nearly double what was promised.”

The weight of her demand pressed on you like a stone, and despite yourself, you flinched slightly under her intense gaze. Your heart pounded as the tension in the room thickened.

“Of course,” you managed, your voice steady enough to sound convincing. “I finished them before I fell ill. Shall I fetch them?”

Alicent’s lips thinned, her expression a mixture of patience and scrutiny. “Yes. And make it swift. I will not wait any longer.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” you murmured, standing from your seat with a small bow. You moved toward the door with measured steps, conscious of Alicent’s sharp eyes following your every movement.

As soon as you stepped out and the door clicked shut behind you, you allowed yourself a small, shaky breath while you placed your hand over your chest feeling your heartbeat. The tension in the room had been stifling, and you felt as though you’d been holding your breath the entire time.

“I’m gonna have a heart attack.” You murmured to yourself. From the corner of your eye you saw Ser Criston Cole. He was looking at you from the corner of his eye. You stood up straight and for a brief and awkward moment you were both left there looking at each other, before you cleared your throat and excused yourself.

Your mind raced as you walked down the hall, your footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floors. The results. They were complete, yes, but presenting them to Alicent meant more than just handing over neatly written lines on parchment. The stakes were higher than ever. If anyone found out you lied on those reports, it was your head.

Of course there was also the possibility that she wouldn’t like what you had to say and it would be your head either way.

Oh god. You were going to die. Not even King Viserys would save you, even if you were keeping him alive, if he found out you were testing the validity of his grandchildren, he would probably have you burned alive or something.

Worse! What if he sentenced you to one of those horrible medieval torture decvices you’ve heard so much about. Death by boiling would be crazy.

Not to mention Alicent already wasn’t happy. She had extended your time, yes, but it was not an act of kindness—it was a test of patience. A queen’s patience was not something to trifle with, and you knew you were on thin ice.

You felt like crying, you were so scared. You had so much to live for! You can’t die!

You reached your chambers, your heart still thudding with a mix of anxiety and determination. As you entered, your eyes immediately found the bundle of parchment resting on your desk. The hours you’d poured into writing and revising the report played through your mind like a film reel. Every decision you’d made—every word choice, every phrasing—suddenly felt like it could make or break you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up the papers, your thoughts spiraling. What if she found you were lying? What if she dismissed your work entirely, calling it unfit or, worse, a waste of her time?

No. You shook your head, taking a steadying breath. This wasn’t the time for self-doubt. You had poured everything into this, and you knew the work was good. It had to be.

You straightened the papers, smoothing them with the flat of your hand before pressing them to your chest. As you turned back toward the door, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your reflection looked pale, tired, but resolute.

With a final deep breath, you stepped back into the hall and began the walk to the queen’s chamber. This time, your steps were steadier, your grip on the papers firm. You were scared, so damn scared because this could actually be your last day here, or anywhere! However, you knew this was necessary. You cannot be the best there ever was if you take no risks. If this was a test, you would meet it head-on. You had no other choice.

As you reached the door and suddenly you froze. You clasped your hands and looked up. “Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please. Please let me come out of this alive.” You shut your eyes trying to pray harder. “If I’m still alive by the time this is over, I swear anything I ever accomplish will be in the name of humanity…” You paused thinking. “And not just for myself.”

You opened your eyes exhaling before you looked over to see Ser Criston Cole giving you a very judgmental look. You gave a half-hearted smile like she didn’t just witness you begging for your life to be spared. Finally summoning all your courage you knocked on the door and put on a soft smile. A sense of resolve settled over you. Whatever awaited you inside, you would face it with as much poise as you could muster. When Alicent’s voice called for you to enter, you pushed the door open, papers in hand, and met her gaze with a calm, composed expression.

Suddenly you felt dread come over you as Otto turned to face you. You bowed begging in your head. “Lord hand.”

Otto’s sharp eyes scrutinized you like a hawk appraising its prey. You stood there, trying not to wilt under the weight of his presence, your fingers tightening slightly around the parchments as if they were a lifeline.

“Lady—” he paused, clearly searching for your name, or perhaps choosing not to use it, “I trust the results you carry are worth the extended time granted by Her Grace.”

“Of course, Lord Hand,” you replied, keeping your voice steady despite the rising dread clawing at your chest. “I assure you, the work has been thorough.”

Alicent, seated gracefully by the fire, gestured toward the chairs. “Sit,” she commanded.

You hesitated only a moment before obeying, lowering yourself carefully into the seat. Otto remained standing, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the room, while Alicent’s measured gaze never left your face.

“I hope you understand,” Alicent began, her tone cool but laced with an edge, “that this task was not a mere courtesy. The truth, no matter how unpleasant, is paramount.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand completely.”

Otto stepped closer, his boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. “Then let us waste no more time. Present your findings.”

Your hands trembled ever so slightly as you extended the parchments, and you cursed yourself for showing even a flicker of weakness. Alicent took them without a word, her expression inscrutable as she began to read.

The silence that followed was excruciating. You fought to keep your breathing even, your mind racing through every possible scenario. Would Alicent be relieved? Angry? Would Otto see through the careful lies woven into your report and call you out on them?

Your thoughts spiraled further into paranoia. What if they both knew? What if this entire meeting was a trap, and guards were waiting just outside the door for Otto’s command to drag you to the dungeons?

Had you not been fearing for your life, you might have noticed the confusion flickering across Alicent and Otto’s faces. Had you been calmer, you might have realized they had little choice but to accept your results. Had you been thinking clearly, you would have understood that the greatest danger was simply that they might not like your findings—something you already suspected.

“Explain your findings thoroughly,” Otto demanded, his voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

Your mind stuttered to a halt. “I’m sorry?”

“Explain,” he repeated, his tone cool and precise, “how exactly you arrived at this conclusion. Elaborate on your methodology and the mechanics of the equation you used to ensure the accuracy of your results.”

“Oh, right. Well…” Your mind scrambled for composure, and you began to speak quickly, the words spilling out as if sheer volume could mask your nerves. “A Punnett square operates as a combinatorial matrix designed to elucidate the probabilistic genotypic and phenotypic outcomes of sexual reproduction by modeling the allelic interplay of parental gametes. This construct, named after the eminent geneticist Reginald Punnett, serves as a heuristic device for demystifying the stochastic distribution of hereditary units, otherwise known as alleles.”

You barely paused for breath before diving deeper. “This, of course, extends from Gregor Mendel’s foundational principles of inheritance. Mendelian genetics provides the framework by which—”

“Enough.” Otto’s interruption was calm but firm, and you instantly snapped your mouth shut, cheeks burning as you realized you had started rambling.

Alicent’s eyes narrowed slightly, and you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. “You are confident in these results?” she asked quietly, but there was an edge to her tone that made your stomach twist.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you replied, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “The methodology is sound, and I am certain of the outcome.”

You hoped they wouldn’t notice how tightly you clutched the edges of the parchment or how your knuckles had turned white. You had no choice but to double down and hope for the best.

Both Alicent and Otto looked towards each other, a thousand words exchanged between the both of them in a single look. “The Citadel hosts the best scholars in Westeros. I’d like to have your work transferred. This of course could be a grand opportunity for you. No other woman has been granted such a thing. A word from the Hand and Queen and of course from the head of House Hightower, the Citadel would make an exception.”

They wanted to check your work. You were in a dilemma. There was a chance that you were being offered could boost you forward. Make a name for yourself now…but risk throwing away everything else, or stand your ground and trust your play in the long run would pay off.

“I can’t. It’s not possible.” You chose to stick to your guns. Hopefully it would yield its proper reward. “Forgive me but…your technology is not advanced enough. For any more accurate findings, testing blood for example…the technology does not exist yet.”

“Yet you can definitively say that these results are accurate.”

“With all due respect, Lord Hand. I have extensive schooling in this matter.” Debatable, but you certainly had way more than they did. “You do not possess the mathematical formulas, or as I said, blood testing. The phenotypic possibilities alone took me days to narrow. I have checked my work and…” You inhaled standing up straight and puffing your chest out a bit. You wanted to echo confidence, even if you didn’t feel it.

Fake it till you make it.

“Regardless of what you want to hear, the children of Crown Princess Rhaenrya fathered by her lawful husband; Laenor Valyeron, are legitimate. I wish I could give you the results you want, and rest assured the deed my Queen, Alicent has done for me, I swear it to you, will never be forgotten. I am at your service, but you asked for the truth, and now I will deliver it.” Alicent looked towards you with a cold gaze echoing her father.

Gods, you were so dead.

Alicent let out a sigh, her expression unreadable, and waved you off with a dismissive gesture. You didn’t wait for her to change her mind, quickly making yourself scarce. As you stepped out, the weight of the ordeal seemed to hit you all at once. Your legs felt like they might give out beneath you, and you leaned against the closed door for support. Tilting your head back, you mouthed a silent “thank you” to whatever divine force had decided to spare you—for now.

You began the walk to your chambers, craving nothing more than some well-earned rest. Every step felt heavier, exhaustion threatening to drag you down. But just as your sanctuary came into view, a voice called your name.

So close… yet so far.

“King Viserys requests your presence,” the messenger announced, their tone formal but clipped.

You froze, your temper dangerously close to slipping. A wave of heat surged through you, your hand twitching involuntarily as frustration bubbled to the surface. “Now?”

“I would presume, my lady.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Fine. Send for Dyana. Tell her to see to my morning needs and prepare my chambers immediately, and a bath. I smell like a dragon.”

The messenger gave a respectful nod. “Of course.”

With another sigh, you turned on your heel, setting off toward the King’s chambers. Rest would have to wait.

The King's chambers were quieter than usual, the crackling fire in the hearth providing the only sound as you entered. King Viserys, looking markedly stronger than when you'd last seen him, was sitting upright in his chair, his once-diminished face now flushed with color. His eyes still held the weariness of his age, but there was a gleam of vitality in them that hadn’t been there before.

You bowed deeply, careful not to show any surprise at his improved state. “Your Grace.”

“Come closer, child,” he said warmly, his voice much steadier than you expected. He gestured to the chair beside him, and you moved to sit, noting how much more alert he seemed than he had in weeks.

Well he was well enough to walk around now, so it made it sense.

“Was your trip with my daughter successful?” he spoke, his gaze thoughtful. You gave a smile and nodded. “It was. I am simply waiting for the leaves to dry. It should be another three days till it is ready for recreational use.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the armrests of his chair. “Wonderfull, what benefits will it give?”

“Uhh well in moderation: pain management, stress relief, improved sleep, appetite stimulation, muscle relaxation and spasm relief among other things. How is the drink working for you? And the lavender of course.” You did your best to use fancy words for all the side-effects one may have while being high.

“The drink is wonderful, I feel rejuvenated and the lavender not only helps me sleep but helps me smell better as well. What is it that you use to scent yourself? You have such a distinct smell about you.” King Viserys’s eyes glinted with interest.

You smiled. “I use soaps from my native homeland and perfumes occasionally, but naturally because I have lived in such a…” You thought for a second trying to phrase it as gently as you could. “Different environment, I naturally smell very different from people here in King’s Landing or Westeros as a whole.”

“Very interesting…may I see them?” Viserys smiled slightly, a more genuine warmth in his gaze.

If only he knew that you had discovered the bastardy of his grandchildren and had you thought less, you would’ve exposed it.

“To smell, yes, to use…no. Your skin is very sensitive. I wouldn’t want to make it worse, but I can make something similar, gentler even. Until then I would suggest if your skin bothers you, take baths in warm water mixed with breast milk. It works wonders for the skin. No soap needed. Simply lay in it for five to ten minutes. Helps repair the skin.” You smiled. Goats milk soap is always easy to make, besides you would run out of soaps from your modern world (unfortunately) and need to find a replacement.

The King’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “Breast milk? What babes drink?” A small, incredulous smile played across his lips.

“Yes.” you replied, standing straighter. “The human body, particularly a woman’s body, is incredible. Did you know that when breast milk mixes with a baby’s saliva it can trigger changes in the milk composition based on the baby's current immune needs, essentially signaling to the mother's body to produce more specific antibodies to fight potential infections the baby might be facing. Also baths in breast milk does wonders for the skin. It is why maesters or doctors, where I come from, recommend you bathe your baby in breast milk at least one or two days a week.” You caught the flicker of confusion in his eyes and added,“It prevents babies from getting sick is what I’m saying. A woman’s body will change the way the milk is made to better fit the needs of the baby so it survives.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. “Really? Where did you learn this?”

“My home.” you said softly, your gaze drifting briefly to the window. “Our practice of medicine is far more advanced than anything here.”

“Would you ever be able to bring those practices here?” he asked, his tone laced with a genuine curiosity.

You hesitated, glancing down at your hands. “As advanced as they are from where I come from? No. I’m not educated enough to fully treat serious illnesses or perform surgery and things of the sort, but I am pretty good at basic things.”

