#not only was it four years ago; but it still remains possible

[blindtaleteller]

I think it's even funnier/dumber considering the series had such a ridiculous budget. The Loki series first season, still ranks as the third most expensive series EVER. 25 MILLION per episode, at a grand total of 150 million.

Yeah. It out-spent BOTH Game of Thrones, the Witcher, the Mandalorian, and more. The budget isn't just top ten. It's massive at the top 3; with just ONE season under it's belt before you even count S2.

The first season cost more according to their own numbers, than some of their recent feature films. Ant Man Quantumania's budget was 100 million. Spider Man No Way Home cost them 200 million : as in the 'Loki' series FIRST season alone cost 3/4 of that movie's total budget: including the other older actors brought in and THEIR make up and wardrobe.

It was a weak excuse then, and it's an even weaker excuse now, just with the budget alone: even before you take the other productions into account.

By the way, yes: the dumpster fire series also continues to also out-spend the other MCU series around it too, though they do mostly rank in the top ten. Wanda-Vision is right behind it at #4 and similar budget lines, along with Falcon and The Winter Soldier and Hawkeye.

They're still running on that same budget line, with six MORE episodes. Which means it's cost in total is now 300 million. Try to excuse it all you want .. but eh; the numbers and the scramble even by the BTS and studios PR teams attempts to recover the hemmoraging money for that all around bad quality from writing to characters to costume and make up don't lie when it's that massive.

No one with a brain is being fooled here, lol.

people say "of course loki looks different in the series, tom is older now" as though these images aren't from 3-4 years ago... the issue isn't with the actor, it's with the costume and hair/makeup not making him look like loki

[mariacallous]

For the first time since World War II, one of Prague’s most historic synagogues has held a Jewish worship service.

Kol Nidre, the introductory service of Yom Kippur, took place in the Klausen Synagogue on Friday night, ending a hiatus that lasted more than 80 years and encompassed both the murder and suppression of Czech Jewry.

Originally erected in 1573 and rebuilt after a fire in 1694, the Klausen Synagogue is the largest synagogue in Prague’s Jewish Quarter and once served as a central hub of Jewish life. It’s known as the home of several prominent rabbis and thinkers, from Judah Loew — a 16th-century Talmudic scholar also known as the Maharal of Prague — to Baruch Jeitteles, a scholar associated with the Jewish Enlightenment movement of the 18th and 19th centuries.

But for more than 80 years after the Holocaust decimated Czech Jews, the Klausen Synagogue held no services.

That was until Friday evening, when about 200 people poured in for a service led by Rabbi David Maxa, who represents Czechia’s community of Progressive or Reform Jews. That community was joined by guests and Jewish tourists from around the world for Yom Kippur, according to Maxa. He saw the moment as a sign of Jewish life resurging in Prague.

“It’s quite remarkable that there is a Yom Kippur service in five historic synagogues in Prague,” Maxa told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

Under German occupation in World War II, the Klausen Synagogue was used as a storage facility. Although the Nazis and their collaborators killed about 263,000 Jews who lived in the former Czechoslovak Republic, they took an interest in collecting Jewish art and artifacts that they deemed valuable enough to preserve. The Jewish Museum in Prague was allowed to continue storing those objects, and the synagogue became part of the museum’s depository.

After the war, there were not enough survivors to refill services in the synagogues of Prague. The country became a Soviet satellite in 1948, starting a long era in which Jews were often persecuted and surveilled for following any religious practices. The last Soviet census of 1989 registered only 2,700 Jews living in Czech lands.

“During Communist times, it was very difficult to relate to Jewish identity,” said Maxa. “People who visited any kind of synagogue were followed by the secret police, and only after the Velvet Revolution in 1989 did it become possible for people to visit synagogues without the feeling of being followed and put on a list.”

After the end of communism, some synagogues returned to use by the few Jews who still identified as such. Two of the six synagogues that still stand in the Jewish Quarter now are in regular use as houses of worship.

But the Klausen Synagogue, which was added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 1982, remained part of the Jewish Museum, hosting exhibitions about Jewish festivals, early Hebrew manuscripts and Jewish customs and traditions.

Museum director Pavla Niklová said returning the synagogue to use for Yom Kippur happened almost by accident. Maxa was asking if she knew about a space large enough to host his growing congregation, Ec Chajim, for the holiest day in the Jewish calendar — its own space, which opened four years ago about a 20-minute walk away, could not accommodate the crowds expected for Yom Kippur.

Since the museum had just taken down its exhibition in the Klausen Synagogue after 28 years, she had an answer. The clean, empty space was ready to be refilled with Jewish life.

Visiting the synagogue just before Yom Kippur, Niklová said she was awed to see the building returned to its original purpose. She hopes that it will continue to be used for large services.

“I felt like the synagogue started breathing again,” she told JTA. “I believe it was a good move to take down the old exhibit, and now we can start anew.”

For many in Prague’s Jewish community, which is largely secular, Yom Kippur is the single most important service of the year. Even Jewish families that suppressed religious practices under Communism often passed on the memory of Yom Kippur, said Maxa.

Maxa founded Prague’s Progressive Jewish community in 2019, responding to a growing number of people who sought to explore their Jewish roots. The community currently has 200 members and adds about five more every month.

“Often, I meet people who simply want to learn about the culture, tradition and religion of their grandparents,” said Maxa. “They say, my grandmother and grandfather were Shoah survivors — can I come and learn more about Judaism? We offer a wide range of activities, including of course regular services, but also educational courses to help these people reconnect with the tradition.”

Maxa, who himself grew up in Prague with little connection to his Jewish roots, wants to revive some of the rituals that threaded through Prague’s pre-war Jewish world — including a tradition of organ accompaniment in the city’s synagogues. On Friday, Jewish organist Ralph Selig performed during his service.

Like many of his congregants, Maxa’s family history intertwines with the losses of the last century. His father came from Prague and survived the Holocaust. He does not know if his father visited the Klausen Synagogue, but he knows it was a familiar part of his world.

“It means a lot for me that the tradition was not exterminated, and that this is coming back, even to a place where no services were held since World War II,” he said.

[blueiscoool]

Archaeologists Uncover ‘Astonishing’ Remains of Horses Buried 2,000-Years-Ago

Archaeologists in France have uncovered nine “astonishing” graves containing the skeletons of 28 horses that were buried about 2,000 years ago, though their precise cause of death remains a mystery.

Discovered in Villedieu-sur-Indre, a commune in central France, two of the graves have been fully excavated so far, the French National Institute for Preventive Archaeological Research (INRAP) said in a statement.

The horses have been radiocarbon-dated back to somewhere between 100 BC to 100 AD.

Archaeologists found 10 complete horse skeletons in one pit and two in the other, all carefully placed in the same manner lying on their right flank with their heads to the south.

All these horses were buried at the same time shortly after their deaths, archaeologists said after observing the position of the skeletons and the connections between the bones.

Another grave is situated between these two pits but it contains two medium-sized dogs, both lying on their left side with their heads facing west.

Archaeologists have yet to fully excavate the remaining graves but have already identified a total of 28 horses from the skulls and coxal bones that appear on the surface.

Killed in battle, or ritual sacrifice?

However, the horses’ precise cause of death still remains unclear.

Archaeologists have ruled out an epidemic since there are no foals or mares in these graves; all the skeletons are fully-grown stallions aged over four years old. That leaves, archaeologists said, the possibilities that these horses were either killed in battle or as part of a ritual sacrifice.

When these horses died about 2,000 years ago, there was a fortified Celtic settlement known as an oppidum just a few hundred meters away and this location mirrors that of two other similar horse burial sites that archaeologists had previously uncovered in the same region.

Due to this location, they have hypothesized that the horses’ deaths at the sites could be connected to the battles of the Gallic Wars in which Julius Caesar conquered Gaul between 58 - 50 BC.

There may be another explanation, however: ritual sacrifice.

“The hypothesis that these animals were sacrificed as part of a complex ritual, of which only a few scraps remain, must also be considered,” the INRAP statement said.

If these horses were indeed buried as part of a ritual rather than killed in battle, the sheer number shows the “importance and extent of the sacrifice,” the statement added.

Other finds at the site, which sits on the slope of a valley, include buildings, pits, ditches and a road that archaeologists dated to the late 5th and early 6th centuries.

By Issy Ronald.

[fabled-fiction]

Temptations of the Wolf

Cregan Stark x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: Being a Targaryen meant sacrifice. Being a Stark meant sacrifice. Both these houses know the service of duty well. But when war is amiss, and two leaders of these respective houses meet to discuss allegiance, feelings for one another bubble to the surface and get in the way. Oh how the winds of war turn would be lover on would be lover.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: MAYBE POSSIBLE SPOILER ISH FOR EP 1. Angst, Foribbiden-ish Love, Use of (Y/N), proof read only by author.

A/N: I AM A HOTD TV SHOW PERSON ONLY!!! I did research on wikis to try and write Cregan correctly, however I am but a simple man that writes fanfiction, so mischaracterization isn't totally unavoidable. ENJOY!

A dragon does not get cold.

A dragon does not feel the cold as they have fire brewing under their scales, penetrating not only their bones but also their soul. The soul of a dragon is a fiercely burning one, said to run so hot that their touch alone melts the thickest of ice.

(Y/N) Targaryen knew of this fire better than any dragon. Or that is what the people of King’s Landing had quickly grown to best know them by. Growing up within the tense house of Targaryen, especially during war times, justly called for you to have more than just a spine of a predator.

To survive amongst dragons, you must be able to breathe their fire.

Making every other tense occasion feel as though you were walking on air.

Perhaps there was another reason as to why you felt no fear as you flew North. A reason that bore the Stark symbol.

That is why, as Polarxes rode through the winter chill, with the wind daring to snip at your skin you felt calm. At peace almost, even as the great Wall came into view.

It was realized that in order to keep the throne that was meant to stay in the hands of your brother Aegon, relations had to be made. Families and Houses had bent the knee for King Visery’s heir not long ago, and it was soon made apparent that your family would have to make the same bend the knee again for Aegon. Just to make sure that loyalties lied with the correct Targaryen.

Whilst you particularly did not care for such politics, or politics in general, your mother had other plans. Seeing as you and Aemond stood as…the most intimidating of the family it was an easy decision to send the both of you out to ensure alliances were made and pacts bonded.

You knew that the decision to send you to the Wall was laced with more than just truce in mind. Your mother was a cunning woman, and recalled the times that whenever the Starks came to make your acquaintance you favored the nip of the cold family over the burning of the dragon pit. The touch of their ice, and the gaze of one particular wolf.

As your dragon landed, her talons digging in to break, you took a moment to yourself to feel the snowflakes rest on your warm cheeks and melt into the white of your roots. The cold felt nice on your skin that had grown used to the humidity of King’s Landing. To feel at ease in your skin, to have even the opportunity to cool off was an unknown blessing of this trip.

“I hope the ride here was not too tiresome for your dragon here, the winds can be quite hard in preparation for the change of season.”

Looking down at the boy, who looked no older than four and ten years of age, you smiled as you slid off your dragon with ease. She shook her head in response, her ivory scales offering her a sort of camouflage to the elements around her as she settled down. The heat of her breath alone melted whatever ice laid around her, the rest becoming swept up as her wings folded in. 

Whilst you looked at her with admiration, you could tell that this was the first dragon the boy had ever seen. It was a mix of awe and fear that flooded his eyes, which you did not doubt also kept him frozen still in fear of her eating him to remain warm.

“Do not worry about her, she is not the dragon that will eat you alive should you make one wrong move.”

A wolf does not get cold.

A wolf does feel the cold because the wolf knows how to bear the frigid winds. Their fur having grown to shift with the winds that come with winter. They stand strong against the chill of winter, and stand headfast at the front of the storm. 

The gaze of a wolf alone makes one question whether or not the storm bends to the wolf’s howl.

Cregan Stark knew that his house would come to be called upon soon enough. That is what comes with the winds of war. He just never felt bothered enough to actually busy himself with the calls of the storm.

But it became increasingly hard to ignore as a dragon landed at the gates of the Wall.

Especially when it was a dragon he recognized, that held a rider that had occupied his mind in the dark of the night as he stared into a fireplace. The lick of flames taunting him the same way a certain Targaryen had whenever in their presence.

He had begun to regret not knowing what exactly this storm of war would make him face.

The warmth of a Targaryen was hard to ignore, it made the men wish for the comfort of home as they were reminded of just how cold winter really was when left in their absence. A reaching hand hoping to grasp onto the hearth that was your soul. 

Even as he looked up toward the wall, the announcement of your presence was made when he felt sweat beghin to build on the back of his neck.

Turning towards you he noticed the sea of men that had parted to make a runway for you,almost as if they were presenting you to him. Or maybe it was the other way around as he noticed the way your predatory gaze ate up every inch of him.

He should have felt intimidated just by that alone.

You stood there before him, adorning only the one coat that seemed to mock the furs that he had adorned in order to retain even a fraction of the heat that you held onto. Your head was held high as you looked upon the Stark, giving him the smallest courtesy bow as your hand reached to shake his. He should not have been so eager to be in your presence upon the precipice of war.

Cregan Stark was no fool, he knew the reason for your visit. But still, appearances seemed to be becoming more and more important in this age.

“Lord Stark, I hope I am not intruding? There were some important business I’d like to discuss and well…dragons are faster than ravens.”

He offered you a curt smile as he stood to his full height, hoping to give himself an advantage on the conversation. Or at the very least to provide some distance to distract from the pit that had been lit a flame from your very speaking of his name.

“You’re not intruding in any way. Would you like to take this discussion somewhere more private, if the matter happens to be so important?”

You were not used to the Northern accent. The regality of the South had become your norm as you dealt with many affairs there, instead of bending to the will of the many Lord and Lady that wanted an audience with the great Targaryen rulers of the day. Thus you were used to their customs, clothing and accents.

Everything about the North always took you by surprise, and assaulted every sense that you had.

Cregan Stark was no different. If anything he made the divide even more stark as you set your gaze upon him.

He stood tall, and unbroken as he looked at you. The Wolf of the North was everything that had been said about him. Tall, broad, strong…handsome. His steeled eyes locked you in your place almost instantly. You weren’t sure if it was because you feared a single wrong move from you would provoke the beast or because you wanted to soak in every minute of his undivided attention. Never had you met someone with the same resolve as you, nor the same gaze.

You knew now why people were so intoxicated by you.

He always had that effect on you.

Taking his hand, stepping onto the lift you couldn’t help but be drawn to the cold that laid on his hands. The chill that ran up your arm from his touch alone made you want to keep a harsh grip on his gloved hand.

When the both of you were locked in, it was only then did your hands regretfully break apart by the jostle of the cables.

“I’m sure you know why I have made the trip all the way out here?” 

“Was it not to take in the view atop the wall?”

The chuckle that left your lips resonated throughout the cart, it made Cregan want to fill a book with quips that would draw similar sounds out of you. He smiled to himself as the ride came to a halt, and the two of you made the trip to a balcony overlooking the edge of the forsaken wall.

“ While that is a plus, I have come here as a courier from the Queen Mother. Whilst I believe you are busy with the responsibilities of defending the South from that of which come from those blasted woods, it would shock me to find you do not know of the developing situation within my family?”

His suspicions were confirmed. While there was no doubt you had come to discuss the usurping of the throne, it lifted some weight off his shoulder to know that you had been the one to broach the topic first. For some…unknown reason he felt hesitant to the idea of bringing up a topic that would only bring a scowl upon your face. Or any topic for that matter that would cause a crease to form between the bridge of your gaze.

But upon the question he found that you were calm and collected. As if you had not just brought up the topic of a deed that often led to disorder amongst the throne and council. Many of the men that served the wall had been sent here for just the discussion of mutiny alone.

Your confidence alone shook him, and confused him at the same time.

“I’m sure even the farthest reaches have heard of your brother taking his seat upon the Iron Throne. I'm confused however on what this has to do with me?”

Taking your gloves off, Cregan watched as you placed your hands on the edge of the ice that formed this pocket amongst the wall. Your shoulders dropped along with your head as you took in a deep breath. It was interesting to take in your mannerisms when it was just him instead of him and an audience. You behaved…well like a dragon. A foreboding presence that did not easily reveal their intentions, a ticking trap of anguish and fire. A continuous stream of steam left your nostrils as you took a moment to contemplate.

The dread that spilled from your exhale had Cregan convinced there was something more amiss this meeting of allegiance. 

“I truly do not care of the affairs of my brother, he has rarely acted on his own accord. Thus why I am here, to gather support of others that will make sure whatever whims he does hold are defended from those that aim to make all of this harder than it has to be.”

Looking at the palm of your hand that had been grasping the ice with a fury, you noticed that it had only now just started to turn pink. Whereas you were sure if anyone else had dared to meet flesh with ice, it would be purple and dead by now. It was a calming reassurance to feel the calming touch of ice. When looking into Cregan eyes, you felt a similar calm as his brows furrowed into a look that resembled something of sympathy.

He understood more than anyone the weight of duty.

“If I may ask, it seems as if you do not have much desire in the battles that are brewing? So why come here to make a play with a house that is known to keep their oaths?”

Of course he knew the weight of duty. The Stark house was known to be one of the most noble houses when it came to keeping a promise. They had bent the knee for your half sister years ago, so why must you have come out all this way to try and turn their tides? You truly did not want to come out all this way, only making the trip at the request of your mother who had become a thorn in your side ever since you made your indifference to the throne known.

You knew coming out this way would not sway the Stark, but instead sway you. 

“Who wishes for war? Only mad men desire a battle that would take their life,” Taking a moment to compose yourself, you straightened your back.

“Which is exactly why I come in hopes that you share the same sentiment.”

Your eyes seemed to hold all the emotions of the seven kingdoms. Cregan took a moment to compose himself, and remind himself that he was the Warden of the North. He does not need to consult himself on ways to keep the blaze of your heart lit. He had a job, just as you had yours.

Which is why he felt himself faltering.

“A Targaryen that does not wish of war? You are a rarity amongst your family (Y/N).”

Your name should have felt foreign to say. It was not dressed with honorifics, and he meant it. The lack of title that came before your name was with the purpose of bringing this conversation down to a more personal level. 

He watched as you tensed with him saying your name. But he knew it was not in offense, he could never offend you. It was in realization of the fragility of this conversation.

His informality was sealed when he rested his hand on the small of your back. The both of you just took in the moment to look beyond the wall. Cregan knew that this simple action could warrant reaction from you, it would be justified for you to take his hand and his tongue for even speaking to you in such a casual way.

Instead you melted into his touch, turning to face him.

He took this as an invitation to invade your space once more, taking a step forward to move a piece of hair that threatened to obscure his view of you.

“You flatter me, Lord Stark. But a compliment such as that will only do so much to sway me. I was sent here for a reason.”

His title wavered on your tongue as you spoke to him. This just drew more a response from him as he did not move, humming almost in agreeance as his hand found its place on your cheek. For a moment he felt jealous of the leather that dressed his palm, for it had the honor of holding you truely.

“Hmm yes, you were sent here for a reason. But could there not have been another? One that you hold instead, that trumps the duty you feel to your house?”

He was always good at reading you.

Perhaps you should have felt unease in coming here, to think it would just be a simple trip to the Wall that would just lead you to return home with nothing but a word that the Starks were not aligned with your house.

You were blinded by the urge to see him, the want to make his acquaintance one more time before the realm tore itself apart. “Cregan…”

His name fell from your lips with a whisper, as if you were praying to the gods above to harden your resolve.

“Tell me the real reason you came here.”

He was incredibly close now, his presence shadowing over yours. He covered you in a shroud of snow, his touch almost paralyzing you as you remained locked in a fight of wills.

Who would win? The fearsome dragon or the unbending wolf?

“To speak with you. There are…alliances that need to be made in order to keep my family from tearing itself and the world apart.”

This earned a frown from him as he leaned even closer to you. He assaulted every sense you had now. His eyes burned into yours, rivaling your gaze as his scent came over you. There was a reason you favored the smell of leather and musk. It reminded you of him.