His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable. “Could you go back and bring this knowledge?”

Your smile faltered, and you exhaled slowly. “Well if I went home, I would mostly never return, like ever.”

“Why?”

“Truth be told, I don’t know.” You shrugged with a flat smile on your face. “I was in an accident and when I awoke, I was here. I gave up trying to go home about a month ago.” You smiled sadly looking at the ground. “I do miss my family. My old life. I wish I had gotten to study more, earn a degree.”

Viserys watched you intently, his features softening. “Sit, please,” he said gently. “Tell me more. Quite a peculiar place you come from.”

You leaned back into the chair, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “What would you like to know?”

“Women, where you’re from—are they allowed education as you are?”

“Yes.” you replied, nodding. “It is a norm to be educated. It is an unsaid social norm and if you are not, people will look down on you. In fact in recent years, women are more educated than men, they earn higher wages and because of that they no longer need to depend on a man. It is thought that because for years money is all men brought to the table they did not develop enough and now women are demanding more from them and truth is, most men can’t because emotionally, they’re nothing more than children. Women do not want to be mothers to their husbands.”

“Really?” His voice carried a mix of fascination and skepticism. “How did this come to be?”

“Well…women gained rights,” you said simply. “Eventually after centuries of being oppressed and men believing they were the superior gender. It all came to a head and women demanded rights and equality. Women have all the same potential, maybe even more to do what men can do if given a fair chance. You’ve seen it with me, I have done the impossible, and I will continue to do so.” You straightened in your seat, determination gleaming in your eyes. “There have been hundreds of generations of women who have been put down and minimized that led to me. I must and I will amount to more. Their struggle and sacrifice for me, will not be in vain.”

The King’s expression softened further, and a faint smile curved his lips. “You have a very headstrong character. I only wish you had come sooner. My daughter, Rhaenrya, would’ve gotten along splendidly with you. She had a similar drive. Tell me…” His eyes dimmed, a shadow of grief passing over his face. “How are births handled where you are from? If the babe is stuck as an example.”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Well it depends, it can be maneuvered within the stomach so that the head faces the opening or if it requires more, then a c-section is promptly ordered.”

“A c-section?” he echoed, leaning forward slightly.

“A cesarean delivery,” you clarified. “It’s a surgical procedure where the baby is delivered through an incision in the mother’s abdomen and uterus. It’s done when a natural birth would endanger the mother or child.”

“Does it kill the mother?”

“Not usually,” you replied. “While there are risks, they’re minimal with proper care. Most mothers recover well and can even conceive again.”

“Do the women not bleed out?”

“Excessive bleeding can happen, but it’s rare for it to be fatal,” you reassured him.

Viserys sighed deeply, his gaze distant. “I truly wish you had come sooner.”

“Yeah…” You looked down, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”

He straightened in his chair, the melancholy lifting slightly. “Well, in any case, I’m sure you have things to attend to. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you.” You rose but paused near the door. “May I ask something of Your Grace?”

“Of course,” he said, motioning for you to continue.

“I’d like to propose a few ideas to the council—in, say, a fortnight?”

He smiled faintly. “I see no issue with it. I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you, my King.” You curtsied before leaving, already anticipating the comfort of your bed and the luxury of brushing your teeth properly once again.

You walked down the halls. Why the King had hopped for your early arrival, you couldn’t say. You felt bad for the old man, nearly stabbed him in the back and he didn’t even know it. Old people were so cute.

You stepped into your room seeing your set up. Sweet scents and a fan still working great.

Suddenly you turned and you nearly crashed into something. “Oh! Jump scare.” You murmured, turning away from him. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Your chambers?” He corrected.

“Right, grammar police here.” You rolled your eyes walking towards your setup Dyana had brought. Along with your bath. Hopefully Aemond was smart enough to sneak back in without anyone seeing. “What are you doing in my chamber, your grace?” You mocked his accent while tying your hair back.

“What did my mother want with you?” Aemond walked behind you before sitting on your bed.

Your face contorted before you pulled him off it. “Egh! Get off my bed! Go sit on a chair like a normal person. What’s wrong with you? You smell like Vhagar.”

“As do you.” Aemond countered looking down at you and you in turn raised a brow.

“Okay you don’t see me sitting on my bed now do you? Outside clothes never touch my bed, and they shouldn’t touch yours either. It’s unsanitary. Have some standards. A bed is a sacred space.” Aemond only gave a scoff.

“You are a dramatic woman.” Aemond spoke and you gave no answer. “What did my mother ask for?” Aemond sat on a chair watching you.

“Some plans she asked me to make a couple weeks ago.” You said dismissively turning and getting a small soap from your suitcase, Aemond’s watchful eye never leaving you.

“What plans?” He pressed looking at you as you washed your hands.

“Nothing too important that you need to worry about.” This man was too nosey for your liking. Always with the questions this one.

“Really? You seemed as if you were about to cry while praying to whatever gods it is you have before entering the room.” Aemond mocked it with that concerning smirk that never went away.

“Ugh, who told you that?” You turned and smiled, wetting your toothbrush while Aemond lifted a brow. “Ooh was it that delicious looking knight? Y’know if he just kept his mouth shut he would’ve been perfect.”

“Ser Criston has taken an oath of celibacy for life.” Aemond again watching you curious as to what you were doing.

“Men can never truly uphold something like that. I bet you I can get him to break it, if he hasn;t already. But it looks like he has a big mouth, so….” You humbled picking up your toothpaste, slapping a small glob on your toothbrush before wetting the brush again. “Where’s he from anyways, he’s totally my type. Maybe I can snag myself another one.” You began brushing and foam formed in your mouth while Aemond furrowed his brows in confusion ever so slightly.

“What is that?” He asked and you rolled your eyes.

You spit out some of the foam. “Can’t you read? It says Crest 3d white. Fluoride anticavity toothpaste. 100% whitening. It’s what keeps my teeth so white and my mouth clean. Duh.” You continue to brush your teeth and your tongue.

“Whitening?” He questioned standing up, picking up the toothpaste and smelling it. He pulled back a bit. Strong scent, too strong.

You spit out white foam again. “Y’know every time I go to the dentist they say I have perfect teeth, I have to keep up my streak.” Even if you are nevering going to see another dentist in your life.

Aemond simply looked at you before putting it down and picking up your mouth wash. You watched him read as you continued to brush before finally finishing. “You want to try it? It helps kill the bacteria that makes people's breath smell bad.” You smiled, some foam still in your mouth.

You uncapped it and rinsed your mouth with it before spitting it out. You turned to him and gave a toothy grin. “See? All clean now. Okay when you do it, don’t swallow it, you might get sick or something and it might burn a bit so…just beware.”

You gave him some and immediately you saw his face twist. You grinned and held in a laugh. “Relax! Wash it around your mouth, especially in the back.” You watched him try to keep it in before he spit it out.

He started coughing and you giggled. “A filthy mouth you have.” You clicked your tongue in disapproval. “Alright well, get out now, I’m going to change and then I’m going to bed.” you turned around letting down your hair tossing your hair tie on your desk.

Aemond said nothing and you raised a brow. Maybe he didn’t hear you. You turned around and suddenly he grabbed your face forcing your lips against his. His tongue swiftly entered your mouth before you pushed him off of you as you stood with wide eyes.

“It is fresher.” It was all he said before once more kissing you. You had no time to react. He pulled away. “You are sleeping for the rest of the day, no?”

“Well yeah, but I’ve had enough of royals for…like ever. I’m pretty sure your mother is actually trying to kill me and your grandfather.” You asked as your hands lay flat against his chest.

“Grandsire.” He corrected and you rolled your eyes.

“Right, sorry, you’re still the grammar police.” You spoke and he only hummed, pressing a small kiss to the side of your mouth. You still didn’t know what was happening or why he was acting like this but there was that pressing fear that Alicent will indeed kill you. You already squandered a chance for her to take you to the sept, so now it was on to a new plan to avoid Alicent wrath and that plan that did NOT involve you being intimate with Aemond.

“Stop.” You pushed him off you. “What are you doing? I’m not joking, your mother, the queen is actually out for my head and the hand will help her. I can’t do this. You are not worth my life. Listen, it was good the first time, but not ‘I will give up my life’ good.”

“Fret not, I will not allow it to happen.” He resumed kissing you and despite your earlier claims you did lean into them. What can you say? A freshly cleaned mouth and the man was a good kisser? It was game over.

“My knight in shining armor.” You scoffed at pulling away.

“A dragon knight. I ride the queen of dragons. I will handle my mother and grandsire.”

“That's not how the fairy tales go.” You smiled, raising a brow as he undid the laces of your dress.

“How do the fairy tales go then?” Aemond murmured into your skin as he kissed your neck.

You giggled and pushed yourself away but his grip kept you close. “Normally the dragon takes the Princess and the knight slays the dragon, saving the Princess and they live happily ever after.”

“What if the knight is the dragon?” He nipped your skin and you sucked in a breath.

“Are you calling yourself a dragon?” A laugh lifting his head towards you while you smile.

“I am a dragon. I carry the dragon’s blood.” He murmured as he kissed you once more, tearing off your dress leaving you in small clothes.

“So then what does that make me?” You questioned as his hands went to your hair and you began undressing him.

“The princess?” He spoke as he threw off his coat and shirt.

“I’m no Princess, I haven’t married a Prince and my father is no King. I am a scholar.” Aemond pushed you back onto the bed.

“A scholar should not need saving? Do you not need me?” He stood over you with a smug smirk.

“No. I don’t need you.” You propped yourself up on your elbows. “But having you is nice.” You dragged him down kissing him once more.

A smirk tugged on his lips, fighting with yours for dominance. Clearly, you were not one to submit. Though he supposes it should not come to a surprise, you always fought against everything else. This would be no different. However, Aemond was not but determined.

“Well, is my Scholar willing to enlighten me in more wisdom–,” You shivered at the cold metal around his fingers when they contacted your supple skin, hands caressing your sides, “-per the demonstration done last occasion?”

Your eyebrows narrowed, heat spreading on your nape at the unlocked memory, the one you've been registering over again in your head when you tried to sleep at night. A mistake. Well another was about to ensue. A bigger one.

Ready to spit something back but your lips were swept away, Aemond hungrily biting the flesh.

You pulled back, witnessing the hands that now tangled in the fabric that was your main piece of coverage.

A loud tear echoed, your eyes widening in horror, “Are you mad?! I just got this!”

Aemond rolled his eyes at the dramatic reaction. “Yes from my nephew, I’ll buy you a better one.” tongue wetting his lips at the sight of your chest.

It wasn't bare, no, your small clothes were lace. A pretty pink lace and in the middle was a small little rose sown on. Was this what the women from your land wore? Such skimpy tops? All Aemond knew was that it caught him like a fish to a hook, excited to peel it off your body like a fruit shell, the delicious part hidden beneath.

“Wait.” You pushed against him. “This is exactly what Imaan Hammam wore in the comeback show of Victoria Secret. Be very careful, this is like one of three sets I have.” You smiled looking down at your lacy small clothes. “I have the one Adriana Lima wore and the Candice Swanepoel one. Very expensive, so be careful!”

Who?

He ran his fingers across the material, it was soft. “You make me insane.” The grin that tugged on your face had the Targaryen cup your cheek, dragging the stare into your sight longer. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“...In a bad way, it makes me feel good.” Poetic. It appears you’re not the only Shakespeare here.

“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment or?” He shook his head, resuming with what he started, not a patch of skin was left untouched by his curiosity. Wet kisses and marks being planted on your neck.

“You talk too much.” He murmured against you.

“Isn't that what teachers do?” You laughed as he pulled the rest of your dress down to expose the other half of your set. How pretty, even matching with the little rose.

Aemond sat back, working his way with the strings of his trousers, loosening them to relieve the tent that formed by your charm, “You aren't teaching me anything?”

“I'll teach you the art of insertion,” you chuckled at your own joke but only one party was laughing.

“I know where to put it.” Aemond wasn’t stupid and you were not his first conquest, though judging by your demeanor, it wasn’t yours either. Though for the moment Aemond would rather not think of that.

“Right, do you want to learn or not?” You smiled looking up at him.

Aemond sat back on his hunches, observing with that cold eye of his, expression unreadable. “Do proceed.”

“No wait, I was just kidding." Raising an eyebrow, a thought struck you, wouldn't it be amusing?

“A jest,” a look of disbelief painted his expression.

“Harder? Faster? Deeper?” You giggled looking towards him.

He glared at your grimy ‘jest’, one hand wrapping around the bone of your ankle, satisfied by the small squeal that left your mouth as he pulled you halfway down the sheets, locating his hips between your thighs.