“Could you just this once make a decision that was not dictated by your family, but rather made in lieu of what you wanted?”

Your hand reached up to hold his wrist of the hand that grounded you. Your touch was searing, Cregan knew that had you touched his skin he was sure there would be a burn where you had touched him. And he would wear it with honor.

He wondered if a kiss from you would be just as searing. If steam would rise from the both of your lips as you became one.

The fan of your breath over his cheeks threatened the very resolve he was known for.

This very act alone could be considered taking a side. The both of you would seal your fate if you fell blindly into your passions right at this second. A thought crossed the wolf’s mind, how truly awful would it have been to give in, even for just a moment?

Your hand on his cheek, a mirror of his own action, made him clasp his eyes shut as a shaky breath escaped his own trembling lips. 

He looked beautiful, in this very moment, you thought.

The both of you were so close, the desire of one thing burning in your mind as you stared at him.

You were never one for politics, but could that argument alone be excuse enough to betray the whims of your family for a single kiss from a man that would stand against them?

You wished to lite his lips ablaze with the passion of your touch.

He wished to swallow the fire that burned in your throat.

A dragon does not feel the cold.

A wolf does not feel the cold.

But right in this very moment they both wished the winds would freeze them in place, if not to hold onto the memory for just a moment longer.

“Cregan..”

“(Y/N)..”

The side of his nose seemed to fit perfectly against yours as he leaned in. Your hand rested up against the nape of his neck perfectly, anchoring both of you in this stance. 

Just as the both of you felt a graze of the other, there was the annoyance of another made present.

The squealing of the lift cables broke the silence, and thus breaking the tender moment of the two of you.

It wasn't until they came to a halt did you finally step back, and Cregan was left to imagine the moment for only a second before opening his eyes to the reality of the situation.

“Lord Stark, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of house Velaryon has arrived to speak with you.”

With a small huff of a laugh, you straightened your cloak and looked out over the wall once more. 

This would probably be the last time you saw winter…the snow…and him.

Feeling his hand grip your chin, making you face him you could only chuckle as you held his face again. Only this time with longing and remorse. You were already mourning any possibility you had with him, and he knew it too as he looked down at you.

“I wish it were that easy…”

Leaning forward, you played with fire one last time as your lips came to rest on the corner of his. It was a quick moment, only giving yourself enough of it for the small gesture. You knew if you lingered for even a moment the Northerner would take it upon himself to seize whatever he could. And then you truely would be gone to the whims of a lovely passion.

Pulling away, you watched as he held where you had kissed him, before breaking away from your eye as you made your way to the lift to leave him.

But when his hand found your wrist, you could feel the fire brimming in your throat.

“Just…think about what I said…before its too late.”

Looking over your shoulder, you couldn't help but take the moment to study his face. Commit it to memory. Perhaps that is truly what you came here for. Not some silly test of allegiance, for you already had that answer before you even mounted your dragon.

No…it was to take in one last memory of the cold.

[wttcsms]

most noble ; kento nanami.

pairing kento nanami x f!reader  word count 3.6k  synopsis your beloved knight nobly defends your honor by participating in a tourney to duel the man who insults you. he does not realize that the reward for his victory is your hand in marriage. content contains medieval royal au, knight!nanami & princess!reader, age gap (reader is 22/nanami is 29), longing!!! it's about the pining!!!, requited unrequited love, romantic tension, nanami being hopelessly in love but feeling undeserving :( author's notes omg can y'all just get ur acts together n marry each other holy shit (make me make a pt. 2, plssss)

Kento Nanami knows that he’s made a mistake, perhaps one so major that not even taking another professional role within the castle will be able to cover it up. Then again, it’s not like him leaving his post the first time around has resulted in any change. Maybe him leaving only to return back to your side once more is precisely the reason why he’s making so many mistakes.

For example, earlier this week, his fingers brushed against yours while handing you your tiara. Or, just before that, he found himself remaining only two steps behind you rather than the traditional three. And maybe he’s just paranoid, afraid that he’s being obvious and overly obnoxious in his displays of affection for you, but he did not earn the title of Head Knight of the Royal Guard for no reason. The king — your father — would not have bestowed such a prestigious title to a man who is not always proceeding with constant caution. 

To any visitor of the court, Sir Nanami is just another highly skilled knight, dedicated to protecting the princess. To Nanami, he is a lovesick fool trailing after you, failing to mask his true affections. 

No one sees through him, except for the one person who he so wishes were blind to his feelings. 

Easily excitable and sweetly endearing, you are the heiress to the throne and future ruler to citizens who adore you. It’s hard not to fall for your charm or the kindness that you bestow upon anyone who comes across your path. You’re considered to be the sun that shines over the kingdom, and Nanami knows of no star that shines brighter than you. 

But behind your youthful exuberance and seemingly carefree attitude is a highly perceptive young lady of the court. With your cheery smiles and laughter that seems to flow so easily and rings through the halls of the castle, it is easy to forget that one day, you will be queen, and that you have been raised your whole life to fulfill your royal duty. 

It is easy to remember this fact when you’re sitting atop your throne, staring down at him as he kneels. 

“You regret it,” you say, absentmindedly tracing the intricate designs carved onto the handles of your seat. You still haven’t learned how to stop moving your hands every time you’re nervous. It’s your only tell; for as well as you can read Nanami, he can read you even better. Your anxiety only causes him to tighten his jaw, his eyes focused on the lower half of your face because this is all his role allows him to do. He should not dare to look Her Royal Highness in the eyes; not at his lowly level in comparison to you.

You frown at his silence, knowing that he’s doing it to raise the barrier between you two. Four years ago, he hadn’t tried to shut you out so firmly, and every day since then, you have spent all your free time wondering why he wants nothing to do with you. 

The it you’re referring to could be many different things. “It” could possibly be him leaving his station as your personal knight in order to become one of the king’s advisors. “It” could also be referring to him returning to be your knight. Or maybe you’re talking about the kiss the two of you shared a fortnight before he decided to stop being your royal guard. The kiss that lingers on his lips, even to this day. He doesn’t even have to think hard enough to remember the wonderful feeling of your soft lips pressed against his own, or that saccharine taste of yours that is yours alone; no fruit, no candy, nothing has ever been able to mimic your sweetness. The kiss that never should have been. The kiss, the kiss, the kiss.

Maybe “it” is none of that, or maybe it’s all of the above. He knows you, and you’re not going to clarify because you believe that Nanami is a mindreader, and for the most part, he is. He knows what gowns you favor, and when you’re sleepy during court meetings, and he knows what order you’re going to eat the food on your plate. He knows where you go when you want to be alone (to the horse stables, to be with your beloved mare), and what your favorite tiara looks like, and that you snort when you laugh (but only ever in the presence of those you are truly comfortable with; only ever in the presence of him). 

He does not, however, know about his place in your heart. 

You wonder if he’s forcing himself to be unaware of your feelings for him. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes and in your shadow that he follows, you catch him staring at you longingly, hopefully. With a type of reverence that differs from the one grateful citizens show you. This one feels… intimate. A look meant to be shared only with lovers. 

Lovers.

You had toyed with the idea four years ago, when you were eighteen and bright-eyed and much too hopeful for your own good. You craved romance and passion, and whichever suitor you came across, you always found them to be lacking, none of them comparing to Sir Nanami. And you knew, with girlish glee, that it is Nanami that you want. And then came that fateful afternoon in the gardens where you kissed him, and you swore that flowers started blooming on the bushes as a result. The birds were singing, and the sun was shining much brighter than ever, and you felt weightless. As if the inevitability of having to rule a kingdom was no longer a point of stress, and the burdens of your royal duty slipped from your shoulders and melted into the dewy grass beneath you. All that existed, for that brief second of bliss, was you and Nanami.  

And then, two weeks later, he resigned and decided to work for your father. 

His return had come as a surprise to you. During the years he stopped being your knight, you saw him only once a week, if the fates decided to bless you. For the most part, you’ve grown accustomed to only seeing his broad back or a flash of blond hair passing you by in the corridor. You wonder if he knows that he’s your first kiss — your only kiss. Surely he must. He’s spent a good portion of his life ensuring that your virtue was to never be tainted. 

“I do not know what you speak of, My Lady.” He says. He speaks so little to you now that you savor the sound of his deep baritone, the smoothness of how words seem to glide off his tongue. Nanami takes something so mundane as talking and turns it into an art. 

“You regret the duel.” 

And here lies the grand mistake that Nanami cannot figure out how to fix. He believes that being cold to you will perhaps dissuade anyone from assuming how closely he holds you to his heart (his act of emotional indifference towards you is so convincing, even you sometimes believe it), but he’s only human. He is a slave to his emotions — the utterly irrational ones, the ones that make him act a fool — as all men are. 

Nanami hadn’t intended on participating in the tourney. He’s nearing twenty-nine, after all. He’s reached the highest status any knight could possibly aspire to, and he no longer is a squire from a commoner family with something to prove. Tourneys are a thing of the past, a memory from his boyhood. 

But there are visitors from all sorts of lands who came down for this royal celebration. A lowly lord from a kingdom ruled by Mahito is precisely the type of scum that does a disservice to all men. Crass, vulgar, and entirely immature, Lord Shigemo has a dastardly reputation for never keeping his disgusting comments or filthy hands to himself. And while it was not his touch that threatened your very virtue, it was the perverted proclamations he kept declaring that had Nanami seeing red. 

“She’s a bit old for my liking, but I still bet her maidenhood is ripe enough for the taking. I’d love to see her bleed all over my cock.” Lord Shigemo snickers as he loudly announces this, his beady eyes staring right at you. He’s smart enough to not say your name, lest his head end up on a stake outside your father’s castle, but he’s dumb enough to not heed the warnings he’s been told. 

The princess is protected by the bravest of all knights, and the most honorable of all gentlemen. 

For that comment alone, Nanami is ready to unsheathe his sword and behead Shigemo, but he knows he cannot. There has been no direct threat to you, and Nanami has just enough restraint to remember that his anger cannot get the best of him. He is not to harm visitors to the kingdom, no matter how deserving of punishment they are, because maintaining peace between the lands is of the utmost importance. 

But the way your body stiffens and the almost sickly pallor of your face that occur as a result of Lord Shigemo’s verbal transgression is enough to have Nanami pledge his participation in the dueling tourney. He signs his name in the same competition bracket as Shigemo’s, and you’re pleasantly surprised when Nanami kneels down, asking for your favor and a blessing as he goes to represent your family. 

“And what has made you so keen on dueling now, hmm? Why, King Gojo has spent the better half of today trying to goad you into jousting with his knight.” You’re teasing him, eyes sparkling, your gibe gentle and without malicious intent.

You’re not trying to convince Nanami to not partake in the tournament. In fact, you take secret pleasure in watching his swordsmanship, even going out of your way to sneak into the training grounds and watch as he practices moves you’re certain he’s already perfected. For a man with so much muscle mass, he moves swiftly and with a sharp, quick precision that does not befit his firm build. 

“It is to defend my lady’s honor.” He curses himself for being so forthright with his intentions. He could have told you that it was to honor your family, and it would not have been a lie, but it wouldn’t have been said with the same strong conviction he speaks with now. It is not the king or any of your cousins that he is fighting for; it is just you, only you. 

Removing the brooch from your gown, you attach it to the cloth of his shirt that is soon to be covered by armor. It’s a dark blue gem, matching the color your house favors. 

“My most noble of all protectors. You have my favor, then, and all my prayers.” As you always do is the real ending to your sentence, but you fear that if you reveal too much, then Nanami will not be able to focus and give this tourney his all. You wonder if you should reveal the prize for winning, but decide against it at the last minute when he dares to look at you, a glimmer of the same affection from four years ago shining in his dark eyes. It’s a similar look to the one he gave you before your lips met his. 

The urge to kiss him again rises, your heart thumping against your chest, but all you allow yourself to do is smile at him.

The tourney itself is a quick event. Usually, it lasts far longer than the hour it takes up, and the gambling a tense, exciting affair. With Nanami entering at the last minute, most gamblers changed their bets to go all in on him winning, and for a good reason. He makes quick work of every opponent unfortunate enough to be paired with him, and the only time Nanami truly takes his sweet time is when he comes face to face with an anxious Lord Shigemo. 

Even toying with him doesn’t give Nanami much pleasure. Shigemo is a weak opponent, a poorly trained fighter, and a pitiful excuse of a man. Tired of his time being wasted, Nanami has the man shaking underneath the sharp point of his sword within seconds after deciding he is done playing these games. Even after being declared the winner of the whole tourney, an outcome he isn’t surprised at, he doesn’t feel any satisfaction. Flowers and handkerchiefs are being thrown at him as a show of respect and celebration, but only when he looks up into the crowd, his eyes focusing on your smiling visage, does he feel an ounce of pure happiness.

Before he can climb the steps leading to the showbox that houses all the prominent royal families, one of the tourney competitors stops to congratulate Nanami. 

“Lucky bastard.” It’s Naoya Zenin, Crown Prince of the neighboring kingdom. Nanami is glad he was not competing in the same bracket as the prince; not because of a difference in skill, but because wounding a Zenin’s pride was considered treason to them. 

“It’s just flowers.” Nanami says. He doesn’t understand what Naoya’s fascination with them are, but perhaps it’s the glory of being a victor that he’s envious of.

“Don’t be a fool.” Naoya scoffs. “We all know the real prize that every damn man was trying to claim.” 

Nanami is still confused. Of course, Naoya talks incessantly and most of the time, Nanami does not care what the Zenin heir has to say, but he did notice that there were far more competitors signing up for the tourney than previous years. Is there a monetary reward no one told him about? 

“So, how much for you to forfeit?” Naoya asks, completely unaware of Nanami's ignorance. 

“Pardon?”

He rolls his eyes, as if Nanami is some type of undomesticated animal, untrained to following commands. Nanami wishes he had been placed in the same bracket as Naoya now, treason charges be damned. 

“Never mind, then. I’m sure the princess herself will just make an announcement rescinding the reward.” Naoya smirks at the thought of that, and Nanami struggles to fight the urge to demand the prince stop being so cryptic and to just explain what the hell he’s rambling on about. Rescind what reward? 

A familiar head of pink hair pops up by his side, and Nanami immediately recognizes his young student. Eager Yuuji Itadori is smiling widely, happy for his teacher, and for once, Nanami is grateful that young Itadori does not know how to beat around the bush.

“Wow, congratulations, Sir Nanami! I had no idea that you wanted to marry Princess [Name]! Will you still be able to train me as Prince Consort?” 

Nanami’s blood runs cold. Oblivious to his mentor’s sudden anguish, Yuuji continues on. 

“Her Royal Highness was so kind to open the competition for her hand to any class. Of course, some people dared to criticize her and claim it’s because she’s becoming too old to be a maiden so she had to cast a wide net, but I know plenty of ladies who are unwed in their twenties. Will you still be her knight as her husband, or will that role have to go to someone else? Say, Sir Nanami, are you feeling alright?” 

You’re beaming with pride at your beloved knight’s victory, yet nervousness at watching him interact with Prince Naoya started creeping in. You start to relax when the Zenin heir walks off, but your peace of mind shatters when you watch Sir Itadori engage in conversation with Nanami. You watch his facial expression tighten, his body tense up, and you realize that Nanami knows. He knows that he has a right to be betrothed to you, and it dawns on you, from his poor reaction, that this is not the outcome he wanted. 

Which leaves the two of you here, alone in your throne room. Your father had found your idea of a tournament for your hand in marriage to be a silly one, but he had indulged you because you promised to be betrothed to someone at the end of it. By standards of the court, you’re much too old at twenty-two to remain unwed. 

You’ve been plotting ways to get Nanami to participate, even daring to consider commanding him to do so, but never has being a victim to malicious comments ever been as beneficial as it has today. Nanami signed up for the tourney by his own will! His words ring in your ear, looping incessantly as you watch him fight.

It is to defend my lady’s honor.

He does not know the effect that title has on you, at least when it’s coming from him. My lady. His. 

“If the idea of marrying me causes you so much ire, I will call off the betrothal at once and relieve you from your knightly duties, as well.” You do not want to do such a thing, but… You love Nanami. You love him so much that if it is your presence that pains him, you will take your leave now.

“No.” 

The word comes from somewhere deep within himself, throaty and raw, like it hurts to say it, but it had to be spoken. The fates demand it. 

“No?” You repeat, slowly, almost as if the word is something foreign to your tongue.

“Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to speak out of turn.” 

“You do not want to leave me?” You say it softly, but it’s just the two of you in this room. Every word exchanged seems to bounce around the walls, ricocheting, hitting the both of you in the face. 

“Princess, it is not a matter of my wants.” Why must you torture him so? While he knows he can never marry you, there was a second of elation that excited his soul at the prospect of being your betrothed. He’s lived a rough life, his calloused palms and hardened heart proof of it. He hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in fantasies for quite some time, but you inspire just enough hope that it stabs him in his heart. Daring to dream of the impossible is a fool’s game. 

“Ask me what I want.” You say it firmly. He obliges. 

“What is it that you want, my lady?”

“You, Kento.” 

No title, no boundaries. You have spoken his name, and that sting in his heart, the harmful side effect of his hope, grows. He dares to look up just a bit more, his eyes staring deep into your own. 

All the walls Nanami painstakingly built to separate you two threaten to crumble right before his very eyes. His battlefield tact is of no use here. Had this been any other battle, he would charge forward with his head and sword raised high. Retreat is not an option for a soldier such as himself. 

So why does he flirt with the idea of fleeing now? 

“I am not deserving.”

“It hurts me when you say that.” And you say it with such a wounded look on your soft features that Nanami knows it must be true. 

“I am not even a lord.” He’s fumbling for an excuse, anything to convince you that marrying him would be a mistake. He finds your stubbornness endearing, but he must get you to understand that you will regret marrying him.

“I have no need for a lord.” You retort, almost scoffing at the notion.

“I am seven years your senior.”

“Much better than the suitors decades older than I.” 

“You must understand that I am not the gentlest of men. I am not built for care.” The tips of his ears turn red, a giveaway to his shame and embarrassment at the fact. 

“I am not fragile.” 

Stubborn. You are much too stubborn for your own good.

“I have tainted you.” He chokes out, staring you directly in the eyes. Showing his sins to the broad daylight filtering through the stained glass windows of this room. “I have stolen a kiss meant for your husband.”

“I kissed you! You have tainted nothing, you have robbed no one!” You exclaim, shocked at his misery. 

“And now I have stolen your fate.” He continues. “You should not wish to marry a man like me, and you will only come to regret this impulsive decision of your youth if you force this betrothal.” 

“Am I forcing you, Sir?” The title seems almost like a mockery, especially after you exchanged it for his given name just minutes prior. 

There is nothing Nanami can say that will change your mind, and he realizes this. He realizes the pure selfishness of wanting you to not change your mind, but he is stubborn as well. The tension in this room wraps around the both of you, binding you two together. It’s a battle of wills, now. 

Perhaps it always has been. 

“You will regret this, my lady.” This is what he says. Inside, he begs of you, please do not regret me. 

Satisfied at seemingly having your way, you settle into your throne, leaning back. 

“So noble of you to want to save me from what you consider a dastardly fate, but I shall be the judge of that.” 

And thus, the engagement period begins.

[s-brant]

Teacher’s Pet

Anakin and Y/N’s relationship has always remained professional. Despite her obvious feelings for him, he never let himself entertain thoughts of reciprocating them…until now.

10k (18+)

Warnings: smut, oral sex (fem receiving), penetrative sex, cockwarming, exhibitionism, choking, strong language, inappropriate relationships, she’s his padawan but they’re both of age and he didn’t know her for that long, and hints of possible yandere anakin.

-

She knows it's wrong.