That seemed to shut you up, allowing Aemond to have his way with you. It was absurd, the way his body craved you so much. He wanted all of you, to see all of you, have everything to himself.

His jaw clenched, his hand glided over your stomach until it was right above the place you needed him most.

Your blood kept pumping, your heart skipped beats it shouldn't. Why were you reacting this way? His thumb hovered over the bundle of nerves that stood out, pressing with the large digit on it.

“Aemond, don't tease.” the drag of his name came so perfectly out of your pretty lips, lips that he devoured.

Silently, he noted the buck of your hips when he moved his fingers in slow circles around your clit that were covered by the soft lace of your small clothes covering you

His brain drilled in all the information, your heavy breathing, the line forming between your eyebrows and that pleading swirl in your eyes when you peered at him.

“Did you enjoy that?” You curtly bobbed your head, still not partaking in the fact that this indeed was happening with Aemond Targaryen. “More, please.” The light gesture was maddening your senses, it was there, simulating, but not enough.

“Wait, take it off. I can’t ruin this.” You breathed out, your cheeks flushed looking at him.

“I’m sure I can get you another.” Aemond was sure in this moment he would travel to the ends of the earth in this moment to get you what you needed. Anything just to your fucked out expression.

“You can’t. Just take it off” You whined and he obliged. Such a pretty thing it was. Though what it hid was prettier yet. In the light he could see you glistening. The prettiest underlings he had ever seen.

“Aemond, more.” You begged to reach him.

And more was given, Aemond pushed your hip down when it buckled at the reaction and it did send a shock through your veins, but was quickly discarded by the overtaking pleasure.

“God.” You breathed out. Your awareness heightened, fingers tugging at the sheets of your bed at the bliss that was raising every second.

Oh how you loved it, his thumb was replaced by his pointer and middle finger, flicking and toying with the pearl. Your thighs squeezed around Aemonds wrist but he caught one of your knees, pushing his wide open for more access.

They ran down your fold to collect the running slick, using it to fasten the pace. You couldn't control yourself anymore, there was a coil in your stomach and the constant spasms of your muscles that had you pushing your long nails into his bare chest, leaving red marks. Any deeper and his blood would spill.

Your toes curled but then Aemond removed his fingers, holding them up to watch your honey gleam at the cricketing fire that reflected on it. You watched carefully, it shouldn't have been so attractive but it was.

As you were lost in thought, Aemond took the chance to cautiously find a way for his fingers inside your heat, making sure you won't act impulsively by slamming your legs shut.

It didn't take long for your hole to swallow them then try to fight off the intruding, worse was when he curled them, almost knuckle deep inside of you.

And it didn't take too long for him to have an orgasm forced out of you, all Aemond did was continue to investigate your body, your sultry moans that probably had heads turning in the direction of your chambers.

Gossip. Murmurs. Scandals.

Aemond didn't care. Let them hear, let them whisper. He wants them to hear how good he makes you feel, best would be if his brother heard, then they'd know who you belonged to. A shame his nephew wasn’t here to listen to you.

Or even Ser Criston Cole.

Leaning down to peck your forehead, his spine curled and you felt all the bones and muscles in his upper back on the touch of your palm, broad shoulders, bones that flexibly shifted when he changed position.

Aemond was not able to restrain himself anymore, he was throbbing painfully, the orgasm he gave you didn't make it better. He wanted to be engulfed by your gummy insides.

“Don't be shy now, I'm wide open.” his eye widened, how shameless were you? Your hand seductively ran the curve from your chest to your navel, looking Aemond straight into the eye, no hesitation lingering behind yours.

You were over the previous view of this encounter. The desperate need to fulfill your sexual frustrations came into play, puppeteering you into doing things you probably would regret later.

His nostrils flared, exhaling lowly through his nose as his arousal lit up, exploding at your remarks, your body, your reactions, you. Just…you.

Why were you so special? It confused him. Everything was different about you and he wanted that difference in his life.

Your ankles crossed behind his back, playing the role of getting him closer this time, wearing a devious smile. “I expect more from the one-eyed Targaryen Prince.”

Your arms now around his nape, your noses touching as your breath lingered like a breeze on him, people in the twenty-twenties would've gone crazy at the non-existent distance.

“Will you take it?”

“I will.”

“I'll ruin you.” That…did something to you. You felt that cold wetness ooze out of your hole and it made you bite your tongue. “Can you?” You lifted a brow offering the challenge.

“I was always planning on doing so.” His hands ran up your back toying with the back of the small clothes you had.

“Then stop talking and move.” You helped him unclasp the back of your bra and it was thrown off to the side. He looked down towards you relishing the sight of you bare. His second time seeing you, yet it did not take away the illusion it had the first time.

“So demanding, have I made you desperate? Do you want me to fill you up?” Aemond egged you on, his lips finding their right on yours while he took off his garments.

Glancing down, you saw his hardened cock and it made you naturally beam into the kiss, the corners of your mouth curling up. “So big…”

Your hands were caged by one of Aemonds, pushing them above your head for a few minutes. He didn't need to pump his cock more than how hard it was already, only guiding the tip to the right place.

A sharp gasp escaped your throats, not just you but your partner for the night. His expression was like an open book, desperation, need, even guilt was written over it.

Slowly, inch by inch he was fully armored by the welcoming walls that swallowed him in with no further blockades. Groans fell from him like a melody, giving you the time to adjust to the gap your hole had to stretch into.

Your breathing was out of order, the sudden intrusion was too deep, or you felt it too deep. The stinging pain subsided into flowing ecstasy, the burn, the ache for further implications on you.

Your clit caught with the small, white hairs on the base when you bottomed out, his cock reaching greater lengths.

“Move!”

Clawings marked crescent shapes into his shoulders, throwing your head back when your command was heard. Aemond didn't waste time, he knew the spot you wanted him to strike.

Soon you arched off the bed and into his muscular arms, the male sculpting you to the best position. His teeth gnawed at one of your nipples as his pace started in motion, pulling back to steady himself with your round hips.

Aemonds thrusts were rough but somehow light at the same time, he knew how to keep that steady, slow pace. And for a fact, he knew that it angered you.

But he wanted to treasure this moment, to enjoy it to its fullest, commit every detail to memory. In that moment, you wondered if you could piss him off, make him angry, make Aemond Targaryen fuck you like he's angry at you.

Oh god.

“Yes, wow, you're going too fast, I won't come anytime soon.” The monotone sarcasm was played out perfectly, except for the shaggy breathes and moans that tagged along.

“Patience is a virtue of a scholar.” Your scoff never made it out, instead, you were caught off guard by Aemond slamming you down on his dick after leaving only his red angry tip inside, your insides stretched and squeezed, making a molding for him to shelter in.

Your clit pulsed, making you compress around him in the progress and it had Aemond licking his lip at the shock that electrified him, goosebumps sprawling on his pale skin.

The sloppy noises filled the corners of the dimmed chamber, your mixed moans, out of breath sighs and the skin slapping against each other.

Aemond’s herculean hips were rolling to make you gulp down more, more. More of his thrusts that are becoming hectic, more of his honey coated shaft and more of him.

He was hypnotized. If you didn't use witchcraft on him, then what have you done?

Your heat was melting on him, squelches reaching his ears as he didn't stop working your cunt on his cock, sliding out and back in. He took notice of how fast his end was about to twist and snap.

But he didn't stop, not faltering any second even when his vision was fading to black spots, his ears ringing loudly. As were yours, your expression was priceless, jaw slacked and your eyes lost.

The coil inside him tightened. The aggressive snap of his hips kept you on the high end, your pupils enlarging. Exhaustion hit like a weave at the beach but the bliss kept you up, like coffee on a sleepy morning.

Everytime you wanted to flutter your eyelashes shut, Aemond would thrust and have them wide open again, having your mouth form an o shape. “O-oh god!" Ae-Aemond!”

Even his name laced with the hum of your voice was a blessing, a godsend gift. You kept clutching onto him as if you'd lose it all if you let go, your knees were bent, your breathing…

It was hard to take in air, Aemonds body was too heavy for you, crushing you beneath his weight. He didn't care, not while he was rearranging you from the inside out and having you milk him to the last drop.

Your thigh jolted, flinched as your calf raised even higher in the air, strands sticking to your forehead from the sweat, Aemonds silver locks mixing with your own hair.

“Not yet. Hēnkirī” it wasn't a request or a demand, but rather a pleading. Even if you didn’t understand Valyrian, it was all he could say.

Tears brimmed at your lash line, how were you supposed to contain the fire that pooled in your lower stomach? It was getting larger and swallowing everything in its way.

Your smaller hands were trapped by the large, veiny hands that belonged to Aemond, his fingers locking within yours. “Avy jorrāelan”

You were too lost in the bubble of glory to even process his foreign words, too focused on the ecstasy that's about to burst.

And it did. Right when it was unexpected. “Pull out, Aemond!”

Your orgasm came crashing down on you, your vision going white and your hearing sense being completely useless for the few seconds that your jaw lacked the strength to keep shut in.

The Targaryen prince left your glazed hole with pre– now stroking himself to find his own release, all over your stomach when as done.

His finger scraped off some of the fluids, eyes heavy and half-lidded while waiting for you to calm down from the stimulation.

Finally catching your breath you looked down at yourself. “You had the entire bed, yet aimed for me?”

“You look better with it.” Aemond stood up rolling his shoulders while you lay still watching him.

“Well…better on me than in me I suppose.” You hummed, grabbing a rag and wiping yourself.

“You don’t want to bear a royal child? Have your womb be royal? Any woman would kill for my seed.” Aemond watched you wiping yourself before taking the rag away and tossing it away.

“No epidural, no children.” You murmured. “My bath is probably cold by now.” You looked over to the once steaming bath now releasing less steam. “You smell like Vhagar, you want to bathe with me?” You smiled sitting up trying to find the power to stand.

Aemond said nothing before wrapping his arms around you nipping at your skin. “You’re going to leave marks, stop.” You tried to push him away but couldn’t, instead his grip around you tightened.

As he continued to suck at your skin you simply looked out the window as you began contemplating your next steps. So much for keeping your distance from the one-eyed prince. You needed to go collect your dues from the Miswak business and check on your reduced children, but even so, you needed time to prepare your proposal that was due in a month. So much to do and so little time.

Note: Just a little extra added at the end (Special thanks) Also should anyone want to be a beta reader for me, pls!

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To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

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yesimwriting · 11 months ago

Text

Untethered

part 2 of Understanding

Summary: As you and Aegon grow closer, thoughts of the future leave you more uneasy than ever. The questions of war and marriage are foes you cannot escape, especially when influenced by the other greens.

Warnings: plot deviations (mainly the implication that helaena isn't married to aegon and her twins being someone else's ik it'd make canonical sesne for aegon to be able to have 2 wives, especially as king, but this is just a way to make the greens more desperate for aegon to get married and produce an heir), ethics?, and canon compliant incest (reader is rhaenyra’s daughter)

----

There is nothing crueler than a lack of conviction. Your mother and family are preparing for a war that seems to grow more inevitable by the day, Aegon spends his days planning retaliations and strategizing ways to strengthen his feeble claim to the throne, and you are left at a standstill.

The worry and guilt meld together in your veins, the unease pulling you from reality. It doesn't matter that you're currently sitting in the library, away from the Hightowers--away from Aegon. Your current distance cannot undue what has already been done.

You did not mean to care for Aegon, you did not want to care for Aegon. How are you supposed to go home and look your mother in the eye while knowing that you welcomed her usurper into your childhood apartments like an old friend? That you allowed him to sleep in your bed? That you--that you allowed him to kiss you?

You blink, eyes focusing on the pages in front of you. Your mother, your siblings, Daemon, Rhaena Baela--you have to assume that they're all fine. You cannot allow a moment's curiosity to send you down a spiral.

And Aegon--there is no point in worrying about Aegon. As of now, the Red Keep is his. He's safe here, and with the realm so divided, no one is going to suggest sending him anywhere.

"I should have known you'd be here." You blink, head turning towards the stacks. Aegon's standing between rows of books, only a few steps away from the table you've claimed as your own. "I checked your apartments first, foolish of me."

He's watching you, a soft smile playing at his lips. You latch onto that. "I haven't been here that long."

Aegon takes a step forward, his attention shifting away from you and towards the few books stacked neatly by your side. "No...it seems I'm only about 3 books late."

His grin becomes a more certain thing as he moves towards your table. He pulls out the chair next to yours. Instead of sitting right away, Aegon leans forward, his lips pressing against yours.

The kiss is as warm as it is jarring. Knowing that you should stop this is not enough to rid you of the desire to melt into his touch. He pulls back before you can truly react. "Aegon."

He grins, keeping his body angled towards you as he sits. "We're the only ones in here."

Despite his reassurance, your eyes still drift towards the stacks blocking off your seats from the rest of the library. Maybe your tendency to choose secluded seating areas as a way of avoiding as many skeptical glances as possible is paying off. You look at Aegon again, nodding your head slowly.

His smile slowly falls. "Are you alright?"

You can't imagine that he wants to hear about the way you worry about your family and the guilt you feel for wanting to be around him. If anything, telling him about what's concerning you may alienate him. There's nothing trustworthy about an untethered heart.

You nod again, this time the motion more direct. "Yes." You sit up a little straighter in an attempt to feel more connected to what's in front of you. "I'm just a little tired."

His eyebrows pinch together briefly. The look is so pensive you have to work at not squirming. After a beat, he softens. He leans towards you, voice dropping to just above a whisper as he asks, "Did something keep you from your sleep last night, Princess?"

The suggestive lilt to Aegon's voice leaves your skin warmer than it was moment ago. His smugness is only encouraged by your silence. "Someone, actually."

"Really?" He grins, an elbow coming onto the table to prop up his chin. "Do tell."

You hum once, pretending to need to think through your response. "There's not much to tell." Your eyebrows draw together as you mime contemplating even further. "He was quite tiresome. He was so talkative it made it difficult for me, of all people, to find sleep."

Aegon's glare makes it difficult for you to not laugh. "Very funny." Before you can facetiously thank him for recognizing your sense of humor, Aegon continues, "I'm curious, is that why you crawled onto my lap last night? To shut me up?"

The blood in your veins turns to ice. An uneasy heat burns its way through your chest and up your neck. Despite being aware of your solitude, your eyes instinctually dart towards the stacks behind Aegon. "I did--I was not on your lap."

He relaxes in his seat, raising his eyebrows as he presses his lips together in a way that does little to disguise his smirk. "That's not the way I recall it."

In an attempt to ignore the lingering warmth still burning your skin, you roll your eyes. Despite his attempts at flustering you, you're still glad for his company.

"If it is sleep you desire," Aegon's arm moves towards the table, a book you hadn't noticed in his grasp, "Perhaps this can help." You glance between him and the book curiously. "It's a collection of some of the most notable accounts of dragons and what they accomplished with their riders." He pauses, lips briefly pressing together. "I'm sure you're familiar with some of the stories, but this is an updated volume."

He--Aegon--After missing your family for so long, such a personal and genuine gesture nearly makes your eyes sting. As a child, when you spent the most time around Aegon, all you ever wanted to do was recount stories of the most fearsome dragons. As you grew, the interest never left you, you just learned to talk about it less.

There's something so comforting about being understood like this. "You brought me a book on dragon history?"

He's staring at his hands. "In the first few pages, there's an illustration of a dragon that looks a lot like Eveningstar."

You beam, opening the book. "I love it."

The corner of his mouth pulls itself upwards. "Yeah?" His hands come to rest on the table's hardwood surface. Aegon shifts forward, his knee brushing against yours. "Read to me?"

You nod, turning the pages until you find the start of the first chapter. "Balerion the Black Dread."

The story is one you know well. Balerion's time with Daenys the Dreamer, Balerion being one of five dragons to escape Dragonstone, Balerion's conquests with Aegon's namesake.

As you read, Aegon moves closer. His breath is a warm, barely there thing against the side of your neck. You know better than to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, concentrating on the words in front of you.

Sensing your determination to ignore him, Aegon lifts a hand away from the table. You tense, but continue to read. He finds a strand of loose strand of hair that's fallen past your shoulder. He pulls the strand back, fingers lingering against your collarbone.

Your own lungs betray you, your breath briefly catching itself in your throat. "Aegon."

"What?" He doesn't move away, he doesn't even bother to stop smoothing back your hair. "You're the most honorable princess in the realm, surely you're not this easily distracted."

Your face warms. The years you've dedicated to being the ideal princess, the heir's perfect daughter in hopes of preventing being a source of controversy in debates of your mother's claim cannot be taken away so easily. You can't compromise who you are now, not over something you barely understand. "I'm not distracted." The defense rings weak in your ears.

"Perfect," he hums, hand settling against your shoulder, "Then we shouldn't have an issue."

Aegon leans forward, his lips brushing against the exposed skin of your shoulder. Your stomach knots in a way that you do not comprehend. Confusion and hesitant curiosity are not enough to keep you from what you know. You stiffen, pulling back slightly. Your movements aren't a true rejection, but they're enough to indicate your surprise.

He's grinning. "We're still alone."

His easygoingness is infectious. You only manage to hold onto your frown for a few seconds before your smile is matching his own. "You're incorrigible." The words lack any malice.

Maybe in another life, another world in which your mother's status as heir could be easily accepted, things could have been different. A new wave of guilt crashes into you, this one less certain than the others. You're a traitor to your mother for caring about him, and a traitor to Aegon for wishing that you cared less.

"Keep trying, I'm sure you'll crack me eventually."

Your smile broadens. His presence is such a welcomed warmth, you're briefly overwhelmed by how happy you are that he's here, safe and in your presence. The feeling comes close to dislodging the worry from your chest. You lean into that. "I'm glad you're here."

Aegon's eyebrows draw together, his eyes searching yours. You're not sure what he's looking for in your expression, but he seems to find it because after a beat he's smiling again. "I should visit you during the day more often."

Your thumb slowly leafs through the edge of the book's pages. "No--I mean--yes, I'm glad you're here with me, but I'm also glad you're here, as in somewhere safe." You pause, the words attempting to stick to the back of your throat. "Where I know nothing bad is going to happen to you."

His silence digs at you. An expression of such concern, a reminder of your reality is a misstep you're not sure you can recover from. The nail of your thumb presses itself between the pages in front of you. "You worry about me?"

You blink. "Sometimes." Letting out a careful breath, you turn your head enough to look at him. "When I let myself think about life beyond King's Landing."

Aegon's expression is somber in a way that doesn't suit him. His hand reaches for yours. "Anyone would be a fool to attack us with Vhagar guarding the city." You let him squeeze your palm to his. "And as far as life beyond King's Landing, I have no intention to leave anytime soon. Not with everything worth my attention already within reach."

The comment is such a blatant attempt at flattery, you should be annoyed. Instead, you feel the corner of your mouth pull itself into a smile. "Worthy of your attention? I'm honored."

He eases at that, his thumb dragging itself across his knuckles. "What happened to being worried sick over me?"

You roll your eyes, but make no attempt to pull away. "You're exaggerating."

"I," he sighs, "Am mortally wounded."

You fight an instinctual grin, lips pressing together to keep your expression measured as you turn in your seat. Your eyes land on the stacks before you can look at Aegon. Some half thought out comment about his theatrics lodges itself in the back of your throat.

Standing where the shelves part, expression harsh in its blankness, is Alicent Hightower. You take your hand back as quickly as possible, spine straightening in an attempt to create as much distance as possible. Aegon's eyebrows pull together, but before he can ask, Alicent clears her throat.

He moves his arm back before angling himself forward. You force yourself to stare at book in front of you. How long has Alicent been standing there? Was she waiting to witness some kind of mistake or has she already seen one?

"Pardon me." She steps forward, her voice flat. "I did not mean to impose." Alicent glances at her son before allowing her stare to find you.

"There is no imposition." Aegon's voice is measured, his certainty in the casualness of the situation bleeding into each syllable. "I'm only here to show her a book."

Her eyebrows pinch together, "A book?"

The skepticism coating her words makes it nearly impossible to remain still. An uncomfortable warmth begins to crawl up your neck. "We were discussing it." The look she gives you is far from one that indicates any extent of belief. In all honesty, you can't even fault her for her suspicions. You clasp your hands beneath the table, keeping your expression as polite as possible as you hesitantly tack on her title, "Your Highness."

She watches you for another beat before turning her attention back to her eldest son. "Alright. Aegon, your brother is looking for you. Apparently, you were supposed to meet, but clearly, you lost track of time."

Aegon, still completely unbothered by his mother's surprise appearance, relaxes in his seat. "Meetings with Aemond are more rigorous than meetings with the entire Small Council, I apologize for not being eager to begin yet another conversation about Vhagar's uses."

Alicent's stare turns into something distinctly pointed and maternal. With that, Aegon stands. "I should not keep him waiting any longer." He rests a hand on the back of your chair. "Once you're finished here, maybe you should find Helaena. I'm sure she'd enjoy the company."

While enjoying Aegon's company may make you feel like a viper turning against her own blood, you're certain your mother would never have a problem with you spending time with Helaena. As children, you would often run through the gardens with her, listening diligently whenever she'd tell you about any creature that caught her eye.

Presently, she's been a constant beacon of positivity. Before you grew closer to Aegon, she'd often comfort you whenever worry and loneliness lunged at your heart. Even when you couldn't understand the phrases she'd speak to you, you could always tell that they were meant to be optimistic, the words usually implying something about a kinder future.

You nod. "Alright, I will."

With that, Aegon straightens. He offers you a final glance before walking forward. You watch as he disappears between the shelves, leaving you alone with his mother.

Alicent's presence has never been a simple thing to you. Even as a child, whenever you became the object of your grandsire's easily fleeting attention, Alicent's appearances often made you feel the need to put on a performance of sorts, like each casual question and polite smile was an attempt to find some flaw in you.

You're sure she'll either leave or give you an excuse to disappear after some passive aggressive comment masked behind a proper dismissal. You wait as casually as you can manage, your hands clasped together tightly beneath the table.

She straightens slightly, her hands coming together in front of her. "My son seems to have taken an interest in you." The sentence, though spoken much too factually to be an accusation, leaves you on edge. "And he rarely takes an interest in much."

The nail of your thumb digs into your hand. "I'm not sure I'd say he--"

"I know my children, I know the way Aegon is." Though jarring, the interruption is welcome. You weren't sure were you were going with your defense. "And as of late, he has been...different." She takes a breath. "I understand your mother has raised you with certain ambitions, expectations." Your expression hardens at that. "But you've always been an intelligent young woman, I'm sure at least a part of you understands our duty to the realm."

The sentiment is a reflection of the same placating speech you've witnessed others deliver to your mother again and again. Contrasting iterations of the same general warning--the men of the realm will never bend their knee to a woman. Those that remind your mother of this always choose to forget that those same men they're so worried about had once bent their knee to swear obeisance to her.

You've promised yourself that you'd get through your time in the Red Keep by remaining as neutral as possible. Your position is precarious enough without you adding to the fire. But this is an argument you've heard so many times before. "My mother intends to create a new order."

Alicent sighs before falling silent. When she finally speaks again, her words shock you, "Perhaps she will." Your surprise renders you incapable of responding. "Or perhaps Aegon's claim to the throne will be upheld. In all honesty, I do not know."

She takes a small step forward. Something behind her expression shifts, the stoic set of her features cracking enough to reveal something heavier. "But I do know how this will end for you. The men will fight, they will render their decision, and no matter who sits the Iron Throne, you will still have a royal womb."

Her eyes are wider, shinier than you've ever seen them. The expression makes her appear smaller. "No matter the order of things, a noble woman will still need to continue her family's line. A Targaryen woman, even more than most."

She blinks in an attempt to vanish whatever honesty had overtaken her. It doesn't work, the lingering somberness somehow making her appear younger, perhaps even similar to the version of her that had once been her mother's friend. The thought of her as a girl not much different than you, with dreams and friendships meant to last a lifetime built within the walls of the Red Keep, twists your stomach.

She had been around your age when she married your grandsire, hadn't she? You dismiss the thought, pressing your lips together. "Any match you are attempting to push me towards would only strengthen your family's claim to the throne."

"I won't insult you by pretending a union between you and Aegon wouldn't help unify dividing lines or that you have not already proven yourself a beneficial influence on him." Her voice feels flat.

Alicent's eyes find yours, but the longer you stare at her the less you see. "I am not speaking to you as a queen, or as a mother. I am speaking to you as a woman. There are fates much worse than wedding a man that cares for you."

She nods once, expression still unsettlingly vulnerable as she turns to leave. Alicent disappears behind the stacks, the even sound of her footsteps growing softer until you're completely alone again.

Once you're certain that she's beyond the library's threshold, you turn your attention back to the book in front of you. Alicent's words will mean nothing to you, you'll make sure of it.

----

Wide eyes stare up at you, their innocence adding a soft glow to violet irises. Jaehaerys blinks at you before stretching his arms out towards you.

The gesture is so simple, so familiar it's nearly dizzying. All of your brothers had been babes once, and now some of them are old enough to prepare to fight, to die. And the ones that are still small might grow up seeing you as a traitor and not the older sister that helped cradle them through fussy nights and cared for them.

"He wants you," Helaena says, her attention briefly shifting away from the little girl on her lap.