Every time he offers a mere glance in her direction in front of the others or rests a hand on her shoulder in a silent gesture to calm her in moments of particular anger, typically directed at the council, she feels as though she will burn alive from the sin she cannot stop committing. Not only is it against the Jedi code to form attachments, but for there to be an intimate attachment between Padawan and Master is an affront to everything they know. That being said, Anakin has never been the type to allow the rules to keep him from indulging the impulsive yearnings of his heart.

It wasn't intentional.

After all, he tried to keep himself under control since Y/N was given to him as his first apprentice. It seemed fitting at the time. Most of those in training were discovered and brought to the Jedi temple as younglings, yet Y/N was not. Hers was a path that was far more unconventional than most. He himself was an unconventional Jedi Master, so it only made sense to him that the council chose to place her with him. She was brought to them when she was a young teen, when Anakin himself was still learning under Obi-Wan, and she didn't see much of him for years.

There were always moments in which they would pass one another in corridors or end up in the same room, but they scarcely found reason to interact much with one another due to their respective responsibilities. Being older than most, Anakin included, when they were brought to the Jedi Order, she had to learn such basic knowledge at a rate others her age were given years to accomplish.

This impressed Anakin from a distance, however, he was too wrapped up in his own dealings at the time to concern himself with what someone four years his junior was doing at the time. It wasn't until after he passed his trials and became a Jedi Knight that their lives became intertwined.

It started with her.

When she first began training under him, she was much like an annoying young puppy, always nipping at his heels and following as his shadow with every step he took. It was clear for everyone to see that Anakin resented the fact that he had to deal with someone as hard-headed, relentless, and precocious as she, but all Obi-Wan could do was laugh at how blind Anakin was to miss the glaring similarities between him and his apprentice.

And where Anakin became annoyed with her, she became enamored with him. It was the classic case of the schoolgirl becoming infatuated with her teacher, which was part of what fueled his annoyance with her. He could feel it. When she was distracted or too comfortable, forgetting to shield her thoughts or emotions from him, he felt it. She might as well have been shouting her feelings out loud to him, and he prayed, on the rare occasions when it would happen in close proximity to others, that neither Obi-Wan nor any of the others picked up on them.

Mercifully, the images he saw coming from her mind were mostly innocent in nature during that first year they spent together. It never escalated past what was appropriate for a young woman of her age to fantasize about, and she never took it too far out of fear that he could, in fact, sense the direction of her thoughts. Later on, she became better at keeping those feelings and thoughts to herself, but, still, some managed to slip through the cracks.

It was months ago.

Now that three years had passed since he first took her on as his apprentice, she'd become a woman right before his very eyes. Of course, she was only a few years off from officially entering adulthood when they were first assigned together, but he always saw her as a child until the past year or so. Until he saw an image from her mind that changed things.

She was late to their agreed-upon meeting time in the morning, so he took it upon himself to seek her out for an explanation. Within him, he felt the anger bubbling up, poised to explode the second he found her doing whatever it was she felt was more important than their duties for the day, but the moment he got to the door of her private quarters, he halted in place. A strange sound came from within. He couldn't tell through the walls if it was a cry of pain or sorrow, but the sound of her crying worried him nonetheless. It sprung him into action, reaching out with his mind to see if he could feel her there, but what he found when he reached her wasn't what he expected.

Anakin is nothing if not protective and possessive over those he cares for, and his Padawan, whether he found her annoying at times or not, is someone of great importance to him. And, in all fairness to her, she hadn't been annoying to him for months. Slowly, the frequency of the images and feelings she practically shoved into his mind began to dwindle, and after years by his side, she no longer followed him around incessantly. In fact, he found himself searching for her wherever she wandered off to be by herself quite frequently and realized, underneath the cold exterior he put on to keep her at a distance, that he missed having her nipping at his heels all the time.

So, being as protective as he is toward those he cares for, he thought someone or something must have hurt her, whether it be emotionally or physically, to make her cry and didn't waste a second before trying to intervene. But there was no emotional or physical hurt to be found on the other side of that door. There was only pleasure.

There were positively lewd images coming to life in his apprentice's mind, but what stunned him most of all was that they were of him. No, them.

Anakin is no hypocrite. He would not admonish her for feeling sexual desire seeing that it wasn't directly against the Jedi code. Although he was sure Master Yoda and Obi-Wan would not approve, he had indulged in such desires before. As long as he did not form any attachments, there was nothing saying he couldn't, so he did. What she was doing, though...that was different.

He thought that it wouldn't have messed with his head so much if it weren't him she pictured pinning her to the mattress, thrusting into her with his ungloved prosthetic hand squeezing the sides of her throat, but that foolish idea quickly vanished. Once his mind actually wandered to the thought of someone else being the object of her desires, he became crazed with jealousy. No, he decided, he would never be okay with that. Even though he already had sex with others in the past, he couldn't stand the idea of her in the arms of another. It was always there, lingering beneath the surface, but even if it wasn't, he realized at that moment that he wanted her to himself.

That was when things changed between them.

Y/N had never known him to linger so much. He began to spend more time with her outside of their necessary training and missions they went on together, which meant the only time they spent apart was the hours that they slept at night. Then came the touching—his hand brushing the back of hers "accidentally" beneath the table as they ate, his arm thrown over her shoulder, and his hand on the small of her back to guide her in the right direction whenever she gets turned around. It appeared to her that he seized every opportunity he could to get his hands on her, but she didn't know what to do about it.

Wanting him had been one thing, but the possibility of Anakin wanting her back was another thing entirely. She felt safe in her assumption that nothing would ever happen between them, but everything changed last week.

He took her out soon after everyone was due to retire for the night and walked with her, shielded by their hoods, through the streets of Coruscant. Not wanting to be recognized in their Jedi robes, he came already wearing a rather unassuming, common cloak over a plain pair of pants and tunic. She changed out of her robes in the adjoining bathroom while he stood watch and waited, then came out with a nervous smile plastered on her face.

He said, "Come along," and turned toward the door to her rooms.

As they traversed the streets without as many people turning their heads to look at them as usual, she couldn't help but feel a weight come off her shoulders. Her hand twitched with the urge to reach for him, then, a second later, Anakin draped his arm over her shoulders and didn't protest when she reached up to entwine their fingers. It was strange, but she didn't dare to question it out of fear of losing the dreamlike moment too soon. She feared that if she spoke of it aloud, he'd realize his mistake and rectify it immediately. But she was wrong. Earlier that day when he saw her laughing with Obi-Wan, something within him snapped, and once he decided his fantasies of her weren't enough, there was nothing that could stop him from taking what was rightfully his short of her refusal to partake.

She held on tight to his hand as they entered a seedy-looking bar in the bowels of the city, eyes turning wide at how those surrounding them indulged in drinking, dancing, and even kissing out in the open without shame. Sending her feeling of surprise, he found his assumptions about his Padawan to be true—she had never gone out and entertained her fantasies as he had during his training.

He didn't let her drink, even though he noticed how she eyed up the people sitting at the bar with great interest.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, standing alongside him with her back to the wall.

"I've sheltered you. When I was in training, I figured these things out for myself. I know Obi-Wan wouldn't have encouraged it."

"Master?" she asked with a quizzical expression.

Anakin said nothing. His face was unreadable, a mask of calm that gave her no clues as to what emotions lurked beneath, and when she tried to sense his mood through the force, he was able to resist her. Being as advanced of a Jedi as him, it's harder for her to reach for his mind than it is with her fellow Padawans. Rather than explain his meaning, he turned and made his way to the back hallway, but not without taking her by the hand to guide her. The leather of his glove was cold on the bare palm of her hand. She could feel the hard material of his metal hand through the fabric as it gripped hers.

In a room at the end of the hall, a series of couches and chairs were laid out across the open space and occupied by scantily clad workers engaged in intimate relations with customers.

He spoke, slowing down to allow her to step in front of him, "I used to come here. When I found myself wanting to act on the types of urges that lead to attachments."

Her brows furrowed, though, deep down, she suspected where the night may lead them. No, where he was leading them.

"Is that why we're here?" she asked, breathless, then looked over at a woman who was on her knees before a man in front of them.

There was a wide-eyed, almost excited, curiosity to her gaze that set Anakin's body aflame. Yet, at the same time, it was nothing she had ever seen or engaged in before, so it caused her to take a step back into where he stood at her back. Her breath hitched in her throat at the feeling of his arm slipping around her waist, pulling her back until there was no space left between their bodies. Then, he crouched down to bring his face to her neck and delighted in how easily her head turned to make space for him. The hand flattened against her belly could sense that she was holding her breath in anticipation.

"Go on," Anakin said, his hot exhales clouding against the sensitive skin of her neck, "Choose one. I know you've been curious."

And while she had already stopped breathing, the last thing he said made her entire body go still. He knew. Somehow, he knew. When his metal hand came up to grab the base of her neck and squeeze it gently, she knew he was answering the question she unknowingly asked him.

In answer, she ground the curve of her ass against the presence of his growing erection and said, "I don't want any of them."

What happened afterward left her in a frazzled state of disarray for days. All of her friends noticed the change in behavior, yet she waved it off as not having gotten enough sleep lately and pretended not to be thinking of how Anakin had fucked her in front of all those people at that bar. Granted, everyone in that room was accustomed to it, but, to her, it was the most scandalous thing imaginable.

Anakin, on the other hand, made a fair attempt at hiding how he felt about it. Even when Obi-Wan asked him if Y/N was okay, saying that she'd been acting off, he kept his cool and said he had everything taken care of with his apprentice. It wasn't the first time he spoke to Obi-Wan about her behavior. When he first took her on and began training her, he sought his master out for advice on how to handle the—at the time—one-sided crush she had on him. And, for a while, Anakin followed the guidance provided to him by his mentor. He tried. He really tried, but, in the end, he couldn't help himself.

The past few days, however, have been an exercise in discretion on both of their parts.

They've been trapped inside of a ship with Obi-Wan all day, battered and exhausted from a battle which they hardly escaped from unscathed, on the journey back to Coruscant.

She sits on her own, trying to busy herself with inspecting the superficial wound she sustained on her outer thigh amidst the scuffle, while Anakin pilots the ship with Obi-Wan sitting beside him in the cockpit. It isn't deep enough to require attention beyond basic cleaning and bandaging, so she decides to leave it be until they return to the Jedi Temple where she can properly wash it. It won't be long now if what she overheard moments ago was true. Apparently, they're due to land in Coruscant in a matter of moments, and she couldn't be any happier to hear it.

It's been difficult these past few days. Not only due to their efforts to stop Dooku's attempt to kidnap Chancellor Palpatine, but because of what happened between them last week. Because of everything that has been left unsaid. It's not as if she can blame him for it. There are far too many eyes on them at all times of day for there to be an opportunity to talk about it, and once they caught wind of Dooku's plans, it was no longer a priority.

Anakin can feel her staring.

In fact, he's felt her eyes on him for the whole duration of the trip. His knuckles tightened on the controls of the ship as he resisted the urge to turn to catch a glimpse of his pretty apprentice. Thankfully, she had the foresight to keep her thoughts as innocent as possible to prevent Obi-Wan from picking up on any of it. He may be able to tense the tension surrounding them, but that could be easily written off as a consequence of their mission. He knows how much Anakin cares for her, and seeing her injured at the hands of the enemy sent him into a frenzy, keeping Dooku constantly on the defensive until he managed to escape. Obi-Wan watched as Anakin rushed over and demanded to see where she'd been hurt, on guard for any potential threat while the two of them assessed her minor injury.

It isn't until he feels Obi-Wan's hand on his shoulder and yet he realizes he landed the ship, having operated on instinct as he became lost in his thoughts of her.

"You did well," he says, then his face softens, "She's strong. She'll be fine. Don't blame yourself for it."

Anakin nods.

"I know. It wasn't anyone's fault. She was to learn how to handle losing and getting hurt somehow, doesn't she?"

This response seems to please him.

"Yes. Now, you can escort her to a medic. I'll brief the council on what happened with Dooku."

With that, Obi-Wan turns to walk away and disappears past his line of sight. Before he leaves the ship, he offers a few words of praise to Y/N on his way past. And after days of being forced to ignore what happened between them, they're finally alone. The energy in the room shifts the second Obi-Wan is gone. They can feel the tension in the air sizzling like a current of electricity between them. It's palpable. Through the force, they can feel each other's emotions flaring up into something uncontrollable after days of keeping themselves on tight leashes.

She hangs her head low as he comes to a stop in front of her.

"I'm sorry, master. I'll be better next time," she says softly.

In lieu of a verbal response, he outstretches his flesh hand to her in a silent command.

Her voice is hushed when she asks, "Anakin?" and he thinks his heart may beat out of his chest at the sound of her saying his name. The last time he heard his name fall from her lips, he was buried inside of her with one hand wrapped in her hair and the other gripping her hip for leverage to thrust into her.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he says before she drives herself mad with guilt over how the fight unfolded. "Come on, let's get you fixed up."

His hand is warm. It's larger, closing tightly around hers and using that unrelenting strength of his to tug her to her feet. Seeing that he held an arm around her waist on the way back to the ship before they departed—just in case she walked with a limp, he doesn't let go of her. He simply moves his hand to grab hold of her arm instead to keep the contact from looking too intimate when they enter the Jedi Temple together. Holding hands would look odd to any passerby, but no one would think twice about him holding her arm for support with a visible blood stain on her pant leg.

Actually, most people try to stop and ask if she's alright, but all it takes is a polite, "I'm fine," from her to get them to back off. In truth, she is fine. The skin is sliced open from the end of Dooku's lightsaber barely grazing her thigh in the midst of the fighting. She anticipated his next move and made sure to dodge, but it was a second too late. All Anakin saw was her groaning from the pain and stumbling back a few steps with her hand on her thigh before he rushed forward to defend her.

It's not a severe cut, but, of course, Anakin must make a fuss about helping her walk. She soon notices that he isn't guiding her to the medic's room, they're walking in the direction of his private rooms. They're on the opposite side across from hers, males separated from females, and he can feel her squeezing him tighter in reaction to it. He also senses her excitement. It lights up her face as she looks at him, analyzing every minute movement and twitch in his expression in hopes that she may yield something from it. He doesn't appear to be as paranoid as she is about someone seeing them go into his room together. When she turns her head from one side to the other to keep a lookout, he stares ahead and keeps pulling her down the hallway.

It isn't until the door is shut and locked behind them that she can finally let out the breath she's been holding since she realized where he was taking them. Before she can say a single word to him, he grabs her by the face and rushes forward to kiss her.

Y/N melts into the warmth of the hard, muscular body pressing into hers and reaches out to brace her hands on his biceps as she stumbles back a step from the impact of him crashing into her. Amidst the sudden arousal sparked by kissing him, their parted lips press hard into one another's in a dance for dominance that leaves them both breathless.

As soon as they pull apart, she's reaching for the band of his pants hidden beneath his robes, but he doesn't let her. Her hand is stopped short in its tracks and held in an invisible hand that keeps her from palming his cock through his pants as she planned on doing. Their lips part with the wet smacking sound, and he shakes his head against hers.

"You're bleeding," Anakin says as an explanation for the abrupt rejection that leaves her chasing after his lips as he withdraws from her.

She shakes her head and looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

"It doesn't hurt."

A lie, of course, and not one she pretends to think fooled him in any capacity.

Playing along, he furrows his brows and allows the side of his mouth to upturn in a smirk. "Oh, it doesn't hurt?" he asks, reaching down to gently squeeze her injured thigh.

The sudden pain that pulses through her leg makes her body jerk against him, drawing a stifled grunt from her lips. As soon as he lets go, she's already smacking him on the arm and calling him every bad name in the book for pulling that little stunt.

"That was mean!" she whines and tries to twist her way out of his grasp, but he holds on tightly to her.

He says through a soft chuckle, "Well if you just behave and let me help you, I won't have to be mean."

At first, she huffs in annoyance, prepared to roll her eyes at him as she's grown accustomed to doing whenever he teases her now that she's grown out of wanting to please him all the time. Then, she takes note of how the cut, already cauterized from the weapon that made it, stings since he put pressure on it. There's a fresh spot of blood blooming on her pant leg, and she can't find it in herself to refuse his help.

Ever the obedient apprentice, Y/N says, "Yes, master," and walks past him in pursuit of the bedroom that is visible from where they stand.

It's difficult for Anakin to repress the noise that longs to escape him at the sound of her calling him that. She may not know the extent of what it does to him yet, but on some level, she must know that it turns him on. As wrong as it may be, he hasn't been able to withstand her calling him that for months. The shame he felt every time his cock twitched in his pants at the sound of it was too great to measure, but it wasn't enough to keep him from arousal.

He takes his time in gathering what he needs before meeting her in his bedroom.

Everything is stowed away in a designated cupboard for instances where he returns to his rooms with a scrape or cut, but he can sense that she's seconds from bursting with anticipation, so he draws it out for the sake of allowing her to suffer for a moment.

When he walks in, he takes one glance at her and simply says, "In here," then disappears into the adjoining bathroom she had yet to notice.

She smiles to herself and follows along right away. Through the opening in the door, she can see him at the counter, laying down the supplies he gathered and pretending like he's not paying attention to her even though they both know he is. The light in the small room is warm. The orange-yellow tone of it brings out the lighter undertones of his hair, and she can't help but reach up to brush it back from his face.

Anakin goes still for a split-second, then leans into where her hand makes contact with the side of his head in a movement so slight, she questions whether or not she actually saw it.

His gloved cybernetic hand pats the open counter space once.

"Up," he commands.

Obviously, he doesn't expect her to do it herself with the cut running up the side of her thigh, so once she puts her hands on the countertop for support, he takes it upon himself to grab her on the underside of her thighs, careful to stay away from her wound, and hoist her up onto the counter.

The silence is overwhelming on its own, but with the natural tension that always spikes whenever they're alone together added to it, she can hardly breathe. He makes quick work of her pants and shimmies them down her hips with little effort. The contact of the fabric brushing against the open, bloody skin causes her to wince, but he's quick to murmur an apology. Other than what he did in his bedroom to test the honesty of her claim, he'd never do anything to hurt her. At least, not on purpose.

She watches him dampen a washcloth with warm, soapy water and kneel down in front of her, then braces herself for when it'll make contact with the laceration. To give credit where it's due, she only flinches a tiny bit as he wipes down the length of her thigh.

After another moment of this, she finally summons the courage to ask the burning question she's had since the night they spent in the city together.

"Are we ever going to talk about what we did?"

This halts his movements for a second. The hand using holding the soapy rag moves from her leg to toss it into the sink, then picks up another soaked in water to rinse the soap from her skin. At first, he doesn't answer her question. He just squeezes the water out of the cloth and allows it to wash the mixture of blood and soap from her thigh. It takes a few seconds of hesitation for him to acknowledge what she said.

He looks up at her, and, suddenly, every fear she had that it was a one-time thing, that he used his power over her for sexual gratification, is blown away like dust in the wind. His eyes are soft when looking at her. So unlike the cruel, steely-eyed glare she watched him give Dooku when she was hit by his lightsaber.

Anakin tosses the soiled cloth into the sink alongside the first one and reaches for the gauze pads he unwrapped before she came in.

"You're ready to talk about it?" he asks with an undercurrent of skepticism.

What he doesn't say—what she can feel through the force as well as the powerful connection they've developed—is that if she is ready to have that conversation, there's no going back. He kept himself at bay for far too long, and if she wants him the way he wants her, he's prepared to risk everything for it. That's the thing about Anakin. He lives in extremes, and now that she has become the target of his fixations, there's nothing he wouldn't do for her.

She nods.

In the silence that follows, she's left to assume that he's offering her the chance to speak first lest his assumption as to where this is headed ends up being wrong. He busies himself for the time being by pressing the gauze pads down onto her wound with harsh pressure to keep her from bleeding anymore, and reaches for the medical tape to secure them in place.

"I liked it..." Y/N says softly. "But"—his chest stops moving up and down at the use of the word—"what if they find out? We've been taught that attachments are bad, but, every time I'm with you, I can't help but wonder how it could be so inherently bad if it feels so right."