Her gentle prompting is enough to bring you back to the present. You nod, abandoning your own seat in favor of approaching the little prince. You bend down, carefully lifting Jaehaerys before settling him on your hip. He takes to you easily, smiling as his tiny fingers curl into the fabric of your dress's sleeve. The gesture is terribly heartwarming.

"He likes you," she hums, her voice soft as she smooths circles against Jaehaera's back. "That's a good thing. He's particular."

You cannot imagine him being difficult. "Oh, I don't know, he seems forgiving." You sway slightly, the repetitive movement something you vaguely remember your younger siblings liking. "It's been some time since I've seen my youngest brothers."

She presses her lips together in a sympathetic sort of smile. "The morning star takes its time reaching its place."

The phrase means very little to you, but the sentiment of it is clear enough. Something of patience, of things eventually falling into place. "It does."

Helaena smiles again, this time the look a little warmer.

You let your attention return to Jaehaerys. He's still content, one hand holding onto you and the other gripping a wooden toy. "Do you like it?" You're not sure what shocks you more, your words or how much you mean them. "Motherhood..." Your mind forces out the second part of your question without your permission, "Marriage?"

Her lips part, but before she can say anything, the doors behind her creak open. Your hold on Jaehaerys tightens as you turn your head.

The doors are still parted when your eyes lock. You look away from Aegon immediately, focus falling to the babe on your hip. He continues forward, greeting you both before stopping a few paces behind Helaena's seat.

His gaze finds you again, this time his eyes expressing a familiarity you cannot bring yourself to reciprocate. "You're with the twins." Aegon steps past his sister's chair, turning himself towards her. "Helaena, do you need the princess's assistance, or can I steal her from you?"

She straightens slightly, "You can have her. Alyce will be here soon to help put the children to bed."

Your eyebrows draw together skeptically. Why ask Helaena before asking you? "Steal me?" You smooth a hand against Jaehaerys's back. "For what?"

"Every day I hear complaints about Eveningstar."

Your eyes narrow. Of course Eveningstar is acting out. She is being kept farther from you than she has ever been, she has not gotten to fly for some time, and she misses her home. You've been told before that your dragon is complicated, some have even called her spoiled, but you will not tolerate true criticisms of her. "She is under stress and kept in a stable I am not allowed to visit all day and night, of course she's growing restless."

The corner of Aegon's mouth pulls itself upwards. "I know." You blink, unsure where he's going with this. "I also know that she prefers to fly beneath the moon."

You blink. The easy cadence, the grin struggling to not overtake his expression, the way he's watching you. All of it seems to imply something that you've never let yourself hope for. No matter how much favor Aegon has shown you, you've never been offered a chance to see Eveningstar let alone fly her.

"I--I'm not--" The thought of your girl being within reach is almost overwhelmingly wonderful.

You try to focus on the reality of the situation. Technically, you're hostage of war, it'd be impossible to justify letting you near your dragon. It's also late, meaning that being seen alone with Aegon is a danger in its own right. Still, the thought of getting to be with Eveningstar... "Really?"

Aegon gives into his smile, "I'll meet you in an hour."

----

a/n this got really long so i'm splitting it into a third part (and maybe more bc i have a whole expanded arch idea so if this turns into a series that was completely accidental 😭)

Taglist: @thesleepwalker @6ofdreamers @torchbearerkyle @hajimeiwaswife

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon fic #hotd #hotd x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon #aegon x reader #x targaryen!reader #hotd aegon #aegon the second #aegon the second x reader #house of the dragon x reader

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rizzlesregal13 · 2 months ago

Text

Step One: Say No to Pets! Step Two: Welcome Home Señor Scratchy!

***Agatha x Reader 💜 When Nicki & Ella are desperate for a pet, one extremely cute (and very judgy) rabbit joins the Harkness family.***

What’s the one thing about parenthood no one warns you about, I hear you ask?

LEGO.

Tiny, malevolent blocks, engineered for maximum foot pain and perfectly camouflaged against hardwood floors.

I’m halfway down the stairs carrying a heavy basket of laundry—dirty laundry, which somehow, always feels heavier than clean—when my bare foot narrowly avoids one brick, only to slam directly into a second.

“Oh you mother fudger…” I hiss through clenched teeth, as I stumble forward. The basket tips, a sock threatens to make a break for it, but by some miracle…maybe actual magic… I manage to stay upright avoiding a full-blown tumble that would likely have resulted in me landing in a heap on the hallway floor.

I’m glaring murderously at the offending blue plastic when I hear them.

Tiny, high-pitched, scheming voices.

You promised, Mommy,” Ella’s voice piped up, tiny but firm with that unshakable four-year-old conviction.

“I did no such thing, darling,” Agatha replied, tone as dry as the Sahara. “I said we’d think about it. That’s practically a parental euphemism for never.”

I pause just before the living room doorway. Not because I’m eavesdropping… I totally am, but because I know this tone. I know her tone. It’s the one she uses when she’s being particularly patient with the kids. Or particularly devious. The line between the two is virtually invisible.

“…but why can’t we have a pet?” Nicki asks, his voice halfway between pleading and logic. “All my friends have one.”

Ella’s chiming in before Nicki even finishes. “I want a kitten, Mommy. A tiny one with big eyes, and a busy tail.”

I peek around the corner, laundry basket still cradled in my arms, threatening to topple with every shift. There she is, our daughter, sitting cross legged on the rug, back straight like she’s presenting her case to a court of law. Her little hands flying about for emphasis as she speaks.

Agatha sits behind her, legs tucked neatly to the side, not a flicker of magic in sight. Just her fingers, slender, precise, and uncharacteristically gentle, moving steadily through Ella’s dark hair, twisting it into a braid with the kind of patience she reserves exclusively for this tiny human who has her utterly bewitched in ways no magic ever could.

Agatha glances up at me for the briefest moment. Just enough time to flash that sideways smirk; the one that says, are you hearing this? and also yes, I’m encouraging it and no, I’m not sorry.

I sigh, loudly, and finally step into the room, setting the basket down with a thud that makes Nicki jump.

“We’ve talked about this,” I say, aiming my words mostly at Ella but with a warning glance toward Agatha, too. “You know I’m allergic to cats.”

Ella turns to me with the most devastating pout I’ve seen since the last time she couldn’t find her favourite stuffed animal.

“But you wouldn’t have to touch it,” she says, as if that solves everything.

Nicki jumps in, sensing his moment. “What about a dog then?”

“Dogs require a lot of care,” Agatha says, not missing a beat. “Walks twice a day, Grooming. Training. Pick-up-their-poop-in-a-bag kind of care. Are you two going to do that?”

Nicki and Ella exchange a quick glance, the kind that siblings somehow telepathically learn to do.

It means: we’re lying but let’s go with it.

“Yes,” they say in unison. Nicki even adding a “Totally” and Ella a “Every day… forever”

It’s cute. It’s bold. It’s complete fiction.

I snort and drop onto the sofa.

“You two can’t even remember to put your cereal bowls in the sink.”

“We can now,” Nicki promises, which is both touching and entirely unconvincing.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, looking at me. Her lips twitching in the way that means she’s enjoying this far too much.

“What about a goldfish?” I offer helpfully. “Low maintenance. Won’t trigger my allergies…”

Ella makes a face like I just offered her a wet sock. “That’s boring, Mama.”

“And it doesn’t even do anything,” Nicki adds. “It just… swims.”

“That’s sort of the point,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No fur. No barking. No dead mice on my pillow. Just peaceful swimming.”

They ignore me completely.

“A lizard?” Nicki says.

“A hamster” Ella counters.

“A snake!”

“A spider!”

“Like hell that one is happening!” I snap, a little too quickly.

Agatha lets out a soft laugh through her nose, as her fingers continue to braid.

“Oh, you walked right into that one.”

“Spiders,” I say, pointing at both of them, “are where I draw the line. Eight legs? Too many. Too fast. Too… just, no!.”

“But they eat flies,” Nicki says innocently.

“So do frogs,” I shoot back. “But I’m not about to let you bring a swamp home.”

“I knew you’d draw the line somewhere,” Agatha says under her breath, her voice low and smug with amusement, just for me. She doesn��t even need to look up from Ella’s braid to land the hit, but she does, of course. Just a flick of her blue eyes, a curl of her lip, and bam… my insides do that annoying flippy thing.

Even after all these years and two children, she still manages to make me feel like I’m about to spontaneously combust with one look.

I give her the kind of glare that has no real heat behind it. She knows. She always knows.

Meanwhile, the kids are still listing off creatures like they’re conjuring Noah’s Ark, but with more questionable judgment and fewer rules.

“A parrot!”

“A guinea pig”

“A turtle!”

“Oooh! A pigmy goat!”

Finally, Agatha claps her hands together, making Nicki and Ella jump.

“Alright,” she says. “New rule. If you both go upstairs and clean your rooms… properly, no stuffing things into the closet and calling it ‘tidy’, then maybe, we’ll go to the pet store.”

Cue the stampede.

Nicki’s halfway up the stairs before Agatha finishes the sentence, and Ella’s already shouting “I’m gonna need a box!” for reasons I just know, I don’t want to understand. I listen as doors slam and the sound of frantic cleaning erupts upstairs like a domestic hurricane.

I look at Agatha. “You’re seriously considering this?”

She shrugs. “Depends on what’s at the store. Maybe a rabbit. Maybe a two-headed snake.”

I raise a brow. “You love messing with me”.

Her lips curl into that familiar, wicked grin.

“Of course I do. It’s the cornerstone of our marriage.”

I shake my head, but I’m already smiling.

“Remind me why I married you again?”

Agatha leans in, her voice low and silky soft, all teasing warmth. “Because I make life interesting… And... because I look good in leather.

I roll my eyes, though my heart’s already doing that annoying fluttering thing it does when she turns the charm up to eleven.

“You do look good in leather.”

“Mm.” She smirks. “I know.”

She rises from the floor with her usual grace before dropping down beside me on the sofa.

Closer than close.

Her thigh brushing mine, her perfume curling around me like a spell I never want broken. She leans in, slow and deliberate, her lips barely ghosting over mine, but just enough to set every nerve in my body on high alert. Her blue eyes flick up to meet mine, daring me to close the distance. To give in.

I’m about to…

When from upstairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by the unmistakable sound of something tumbling, a brief moment of silence, and then Nicki yelling, “I’M OKAY!” in that way that means he is definitely not okay, but doesn’t want us to check.

Agatha doesn’t even flinch. She sighs like a woman preparing to surrender to fate, which, in a way, she is.

“And just like that,” she says, dramatically, “our peaceful moment dies a noisy death.”

I laugh and lean my head against her shoulder, breathing her in. “Enjoy the quiet while it lasts. In an hour’s time, we’ll probably be driving home with a one-eyed chinchilla or a guinea pig named… I don’t know. Little Wigglebutt.”

Agatha hums thoughtfully, her fingers tracing lazy, slow circles on my knee like she’s painting some ancient sigil there. “Little Wigglebutt would be a lovely name for a familiar.”

I groan, half-amused, half-resigned.

“That wasn’t meant to be encouragement… The kids just want a nice, normal pet. No familiars, no magic.”

She pulls a face like I just suggested we live without indoor plumbing.

“Define ‘normal,’” she says, already deeply unimpressed.

“You know. Something that doesn’t glow. Or talk. Or vanish into thin air."

Agatha scoffs. “So, a disappointment, then.”

“A hamster,” I say pointedly, “is not a disappointment. It is a small, manageable creature that fits in a cage."

“But if the hamster happens to be a little… special, who are we to stifle its potential?”

I squint at her. “Define special.”

She grins, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

And somehow, I know… I just know… we’re going to walk into that pet store and come out with something absolutely ridiculous.

***

The second we step into Westview’s "Pet Emporium", I immediately begin questioning every decision that’s led me to this moment.

Who knew it was so big in here? Endless aisles of glass tanks and cages, the smell of sawdust, hay, and something that was once alive and now very likely isn’t hangs in the air. As well as the unmistakable sound of a parrot somewhere in the distance yelling something that should definitely not be repeated by a bird.

Ella darts off to a cage near the wall, gasping with wonder. “Mommy look! A rat! He has whiskers!” Her voice is pure delight and zero hesitation.

Nicki veers in the opposite direction, heading straight for the Reptiles sign. I glance at Agatha, prepared to launch into a speech about boundaries, appropriate pet sizes, and definitely no tarantulas, but she’s not looking at them.

She’s looking at me.

And then she’s tugging gently on my hand, lacing her fingers through mine as she pulls me deeper into the store. Her grip warm, steady, and just a bit dangerous.

“You’re up to something,” I murmur.

“I’m always up to something,” she replies, smiling over her shoulder. “Try to keep up.”

We round the corner into a quieter aisle, away from the chatter of other customers and the vague croaking of something amphibious. And that’s when she stops...

In front of a glass enclosure, simple and unassuming, sits a small rabbit… white with soft brown and black spots dappling it's ears and back. He’s got this sleepy, self-important look about him, like he’s judging the world but doing it politely.

Agatha crouches slightly, her expression softening in that rare way it does when something genuinely surprises her.

“He’s got attitude,” she murmurs.

The rabbit looks up at her.

Then, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, he hops closer to the glass and sits, perfectly still, one back leg twitching ever so slightly.

She glances back at me, and I already know. She’s decided. Jesus, we’re getting a rabbit.

“Kids!” she calls, her voice echoing just enough to send them skidding around the corner in under ten seconds.

Ella gasps. “He’s so FLUFFY!”

Nicki drops into a squat, staring through the glass. “He looks like he knows kung fu.”

The rabbit thumps one leg and then pauses, as if catching himself mid-showoff. I swear, he makes eye contact with me. Like he knows.

“What should we name him?” Agatha says casually, too casually.

Ella bounces on the balls of her feet. “Cottonball?”

Nicki scrunches his nose. “No, that’s stupid, it needs to be something cooler.”

Agatha tilts her head thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the rabbit. “What about… Señor Scratchy?”

The kids lose their minds.

“Yes!”

“Perfect!”

“He’s definitely a Señor!”

I blink. One second, we were browsing. Now we’re naming, celebrating… and practically drawing up a birth certificate.

I shake my head slowly, mouth open just enough to express the internal how the hell has this happened that’s currently blaring in my brain. This was supposed to be a “just looking” trip. A stall tactic. A test of responsibility.

And now?

I look down at the rabbit. He’s watching me through the glass. Not in that vague, uninterested pet-store way… oh no. He’s really looking at me. Like he knows. Like he saw straight through the sarcasm and resistance and picked me anyway.

His little nose twitches once. Then he sits taller.

I narrow my eyes at him. “We are not bonding.”

His whiskers twitch like sure we’re not.

The next thing I know, we’re outside. The sky’s gone soft and overcast, and I’m standing at the back of our car, loading in a ridiculous amount of hay, bedding, food pellets, chew toys, a rabbit-sized water dispenser, and something called a “burrow blankie.”

A freaking burrow blankie…

I sigh, rearranging the stack of items so the bag of treats doesn’t crush the box of pine shavings.

This is what my life has come too…

In the backseat, nestled in a pristine white carry box between Ella and Nicki, sits Señor Scratchy himself; regal, composed, and completely unbothered by the chaos around him, like he’s always known he would be chauffeured away from a pet store by a loving, if mildly bewildered magical family.

Ella is softly singing a made-up song, something about bunnies, stars and jellybeans, her voice gentle and oddly on pitch. Nicki, bless his heart, is reading his comic book aloud to the rabbit, as he explains plot points like “this guy’s a good guy, but he made some bad choices.”

And there sits Señor Scratchy, thumping once, not out of fear… just to let us know he’s listening.

Agatha slips into the passenger seat beside me, the door closing with a solid thunk. She lets out a content sigh, tossing her sunglasses onto the dashboard like this is just another perfectly executed scheme.

Which knowing her, it probably is.

Without a word, she rests her hand gently on my thigh… warm, smooth, and annoyingly smug in its casual claim. Her thumb strokes slow circles through the denim of my jeans, a silent told you so wrapped in touch.

I glance over at her. “You planned this.”

She smiles without looking at me, her blue eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“I nudged the universe.”

I snort. “You nudged it off a cliff.”

Her smirk deepens. “And it landed in a soft pile of hay with a bunny named Señor Scratchy. You’re welcome.”

I shake my head, turning the key in the ignition.

“You know,” I murmur, eyes on the road, “if that rabbit starts levitating or speaking Latin, you’re sleeping on the sofa.”

Agatha leans closer, lips brushing my ear. “If he starts speaking Latin, I’m training him to do your morning affirmations.”

I groan.

She laughs.

And Señor Scratchy thumps once, as if to say: Good luck, Harkness’. You’re mine now.

***

Later that night, the house is finally, quiet.

The kids are asleep, both of them spark out in their respective beds, sprawled in tangled piles of sheets and stuffed animals. Nicki zonked out mid-sentence while telling Señor Scratchy about the superhero rabbit team he was going to invent. Whilst, Ella had tried to sneak the rabbit into her bed and got as far as pulling a blanket halfway over the carrier before giving in to sleep, her tiny fingers still curled around the edge.

And Señor Scratchy?

He’s not just surviving. He’s thriving.

He’s made himself at home with an unsettling speed, like he’s lived here his whole rabbit life. His new indoor enclosure is set up in the basement…just for nighttime and quiet hours… complete with cozy bedding, food, a small plush carrot he's already flung with great force across the cage, and one spell I’m told is just to keep the temperature stable. I’m keeping an eye on that.

His outside hutch is on order. Agatha picked one that looked like a rustic French cottage and cost more than our first sofa.

And now, he’s curled contentedly in her lap like a tiny smug prince, his back leg twitching now and then, his eyes half-closed as she runs her fingers through the soft fur behind his ears.

Agatha is reclined across the couch, long legs stretched out, her bare feet resting on my lap. I absently rub my thumb across the top of her right one, slow, easy strokes. It’s quiet, but it’s us quiet.

“He’s smug,” I say, watching the rabbit twitch his nose with absolute self-assurance.

“No, actually, his judgy and I don’t trust him.”

“He’s perfect,” Agatha murmurs, eyes still on him. “He’s dignified.”

My hand slows on her foot. “You mean you used magic.”

She grins, all teeth and mischief, but there’s a softness underneath. “Nope. That one was all him.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “You’re telling me a regular, non-enchanted rabbit took one look at our family and thought, ‘Yes, this semi-responsible, unhinged bunch is exactly where I should be?’”

She shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “Maybe he’s a little unhinged too.”

I squeeze her foot affectionately, and she moves it off my lap, scooting closer with that deliberate slowness she knows drives me mad. With one hand, she gently lifts Señor Scratchy and sets him on the cushion beside her, like he’s some kind of tiny, furry chaperone.

Then she leans in and kisses me.

It’s soft at first. Familiar. Warm. But then her fingers curl into the hem of my shirt, and it deepens… her lips brushing mine just enough to send my pulse tripping over itself. God, she drives me crazy. But she’s my crazy.

I reach for her jumper, curling my fingers in the navy fabric, pulling her closer with a breathless little laugh… and that’s when we hear it.

Thump.

Agatha jerks back with a startled noise, somewhere between a yelp and a moan, as Señor Scratchy leaps back into her lap, thumping dramatically before settling into a loaf, looking very pleased with himself.

I blink, stare at the rabbit, then up at Agatha, then back to the smug little fluffball.

“Look, buddy,” I say, pointing at him like I’m negotiating with a very entitled roommate, “let’s get one thing straight…”

He stares at me.

Unblinking.

Judgy.

I lower my voice. “You may have claimed the kids, the blanket, and the best spot on the sofa, but when it comes to her?” I glance sideways at Agatha, who is biting back a laugh. “She was mine first...so you can back off with."

Señor Scratchy lifts one paw.

And thumps.

Once.

Agatha laughs, reaching for her glass of wine on the coffee table with a smirk.

“He accepts your terms.”

I narrow my eyes at the rabbit. “I’m watching you, Señor.”

He blinks slowly, utterly unimpressed.

Agatha leans her head on my shoulder, still laughing.

“You know he’s going to end up sleeping on our bed at some point, right?”

I groan. “This was supposed to be a normal pet.”

She kisses my neck, all honey and sin. “There’s nothing normal about us, love.”

And honestly?

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Also on AO3 - Writtenwhiledreaming 💜 (Fourth chapter of No! You Can’t Hex A Four-Year-Old).

72 notes · View notes

crazzzycomet · 4 days ago

Text

Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

“Fuck you, Joel.”

Your cheeks burn with the memories from that night at the bar. You did ask him to come home with you. In fact, you’d asked him twice before he’d agreed.

“Yeah? I bet you’d like that. Maybe it’ll get ya to mellow out just a touch. Worked pretty well for you the last time."

Tags: 18+, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, smut, sassy!joel, mentions of death and grief, porn + plot, joel is clearly pining for you lol, angst, lots n lots of tension, flashbacks of drunk sex, he loves pushing it, teasing, joel can't take it anymore

wc: 6k

this is chapter 2 of dried roses - there are currently 5 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

chapter 1 link

You’ve never had a strong conviction either way about the idea of ghosts.

Are they real? Are they not?

You didn’t really care to question it.

But as Joel Miller stands before you, you’re sure he’s an apparition. Some entity sent specifically to torment you as a part of some sick joke for all your past wrongdoings.

You start recounting all the decisions you’ve made that would be cause for the universe to punish you. Maybe it's because of the time you stole money out of Romy’s polka-dotted piggy bank when you were sixteen. No - this has to be about the time you’d told your professor that your Auntie Gin died to get out of your midterm.

God, when’s the last time you called Auntie Gin?

Focus.

You should call a priest. You should get some sage. Some holy water. You should -

“Everythin’ alright out here, ladies?”

Fuck. He’s real.

“Yes,” you both answer in unison, straightening your posture. The classic collective admission of guilt between siblings trying to avoid a scolding.

Blood pools amply in your cheeks, neck, and the tips of your ears. Your heart rate feels like a goddamn hummingbird is running rampant in your chest - or flying rampant? Whatever. Fuck.

What the fuck is he doing here? And when was the last time you blinked? Blink. Blink you idiot!

“You must be Romy,” you think he says underneath the garbled thrumming in your ears. “’S nice to meet you, hon’. Sarah’s real excited about havin’ ya over."

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” Romy says as sweet as sugar, shaking his hand firmly, just like Dad taught her.

Mr. Miller? Oh fucking brother. Do you have to call him that?

Romy nudges your ribcage. Look alive.

“Ow,” you breathe.

“This is my sister,” Romy says with an apathetic tone, like she wishes she could change that fact right now.

You look at Joel, your eyes still wide with shock. He nods, as if to say keep going.

And how would he suggest you do that? Keep going.

This man has shared a bed with you already - heard his name on your lips through broken moans. Now he expects you to shake his hand for the first time when just five days ago, you’d wrapped your legs tighter around his waist when he told he was close.

Jesus - maybe you should call a priest.

“Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.” Joel grins, extending his hand.

You introduce yourself - as if he hadn’t already spoken your name between slow thrusts and soft whispers - and place your hand in his reluctantly. He shakes it firmly, rubbing his callused thumb on the top of your hand before letting go.

“It’s nice to meet you - um -"

He’s smiling so wide, you can see a dimple on his right cheek, peeking through his patchy scruff. He’s absolutely loving this - watching you trying, and failing miserably to collect yourself in his presence.

“Joel.” He smiles. “You can call me Joel.”

You swallow down another name you’d like to call him when a pair of doe eyes appear over his shoulder.

Sarah.

She’s smiling sweetly, with soft brown curls springing every which way out of her low ponytail.

Romy nudges you again - a silent reminder to not embarrass her further. She can tell something’s off. Not that you’re making it all that difficult to pick up on.

“Hey, Ro,” Sarah drawls.

Romy smiles, grabbing your arm, “Sarah, this is my sister.”

Don’t fuck this up for her, you think. She needs this. She needs a chance at being a normal teenager - even if that involves a friendship with the daughter of your tequila-fueled mistake.

“Hi, Sarah. It’s so nice to meet you,” you finally let a smile slip. “Thanks for inviting her over.”

“Thanks for bringin’ her over,” her drawl’s just as deep as the dimples on her cheeks.

She’s Joel’s kid, alright.

“Well - come in! I got stuff I gotta show ya,” her brown eyes twinkling with excitement.

“Wait - one second,” Romy mutters urgently, turning toward you.

She wraps her spindly arms around your frame in a tight hug. You squeeze her back, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent of her shampoo.

“Sorry,” she whispers so only you can hear.

“Me too. You can keep my shirt.”

“You can keep my hair clip.”

You pull back, giving her a kiss on the forehead before relinquishing her over to Sarah, who grabs her hand and pulls her through the doorway - right past Joel.

“Nice meetin’ you!” she turns to shout before leading Romy up the staircase.

“Did you know we’re only three blocks away from each other?” you hear Romy chirp before Sarah hauls her into her bedroom.

“Only three blocks, huh?” Joel smirks.

Your smile vanishes instantly.

“Don’t do that.” You point. “You already knew that. You probably skipped home Monday morning, didn’t you?”

“Skipped home?” he repeats through a bemused laugh.

“Why didn’t you say anything? You had all night to tell me you lived right around the fucking corner.”

“Well. I was a little preoccupied, wasn’t I?”

“Joel,” you breathe, tone drenched in irritation.