Her thigh is lifted from the countertop under guidance from his gloved hand as the other wraps her wound, packed with gauze, with a bandage to keep everything in place. Still, he has yet to look at her again. His eyes are fixed on her injured thigh with an intensity that would frighten many, but not her. Never her. Without a second to spare, he finishes wrapping her thigh and looks up at her from between her legs.

He shakes his head, the sharp motion of it toeing the line of being neurotic, and he slides his flesh hand up the length of her unharmed thigh. It comes to a stop at her hip, teasing the edge of her undergarments.

"You know, they're not always right about everything," Anakin says. His pointer finger slides until it reaches the band of the thin fabric separating his touch from where she wants it most. During this, his gaze never leaves her face. "They'll never need to know about us. We're alone together all the time and nobody questions it because it's for the sake of your training. The council doesn't think anything of it." His mouth curves up at the end again in one of those terribly charming half-smiles that weakens her knees. The tone of his voice turns soft, yet deadly serious when he says, "I'll protect you if it comes to that."

Not missing a beat, she counters, "I don't need your protection."

He huffs a laugh at this.

"I know that. You're powerful. That's why they put us together." He reaches up with his gloved hand to take hold of the opposite side of her underwear, a signal for her to lift her hips off the counter. A signal she complies with without thought. "I just meant that, together, they can't stop us from doing what we want." His eyes soften as he slips the garment off around her ankles. "From being with who we want." A beat of silence. His soft lips press into the inside of her thigh, inching up and up and up all while he keeps eye contact..."They can try but they won't take you from me."

At last, when his head is nudging her thighs further apart and his lips brush the pulsing heat that lies between them, he senses her surrender.

Y/N's head tips back, mouth falling open with a quiet moan, when he licks into her. The arousal is sticky where it coats his lips and chin, and he can't help but hum in approval of the distinct scent and taste of her that overwhelms his senses. This was something he didn't get the chance to do in that questionable back room at the bar. It wasn't as if he didn't prepare her for it, he warmed her up with his fingers, but it wasn't exactly the kind of place he wanted to do this at. He didn't want anyone else to see her undressed. Seeing that her robes covered her the whole time, he didn't have to worry about it that night.

It starts out as gentle, tentative licks that circle her clit without giving it as much attention as she wants. He works her up to it slowly, as if to taunt her, and it isn't until her fingers begin to tug at the strands of his overgrown hair that he gives in. Her hips jerk forward against his face instinctively when he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks hard for the sake of drawing a noise out of her. Of course, he gets what he wants. The heavenly sound she makes has his cock straining against the confines of his pants, and there's nothing he can do to satisfy it unless he resorts to rutting up against the cabinets beneath the sink.

Every breath she exhales becomes shakier as the seconds pass with his head buried between her thighs.

"M-Master," she whines, unsure of whether or not it's appropriate to use his name yet. She's only ever called him by his first name when the situation at hand causes her to forget her place. Considering that he's currently going down on her, he'd say that they're well past the point of such formalities, but he also likes that there's still a touch of obedience left in her. "That feels so good..."

His lips leave her clit for a second to allow him to dip his tongue into her entrance to get a better taste of her. Both of his hands are now gripping her hips to keep them in place as he ruins his apprentice with little regret or guilt left to flow through him. Past the point of no return, he no longer clings to his last scraps of morality in regard to his strange relationship with her. In the days following their secret tryst, he was trapped in a strange internal debate. He was torn between duty and love, caught between unstable moods that caused him to become hot and cold with her depending on whose company they were in. Whenever Obi-Wan was near, he couldn't allow himself to interact with her as he typically does. He didn't know if he could control himself.

The hand wrapped up in his honey-hued hair tugs on it once, and he just assumes it's because of what he's doing to her. A second later, she's pulling again, but it's harder, as though she's trying to get his attention. When he pulls his mouth away from her and looks up, her other hand reaches down to cradle his face. It guides him up and up and up until they're face to face again, and she kisses him once before speaking into the small space left between them.

"I want you," she whispers with her forehead pressed to his.

Anakin smiles and nudges her nose with his.

"You have me."

When they kiss again, she moans at the taste of herself covering the lips pressed to hers as well as the tongue that gently licks into her mouth. The fingers twirling the loose curls of hair at the back of his neck use their position to keep him trapped in the hot, open-mouthed kiss with her. There are no objections on his end, of course. If it weren't for their duties as Jedi, he would want to take her far away where no one could ever find them and spend the rest of his days this way.

She says the second she gets the chance, "You know what I mean," in regards to what was said before he distracted her.

To this, he sighs, and it isn't a frustrated sound, nor is it a tired one. It's the way a person sighs when they're placed before something in life that they know is bigger than themselves, resigning themselves to their fate not with reluctance but with acceptance.

"Mmm," he hums, then says, "I know. I just have one condition."

She nods.

"Use my name when we're alone," he whispers.

The request sends her mind reeling as he picks her up from the bathroom counter with her legs clinging around his hips and carries her off into his bedroom. Her arms are flung around his neck in a frantic bid to keep herself from falling, yet all he can do is laugh at her sudden panic. As if he would ever let her fall. His lips press a tender kiss to the warm curve of her neck on the short walk into the room, and that small action makes a world of a difference to her. Every insecurity or fear she had after their first time is assuaged by his honesty and the care he shows for her in everything he does tonight.

Although the door is locked and she knows that Obi-Wan and the others are meeting to discuss what occurred on their mission, he still feels the need to close the door to his room before setting her down on her feet before the end of his bed. All that's left to cover her is her utility belt and tunic, which is already torn at the shoulder leading down to her elbow from the fight that later caused the injury to her thigh.

She stands still and allows him to unfasten the belt from around her waist, although, the contact of his hands brushing her body makes it difficult for her to breathe as calmly and deeply as usual. Despite how familiar they already are with one another in terms of physical intimacy, her face flushes with heat at the idea of him seeing her fully undressed.

With her tunic then lifted from her body and tossed aside, she stands in front of him without anything left to shield herself from his intense gaze. His eyes look her up and down, then come back to settle on her face with an appreciation that causes her stomach to flutter with nerves. The air is cold against her nipples, which harden from both the exposure and the undivided attention being given to her.

He reaches across the space between them to brush his fingertips against her skin, but just when he's about to make contact, she stops him. She grabs his wrist and looks up at him through her lashes defiantly, then smirks at him.

"It's my turn."

He does her the courtesy of undoing the greaves guarding his shins and kicking off his shoes, but, after that, she begins with his utility belt.

It comes loose from his lean waist and is tossed aside onto the floor where he discarded hers in a matter of seconds, but, after that, every move she makes is deliberately slower than the last. She can sense how eager he is. The energy coming off of him practically rattles the room with its commanding presence, and it worsens with every second she draws this torment out. With the belt out of the way, it's easy for her to slip the tabard off of his shoulders. All of the layers would typically frustrate her when taking her clothes off to bathe herself, but it's different now. When undressing Anakin, the tedious nature of it makes everything feel more sensual to her.

Finally, once his overtunic and undertunic are pulled from his torso, she is met with the sight of him bare before her. Well, partly. The dying daylight illuminates him for her, allowing her to admire what she was not able to the first time.

The tips of her fingers graze his skin with a feathery-light touch as she drags them down from the base of his neck down to his abdomen. Beneath them, hard, taut muscle pushes back against the gentle pressure they exert. And she finds, as she allows herself to inspect him further as though he's a miraculous species wholly unknown to her, that she quite enjoys the way his stomach flinches inward in anticipation when she reaches the waistband of his loose-fitting pants.

As her right hand works at undoing his pants, the left reaches for the glove covering his cybernetic arm. Finger by finger, she tugs it away until she's able to slip it off of him and let it fall to the floor with the rest of his clothes. When she looks up from where the fake hand rests at his side, she finds him staring at her as though he's trying to analyze every thought that crosses her mind now that he's the one put in a position of vulnerability.

Y/N's hands brace against his shoulders now, and she stares right back at him without fear. The hand that just slipped his glove off of his arm creeps up his neck until it's cupping the side of his head. All the while, he's still watching her. Even as she runs her thumb along the length of the scar that cuts through his eyebrow down to the top of his right cheekbone.

Their lips are a hair's breadth apart now, so close that they can feel the heat of one another's exhales hitting their faces, and when Anakin dips his head down to kiss her again for the first time in what feels like (two minutes) an eternity, she's quick to jerk her head back enough to keep it from happening.

"I'm not done yet," she whispers, their lips brushing with every word. "You had your fun, now let me have mine."

His head shakes. Just once.

Anakin murmurs, "I need you," and there's a small part of him that knows how pathetic he must appear to her right now, clinging onto her by the curve of her waist and desperately trying to connect their mouths in a kiss, but he doesn't care. There's a rosy blush spread across his face extending to his ears, yes, but there's something about her that sets him at ease. He may feel shy about it, but it doesn't stop him from using his grip on her waist to press her body closer to his and say softly, "Please."

Oh, the things that hearing him beg does to her...

At this point, she can't help herself. There's nothing she can do to stop her from pouncing on him as she does the second she hears him utter that word, tossing her arms around his broad shoulders and jumping to wrap her legs around his hip. He intercepts her unexpected actions with a grace very few others could have, but, with their connection, he has a way of anticipating what she says and does before it happens.

He grabs hold of her thighs without thinking of the injury she sustained battling Dooku, then immediately murmurs an apology once he senses her pain and hears her wince into his mouth as he walks her back toward the bed.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers, kissing her once, twice, three times. "Are you okay?"

Where her face is pressed up against his, he feels her nod and takes that as his cue to set her down atop the sheets that he left unmade and twisted upon waking in the early hours of the morning the day they left. The sun, the light that had illuminated his half-naked body to her a moment ago, is beginning to slip partway below the horizon and washes the sky gold in its absence. That fading light shines in through the windows and creates a hazy glow around her, and, for a second, he thinks she might be an angel.

Both of their hands frantically scramble to push his undone pants down, along with his undergarments, as he climbs onto the bed after her. They're kicked from where they fall around his ankles before he settles himself between her eagerly spread thighs. Neither of them can bear to wait any longer, so the second he gets within arm's reach of her, she grabs him by his biceps and tries to pull him up to meet her faster.

The soft palm of her hand grazes down the length of his chest once again, but, this time, there's nothing left to prevent her from touching him. Her forehead is pressed to his, her chin tilted down, and she watches her hand wrap around his thick cock to guide him to her entrance. She pumps her closed fist around him a few times with her thumb brushing over his leaking tip just for the sake of hearing his breath hitch in his throat from it.

There's no need to get it over with quickly seeing that Obi-Wan reporting to the council about their mission will likely take up to an hour, but, the thing is, they both know they don't have the patience to make it last. They're both too rash and antsy when it comes to one another after days of avoidance, and she thinks she may die if she doesn't have him right now. Everything with Anakin feels natural. It feels like this is where she's meant to be and exactly what they're meant to be doing together. She may not have known it until recently but there has always been that thread connecting them. From the beginning, it was there. It was only a matter of time before one of them tugged on it.

She can hardly string together a sentence once she feels the broad tip of him pushing into her, "Oh"—her nails dig into his arms hard enough to break the skin and continue to apply more pressure as he sinks into her—"Anakin..."

Her bottom lip is bitten between her teeth at the feeling of him buried inside of her, so deep that she can feel the bony prominence of his hip bones pressing into the soft flesh of her thighs. And she knows it's affecting him just as much from how his metal hand squeezed her hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped indents behind on her skin. Although she's ready for him to move, she can tell that he's waiting for himself to be ready. His eyes are fluttered shut, forehead pressed to hers, and she can tell he's trying not to let himself be overcome by how good it feels.

What he said to her days ago at the bar wasn't a lie, he has done this multiple times before, but it's never too often. It was only a means to an end, a way to satisfy the urge he felt guilt and shame for having in the first place. This is different than those other times for him. Seeing that it's her he's doing this with, he can hardly control himself and refrain from spending in her in the span of a moment much like he did the first time he had sex.

After a moment has passed and his breathing has turned deep and even, she whispers, nudging his nose with hers, "Look at me."

The second she says it, he obeys, and she didn't expect to find him being to her will to be so...alluring. As her master, he's the one who typically commands. She is the one who listens, who serves, who obeys, but, right now, everything is backward. Anakin looks down at her for guidance with the same hunger and desire as before but softened around the edges.

His hair is soft to the touch when her fingers play with it, and she uses her grip on his scalp to pull his lips down to hers.

"Fuck me," she murmurs into his mouth as they engage in a lazy kiss. Her hips press up into his in a silent urging for him to move that he listens to immediately with a tentative thrust.

His arms cage her in on either side of her head as he licks into her mouth with his tongue and starts to fuck into her at a relaxed pace. Still, even with how slow and tender it may be, she feels him so deep inside of her, she wonders if she could feel him there if she pressed her palm flat against the bottom of her stomach. The languid undulations of his hips guiding his cock in and out of her builds on the pleasure he had given her earlier.

Last time, it had been painful when he first entered her, but, this time, there was only a slight sense of pressure, if being overwhelmed, that gave way to the pleasant feeling she found toward the end of their first intimate encounter. Even when she found it somewhat uncomfortable at the beginning, she still wanted it for the sake of being close to him. Of being the one to make him feel good. And now that it feels good almost straight away, she is overwhelmed with how badly she wants him. Nothing is ever going to be enough for her, is it? Even as they're kissing and fucking and grabbing at one another in a frenzy of need, she still wants more of him.

One of her hands slides down the length of his body and grabs his hip to guide him into a faster pace with every thrust.

"Just like that," she says between panting breaths.

The words of praise cause his face to flush for what feels like the tenth time since they retreated to the privacy of his rooms, and it doesn't go unnoticed by her. Despite the fact that he holds power over her as her master, she senses his desire for her to take control and take care of him. To treat him with the reverence and praise he is so scarcely granted anywhere else in his life. So, she takes control. He may have the physical advantage with his considerable strength and position on top of her, but only a fool would think he's the one in power here. The second she told him to look at her, he willingly gave it up.

Her other hand, the one that isn't holding onto his hip, comes up to card through the long tufts of hair on the back of his head. She pulls it taut from his scalp to maneuver his face away, creating a short distance that allows them to stare into each other's eyes as they're both overcome with the sensation of it all. His brows pinch together a little at the feeling of her tight walls squeezing down around him on the upstroke of his thrusts as though she's trying to push him closer to the precipice he refuses to fall from without bringing her along with him. It doesn't feel like he's the experienced one here even though he's been doing this much longer than her. It almost makes him scoff. He should've known that she'd take to this quickly just as she does with everything else. His smart girl.

"Fuck," Anakin curses under his breath and truly starts to throw himself into it now. "You feel"—his sentence starts and stops before he can string it together, so he abandons it altogether in favor of spewing the first, most vulnerable thought that springs to mind—"Promise you'll never leave me."

If she's being honest, the unrestrained honesty in his request addles her brain far more than the sex itself. However, it doesn't scare her away as he fears it will. Maybe it's a little sick, but she likes how desperate he is for her. How could she not enjoy the simple truth that she is the only one who can bring the great Anakin Skywalker to his knees? It's a beautiful thing to see him in such a state of mindless bliss.

Her arms twine around his waist in a tight embrace to bring their bodies closer than they already are somehow, and when she opens her mouth to speak, she's interrupted by a moan that leaves her suddenly at the feeling of him hitting a sweet spot inside of her. When she pulled him down onto her until their bodies were flush, it adjusts the angle of his thrust and puts delightful pressure on her clit with his pubic bone. After taking a second to relish in the sensation, she looks up at him through heavy-lidded eyes and lifts her head up from the mattress to kiss him.

She murmurs into his open mouth, "I won't." The next thrust he makes into her is significantly harder than the rest have been in reaction. "I'll never leave you, Ani. I promise."

The sound he makes in response almost pushes her over the edge. It's somewhere caught between a moan and a whine, a thrilling noise that makes her tense around him once more and writhe beneath the weight of his body pinning her to the bed. A familiar tension stirs in the pit of her abdomen now. It crescendos into territory where the stimulation almost becomes unbearable, begging to explode as it did the last time in an earth-shattering climax that left her limp and incoherent in his arms.

Since he can sense how close she's getting, he doesn't change anything. He pulls back as much as he can without shifting the position and watches her in utter fascination. It's the little things that get him—how her nose scrunches a little when it starts to get to be too much, the way she looks up at him like she's in a daze, and how his name sounds coming from her pretty, kiss-swollen lips. They shine in the dim light from a mixture of their saliva, and he can't resist the urge to lean down to connect them with his again.

And this makes her smile. Everything about it makes her radiate joy, an emotion he can feel her projecting onto him without trying to shield it. Like him, she adores the little things—how his hair tickles her forehead the whole time, the sound of his moans, and how he never eases his grip on her as though he's afraid she'll disappear in the event that he lets go. On top of that, she likes how warm he is. She's come to realize over the past week that Anakin is the human embodiment of a furnace. Every time he pulls her near, she takes comfort in the heat that comes from his body, and, as of the current moment, she loves it.

His skin is hot to the touch where it meets hers, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration that greets her tongue with a salty taste when she dips her face into his neck to kiss him there. Her teeth nip at his skin and leave a faint mark behind that they both know will be hidden by his clothes later. With her nearing climax, she can't do much other than claw at his upper back and try to stifle the sounds she's making in case anyone is nearby.

Her lips stop moving against his neck, not because she'd ever want to stop kissing him, but because she can't function beyond the mindless bucking of their hips and the slack-jawed sounds she lets out. Her head thumps back onto the bed without a sound, back arching up against him, and her legs constrict around his hips to prevent him from going anywhere but closer.

As for Anakin, nothing could rile him up the way she does. Every stroke inside of her collapses any shred of sense and logic left in him, leaving behind just the primal urges that currently guide him.

Knowing how close she is, Y/N asks with her face pressed to his, leaning into the role he inadvertently pushed her into, "Are gonna be good for me?"

Even through the hazy state of mind he's in, he finds a way to nod when she asks him this. He's so far gone that he isn't sure he can form the words to verbally respond to her. All he knows is that she's here. She's here, and she's caring for him, and she promised she'd never leave. That's the sole thing occupying his mind as she offers him a sweet smile and plays with his hair the way she knows he likes.

"That's right," she says softly, then pauses for a second to stifle a moan. His frantic pursuit of their respective orgasms leaves them both trembling in each other's arms while she tries to maintain enough composure to speak to him through it. Every time he slams his hips down into hers, sheathing his cock in her sodden cunt and hitting that sweet spot without fail, she can almost feel the relief that's soon to find her. "I don't know what you would've done if you weren't my master"—his cybernetic hand grips her throat with enough pressure to use it as leverage but not to prevent her from speaking—"How long have you been waiting for me, Ani?"

Despite his previous assumption that he no longer had the ability to speak, he responds instantly between his panting breaths, "My whole life—"

His words are cut off by the downright pornographic display that is her orgasm. It comes on suddenly, without a warning for him to prepare himself, and he groans at how tight she becomes through the intense peaks that reduce her to a tensing, shaking mess beneath him. It is somehow twice as intense as the one given to her in that seedy bar he escorted her to last week. It wouldn't surprise her if she makes him bleed with how harshly her nails dig into his flesh, but that's far beneath her at this point. The pleasure wipes her mind clean of everything but him. In her head, she hears it like a prayer over and over and over again—Anakin, Anakin, Anakin.

Her master—who is now pounding into her and keeping her pinned to his mattress with his body weight throughout her climax. He fucks her through every second of it, prolonging the all-consuming pleasure far longer than it ever lasts when she touches herself.

Then, something new happens.

Just at the end of her climax as she begins to feel it recede as it always does, she thinks she feels another coming on. This has never happened to her before in her limited experience. Most of the time, touching herself is a quick affair before she fell asleep that felt good, but it wasn't anything like this. She can sense that it surprises him too when he feels her tight walls spasming around his cock for the second time in a row, and this is all it takes to push him over the edge.