“What? It ain’t like there was a whole lotta talkin’ goin’ on that night, sweetheart," he snickers. "What’d you want me to do? Point to where I live while my head was in-between your-“

“They’re gonna hear you, asshole,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist firmly and pulling him outside.

“And you think you were Miss Subtlety back there?” he scoffs, rubbing at the red finger marks that remain on his wrist. “If anyone gave anything away, it was you, honey bun. Christ - why’re you so strong?”

“Did you do this?”

“Y’know, ‘f ya wanted to see me so bad, you could’a just called, pretty girl. Didn’t you get my note?”

Your eyes narrow. “You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“This.” You gesture frantically at everything around you.

“Are you seriously suggestin’ I had somethin’ to do with this? Shit - you’re more uptight than I thought.”

You cross your arms, jaw clenched.

“Oh, don’t go poutin’ on me now,” he coos.

Your brows knit together. Maybe you are pouting. So what?

“I know you had something to do with this, Joel.”

“C’mon, darlin’ - don’t go flatterin’ yourself. If I wanted to see you so bad, I could’a just walked to your house and knocked on the front door. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with the friends my kid makes at school.” He scowls - hands on his hips and everything.

“You knew she was my sister though - didn’t you?”

“I suspected,” he says.

“Oh. You suspected,” you mock his drawl.

“’S what I just said, ain’t it?”

“Well,” you press.

“Well,” he mocks you back, “there ain’t much to it. Sarah says she wants to invite a new friend over. I asked for her name. Low 'n behold - same name I heard you hollerin’ all Monday morning.”

Your eyes wander, finding the small red mark on his neck where you had bitten him Sunday night - it had elicited a moan from him that you’d been thinking about ever since. Your gaze trails down his neck, over the broadness of his shoulders, then his arms - the way his muscles squeeze the sleeves of his t-shirt.

Is he still talking? Shit, pay attention.

“Then Sarah says her new little friend’s got an older sister that was just dyin’ to meet me,” he grins. “I remember you sayin’ your parents were outta town - that you were takin’ care of your siblings in the meantime. I did the math. It ain’t that complicated.”

Great. Now you have to have that conversation - the little chat you had tried to avoid the morning you had rashly decided to tell that teensy white lie about the current status of your parents’ mortality.

“’S not like I knew for sure,” he continues. “Not ’til you were standin’ on my front porch, cussin’ out your little sister.”

You scoff.

“What the hell did you want me to do? Tell Sarah she ain’t allowed to make friends? The girl’s got a mind of her own. She’ll make friends with whoever she wants, regardless ‘a what I think.”

You toy with a loose string on the sleeve of your sweater, unable to reject the idea that you may be overreacting.

“And if memory serves me, you ain’t got a reason to be standin’ there, actin’ all innocent - scrunchin’ up that cute lil' nose ‘a yours.”

You could slap him, but instead, you un-scrunch your nose.

“You were the one askin’ me to come home with you that night, darlin'. I was jus’ bein’ polite.”

Polite? Fuck you fuck you fuck you -

“Fuck you, Joel.”

Your cheeks burn with the memories from that night at the bar. You did ask him to come home with you. In fact, you’d asked him twice before he’d agreed.

“Yeah? I bet you’d like that. Maybe it’ll get ya to mellow out just a touch. Worked pretty well for you the last time."

“You know what, Joel?” you seethe.

“What, darlin?” His smirk is becoming a permanent fixture on his face. “Tell me.”

He’s fucking enjoying this, isn’t he?

Taking pleasure in watching the effect he holds over you - the way your cheeks stain redder and your face scrunches tighter while he continues to toy with you.

“I think I should just take Romy and -“

“Careful, Bear! It’s gonna bite you!”

The shrill pitch of what could only belong to Lulu, echoes through the tepid evening breeze.

You whirl your head on instinct to find Lulu and Bear - knelt down in the grass at the edge of Joel’s front lawn.

“Jesus, fuck, “ you mutter under your breath. “What now?”

Joel chuckles behind you.

“Guys! "

They whip their little heads around.

“What did I tell you?” you shout from the porch, blocking the evening sun with your hand above your eyes.

“Not to touch anything!” Lulu squeals.

“So - what the hell?”

“Bear found a lizard!” she shouts back.

You tilt your head backwards, inhaling deep and counting to three - Joel trying and failing to hold back his laughter behind you.

“Bear - put it down and get back in the car!”

“But it’s an anole lizard!”

You should've stayed in bed. It's warm there, and there are no Joels or lizards.

“Look, I’ll come show you!” he cups a tiny green figure in his hands and stands up with a serious lack of coordination.

“No - get back in the…” you heave a sigh of frustration, realizing there’s no point. He’s already full sprint, the dumbass lizard in tow. Lulu trailing right behind him - tongue hanging out the way she does when she’s trying to run her fastest.

“Look, Sissy,” Bear says, panting. He moves his little hand, revealing a minuscule green lizard tilting it’s head from side-to-side.

It’s mocking you. You know it is.

“I see,” you say, feigning excitement. "Very cool, Baby Bear."

Lulu chimes in, “Bear says it’s a girl because it doesn’t have a thingy on it’s throat.”

“A dewlap,” Bear corrects.

“Yeah.” Lulu nods matter-of-factly. She looks up at Joel, shying away and nestling into you.

Joel smiles sweetly. “Hi, honey.”

“This is Mr. Miller. Can you both say hi?”

“Hi,” they squeak in unison, like well-trained little mice.

Joel bends down on one knee, lowering himself to their eye-line. “Pleasure to meet both ‘a you.”

Lulu giggles. Bear continues to pet his lizard, lulling it to sleep with each stroke of his finger.

“This is Lucy,” you say, playing with her hair while she leans back on your knees.

“Lulu,” she corrects, grabbing the hem of her lilac-colored dress to fidget with.

“What a pretty name,” Joel says, his voice layered in blankets of warmth. “Pretty dress, too.”

“Thank you,” Lulu beams.

“And what’s your name lizard-catcher?” he asks, looking over at Bear - acting as if he hasn’t known since Monday, when Bear knocked on your door while he was hidden behind it.

“Bear,” he answers through a proud giggle.

“Y’know, Bear-” Joel leans in like he’s about to tell him a secret “-I’m real impressed. Those little suckers are fast. Takes a real special kid to be able to catch one.”

Bear smiles wide - missing tooth and all.

This new side of Joel is pissing you off - the way he’s making your heart swell. Sure. You know he’s a dad, but seeing how good he is with kids is jarring, to say the least. And you're not sure why it pisses you off even more how much the kids seem to like him.

“Okay. Release the little green woman and get back in the car. I’ll be there soon.”

They ignore you.

“One…”

No movement.

“Two…”

“Ahhhh,” Lulu screeches, darting back to the direction car.

Bear steps toward to Joel, shoving his hands out in front. Joel cups his hands as Bear quickly - but gently - dumps his lizard into Joel’s hands, turning on his heels to try and catch up with Lulu.

Joel looks up at you, lizard in hand.

"Sorry," you breathe out a laugh.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he chuckles, lowering the lizard and watching it disappear into the grass.

“I think you made their day,” you admit.

“Cute kids. Lulu reminds me of Sarah at that age.”

“You raised her on your own?”

Maybe you’re prying, but the thought of Joel raising a little girl all alone makes your head spin.

“Her mom split after she was born.” He scratches at the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry. That must've been hard for the both you.”

Speaking from almost two years’ experience.

“’S okay. We figured things out. She’s a good kid. Romy’s in good hands.”

You nod - a soft smile pulling at your lips.

“Okay, um, I guess I should get going before Ro sees that I’m still here. I think I’ve embarrassed her enough for now. Thanks for taking her for the night.”

He fishes for something in his back pocket.

“Here.” He passes you his phone. “Put your number in.”

“Joel, I don’t -“

“There you go, flatterin’ yourself again. I got your little sister overnight - seems like a good reason to have your phone number. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Just put it in, smart ass.”

“Fine,” you concede, adding yourself to his contacts before passing it back to him. “Happy?”

“Over the moon,” he says, drawl thick with sarcasm.

“Good. Thanks again for - I think, um," you stammer, "I think she really needed this.”

Your gut twists when it dawns on you. This is going to be her first time away from you since your parents had passed. And every night since their passing, Romy’s nightmares hadn’t let up. Most nights, you still you wake up with her balled up next to you in your bed.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Needy little thing, ain’t ya?”

“There’s something - Jesus, Ro would kill me if she knew I was telling you -“

His body language shifts, his eyes mirroring your concern.

“’S’alright, you can tell me.” He squeezes your shoulder.

“Ro - she has these nightmares that’d make your skin crawl. Sometimes they really freak her out. She’s used to the reoccurring ones, but once in a while, she’ll have a really bad one - the kind she won’t even tell me about.”

His brows furrow as he brings his hand up to his chin, anxiously running his fingers through the peppered scruff there.

“Just - can you call me if you hear her crying in the middle of the night,” you croak.

“‘Course I can do that. Ain’t gotta worry, alright? I’ll keep a close eye on her. Promise.”

“Okay,” you exhale. “Alright, I should go. Thanks - um, thank you.”

“Anytime, darlin’.”

You look past Joel, and for a split second, you feel like you can’t move. Your feet stuck, as if you’d just landed on a licorice space in Candy Land.

“She’ll be fine, sweetheart. Now, get outta here before she sees you ’n I gotta break up another cat fight.”

“Alright, alright. I’m going.”

Fine. She’ll be fine.

————

You’re in bed for the night after the seven-thousandth read-through of Stellaluna - and once again, sleep avoids you like the plague. Thoughts of Joel infecting every dendrite in your brain.

He was such a smug asshole today. But he smelled good. And he looked good. His hair looked nice, all brushed back the way he had it. And he was sweet with the kids.

You’re so fucking hopeless.

The Moon watches through your window, her light pooled around your silhouette, cradling you with her commiseration.

You groan, replaying your conversation with Joel once again. You’ve memorized it by now, just like goddamn Stellaluna.

He’d asked about the note - whether or not you’d gotten it.

You did, of course. It’s just in a landfill somewhere by now. Right where it belongs - decaying with the rest the world’s garbage they’d purchased on a whim. Foolishly hoping they could find a use, just for it to end up breaking or collecting piles of dust. Stupid, stupid people.

You had no use for Joel. Not in the way you wanted him, anyway. The way you needed.

But, on the off chance you’d give yourself permission to ask yourself honestly - Do you want him? The answer was simple.

Yes.

But life wasn’t simple. Not since your parents had left you and it had become your responsibility to protect the kids from your shitty decisions.

And Joel Miller was a shitty decision.

Shitty for Romy, especially. Her first friend in Austin, and her dad is some guy you’d fucked on a drunken impulse. Ro needs you right now. The least you could do is refrain from fucking her new friend’s dad.

He’s a distraction, too. You’d been distracted all damn week. At dinner, Bear had even made you sit through another ten minute lesson on the difference between a jaguar and a leopard once he’d realized you were half-listening the first time. Turns out, there's lots of differences.

They need you. All of you. You can't fuck this up for them - not when there's already no room for error.

They don't need you distracted, chasing some middle-aged man who fucks a twenty-five-year-old if she asks twice really, really nicely.

But, Joel had already made his bed in your brain. Laid-out sheets, folded in the corners, and set out charming little throw pillows. Thoughts of him were becoming comfortable, familiar. And no matter how many eviction notices you’d presented, he refused to leave.

By now, you’d come to finally admit that the sex with him was different. More…intimate. One night with Joel was unlike anything you’d experienced before. Not with the ex you had on and off throughout college, or any boy in-between.

If you stared at the ceiling hard enough - like you were tonight - you’d begin to question what it meant to you and why you were still thinking about it. Wondering why you were angry with your laundry detergent for doing its job, rinsing away his scent on your sheets.

He’d fucked you like it meant something to him. Like you meant something to him - and that was an impossible feeling to cast aside, no matter how long the list of cons.

You could at least do that - think about the sex. Think about how he fit so perfectly inside of you, like he was made for your cunt. Made for you. The way he'd touched you and talked to you like you were the only woman that'd ever mattered. His thrust quickening as you pleaded, faster, faster, please faster, Joel please -

A buzzing on your nightstand knocks you on your ass, pulling your attention from the aching throb between your legs.

You immediately think its Romy calling for you to come get her. You even rush to get your slippers on before answering. You pick up your phone and find an unsaved number illuminated on your screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Your heart skitters like a rock skimming on water.

“Joel? Is Ro alright? Should I come -“

“She’s fine, baby. Fast asleep. This a bad time?”

You exhale, shoulders slouching as you sit down on the edge of your bed, cheeks pink with worry and remaining lust.

“Well you’re calling me at-” you pull the phone from your ear to check the time "-one in the morning - so, yes. It’s a bad time.”

“Did I wake you?” He sounds genuine, his voice low and tired.

“No.”

“What were you doin’?”

Thinking about you to the point of nausea.

“Nothing.”

“Thinkin’ about me?”

Yes.

“No.”

“You were, weren’t ya?”

Yes.

“No.”

“You’re a bad liar.” You can hear his smile.

It’s true. You’re a terrible liar. Your mother always said so. “You can’t change the whole tone of your voice if you’re going to lie - it defeats the purpose,” she’d say.

“What're you doing up so late?” you ask, attempting to avoid the possibility of having to tell another unconvincing lie.

“Thinkin’ about you.”

Your breath catches.

“Y-you were?”

“’S why I called.”

“Oh.” Your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“Earlier today - you never answered my question,” he drawls.

“Which one?” you flick off your slippers and sink back into your mattress, head dizzying with your heart's refusal to slow down.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You should hang up. Be mean to him. Something. Anything.

“The one about the note I left for you. Never said whether you got it or not. Did you?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “I got the note.”

And it’s in waste management’s loving hands now.

“Okay. There a reason you didn’t call?”

“I - uh...” Your hand twitches, every nerve ending eager to hang up - avoid the question altogether.

You pause long enough for him to break the silence.

“Jus’ thought - I dunno - thought we had a good time is all."

“We did.”

“So what’s the problem, darlin’?”

You press your lips together, thinking of the right way navigate this.

“’S’okay, you can tell me,” he urges, voice low.

You clear the stinging ball of nerves that’s collected in your throat.

“It’s just - um,” you stutter, “I don’t know, Joel. It’s complicated.”

He exhales, like he was holding his breath waiting for an answer.

“You’re real good at that, huh?”

“At what?”

“Avoidin’ questions,” he grumbles.

“Mm,” you hum.

Fine. You'll give him a real, justifiable reason. One he can't skate around. One that doesn't involve the dead parent talk.

"With the girls being friends now, it’s just - I don’t think we can - I mean, we shouldn’t -“

“I know,” he interrupts. “I know that.”

He sighs, the crinkling sound of his sheets cuts between the static.

There’s a beat of silence. You should make an excuse - say you have to go. It’s dangerous, the way Joel sucks you in. You should -

“How did everything go tonight?” you blurt out.

Weak idiot.

“Think we may have created a monster bringin’ those two together. It was all giggles and screamin’ ‘till about an hour ago.”

“Uh oh,” you huff out a laugh. “How was Romy? Was she - how’d she do?”

“She’s a great kid. Minds her manners well. Funny girl. Nothin' like you.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Sure you wanna go there again, babygirl?”

“Not really, no,” you answer, eyelids growing heavy with the sound of his voice.

“Tell me what you were thinkin’ about when I called.”

“I already said - nothing,” you double-down.

“And I already said, you’re a bad liar,” he laughs sleepily.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you say, hanging up the phone before he can protest.

A exasperated sigh escapes your lips, only the Moon to witness your frustration - and she can’t do anything to help you.

So you slip your hand beneath the waistband of your panties and help yourself.

————

Saturday morning comes at you with full force. Or at least Lulu does, knocking the wind out of you while she jumps on top of you, begging you to get up, get up, get up. She’s all knees and elbows, and if you wait any longer she’ll start pushing on your bladder to get you out of bed, which has a proven one hundred percent success rate.

The morning was quiet, despite hurricane Lu’s wake up call. You made breakfast, colored alongside the kids, and by the afternoon, you’d decided to seize the last few weeks of warmth and set up the sprinkler in the backyard for the kids to play in.

It was like you'd rented out a water park for them, the way their giggles and screeches echoed into the neighborhood.

“Sissy!” Lulu squeals.

You look up from your book where you’re perched on the grass, sunbathing on a linen blanket you’d meticulously spread out. Your two-piece bathing suit clings to your skin, which is currently smothered in layer a sweat and sunscreen.

“Come play with us,” she pleads, running and jumping through the spurts of rainbowed mist suspended in the air.

You can think of about a thousand other things you’d rather do than run through a fucking sprinkler over and over with your little brother and sister. You didn’t even like it when you were a kid. You’d shiver and cry as soon as a breeze kicked up.

You look down at your book.

You’d been fighting to start this one for a while now. You’d forced yourself to bring it outside with you, hoping you could at least get past the first chapter without closing it again like your last attempts.

You shut the cover and flip it over. Your dad’s face smiles back at you in a little black-and-white portrait in the bottom corner. His name, highlighted in blurbs of reviews, lines the top - gushing over his literary excellence. Another author deeming his writing "Nothing short of brilliant" - which you wouldn’t know, because you can’t get past the stupid fucking dedication page.

To my sweet daughter, whom I will love in every lifetime.

It was the first of many books he had published. You were just nine. Your last year of being their only child. Their only baby.

You’ve tried to read it, you really have. But every time you flip to that page filled with only those eleven words, you’d freeze. You’d read the words over and over and over again until you felt sick and they began to mean nothing - until the letters ceased to be no more than scribbles on paper.

Maybe you'll get to be his daughter for longer in whatever lifetime he's found himself in. You wish it could be this one.

Your eyes well with tears, the sun’s rays reflecting off them as they tumble down your cheeks, making a *tick* as they land on the back cover.

“Come on,” Lulu screeches. “Pleeeaaase!”

Your dad would go play with them. He always dropped everything he was doing to play with them. He stares back at you, his smile now warped with stray tears, as you dry your eyes with the back of your hand. He’d go run through the damn sprinkler if he were here.

A pang of guilt rises in your chest.

“Okay, Dad,” you mutter under your breath, tossing his book to the side. “I get it. I’ll go.”

Ten minutes of jumping through this dumb, rusty sprinkler, and now your giggles and screeches were being heard throughout the neighborhood.

You felt light, each mist of water cooling the sting that is your dad loving you in a lifetime that is not your own - while you remain here, tending to what he’d left behind.

Lulu clings to you like a monkey, laughing into your ear, while you run away from Bear, who’s taking his method-acting role as velociraptor #1 very seriously.

He roars, eliciting laughs muddled with screams from both you and Lulu. You run around the yard, mud squelching beneath your bare feet - your damp skin speckled with vibrant blades of grass.

You scream loud as Bear gets closer - eyes trained behind you, trying to gage his distance.

“I’m gonna get you!” he yells, closing in. You let out another screech, squeezing Lulu tighter as he puts his hand out.

“Hurry!” Lulu pants.

“We’re gonna die, Lu,” you shout, “he’s too fast!”

Just as you say it, you hear the shrill squeaking of the sliding glass door, followed by the sound of Romy’s voice, prompting you to freeze in your tracks.

“What is going on out here?” she asks.

Bear topples into you, bumping you forward a step while you snap your head towards the patio where you spot her, squinting from the sun, still clad in her pajamas. But it's who stands next to her that makes your stomach flip.

A subdued smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Joel locks eyes with you, giving you a slight nod.

“Romyyyyy!” Lulu whines. “You killed us!”

“Sorry, Lu,” she shrugs.

You hide your face behind Lulu, who’s still clinging onto you for dear life.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

“Sissy said shit!”

“Swear jar!” Romy points at you with force.

“What did I tell you about being a snitch?”

“That no one likes one,” Lulu answers sheepishly.

You set Lulu down and she scurries away, grabbing Bear’s hand and dragging him with her.

You’re a mess. Panting and sweaty - hair soaked and sticking to your face, blades of grass stuck to the sheen of sweat, sprinkler mist, and sunscreen.

Of course, you think. Does this guy have a fucking bat signal that appears when you want him least?

You smooth your hair down - wiping away what is either water or sweat collected in your brow - as you trudge through the waterlogged grass, before you’re suddenly stood in front of them.

Joel's eyes are fixed on wood beneath his boots, and he doesn’t have his homeostatic smug asshole look painted on his face for once.

“How’d it go?” you ask, still trying to catch your breath. Hoping the fact that you were just running your ass off will be the scapegoat for your flushed complexion.

“Good,” Romy says, grinning from ear to ear.

She’s glowing. Her sweet, tired eyes reflecting the exhausted thrill that follows the morning after staying up all night with a friend - sharing secrets and clothes and laughs.

“Joel walked me home,” she adds.

No shit.

“I see that,” you say, looking in his direction.

His eyes flit up from the ground, fixing on yours.

“Thought I’d make sure she gets home safe her first time walkin’ back." His voice is low. His eyes dark.

“Well I’m gonna go shower, “ Romy says, thanking Joel before she slips inside.

“Thanks for getting her home.” You brush pieces of grass from your arm.

He nods.

“You didn’t have to do that, y'know.”

“’S no problem.”

What? Nothing clever to say this time?

“You’re being awfully quiet today.” You pick a blade of grass from your chest, then your forearm, then your stomach - god, they’re multiplying.

You lift your head, expecting to meet his eye-line, but his gaze is fixed on the steadying rise and fall of your chest - your bathing suit doing a half-assed job at covering you, creamy tan-lines peeking out from the all sides of the skimpy fabric.

“Ain’t got much to say." He reaches his hand out, fingers grazing your collar bone, plucking a blade of grass you'd missed there.

You hold in a breath, goosebumps forming as a breeze sweeps by, kissing the droplets of water that linger on your skin. You cross your arms in an effort to cover your chest, the hard peaks of your nipples forming underneath your top.

“Well - thanks again for making sure she got home.” An attempt to shoo him out. As the adrenaline begins to wear, you're becoming increasingly aware of how much of your body is revealed. “I guess I’ll see you -“

“Somethin’ I need to talk to you about,“ he cuts you off.

“Oh - okay.”

“Inside.”

You follow him inside, sliding the door shut.

“What is it?”

He grips you loosely on the arm, leading you into the kitchen and away from the kids’ sight.

Your heart is in your throat.

Did Romy tell him about your parents?

You could’ve told him at the bar, on his front porch, on the fucking phone last night. You could’ve told him when he fucking asked in the first place. But instead, you leave it to your fifteen-year-old sister.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

He can’t even look you in the eye.

Fuck - he knows.

“Joel?” your voice cracks. “Did Ro say something?”

“What?” he says, releasing his grip on you once you’ve found your way into the kitchen.

You lean against the island. The cold marble counter against the small of your back makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Romy - did she tell you, um,” you stutter.

“Tell me what?” he finally looks you in the eye.

Your shoulders relax.

“Nothing. What’d you need to talk to me about?” You stare at your reflection, upside-down and trapped in the darkness of his eyes.

He’s silent - fists balled at his side.

“What’s going on? Is everything -“

Without warning, his lips find yours as he presses his weight against you. Your body goes slack and all rational thought transforms into static on an old TV.

You part your lips for him, and he obliges, forcefully pressing his tongue inside. He places a hand on your jaw as your moan slips into his mouth - prompting him to return one into yours, the vibration tingling your lips.

His scent wraps you up, suffocating you until you feel dumb.

It’s impassioned. Frantic. Your tongues intertwining as you grasp at his clothes, his hair, his face. Anything to pull him closer.

It’s as if you’d both been craving the taste of each other’s tongue - depraved and greedy as you fight each other for more.

More, more, more you need more.

His hands find your waist, lifting you on the counter with ease. The chill of the marble nips at your exposed skin - reinstating some semblance of self, as you rip your lips from his.

“Joel,” you breathe, “we shouldn’t - I can’t -“

You attempt to find the words to say that this is a terrible idea. That you shouldn’t be getting into something you’re not going to be able to pull yourself out of. That you can’t fuck the kids up even more than they already are.

But you can’t seem to find the words to challenge him - like your mind is playing the world’s shittiest game of scrabble, the useless letter tiles in your possession only able spell out J-O-E-L.

He lays his palms flat on the counter, his arms on either side of you, boxing you in. He’s warm and his skin smells like the your sunscreen mixed with his morning coffee.

He nips at your collarbone - collecting the few droplets of water that still remain - soothing each spot with a kiss as he makes his way up your neck.

“You want me to stop?” His breath warms the saliva there.

You exhale shakily.

His fingers toy with the soaked fabric that covers your aching cunt as he nibbles at the shell of your ear, your mind going numb with the tingles that stretch through every nerve in your body.

“Tell me, angel. Go on,” he growls.

You whine - overstimulated - desire and need at war with rational thought.

He slowly slides the fabric of your bathing suit over with his finger, the only barrier between you and gratification.

You pinch your eyebrows together, looking up at him pitifully.

“Awe, c’mon, sweet girl," he coos. "Y’always got so much to say. What's stoppin' ya?”

He glides the pad of his finger through your folds, gathering the slick mess you’ve made - that he’s made.

The transparent veil of restraint you were clinging onto for dear life rips as the tip of his finger finds your entrance, your breath hitching in response.

He stills - your walls clenching around nothing as a pathetic whimper falls out of you.

“Tell me to stop.”

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

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