Anakin clings to her as though she is the only thing tethering him to this planet, stilling inside of her with a low moan as she watches him come apart for her. She already thought he was beautiful before, but, fuck, he's utterly divine like this. He has always been above the others in her eyes, not only as a Jedi but as a person—a deity for her to worship and learn from as his Padawan. But, now that worship is intensified by what she sees, hears, and feels when he comes. The hand around her neck squeezes hard enough to keep her from taking in air.

Her head is tilted back against the mattress, her jaw slack, and her back arches up, pressing her bare breasts against the toned musculature of his chest that clenches throughout his orgasm. She can feel him throbbing inside her with every spurt of his release that floods and spills out of her at the base of his cock.

Even after half a moment passes, they both remain like this without moving despite how the sensitivity causes them to tremble. Her chest falls when his rises in a push and pull much like that of the tides as they pant for air. He keeps his face buried in her neck the entire time and doesn't retreat from the hiding spot until he feels her hand tracing up and down the length of his spine absentmindedly. It wakes him from the post-orgasmic haze and forces him to remember that, although they have some time to themselves, they have to meet with Obi-Wan shortly after he's finished reporting to the council.

Still, he doesn't pull out of her yet.

He asks instead, not wanting it to end, "Can we stay like this for a minute?" and sighs in relief when she mutters back a quick word of approval.

She keeps her arms wrapped around his chest to trap him in her embrace and continues to rub up and down his sweat-slick back in a soothing pattern. It almost causes his eyes to close and submit to the alluring gravitational pull of sleep that longs to drag him under. With the clarity of her thoughts returning, she can't ignore the worries that come to mind in regard to how they'll manage to hide this from the others.

Without her even having to voice these worries aloud, Anakin pulls his face from her neck and brushes her hair from her face with his flesh hand, looking down upon her with a tender gaze.

"It'll be okay," he says softly, and, for a second, she thinks she believes him. She thinks she'd believe anything he says for the next few moments. "They'll never know. Even if they end up suspecting it, there won't be a way to prove it."

She asks, face twisted with concern, "Are you sure?" and, suddenly, they're pushed back into their natural roles with her looking to him, someone she considers far wiser, for guidance and reassurance.

Though there's a slight smile, though the adoration for her remains present in his expression, there's a flicker of darkness in his gaze, and his arms tighten around her waist seemingly in response to it. As he had when they were writhing together in pleasure not long ago, he holds onto her as though someone or something will come along to take her from his possession the second he eases his hold on her. Those pretty blue eyes never once stray from hers.

Anakin keeps the side of her head cupped in one of his hands and says, "Nothing will ever take you from me."

[erenjaegerwifee]

Run Baby Run

Survive the Night: Day 2

Paring: Neteyam x Fem!Avatar!Reader x Lo'ak

Warnings: MDNI 18+, NON-CON, Fingering, predator/prey, explicit language, bondage, gagging, rough sex, biting/marking, mentions of bleeding/blood, blowjob, double penetration, anal

Word Count: 4.1k

✨Disclaimer: All of my characters are aged-up! Please if you are not comfortable reading them DO NOT INTERACT. However if you do at your own risk, any negative comments will be deleted and the tumblr will be blocked. Thank you!

Event Masterlist

The RDA just landed back on Pandora about one month ago. Only now did they decided to wake up all the avatars from cryo. They are meant to aid in finding new land to build the main outpost on. After all, they do want to be cautious this time around, it has been 20 years since the last time the humans have been on the green bioluminescent moon.  

You walk with your group of four through the forest trying to find a clearing for the RDA to dig up and start building on. There were many groups that were given specific parts of the moon to map out, collecting data for future use as well. Unfortunately for you, your group was placed in the Omatikayan territory. In their forest 

This section of the forest was not meant to be used as they will not interact well with humans after the last time they were around, which to you is understandable. What you do not account for is the predators that roam the forest. Your team consist of two ex-army soldiers, a scientist and a doctor, you. 

Two big men with guns should be enough to keep you safe, but that just isn’t true on an unfamiliar planet. You skip over tree roots as you make your path through the dense bush, occasionally turning back towards your grow to make sure they are still close behind you.  

You make jokes and laugh as you move through but everything comes to a stop when an arrow with green and yellow feathers hit the chest of one of your men. You watch his body drop to the floor and spin around looking in the direction of the arrow. However, the na’vi blend in amazingly with the surroundings, you don't see jack shit. 

The other man holds his gun up aiming at his surroundings ready to shoot anything that moves. The scientist calls in for back up but no one answers, something must be jamming your signal. Thats so odd, how can something stop your communications this deep into the forest, one of the main features of the tech that was designed to be used on Pandora was it only have one specific device to jam communications like that, and only humans have it so how is it out here? 

Your thoughts get cut short when the other man is shot in the back, arrow sticking out of his chest when he falls onto his front. You make eye contact with the scientist before your both becomes panicked, “Is your tracker on? You can back track it and go back to the ship” you ask her your tail sways anxiously in the air. “Yea I got it” she whispers and grips my hand as we look around. I give her hand a squeeze silently reminding her of the protocol we were supposed to follow. 

If the group ever gets into an altercation, the remaining team is supposed to scatter into different directions, because the less people we lose, the better for the RDA. “Ready?” you glance at her seeing her nod, “Go!” you shout and run in the opposite direction from her. You run as fast as you can away from the na’vi even though you can’t see them. You have no intention of dying today. 

You quickly make your way through the unfamiliar terrain, jumping over small logs and continuously running into big leaves. Honestly, it is upsetting you quite a bit at this point, are you not supposed to be taller? Why is everything hitting you in the face.  

You are harshly pulled back to reality by the sound of heavy footsteps running after you. Not one pair, but two. ‘Fuck’ The adrenaline running through your body makes you pick up speed, as if that was even possible and you feel like you are flying in your feet. You don’t even take a second to look back, too scared at what you might see. The last thing you need is two giant blue creatures chasing you with knives. 

In the distance you see a fallen tree ‘this must be the remains of hometree from all those years ago’ you beeline straight for it. ‘No way they would come in here this must be too painful for them.’ You didn’t take into consideration, some of the na’vi never had to go through the pain of losing hometree.  

When you make it to the base of the tree, you glance behind you no longer hearing footsteps or seeing anyone, you still choose to hide out inside. The planet was getting darker but not so much that the bioluminescent effects came into view yet. When you walk in, as expected it is total darkness, besides the faint light that can be seen on the other end of the tree, which is now a tunnel. Grass has grown on the inside bottom of the tree and you are pretty sure you can make out the silhouette of vines handing from the top. You sit close to the entrance you came in and took the backpack off your back.  

Rummaging through it to see if you have anything useful, you find a mini flashlight and some rope while you were searching for your tracker. But low and behold, nowhere in sight. It must have dropped out the side pocket while you were running but you didn’t want to risk going back out there, at least not yet.  

After a about 3 minutes of sitting with your legs to your chest, arms wrapped around them. You hear shuffling outside; the rustling of leaves makes your nauseous. The footsteps are back, they found you? Oh no you are about to die. You put your head down in the space between you praying to every form of God you know, Eywa included for the great mother to spare your life. 

When the sounds stop you raise your head and scramble to flick the flashlight on, pointing it outwards in front you. Your view is blocked however when 4 muscular, blue legs come into view less than a meter away they stand, just starting at you. You love the flash light up their bodies, taking note of the rock-hard abs and strong veiny arms on both na’vi men, but what scared you would have to be the grins they were sporting, fangs on full display. 

 The taller of the two was smirking down at you, his hair was braided and lose down his back, it was long properly as long as your hair. The other was ginning down at you sickeningly scary; his hair was also braided but pulled loosely into with a hair tie, a couple braids feel over one side of his face.  

‘You’re about to die’  

“Well well, brother look what we have here” the shorter one speaks up, he is speaking English, his tone was so condensing perfectly matching his facial expression. Yon only now realizes, this one has five fingers, like you.  

“Please just let me go...” tears wield up in your eyes your vision becoming blurry as you look up at them from your sitting position, “I'll never come back to the forest again please” your eyes shift from one brother to the next trying to hit a soft stop somewhere but you know they most likely don't have one for anyone who is a part of the RDA but you still try.  

“Lo’ak look at this, it is about to cry” the taller one chuckles darkly when he kneels down to your level, his four fingered hand comes up to your face swiping away the stray tears that fell down your face. The other man who you now learned is names Lo’ak, laughed at you.  

“Such a nice little figure too huh bro” he replied they were still ignoring your pleads as the chuckled at your terrified form. He kneels down next to his brother and gripped your calf and pulling your leg harshly away from your body. You underestimate his strength when he pulls you and your entire body drags on the grass making you scream. Either way, he doesn't let go, only gesturing for his brother to pull on your other leg.  

Your pleads get louder and you accidentally drop the flashlight, it hits a rock breaking the light so now its darker, safe for the new found bioluminescent vines and grass that have grown on around the fallen tree. They chuckle and laugh at your scared gasped as the area got darker. You launch forward at their hands on your legs and try to get out of their grip, but they were too strong.  

You give up trying to pry their hands off you and opt for kicking and screaming instead, they grips did not falter but you try anyway. “Please, please let me go!” you shout out. The taller of the two speaks, “No I don’t think we’ll be doing that, so can you stop... It’s getting annoying” his voice is deep, stern. If you weren’t so frightened for your life, you might think it was hot. “Yea just relax a bit, and maybe we might let you go when were done” Lo’ak spoke.  

“What? After what-” you were cut off by the taller pulling out a knife from the side of his loincloth and gripping your t-shirt at the top. “Wait!” you try to use both your hands to keep his hand away as you cry, “Eywa, Neteyam you are going to give the girl a heart attack, we can’t fuck a dead girl” he grins wickedly making Neteyam laugh. “WHAT?!” you scream, his words catch your attention and you loosen your grip on Neteyam’s wrist involuntarily giving him an opening to cut your top down the middle ripping it off. You pull your hands to cover your chest even though you were wearing a bra. 

Both men effortlessly remove your hands from blocking the view as you squirm to get out of it, “Wait- I wait- Boys can’t we talk about this?” you try to reason with them but they ignore you once more. “She’s quite pretty, even when she cries, Lo’ak you did a good job picking this one” He tilts his head to the side to look at his brother before turning back towards your smaller form.  

“Eywa yea, we are going to have so much fun with this one” Neteyam lets go of your wrist and moves to grab the rope that was sitting next to your backpack on the floor, “can’t do anything if her squirmy ass doesn’t stop moving.” 

Lo’ak moves to sit behind you bringing your body flush to his chest holding both your wrist together in front of you. Neteyam straddles your legs so you can’t kick him away as he wraps the rope tightly around your wrist. He pulls it tightly making red angry marks appear on your blue skin, you whimper and try to pull away but you are a bit slow, fighting them will not get you out of this situation, they were faster and stronger than you, clearly well-trained warriors.  

Neteyam waste no time cutting off your belt and unbuttoning your pants, while Lo’ak holds you still. He rids your body of everything but your undergarments and now you lay in between two massive native men tied up and half naked. Maybe if they weren’t threatening your life, you wouldn’t have such a big problem with this.  

“Lo’ak look at this” he pulls your legs open wide for him, holding onto your skin so tightly, you were sure he would leave marks. Lo’ak moved from behind you now situated next to his brother pulling your legs further apart to see what his brother was seeing. A small wet spot, barely noticeable but it was there, “if I didn’t know any better, I'd say you like getting tied up and fucked Avatar.” Lo’ak chuckled, “and we haven’t even touched you yet” this brother spoke up as if they were finishing each other’s sentences.  

You wiggle and squirm but nothing you do seems to stop their actions. Eventually your pleading starts to irritate them so, they pull off your underwear and stuff the fabric in your mouth muffling your protest and only laugh at you when you try to speak. Lo’ak’s fingers immediately move to your pussy, it wets his fingers when he runs them through your folds, Neteyam’s hands join his making you mewl in protest, you did not want to admit if it felt good.

Your thoughts are pushing away however by the feeling of 4 fingers being inserted at the same time. Your scream at the stretch and pain you feel, but it's muffled by the fabric. You shift trying to make yourself more comfortable but nothing helps. You cry out when they start taking turning pumping in and out of you, their fingers getting soaked up in your essence making it drip down into their palms. 

Your back arches at you watch them stare at your private parts, practically entranced by the amount of slick they are getting out of you. Thanks to na’vi anatomy, you know the slick the women produce is much more and much thicker than that of humans, to accommodate the massive size of the males' genitalia. Your body betrays you when you feel yourself opening up for them to fuck into. You cry and whimper as they hit that amazing spot inside you that you could have never seems to reach. 

“Please-” your voice is muffled and getting drier with every breath you take. “Please? Your begging? Fucking whore, what do you want huh? to cum you think you deserve that?” Both mean speak harshly to you but you can’t find it in yourself to decipher who said what. You aren’t even sure if you are begging to come or if you are begging for them to stop. Either way you continue your whimpering and pleading until you finally gush on their fingers.  

This doesn’t stop them however, the don’t stop when you're thrashing in their grip but just smugly look towards you observing your overstimulation. Eventually they do give up and pull out of you, both men sticking their fingers in their mouth sucking off your excess juice. Honestly, the sight turns you on but you don’t want them to know that.  

Your pulled to reality once more when they undo their loincloths simultaneously, cocks spring up into the air you glance back and forth between both men. They were fucking huge, you have only seen what the na’vi male genitalia look from photos but goddamn, its fucking huge, unless it’s just them. Neteyam ties his hair back into a half up half down hairstyle to get it out of his face, and Lo’ak pulls his knife out and cuts open your bra, exposing your breast to the cool air of the night. 

Your tits bounce slightly and your nipples harden in the air, Lo’ak throws his knife aside before bringing his face down to bite and suck on them, you mewl as he does your head hits the ground under you and both your hands still tied together rest on his shoulder, your legs are pinned by his body but at this point, you have stopped fighting and ready to get over this.  

It may be the only way to keep your life. Neteyam pushes Lo’ak off the bottom half of your body as he spreads your legs and pushes into you without any warning. You thought their fingers were much, you had no idea what you were in for. He doesn’t give you time to adjust when he bottoms out, but starts bulling his cock into you, you fuck you like he’ll never get the opportunity to fuck anyone ever again.  

Your muffled screams meet their ears but they once again ignore you. Lo’ak grabs your thrashing tail in his hand and give it a firm yank making you yelp. He chuckles when your movements calm a bit due to the pain he just inflicted. His mouth moves away from your now purple swollen nipples and up to your neck. Neteyam bends down to the other side off your neck as he fucks into you and they both suck and kiss leaving deep purple marks. You just know it is going to look like someone strangled you.  

You whimper and moan at the feeling of their fangs grazing your skin, what you don’t expect is when they bite down hard on your soft skin. You are once again screaming into the muffled fabric, your nails grip and scratch on one of their shoulders but you aren’t sure which one. You feel the warm blood running down your shoulder and neck, the bite hurts, but when they start lapping at your new wounds it becomes more bearable. They pay no mind to you as they continue biting and sucking on your skin, creating bite marks in their wake from your neck to your stomach. 

Lo’ak pulls away from your body admiring their work and Neteyam starts grunting in your ear, he’s gonna come. The thought of him coming on your body sends you spiraling and you come on his cock not being able to hold it, his cock just feels so good fucking into you. When Neteyam releases he groans in your ear, you swear it is the sexiest thing you ever heard, you don’t even realize he come deep inside you before pulling out. 

Your hole is gapping and both brothers watch the cum ooze out of you slowly. Lo’ak taking his fingers and pushes it back in, curling his fingers up to the stop Neteyam was just bruising with his cock, the feeling makes you whimper but it doesn’t last long. 

Lo’ak lines himself up and pushes his cock into you now, you didn’t even get a second to rest. He doesn’t wait much like his brother when he starts pounding you into the floor. You moan and mewl as he fucks into you, almost as hard as his brother but not quite that much.  

Neteyam moves to kneels next to your face, cock hanging heavy over your eyes as you watch him stroke it up and down. This are by far the sexiest men you have ever been with, and the stamina, you aren’t even sure you can keep up but you are sure they are gonna cut you until you pass out.  

He taps his cock head on your lips before pulling your underwear out from your mouth and throwing it to the side, with the rest of your forgotten clothes. he grabs your hair on the top of your head and pull your lips over the head of his cock, he thrust into your mouth pulling your head to meet his thrust and throws his head back while he does it, feeling your tongue trace the veins on his cock. When you near your next release you moan around him, sending vibrations through his body. Your anils now dig into his muscular thigh as you try to find something to hold on to. When you do gush on Lo’ak’s cock, he follows not far behind cumming inside you with a sweet moan, it's almost submissive the way he throws his head back. 

After he comes down from his high and pulls out, he stares at your pussy watching your gaping hole pulse and clench around nothing. He pulls his eyes away from the sight and watches you suck on his brother’s cock; he strokes his cock that is already hardening again and speaks to him in na’vi, saying something you didn’t understand. 

Neteyam smiles down at you wickedly as he pulls you up and away from his cock. “Get up evenge (girl)” he says as he pulls you to stand up by your hair. You have no idea what they said but it was so hot listening to them speak in their native tongue. When you are pulled up, your knees buckle almost instantly and you fall forward on to Lo’ak. He barely moves, standing strongly and catches you in his arms. 

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and your legs come to wrap around his thin waist as he brushes stray hairs off your sweaty face. Neteyam comes and press his chest up against you’re back and pushing your chest into Lo’ak’s. You have no energy to hold yourself up so you rest your head on his shoulder. Your eyes feel drowsy and you blink slowly. 

 “Ever had anything up in here sevin (pretty)?” Neteyam ask you while his fingers brush over your puckering ass hole, he drags your mom mixture of cum down to the hole and push one of his fingers in. “No! No please” you feel as if all the tiredness left your body when you jump up trying to get away from his touches but Lo’ak holds you tightly. 

You should have known this was a trap, they were nice to you for no reason when they picked you up like a baby, you should have known they wanted to do something. Neteyam reaches around your body and cut the rope that was bounding you. Your wrist now sported red ligature marks about 3 inches thick, they really made sure you wouldn’t get away.  

All your fussing was for nothing when his finger squeezes into your tight hole deeper, your hands fly to Lo’ak’s back and you grip him as if he could somehow save you. Your nails dig into his skin when Neteyam inserts another finger pumping it a few times before you relax and he pulls out. Lo’ak inserts himself into your overstimulated cunt bottoming out inside you, but this time he didn’t move. 

Neteyam lined his cock head up to your other whole pushing it inside slowly, you felt both of their cocks touch inside you even though it’s in different holes. You head falls back on Neteyam’s shoulder as you babble and plead for them to stop. You hit and scratch at loak while tears fall down your cheeks as you cry your cute ‘nos’ and ‘please stops’.  

They find it sweet how much you are still trying to fight them down and not getting anywhere. When Neteyam bottoms out in your tight hole, you breath heavily as you try to adjust to him. When Lo’ak starts moving Neteyam slowly follows and their cocks move the way their fingers did earlier, they take turns thrusting into you. You cry and plead for them to ‘go slow’ but they pay you no mind, only wrapped up in their own pleasure.  

Eventually they are pounding into you, eyes shut tightly as you feel yourself loosen up enjoying the feeling of both men inside you. One particular thrust has you moaning loudly and they continue hitting that sweet spot. You blabber out nonscience bouncing up and down on both cocks, you have never been stretched out like this before, you’ve never been fucked like this before.

Your mouth agape trying to catch your breath as they use you to chase their own orgasms, the words they spew at you goes in one ear and out the other, you cannot even make out what they are saying, you aren’t even 100 percent sure they were speaking English. When you do cum on Lo’ak’s cock it's with a loud wail, you feel your own cunt pulse, gripping him inside you triggering his orgasm and Neteyam shortly after stuffing you full in both holes making you pass out in between their bodies. 

When you awake you feel a warm body wrapped around yours as you lay on a soft blanket. You observe your surroundings and see Lo’ak sitting a couple feet to the side of you in what looks like a hut, which means Neteyam is curled around you. You raise your head confused as to why you are here, they never killed you, but they also never took you home. You hear the distinct sound of chains moving when you try to stretch your foot and you realized. They have you chained like some kind of vicious dog by your ankle, attached to pole in the center of the hut.  

“Ah you are awake avatar, what is your name?” Neteyam’s chest rumbles as he speaks to you. “I'm not telling you” you feel like you throat was scratching as you swallow some no existent spit. Lo’ak hands you a cup of water and you chug it, “name girl” he says sternly. “y/n” you mumble. 

“Oh, that’ll fit perfectly on your new collar” he gestures to the piece of fabric he was planning on sewing your name into. You aren’t ever getting away from them. 

✨ I hope you enjoyed reading! Likes, reposts and comments are always appreciated!

Taglist:

@strongheartneteyam @rivatar @delusionalwh6re @nilahsstuff @xylianasblog @quicktosimp @xrollingmyeyesx

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did - Part Four, An Interlude

Text divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | The music blares and everyone’s out of it, but she turns and sees him. Detached from it all, Aemond stands on the balcony with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips - watching the party unfold, watching her. The realization hits her as their eyes meet.

It’s him. It’s always been him. 

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Non-Con and Violence Elements; Use of Substances and Alcohol; Complicated Relationship Dynamics.

PAIRINGS | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader [MAIN]; Modern!Daeron Targaryen x Reader; Alys Rivers x Aemond Targaryen

WORD COUNT | 12k

Check out the art created for this fic by the lovely, talented and so very kind @azperja here!  

AUTHOR'S NOTE | This chapter does not pick up where chapter 3 left off. This is a short interlude that looks into Aemond and Alys and how they came to be, and what it is that keeps them together. Or atleast, this is my attempt at writing a complicated relationship that was doomed from the get go. The next chapter is the last one.

I do not entertain comments that so obviously reek of hate, an intent to provoke or misogyny of any kind. The fact that I've learnt to expect this is sad as it is. Be nice, or be civil and constructive and open to conversation. It's not hard, really. This is, after all, just a silly story. :)

MORE THAN A YEAR AGO - AEMOND POV

"Of course I'm here. It’s summer vacation, and it’s only one of the biggest gallery openings in the country," Wylde said with a grin. He was still new to Oldtown, while she was heading into her final year of school at King’s Landing—but they both knew where they belonged in the world. He would eventually take his place at the top, running one of the oldest commercial institutions in the realm. She would become a prominent socialite, wielding her family’s art connections with pride and skill, possibly on the arm of one of the men in this room.

For a fleeting moment back home, he had wished that man would be him. But that had passed—or so he liked to believe.

"Hm."

"Anyway, I have to make my rounds, shake hands," she sighed, as if already exhausted by the thought. "Most of them will try to get to my father through me, hoping for a chance at our family’s paintings for their displays." She paused, her expression softening. "My plane to King’s Landing leaves soon after, so I might not catch you to say goodbye, okay?"

She leaned in on the tips of her toes, instinctively brushing her lips against his cheek, a gesture so familiar it felt natural. His skin warmed under her touch as he held onto her for a moment, before letting her go and watching her slip into the crowd.

"It was nice to see you, Aemond," she said, giving him one last smile before she disappeared among the other guests.

He watched as the crowd welcomed her with open arms. And why wouldn’t they?

Aemond stood quietly near the back of the gallery, his head turned as he swirled his wine and pretended to be interested in the pieces around him. But his focus had already drifted.

From across the room, she had become the only thing he could think about.

She was magnetic in a way that defied simple description. It wasn’t just her beauty, though he could hardly deny that. There was something in the way she moved - fluid, deliberate, as if every gesture, every glance, was part of a conversation only she knew how to conduct. Aemond watched as she floated through the crowd with an easy grace, her black dress brushing the tops of her heels - not revealing, but just enough. 

But it wasn’t her appearance that intrigued him the most. It was her detachment. The way she seemed to occupy the room and yet remain entirely separate from it. Like she knew she was better than the herd. How can she possibly not? He knew it, and he’d barely known her for ten minutes.

He studied her carefully, trying to decode the way she interacted with her surroundings. The other guests barely held her interest, even her husband - Brynden Rivers, the artist on feature - who was basking in the attention of his admirers, seemed peripheral to her thoughts. She would smile and nod at the right moments, offering polite responses when addressed, but her eyes - sharp, dark, endlessly curious - always strayed back to the art. It was as though she were in search of something she hadn’t quite found, or perhaps she was testing the art itself, waiting to see if it would reveal anything worth caring about.

He found himself wondering what she saw. What was it that drew her attention so intensely? Was she, like him, disillusioned by the pageantry of it all? Or was she simply beyond it, a part of a world he hadn’t yet glimpsed?

Aemond’s eyes lingered on her, captivated by her subtle confidence. He could tell she knew he was watching - how could she not? And yet, she gave no indication that she minded. Instead, there was a knowingness in her movements, a quiet acknowledgment of his gaze that sent a strange thrill through him.

Almost as if she moved just for him.

As she turned from the group around her to admire one of the larger paintings, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his. It was fleeting, just a flicker of recognition, but the brief moment stretched out in Aemond’s mind. She didn’t look away immediately, nor did she smile - there was something almost challenging in her gaze, as though she were testing him, daring him to keep watching.

And he did.

Their eyes met again several times as the night wore on, each moment charged with tension that had heat penetrating him through his black turtleneck. He couldn’t place it - this feeling that they were circling each other from opposite ends of the room. They had not spoken a word, yet it felt as though they were in conversation, their glances exchanging ideas, questions, provocations. What was she thinking? Did she feel this pull too, or was she simply toying with him, amused by the attention of a younger man?

She leaned in to whisper something to her husband, her lips barely moving, and Aemond felt an unexpected surge of jealousy - irrational, yes, but undeniable. She was so at ease, so unattainable, yet there was something in the way she kept looking at him, as if she wanted him to see her just as much as he wanted to understand her.

He’d never, in his entire life, felt like this before.

Their eyes locked again, and this time her lips curved into the faintest smile, not of politeness or pretense, but of acknowledgment. She knew exactly what she was doing, and Aemond, for all his careful control, felt the thrill of the chase. It wasn’t just desire - though there was plenty of that - it was the curiosity that gripped him. Who was she? What did she want from this night, from this life? And why did it feel like, in this crowded room, they were the only two people who mattered?

There was a moment when their gaze lingered just a little longer than before, the silence between them almost deafening, despite the buzz of conversation around them. Aemond felt something stir deep within him, a strange excitement, as though this unspoken challenge had a life of its own. What was he to her? Just another man in the gallery, or had she singled him out the way he had her?

It wasn’t until she broke the connection - turning back to the painting in front of her - that he realized he had been holding his breath.

Aemond had been standing in the corner of the gallery, nursing a drink that had long gone flat. His eyes drifted back to her, stealing glances, trying to untangle the mystery she presented without making it too obvious. He couldn't quite understand why she fascinated him so much, but her presence demanded his attention.

Then, it happened.

She moved.

At first, he thought she was simply changing her position to get a better view of a painting, but when their eyes met across the room for the third time that evening, something shifted. She wasn't just glancing anymore - she was walking toward him.

Aemond’s heart rate spiked. He forced himself to remain calm, to not show his surprise, but he could hardly believe she was coming up to him. The crowd of art enthusiasts seemed to blur, and the distant hum of voices faded into nothingness as she neared. He couldn't help but track every step she took, as though each one was part of a dance he hadn’t learned yet.

And then she was there, standing in front of him. Up close, she was even more striking than he had imagined - her features sharp and graceful, with an aura of confidence that was almost magnetic. She had an air of quiet authority, but not in the way the old-money elite around them carried themselves. Hers was different, more subtle, more powerful.

“Aemond Targaryen,” she said, her voice smooth and knowing, as though they were already well acquainted.

He blinked, still processing the fact that she was speaking to him at all. “You know me,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly a question. It made sense - he was a Targaryen after all, but still, something about her saying his name with such ease unnerved him.

“To no one's surprise, yes.” She smiled, the corners of her lips curling up in a way that was almost teasing. “You didn’t think I’d notice the only one in this room who's barely looked at the art?”

The comment threw him for a moment, but then, intrigued, he leaned in slightly. “A room full of some of the finest art, and yet you’ve been watching me,” he pointed out. 

Did she notice him before, the same way he’s noticed her?

For a moment, her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “Alys Rivers,” she began, letting the name roll off her tongue slowly, as if inviting him to puzzle it out.

Aemond’s brow furrowed. "Rivers?" he muttered, almost to himself, trying to jog his memory. The name wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but he couldn’t quite place it. And then it came to him - he hadn’t heard that surname in relation to anyone important in his world. 

“Strong,” she corrected softly, the name falling like a small bomb between them. “My maiden name is Strong.”

Aemond’s eyes widened as the realization hit him. Strong. Of course. Lionel Strong, the headmaster of the school he attended for years. Harwin Strong, whose presence in Rhaenyra’s life had always been whispered about, and whose children were a constant point of rumor and speculation.

She is a sister to them both. How had he not known of her all this time?

His gaze snapped back to her face, searching for any sign that might have connected her to that family before, but there was nothing immediately obvious. “Lionel Strong...” he said aloud, piecing it together, more for himself than for her benefit.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Lionel is my half-brother. Harwin, too.”

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it sink in. It was like a secret door had been unlocked, revealing more about her than he ever could’ve guessed. She had roots in his world, in his life, that had been there all along, just hidden beneath the surface.

Alys smirked, clearly enjoying the way his mind raced to catch up. "Surprised?"

“More than I’d like to admit,” he replied, a slow smile pulling at his lips as he found himself even more intrigued than before.

Aemond leaned back slightly, still processing everything. His mind, usually so sharp and analytical, felt slower than usual in the presence of Alys Rivers - or Strong, as she had just revealed. But as much as her family ties surprised him, it didn’t change the allure she carried. She was still an enigma, now with even more layers to uncover.

Alys shifted her gaze to the painting nearest them - a sprawling canvas of abstract forms, colors bleeding into one another in what he deduces as an intentional mess. “So, what do you think of the work?” she asked casually, her eyes tracing the chaotic lines as if she already knew exactly what he was going to say.

He tilted his head, not willing to offer anything up too quickly. “It’s… bold.”

“Bold,” she repeated, her lips quivering. “That’s a safe assessment.”

“I suppose it is,” he conceded, allowing himself a small smile. “But it’s honest. What about you? You seem like someone with stronger opinions on art.”

“I do,” she admitted, folding her arms across her chest as she took in the piece again. “This one... it’s my husband’s.”

Her words hung in the air, and Aemond couldn’t stop the faint sting of jealousy that crept into his chest at the way she said ‘husband’ - with a sense of familiarity that only came from many years of being tied together. He glanced back at the painting, trying to find some reflection of the man behind it.

“Your husband’s quite the artist,” he said, keeping his tone even, but his interest was undeniable.

Alys nodded, her gaze still on the painting. “Yes, he is. Brynden is one of the best, I suppose, but you don’t need me to tell you that. Everyone else here already has.” There was something dismissive in her voice, a casual indifference that caught Aemond off guard.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “And what do you think of his work?”

Alys tilted her head and gave a half-smile, as though considering the question for the first time. “It’s... fine. I appreciate what he’s trying to say, but it doesn’t speak to me in the way art should.” She paused, then turned to him, her dark eyes finding him with a sharpness that left him momentarily breathless. “But you already guessed that, didn’t you?”

Aemond smirked, amused by how easily she read him. “It’s a little obvious. The way you talk about him, about his work… It’s almost as if you’re disconnected from it.”

She met his gaze, unflinching, her smile growing. “You’re observant, aren’t you? That must be exhausting.”

He chuckled softly, unable to help himself. “I’ve been told as much.” There was something thrilling about it - this mutual understanding, this wordless challenge.

“So,” he said, redirecting the conversation with purpose, “if your husband’s work doesn’t speak to you, what does? What kind of art do you appreciate?”

Alys turned away from the painting, her attention fully on him now. “The kind that demands something of me. Something that won’t let me look away. I want to be moved, even unsettled. The sort of art that makes you question everything you thought you knew.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered, intrigued. “You mean the kind that unsettles you in the same way a person can?”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Exactly. Sometimes, the most impactful art is the kind that forces you to confront things you’ve been avoiding. It’s messy, uncomfortable, but unforgettable.”

He found himself nodding in agreement, feeling the conversation dip. “I suppose that’s why art and history are so closely linked. Both make you confront uncomfortable truths. The more you understand the world, the more you realize how fragile everything is.”

She sighed softly, as though she’d found someone who shared her exact thoughts. “Yes, and that fragility - that’s where the beauty lies. When you can’t control it. And when it’s gone, you’re left wondering why you didn’t appreciate it enough.”

They weren’t just talking about art anymore, and both of them knew it.

“And history,” she continued, her voice softer now, “is like the ultimate piece of art, isn’t it? Layered and complex, full of contradictions. No matter how much you study it, there’s always something more to uncover.”

Aemond nodded, his gaze intense. “It’s a reminder that nothing is permanent. Not power, not legacy, not even love.”

The way he said it, the quiet certainty in his voice, made Alys pause. She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something behind his words. “You’re quite young. Do you really believe that?” she asked, her tone challenging, though her smile remained.

“Of course,” he replied easily. “Everything has its limits.”

As their conversation deepened, they moved through the gallery, eventually stopping in front of a painting that caught Alys’s attention. The piece was striking - two figures, intertwined in an abstract embrace, their forms blurring at the edges, as if they were dissolving into one another. The colors were bold, almost chaotic, bleeding into one another in a way that suggested both unity and dissolution.

Alys tilted her head, her lips curving into a thoughtful smile. “What do you make of this one?”

Aemond studied the painting, the mingling figures, the way their outlines seemed to waver as if they could hardly contain themselves within the frame. It was both intimate and unsettling, a reflection of connection and the inevitable loss that comes with it.

“It’s fascinating,” he said, voice measured. “There’s something about the way they’re almost… becoming each other. But it’s not peaceful, is it? It’s like they’re losing themselves in the process.”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the canvas. “It’s about boundaries, I think. How much of yourself are you willing to give before you start losing pieces of who you are?”

Aemond glanced at her, sensing the weight behind her words. “Isn’t that what love does, in a way? It strips you down, forces you to let go of your boundaries until you’re not sure where you end and the other person begins.”

Alys met his gaze, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “But that’s dangerous, isn’t it? Giving up so much of yourself. Maybe that’s why so many people cling to the idea of monogamy - one person, one connection, to keep things simple. Less risk.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do you think monogamy keeps things simple?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not at all. Monogamy is just another way of complicating things, if you ask me. The idea that one person can meet all your needs… it feels like an illusion.”

He considered her words, watching her closely as she turned back to the painting. “So you don’t believe in it?”

Alys shrugged, her smile a little mischievous. “I believe in connection. But I also believe in freedom. Sometimes, those things don’t go hand in hand.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, his mind swirling with the implications of her words. “Is that why you don’t believe in monogamy?”

She didn’t answer right away, instead turning to look at him with that same sly, knowing smile. “I didn’t say that - I can’t, given that I am married. But I don’t think it’s the only way to live.”

Aemond chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I think monogamy works for some people. But for others... perhaps it’s just another form of control.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her gaze locking with his, challenging him again. “Do you crave control, Aemond?”

He didn’t answer right away, but the intensity of her gaze made his heart race. “I think we all do, in some way. It’s human nature.”

Alys took a step closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But sometimes, the most exhilarating moments come when you let go of control. When you surrender to something - or someone - you can’t predict.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he felt the air between them grow charged. The flirtation between them had evolved into something far more potent, far more dangerous.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked, his voice lower now, the distance between them shrinking.

She didn’t break eye contact, her lips curving slightly. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Aemond glanced around the bustling gallery, the laughter and chatter of art enthusiasts fading into a background hum as his focus narrowed back to Alys. The way her eyes sparkled, the slight tilt of her head, and the intoxicating warmth of her presence drew him in like a moth to flame.

In a bold, instinctive move, he reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The contact sent a jolt through him, a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Her skin felt warm against his, soft yet somehow grounding, and he marveled at how effortlessly their hands fit together.

Without a word, he began to lead her away from the crowd. They slipped through a doorway and into an empty stairwell. As they stepped into the dim light, Aemond turned to face her fully, their hands still clasped. He felt a rush of exhilaration, the act of holding her hand feeling significant, almost intimate. 

“What now?” she asked, her voice low and playful, her gaze unwavering.

He hesitated, caught in the intensity of the moment, the gravity of her presence. He reached into his trouser pockets for a cigarette and lighter, and soon there was the ashy smell of smoke around them. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to find out.”

The smoke from Aemond’s cigarette curling lazily into the quiet space. He took a drag, exhaling slowly as his mind raced, the sharp taste of nicotine mingling with the tension. He kept his gaze on the blank space ahead, the smoke filling the air around them. She, however, hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He could feel it—the way she watched him, measured him, waiting to see what he would do next. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt charged.

He took one last drag before carelessly flicking the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his boot without a second thought. The small, defiant gesture felt freeing, as though he was stamping out a part of himself—his restraint, his hesitation. He turned to face her again, her gaze steady, her lips slightly parted as if she was waiting for something.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the stairwell ceased to exist. Then, with a low exhale, he stepped closer, his eyes locking with hers. It was a split second of tension before he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss was slow at first, exploratory, testing the boundaries between them. But the moment her lips parted, the intensity between them flared to life.

Aemond pressed her back against the cold, hard wall, the warmth of her body against his heightening his awareness of every touch, every breath. His hands moved with purpose, one sliding up to cup her face, the other finding her waist, pulling her closer. As the kiss deepened, his fingers traced the line of her neck, her collarbone, before they slipped lower, teasing the hem of her dress.

She let out a soft gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth. There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling—only the smooth, practiced confidence.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as he continued, the rhythm of his fingers drawing soft moans from her lips. He could feel her tightening, her body trembling as she reached the edge. His thumb brushed over her in just the right way, and that was all it took. Alys stifled a cry as she came, her body arching against the wall, and Aemond kissed her again, this time slower, more tender, as if savoring the moment. Her breathing slowly evened out, and Aemond felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. Neither of them spoke. There was no need for words. 

They simply stood there, foreheads pressed together, sharing the stillness as the world outside continued to move without them.

Aemond had spotted her almost immediately as he entered the courtyard of the university, the gathering of faculty and students milling about in conversation. He had been here long enough to know some faces but not enough to blend in completely. Most of them were talking about papers and projects he couldn't care less about, not today.

And then there she was.

Alys Rivers. Standing among a group of intellectuals, professors, and lecturers—all older, some of them even more seasoned than she was. They looked at her with respect due to someone who held both knowledge and authority. But Aemond? He couldn't help but view her through a lens far removed from the polite deference that the others offered. He could still taste the memory of her kiss, still feel the warmth of her body beneath his fingers.

From where he stood, he could tell she’d seen him, even though she was pretending not to. Her posture had stiffened slightly, her smile at whatever quip had been made by one of her colleagues was just a bit too strained. But it was her eyes that told him the truth—fleetingly, they flicked in his direction, locking onto him for the briefest of seconds before quickly darting away.

And in that brief glance, Aemond knew. Something had changed.

The gaze she gave him wasn’t the smoldering intensity he remembered from their night in the stairwell. It wasn’t the playful challenge or the simmering heat. No, it was something colder, more distant. Her eyes held a reservation that hadn’t been there before, a guardedness he couldn’t quite place.

It made him want to tear himself apart.

He could feel a knot of frustration building in his chest, knowing what that look meant—she had figured it out. That he was just a student here, not some intriguing enigma from outside her world. She had likely put it together: that he was young, still tethered to his academic life, and most probably someone she could regret ever getting involved with.

His feet carried him forward on instinct, not even aware of what he would say or do. He just needed to close the distance between them. But as he approached, he could sense her retreat, even from across the courtyard. She didn’t move away physically, but in every other way, she had already begun to pull back.

The light in her eyes when she’d looked at him the night they first met—the spark that had drawn them together so easily—was dimmed now, like she was shielding herself from it. He could feel the walls she was putting up, the distance she was trying to create. And he hated it.

Aemond finally stopped a few feet away, his eyes fixed on her, willing her to look at him again. To acknowledge that this wasn’t over, that what they’d shared wasn’t something she could just forget. But Alys barely glanced his way, her attention deliberately on the conversation around her, offering a polite smile to some professor who was undoubtedly droning on about some obscure piece of art history.

She wasn’t ignoring him. That would have been easier to handle. No, she was acknowledging him just enough to let him know that she had seen him—but not in the way he wanted.

It was a calculated withdrawal, a signal that this—whatever this was—couldn’t continue.

He clenched his fists at his sides, frustration boiling beneath the surface. He didn’t understand. She was Alys Rivers, confident, self-assured, worldly. And now she was shrinking back, locking herself behind the very walls he thought she had long since broken down. He knew she was regretting it, regretting him. Regretting the way she had let herself lose control with him.

But Aemond couldn’t let that be the end. He wouldn’t let her slip away that easily, not after what they’d shared.

His jaw clenched as he took a deep breath, watching her from across the space. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. This was a woman who had opened a door in him he hadn’t even known existed, and now, she was shutting it without so much as a word.

He wouldn’t allow it.

Not yet.

Three nights.

Three nights had passed since that brief, fleeting glance across the courtyard. Alys had been there, wrapped in her distant composure, surrounded by those professors and intellectuals as though nothing had ever happened between them. But the space between them had spoken volumes—more than any words could. She had pulled back, retreated into the safety of her old life, her mind likely full of regrets.

But Aemond couldn’t let it go. The memory of her—of that night, her breathless sighs, the way her body had responded to his touch—had been burning in the back of his mind since. He had tried to shake it, tried to focus on the mundanity of university life, but the tension gnawed at him, unraveling him from the inside.

Tonight, it was too much.

Driving through Oldtown’s winding streets, the engine of Vhagar thrummed beneath him, a low growl matching the storm raging inside. He knew where he was headed before he had even set out, his body moving on instinct. He had to see her again. He needed answers, something more than that cold look she’d given him.

He parked down the street from her house—small, secluded, the same one where they’d fucked for the first time. His hands gripped the steering wheel for a moment, the echoes of that night replaying in his mind. He remembered every touch, every word, the way her laughter had turned to breathless gasps.

But tonight would be different. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted from her. All he knew was that he couldn’t let her fade away like this—not without understanding.

The quiet crunch of his boots against the gravel as he approached her front door made his pulse quicken. His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he almost turned back. But his hand was already lifting, knuckles tapping lightly on the wood.

When the door opened, she stood there, looking nothing like the composed and untouchable woman from the gallery. Her hair was down, soft and tousled, falling around her face, and she wore sleep clothes—an oversized, faded shirt and loose pants. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She must have been reading. He had to know what she’d been reading. What had captivated her mind enough to distract her tonight, of all nights? He so desperately wanted to ask.

But he couldn’t.

Because when Alys saw him standing there—her face wilted. It was like watching her defenses crumble in slow motion, a mixture of resignation and regret playing out in the slight downturn of her lips, in the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

“Aemond,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but before he could speak, she grabbed him by the arm and tugged him inside, glancing quickly at the dark street behind him to make sure no one had seen.

She closed the door with a quiet click, sealing them both inside.

His eyes followed her, drinking in every detail. The loose fabric of her shirt, the way her hair moved with each step, and the quiet way she carried herself now, so different from the confidence she had exuded at the gallery and that night in the stairwell.

She moved to the kitchen, her steps quiet but purposeful. Aemond stood behind her, watching as she reached for a small coffee pot, her movements practiced and deliberate, as if she were stalling for time. The familiar hiss of the coffee beginning to brew filled the silence, but Aemond’s eyes remained fixed on her. His heart still pounded in his chest, an anxious rhythm that echoed in the quiet space between them.

He wanted to ask why she had pulled back. Why did she change so quickly? He wanted to know everything—why she had retreated, why she was here now, brewing coffee in the middle of the night as though they were nothing more than casual acquaintances.

But most of all, he wanted to know if she regretted him.

Aemond stood there, watching her small, quiet movements. The coffee pot sputtered softly, the scent of fresh grounds filling the kitchen, but all his attention was on her—the way her shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the way her fingers tightened momentarily on the countertop as though she was trying to steady herself. He couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His body moved before his mind could catch up.

Slowly, deliberately, he crossed the space between them, closing the distance. His chest brushed against her back, and he could feel her tense, though she didn’t pull away. His hands found her waist, fingers tightening just enough to hold her there, to ground both of them in this moment. She exhaled, a soft sound that almost broke him.

Aemond lowered his head, his lips grazing the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. He could feel the faintest strands of her hair brushing against his face, tickling his lips as he kissed the smallest, most intimate part of her. His breath was warm against her skin, and he felt her body shift—just the slightest tremor beneath his hands.

Her grip on the countertop tightened as she whispered, “Aemond… this isn’t right.”

He paused, his lips hovering above her skin as her words cut through the haze of desire between them. Slowly, she turned around to face him, her expression a mix of guilt and something more difficult to define. Her eyes searched his, lingering for a moment before she looked down, as if she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze for too long.

“I teach at Oldtown,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “You’re a student. I didn’t know... I never knew.”

She was visibly conflicted, her hands pressing flat against the counter as if to steady herself against the weight of her own words. “This... this isn’t right.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening in frustration. “You teach art history,” he countered, his voice sharp, but controlled. “I’m in economics. You don’t teach me.”

Her eyes flicked back up to his, but there was still a shadow of doubt there. “It doesn’t matter. The lines are blurred, Aemond. We’re from the same world, the same institution. It complicates everything.”

“And what?” He leaned in closer, his voice low and heated now, laced with frustration. “Because we’re in the same place, suddenly this—” his hand tightened on her waist, “—suddenly this isn’t real? Or doesn’t count?”

She shook her head, but her breath hitched as his grip became firmer. “No, it’s not that—”

“Then what?” He demanded softly, his mouth inches from hers, his words a mix of desperation and desire. “What is it that makes you think this is wrong?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her hesitation, the conflict in her gaze, only fueled his frustration.

“I need you, Alys,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need you to make me feel alive.”

The vulnerability in his words hung between them, raw and unguarded. For a moment, neither of them moved. The kitchen was filled with the quiet hum of the coffee pot, the only sound punctuating the thick tension.

Alys exhaled shakily, her gaze softening. She reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her hand lingering there as though she was holding herself together. “Aemond...” she began, her voice quieter now, more fragile. “You don’t understand how dangerous this is.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, stepping even closer, his lips brushing against hers. “I don’t care about any of it.”

Their lips collided with a fierce, almost desperate need. His hand slipped from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, while her fingers gripped his shirt, pulling him toward her as if she couldn’t fight it anymore. The kiss was electric, a surge of everything they had been holding back. All the conflict, all the tension melted into the heat between them.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths were ragged, their foreheads pressed together. Aemond’s heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel hers too, fast and erratic against him.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, though there was no conviction in her words. “I can’t…”

“You can,” he murmured, brushing his lips softly against her cheek, his hand still resting on her back. “You can.”

She let out a soft, conflicted sigh, her head resting against his chest for just a moment before she stepped back slightly, enough to put some distance between them. “I hope you’re right,” she said softly, her eyes searching for his once again, though this time, there was a trace of hope.

Aemond lay on his back, his chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of contentment. Beside him, Alys stretched languidly. The sheets had slipped down, revealing the smooth curve of her back and the hint of tattoos peeking along her spine—small, deliberate symbols that only made her more intriguing.

Months have passed since they began what she calls a clandestine affair, and yet, he supposed he’d never get used to the feeling of being able to hold someone as exquisite as her.

He turned his head slightly, studying her in the faint light, the way her hair fell messily over her shoulders, the way she seemed completely at ease in the quiet space between them. 

She shifted, rolling onto her side to face him, propping her head up on her hand. Her eyes, dark and sharp as ever, flicked up to meet his, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I was thinking,” she began, her voice low and languid, “about the mural at the Starry Sept.”

Aemond raised a brow, his lips curving into a small smirk. Of course she would talk about art history after a night like this. “Oh?” he prompted, turning fully to face her, his arm resting beneath his head. “What about it?”

Alys leaned closer, her voice dropping into that tone she used when she was fully in her element—an intoxicating mix of mystique and allure. “The mural depicts Aegon’s Conquest, but what most people overlook is the subtle inclusion of symbols that reference the Valyrian Freehold’s decline. It's not just a celebration of Aegon's victory but a commentary on the fall of an empire—and, perhaps, a warning about the fragility of power.”

He watched her intently, captivated by the way she spoke, her words moving effortlessly between history and art, tying together themes in a way that made even the most obscure details seem relevant, significant. She was always like this— her intelligence wrapping around him in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“You think it was intentional?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious. “The decline of Valyria, woven into the heart of a Westerosi victory mural?”

Alys smirked, her fingers tracing small, idle patterns on the sheets. “I do. Art isn’t just about what’s obvious—it’s about what’s hidden, what’s suggested. Power, love, history—it’s all layered. And those who know how to look will always find more than what’s on the surface.”

Aemond chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. “You’ve quite the understanding of it all.”

Her smile widened, a little more playful now, her fingers brushing over his arm. “Maybe. I should, given that I teach it.”

He felt a rush of admiration for her, this woman who could so effortlessly transition from a fierce intellectual to someone who could make him feel utterly insignificant and yet completely seen at the same time. She was unlike anyone he had ever met.

“You’re wasted in Oldtown,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, more serious. “You should be part of the think tank at the Citadel, teaching them all how to see the world the way you do.”

Alys laughed softly, shaking her head. “The Citadel doesn’t want women like me, Aemond. They want their history clean and simple. But the way I see it… history is messy—it’s complicated, just like everything else.”

He couldn’t argue with that, not when she had such a profound grasp of the chaos beneath the surface of things. He reached out, his hand sliding into her hair, tugging her just a little closer. “Messy can be beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

Her gaze softened slightly, her sharpness dimming just a little in the warm intimacy of the moment. “You’re full of surprises, Targaryen.”

He smirked, leaning in to kiss her softly, their lips brushing in a slow, deliberate way. When he pulled back, he caught the way her gaze lingered on him, as though she were sizing him up, trying to decide if she should let him in a little more.

“So,” she said after a moment, her voice softer but still holding that edge of curiosity. “If Westerosi art is a reflection of its history, what do you think it says about you? About the Targaryens?”

Aemond tilted his head, considering her question carefully. “It says that we are a people obsessed with legacy. Everything we do is about ensuring our names, our houses, are remembered. Even our art is full of dragons, of conquest and fire—it’s about showing power.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her eyes locked onto his, searching. “What do you want your legacy to be?”

He paused, the question hanging between them. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to answer. His whole life had been spent chasing power, chasing recognition. But here, in this moment, with her, he felt something shift. Something deeper, more personal.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than he had intended. “But I think I want it to be more than just a name in the books.”

Alys studied him for a long moment, her expression softening. She reached out, her hand resting on his chest, just over his heart. “Maybe that’s the first step. Realizing there’s more to life than what the world expects from you.”

Aemond’s heart beat a little faster under her touch. That’s when it hits him. For the first time, he wasn’t chasing power, authority or perfection.

He was chasing her.

“There's always this sense of danger, of forbidden pleasure. But people are drawn to it.”

She set her plate aside, her fingers brushing absently over the arm of the sofa. “In most of the stories, it’s either villainized or fetishized. Affairs are always catastrophic, or they’re seen as something scandalous, and yet… they’re everywhere. The stories, the songs, the histories—they all revolve around love triangles, mistresses, lovers. It's as though the idea of being with more than one person is at the center of so many lives, but no one ever talks about it openly.”

Alys turned toward him, her eyes sharper now, more focused. “That’s because monogamy is a construct. It’s a way of controlling love, of organizing it into something neat and manageable. But love isn’t manageable, Aemond. It’s messy. It’s wild. And sometimes, it doesn’t fit into one person, or one life.”

There was a quiet intensity in her words, the kind that made him listen more carefully. “And you?” he asked, his voice soft, probing. “What about your own life?”

Alys sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she set her plate down on the coffee table. “Brynden and I—we’re not monogamous, though we were, once upon a time. We’ve been married for over a decade, but we realized early on that there were things we both wanted, things that didn’t always align.”

Aemond frowned slightly, not quite understanding. “But if you love each other…”

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in her expression, a kind of resigned wisdom. “We do love each other. We care deeply about each other, we love each other. But we’re not in love. Not in the way that most people expect or demand from a marriage.”

Aemond’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his mind. “So, you just… see other people? Without it affecting you?”

Alys shook her head, leaning forward slightly. “It only works if both people are one hundred percent okay with it. That’s the thing, Aemond. You can’t force this kind of relationship. Brynden and I have different things we need out of life. There’s very little I can do to satisfy myself if I have to compromise for him. The same goes for him too. He’s my best friend. We’ve found a balance, a way to live together and still have space for ourselves.”

She glanced at him, watching his reaction carefully. “But it’s not easy. It takes a lot of trust. And it doesn’t always make sense to people who see love as something that has to be exclusive.”

Aemond sat back, his lips curling slightly in that familiar way when his mind was working through something, his ego surfacing. He couldn’t help himself. “I suppose I’m lucky, then,” he said, a faint note of arrogance in his voice. “To be the one who gets to benefit from that.”

Alys’s expression froze. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, the warm, intimate atmosphere between them cracked. She stood up abruptly, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Lucky?” she echoed, her gaze piercing. “You think this is about luck? Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain something like this without everything falling apart?”

Aemond realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. He shot to his feet, his hand reaching for hers. “Alys, I didn’t mean—”

But she pulled her hand back, shaking her head, her frustration evident. “No, you don’t get to reduce my life, my choices, to something as simple as luck.”

He stepped closer, his hands moving to her shoulders, his voice softer now, more genuine. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Alys stared at him for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with restrained emotion. He could see the tension in her, the wariness that came with it all. In a rare display, her years showed.

Without a word, Aemond leaned in and kissed her, his lips capturing hers in a way that was both apologetic and filled with longing. She responded, hesitantly at first, but then with more intensity, as though she were letting go of something. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet space. Aemond held her close, his fingers brushing over her sides, and he spoke softly, almost reverently. “I meant what I said, Alys.”

Alys closed her eyes for a moment, her breathing steadying as she absorbed his words. She sighed softly, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest. 

“I know.”

Aemond lay beside Alys, his shirt barely clinging to her, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin. She moved beneath the sheets with a languid grace that only made her more irresistible. His fingers skimmed over her body, memorizing the dips and curves, the way her skin felt like silk under his touch. Every breath she took was a silent invitation, every brush of her lips against his a reminder of what had just transpired.

Her scent—something faintly floral and utterly intoxicating—clung to the air, mixing with the musky scent of sweat and sex. Aemond felt suspended in the moment, tethered to her in a way he hadn’t anticipated. His gaze drifted from the ceiling to her face, watching as she nestled deeper into the bed, her hair splayed out across the pillow like a dark halo. The way she looked in his shirt, the way she wore it so effortlessly, made his pulse quicken. Everything about her was sensual, down to the simplest gestures, like the lazy curl of her fingers as she reached for him, grazing her nails along his chest.

Her lips brushed his once more, a teasing kiss that made his head spin, like she knew just how far she could push him before he crumbled beneath her. There was an ease to her movements, a confidence that drove him wild, made him want to lose himself in her all over again. She shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against his, the heat of her skin sparking something primal within him.

But then her voice cut through the haze, soft and matter-of-fact, as if she were commenting on the weather. "I’m going to see Brynden tomorrow."

The words struck him like a slow-burning match, igniting something deep inside. The stillness in the room suddenly felt suffocating, the heat they’d shared now turning into a simmering tension. His hand, which had been gently tracing the curve of her waist, stilled. Aemond’s pulse quickened, but outwardly, he gave no sign of the fire starting to rage inside him.

Brynden. Her husband.

He tried to keep his breathing steady, but the thought of her with someone else—him—was enough to send a surge of possessiveness coursing through him. Aemond prided himself on his ability to control his emotions, to keep them tightly reined in, but this was different. 

She wasn’t just anyone. She was Alys. And the idea of her in another man’s bed, even if it was her husband's, twisted something deep inside him.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind as he stared at the ceiling, trying to keep his jealousy in check. He didn’t have any right to feel this way. She had made it clear from the beginning. He knew what this was, knew the rules—yet none of that mattered in this moment. Not when the image of her leaving his bed for Brynden was clawing at him, filling him with a need he could barely control.

Alys shifted beside him, her fingers trailing lightly down his chest, as if she were unaware of the storm brewing inside him. But she always knew. She was far too perceptive not to notice the tension that had settled between them.

She tilted her head up, her eyes locking onto his, and there was a playful glint in them. “Are you jealous?” she asked, her tone teasing but laced with curiosity.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t respond, his fingers now gripping her waist with more intensity than before. He swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter on his tongue, but he couldn’t hold back. “I just fucked you, and you’re telling me you’re going to see someone else tomorrow.”

Her laughter was soft, almost like a sigh, but it stoked the flames inside him. She pulled away slightly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “You always knew what this was,” she murmured, her voice gentle yet firm, as if she was reminding him of the rules they had both agreed to.

He turned his head, staring down at her. She looked so effortlessly beautiful, so at ease, but the casualness of her words only intensified the gnawing jealousy inside him. You always knew what this was. Maybe he did, but hearing her say it aloud, hearing her reaffirm the boundaries that she had always been so careful to maintain—it made him feel helpless in a way he hadn’t expected.

His mind couldn’t help but wander, the images of what tomorrow would bring gnawing at him. He thought of her with Brynden, imagined them together, tangled in sheets that weren’t his. Would he touch her the way Aemond did? Would he know the places to kiss that made her gasp softly into his mouth? Would he know the way she liked to be held, the way she would bite her lip when she was just on the edge of ecstasy?

Would he even care?

Or worse, did he know better than him?

Aemond’s grip on her waist tightened, his possessiveness flaring, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled from his lips. “Are you seeing others as well? Or is it just me and Brynden?”

Alys paused, her fingers stopping their idle movements as she looked at him, her gaze thoughtful. She didn’t seem surprised by his question, as if she had been expecting it. “Right now,” she said slowly, “it’s just the two of you.” Her lips curved into a small smile, one that sent a thrill through him despite the jealousy simmering just beneath the surface. 

The fact—that men would come running if she wanted them to—remains unsaid.

Aemond’s lips pressed into a tight line as he absorbed her words. Of course they would. She was magnetic—her beauty, her intelligence, the way she moved through the world with such ease—it was impossible not to be drawn to her. But even knowing that didn’t make the tightness in his chest any easier to bear.

He sat up slightly, his hand trailing up her back, fingers brushing over the exposed skin where his shirt had slipped down her shoulder. He wanted to pull her close, to keep her here with him, but he knew he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to be the only one, to claim her in a way no one else could, he knew the limits of what he was allowed.

This arrangement works because everyone knows where they stand.

She smiled softly, pulling him down to her for a kiss, her lips warm and inviting against his. But as she pulled away, her gaze lingered on his, and there was something knowing in her eyes, something that told him she understood all too well.

“I meant it,” he whispered, his voice low, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “I am jealous.”

Alys didn’t say anything, but the soft look in her eyes said enough. She knew. She had always known.

And he should have too.

Aemond had spent days trying to shake the feeling, trying to claw his way back to the control he’d once prided himself on. But the jealousy gnawed at him, a constant, gnawing tension in his chest. He hadn’t seen Alys since that night—had barely even let himself think of her—but she was everywhere. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lying in his bed, felt her skin beneath his fingers, heard her voice as she casually mentioned her husband’s name, as if it were nothing.

He tried to drown himself in distractions—meetings, late-night study sessions, endless hours at the gym—but none of it worked. The silence of his apartment felt louder than ever, and every time he glanced at his phone, he half-expected to see a message from her. But it never came.

Not until Wylde’s name appeared on his screen.

He was standing by the window, mindlessly staring at the city lights when the familiar vibration startled him from his thoughts. He glanced down, and for a brief, disorienting second, his heart stopped. The photo of her flashed on his phone—a candid shot she had sent him months ago, a sunlit snapshot of her by the cliffs, her eyes gleaming with mischief and an easy smile that always made him feel lighter.

His stomach flipped, warmth spreading through him at the sight of her name.

It was as if all the heaviness he had been carrying suddenly lifted, the fog of jealousy and frustration dissipating in an instant. Without thinking, he grabbed the phone and answered, bringing it to his ear.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, a hint of surprise in his tone.

He leaned into his pillows on the bed as she talked, her singsong voice making him feel lighter with each second. His cigarette burned idly between his fingers, ash falling unnoticed to the floor as he listened to her voice on the other end of the line. It had been days since they’d last talked, and the sound of her now felt like a balm to his burned heart.

“So, I tried that new coffee place you told me about,” Wylde said, her voice light, teasing. He could hear the smile in it. “The one with the ridiculously overpriced pastries.”

He smirked, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “And?”

She sighed dramatically. “Never again. I’m convinced you only recommended it for the aesthetics.”

Aemond chuckled softly, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Maybe. The coffee’s not terrible though.”

“Not terrible? I’ve had better instant coffee.”

There was a pause on her end before her tone shifted, more thoughtful now. “So… Daeron talked to me today.”

Aemond’s fingers stilled on his cigarette. “And?”

“I don’t know. He apologized, and we talked. One thing led to another and I told him I loved him.”

The warmth that had spread through him a moment ago began to ebb as she continued.

“I asked him why he never said anything, and he said he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“Hm.” He lit another cigarette, the click of the lighter distinct even through the phone. He could picture her so clearly, lying in bed with the phone pressed to her ear, her face soft with thought. He flexed his knuckles as he always did when he needed to keep his hands busy, the tension creeping back into his muscles.

“And then we just… I don’t know. We just sort of sat there for a bit.”

“Hm.” He inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill his lungs, waiting for her to continue. Aemond had never been one to rush her, especially when it came to things like this. He imagined the awkward silence that must have hung between her and Daeron, and it stirred something low in his chest.

“We didn’t say much after. I was too embarrassed to continue, and he seemed tired. We just finished our drinks and then he insisted on walking me home.”

Aemond didn’t respond right away. He let the silence stretch between them, processing her words. His thumb absently flicked at the filter of his cigarette as he stared out into the dim city skyline, feeling the familiar weight settle on him. The thought of Daeron, after everything, still having a hold over her – it bothered him more than it should. He knew it was irrational, but knowing didn’t make it any easier to shake.

He shifted in his seat, the leather of his jacket rustling faintly. 

A slight creak of her bed sounded through the phone as she shifted. “Are you still there?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone quiet, more subdued than before. He hesitated for a moment, flexing his knuckles again before asking, “Are you… do you still have feelings for him?”

The question was out before he could stop it, and immediately, he regretted how vulnerable it made him sound. He tried to keep his voice even, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

There was a pause on her end, the kind that made his chest tighten. He could almost picture her expression—surprised, maybe, but not angry.

“It hasn’t completely gone away,” she finally admitted, her voice measured. “There’s always going to be something there. But no, not quite as I used to.”

He took another slow drag, the smoke clouding his vision as he exhaled. Good. Maybe it’s time to focus on other things. Other people.”

He hoped his voice sounded casual, like it didn’t matter much to him either way.

“Yeah. Maybe it is,” she replied, her voice softer now, as though she was giving the idea some real thought.

Aemond let the silence stretch between them again, and this time, it felt a little lighter. He could feel the tension that had gripped him earlier easing. The jealousy that had been simmering for days was still there, but now it felt manageable, less like a gnawing ache and more like a dull throb he could ignore.

“Speaking of other people,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Have you made any new friends at university? Met anyone interesting?”

Aemond felt his jaw tighten for a second before he forced himself to relax. He could almost hear her smirking through the phone.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause, his voice deliberately noncommittal. “A few people.”

“Oh? Anyone special?” she pressed, clearly enjoying the chance to prod at him.

He hesitated, and the pause was long enough that he knew she’d pick up on it.

“Hm…”

“Aemond,” she said, exasperation seeping into her voice, though he could tell she was smiling. “Is that a yes?”

“Perhaps,” he replied, knowing it would drive her crazy.

“Come on! You can’t just say ‘perhaps’ and leave it at that. Tell me!” she urged, her voice rising with excitement.

He sighed, trying to hide the smirk playing at his lips. “There’s someone. But it’s nothing serious.”

“Someone? What’s their name?” she asked eagerly.

“No.”

Her laughter bubbled through the phone, warm and familiar. “You’re no fun.”

“Nothing much to say,” he countered, taking another drag. “It’s… too soon.”

She sighed dramatically, though he could hear the smile in her voice. “Fine, but you owe me details eventually.”

“Maybe,” he said, his tone lighter than it had been in days.

“I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Aemond couldn’t help but smile this time. He could picture her so clearly, lying there in bed with that mischievous glint in her eyes. “We’ll see.”

“I’m tired. Good night, Aemond,” her voice was soft, gentle, as though the day’s weight had finally eased off her shoulders. There was something warm in the way she said it, something familiar that made him pause.

“Good night, Wylde,” he murmured back, his own voice laced with a quiet fondness he hadn’t meant to let slip.

As the call ended, the stillness of the room settled over him. Aemond leaned back in his chair, staring at his phone for a long moment, her name still glowing on the screen. The corners of his lips lifted slightly as he thought of her. Even now, after everything, she could still make his chest tighten with just a word. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers smolder and fade.

For a moment, his mind drifted back to last summer. How he almost told her when they sat in her bed before he left, how the words had been on the tip of his tongue so many times. The late nights they’d spent talking, the stolen glances when she wasn’t looking—he’d convinced himself it was just a crush, a fleeting thing. But the way his heart would flip whenever she smiled at him, or how his pulse would race when her hand brushed his... Maybe it was something more. He’d wondered if, just maybe, she’d felt it too.

But then he left. And in Oldtown, everything changed.

Alys.

Aemond closed his eyes, feeling a familiar heat coil in his chest at the mere thought of her. Gods, Alys. She was unlike anyone he’d ever known—intense, dangerous, and undeniably captivating. He remembered the first time they met, the way her eyes had seemed to see right through him, peeling back layers he hadn’t even known were there. And before he knew it, he was tangled in her, in whatever it was they had together. It wasn’t love, no, but it was something—something that gripped him hard and wouldn’t let go.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. Even now, his heart still flipped when Wylde called, but it didn’t beg for her the way it did for Alys. With Wylde, it was soft, warm, comforting. But with Alys... oh gods, with Alys it was something else entirely. The heat between them, the way his body craved hers—it was raw, electric, and it consumed him in ways that were almost terrifying.

And yet... he thought of Wylde, her soft pining after Daeron, how she still held onto the hope of something that had never truly been hers. It infuriated him in a way he couldn’t explain. He hated that she didn’t see how beneath her it was. Daeron, who despite being his own brother, would never be someone who would give her what she deserved. She didn’t see it, and maybe she never would.

His thoughts flickered back to Alys, to the way he’d let himself get caught up in her. He hadn’t intended for it to go this far. He didn’t need commitment, he didn’t need to belong to anyone. Not when he had someone like Alys—someone who didn’t ask for anything more than what he could give. What they had worked for him. It was perfect, just the way it was. So why did his mind keep slipping, why did the thought of Wylde still linger, hovering just at the edge of his thoughts?

He clenched his jaw, pushing the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. Wylde was still tied up in Daeron, in whatever heartbreak she was clinging to. And Alys... Alys was what he needed. She gave him exactly what he wanted without the complications, without the demands.

The next night, Aemond found himself standing at Alys’ door, barely able to breathe as she opened it. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and before she could say anything, he was on her, slamming the door shut with a force that echoed through the room.

His hands were on her in an instant, pushing her back against the wall, his lips crashing down on hers with a hunger he hadn’t realized had built up inside him. The kiss was fierce, unrelenting, and she barely had time to gasp before he was lifting her, his fingers digging into her skin, his body pressing against hers.

He didn’t stop to think, didn’t slow down, didn’t give her a moment to ask what was happening. He just took the way he liked. Her breath was ragged, matching his own, her nails digging into his back as she responded with equal fervor.

This was what he needed.

She twirled a strand of dark hair between her fingers, her eyes locked onto him as he talked about the upcoming summer trip to Valyria. Aegon’s relationship with Sara Snow had opened doors that were otherwise sealed shut for nearly everyone else. A summer expedition to the ancient, forbidden land—one that was so deeply tied to his heritage—felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and yet the anticipation thrummed through his veins in a way that was almost... understated.

“You’ll see things no one’s seen for centuries,” Alys said. Her gaze flicked over him as if she was sizing him up, wondering how deeply the land’s mysteries would affect him. “If you’re lucky, they’ll let you wander off the program. See the real Valyria, not just the parts the academics have planned out for their research.”

Aemond’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “Sara Snow runs a tight ship. There’s not much leeway. But Aegon mentioned there might be an opportunity if I slip away during one of the less critical site studies. She’s obsessed with the subterranean temples. It’s the landmarks I’m after—those that would bear the sigils or icons linked to House Targaryen. Dragons. The Three-headed Beast.”

Alys leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, intrigued. “You think the old sigils might still be there? Carved into stone or etched into relics buried beneath volcanic ash?”

“I have a feeling they would be,” Aemond murmured, his eyes flickering with a hint of excitement. “The Targaryens came from there. It’s in our blood, our bones. The architecture, the ancient monuments, it would all tie back to our origins. Even if some of it’s eroded or destroyed, Valyria’s foundation was built on the backs of dragonlords.”

Alys’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Keep your eyes open for anything that seems... too deliberate. Valyrian artisans were methodical. They hid their secrets in plain sight, but only for those who know where to look.”

He nodded, his mind already racing through what he’d studied about Valyria—the imagery, the symbolism, the deep-rooted history he was about to walk into. His excitement was tempered, though, controlled as always. Aemond’s passions ran deep, but they were guarded.

As they continued to speak, his phone buzzed softly in his pocket. He almost didn’t reach for it, but something told him to look. The moment he saw the name on the screen, his expression softened, the tension in his body easing in a way Alys had never quite seen before.

“Who is it?” Alys asked, noticing the subtle shift in him.

Without answering, Aemond gave her a brief, almost apologetic smile as he slid his thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Wylde,” he greeted, his voice warmer, softer than it had been in the last few hours. “What’s up?”

Alys raised a brow, watching as he leaned back in his seat, a trace of amusement flickering in her dark eyes as she observed the man in front of her transform into something gentler, less guarded.

More so the boy that he is.

Her voice was muffled, but Aemond listened intently, nodding along as if she could see him. His eyes brightened subtly, the corners of his lips twitching as she told him about her graduation gown fitting.

“Finally packing for Oldtown, huh?” he asked, a rare note of quiet excitement in his voice. “Good.”

There was a pause as Wylde spoke again, and Aemond’s gaze flickered toward Alys for a brief moment, remembering that he wasn’t alone. “I’m with someone right now, but I’ll call you later, alright?”

She said something else, something lighthearted, and Aemond’s lips curled into a small, barely-there smile as he ended the call.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and when he looked up, Alys was watching him with that same knowing smile that made it clear she’d picked up on everything.

“Wylde?” she asked casually, though her tone was tinged with curiosity.

Aemond didn’t answer immediately, his features slipping back into the cool detachment he was known for, but Alys could see the faint trace of warmth still lingering in his eyes.

“She’s an old friend of the family,” he said, his voice measured, but Alys didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed slightly, as if he was still holding onto the echo of the conversation.

Alys leaned back in her seat, smirking. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you smile like that before.”

Aemond’s gaze met Alys’s, cool and steady, the warmth from moments before already fading as if it had never existed. His fingers absently flexed against the edge of the table, and he gave a small shrug.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice returning to its usual controlled cadence. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Alys didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to watch him with that knowing smile, her lips curving as if she saw right through him. She leaned forward slightly, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as her eyes locked onto his, sharp and unreadable.

“Doesn’t it?” she asked, her tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity, probing.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “No. It doesn’t.”

He picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and took a slow drag, the smoke curling lazily between them. Alys tilted her head, her smile widening just a fraction, as if his denial was amusing to her. She didn’t push further, though. That wasn’t her style. Alys knew when to press and when to let things be. She had him figured out well enough to know that some things were better left unspoken.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost soothing, though the amusement in her eyes never quite left. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs casually. “If you say so.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating into the air between them, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. But Alys’s smile lingered, just on the edge of her lips, like she knew something he wasn’t ready to admit even to himself.

Two months later, she stood at his doorstep in Oldtown.

“Hey, missed me?” Wylde said, her voice light, that familiar carelessness in her tone that always managed to put him at ease. The way she looked at him—like nothing had changed—made something in his chest shift, the way it always did.

She stepped forward to hug him, and he held her for a moment longer after, his hands resting on her shoulders. "Have you moved into your new place yet?" he asked, trying to sound casual, as if her being here wasn’t undoing everything he had told himself.

As if he hadn’t spent months imagining this exact moment and wondering how it would feel.

"The boxes are in," she replied with a shrug, her eyes meeting his, bright and untroubled, unguarded in a way that made him feel like he could breathe again. "I should probably start unpacking soon."

He nodded, a small smile forming. "Let me know if you need help."

Her eyes softened, and she leaned back slightly, as if assessing him. “How was Valyria?”

And then, it all unraveled. The way she said it, like she genuinely wanted to know, like she’d missed hearing about his life. He began talking, and for the first time in what felt like a year, he felt that spark of excitement again, the kind that came naturally around her. He found himself smiling in a way he hadn’t in months, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders as he told her about the trip, about the ruins and relics, his voice lighter than it had been in so long. She listened, leaning in, her eyes tracing his face like she was searching for something she’d missed.

He didn’t even realize he was still holding her. He hadn’t let go, and his hands were warm where they rested on her, like something slotting into place. And suddenly, for the first time since he’d moved here, everything felt right.

Lighter. Like home.

He was fucked. Completely. He could feel it now, the rush of everything he’d tried to bury for months rising up, all at once.

How did he ever convince himself he’d gotten over her?

MASTERLIST

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[blamebrampton]

Books talk to each other. Mostly because practically every writer is also a voracious reader, but also because books arise out of times and places and we share a lot of our worlds these days. So it’s unsurprising that several novels I have hugely enjoyed over the past few years share the theme of the antiheroine who is past all giving of the fucks. Naomi Novik’s powerful dark sorceress kept on her own tight leash in the Scholomance books was a joy to follow; Xiran Jay Zhao’s Iron Widow slashed her way into my heart and now Sarah Rees Brennan’s Long Live Evil has added to a list of beloved antiheroines that probably started for me with Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair.

Coincidentally, when considering how to describe Long Live Evil without significant spoilers, I realised that it shared several major themes with Vanity Fair. Young woman unfairly treated by fate decides to embrace her slut era to survive a war zone – both very accurate and wildly inaccurate for both. LLE opens with main character Rae in a hospital bed, teasing her sister about a book series they both adore. Rae is taking refuge in the story they have shared over years because it is one of the few things they have left: she is losing her fight against cancer and has been losing parts of her life, family and memory as that fight has progressed.

My personal hospital experiences have all been to do with major traumas rather than illness, which I vastly prefer because if you don’t die in the first couple of days, you usually start mending and you can immediately make plans to make the best of whatever you’ve broken. Rees Brennan, however, famously wrote a very funny, very horrible, ‘Kids, you won’t believe what shenanigans your girl’s been up to now, it’s only stage four Hodgkins lymphoma!’ post on her Tumblr or LJ (someone who has been hit in the head with taxis fewer times than me will doubtless factcheck that in the notes) about seven or eight years ago and then faced the very serious business of trying to live. The hospital scenes are painfully authentic, as are the stories of people who have left Rae as she slipped further out of everyday life.

For Rees Brennan, a loving family and peer group were there to hold her as close as they could. For Rae, only her beloved little sister, Alice, and Time of Iron, their favourite fantasy series, remain. They read the books together, remember adventures cosplaying and watching the musical, they wonder about the final instalment; for Rae it’s a joy she can still share (even if she doesn’t remember as much as she should), for Alice, it’s her two greatest loves. When a strange woman offers a door into the world of the book and a possible magical cure to Rae, she wants it as much as she disbelieves it.

Stepping into Eyam, the land of Time of Iron, Rae finds herself in the body of a villain doomed to die the next day. No worries! She’s thought and fought her way out of worse scraps than this in her past as a head cheerleader, let alone while battling cancer. She can use her knowledge of the plot to change things! If only she remembered more of the books…

Portal fantasies are common enough, but not all play by the same rules. This isn’t Narnia, where the magical world is more real than our own, for Rae, the world of the book is nothing more a tool to get her hands on the cure. She doesn’t need to care about any of these people, they’re not real. Most of them speak in a formal language that relies on the conventions of fantasy literature (there is an ongoing, warm-hearted skewering of all Game of Thrones-esque texts running through both the story and the in-text ‘quotes’ from Time of Iron) and half the characters are known more by their descriptions rather than their names. So she will play the Beauty Dipped in Blood, with her questionable morals, impractical clothes and centre-of-balance-distorting boobs for the weeks that will pass until the cure is available. Whoever she has to shuffle in the plot to secure a place beside that cure, she will shuffle. While she’s not out to kill anyone, it’s not as though they were ever really alive. Not like her. If she has to be the villain to survive, she will be an impeccable one. The people will cheer evil on!

Obviously, little goes to plan. Rae’s illness has taught her cruelty, but she hasn’t forgotten what it is to be kind. Even as she manipulates her role into ongoing main character, she realises that’s not how anyone gets a happy ending. That’s not how she can live with herself. As she comes to think of the other people in the story as real, they become more so, both in how we read them and in how they impact the story. Rae remembers what it is like to make friends, which she never meant to, but, oh, the luxury after years of watching people slip away!

As in previous novel In Other Lands, Rees Brennan has a long list of fantasy tropes to embrace and undermine, and her deft touch with humour is as evident as ever here, but her publishers call this her first adult novel and there is a shift in tone from her previous works. Anger is more real and lasting. Consequences are more significant. Understanding is reached for, even if it’s bitter. One of my favourite things is that she lets her female characters rage, but never judges those who can’t, whether because they’re too powerless or just too tired, and her male characters are allowed to be people if they choose to be — which all but the most vainglorious do.

I hadn’t paid much attention beyond checking the release date for the book, so didn’t realise it was the first in a series. For me, it worked perfectly as a standalone novel, even with the unended threads, which would have perfectly balanced Rae’s unfinished life. That said, I am very happy to know we will spend more time with these characters in the future. I want more. I do want to know if there is a hope for Rae, if this is the fever dream of a fading life, if this is the story Alice has told to ease her sister from the world or something else. There are a dozen characters I hope for, at least three happy endings that would bring joy. But don’t wait for the next books: sink your teeth into this one and believe what it says about the importance of listening to stories rather than just falling in love with characters. Though if you find yourself cheering on Rae, or her servant Emer, the elusive Eric, Horrible Hortensia or almost any of the others, I am the last person who will judge you.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

So uh. I had this super dumb idea and decided to roll with it.

Which I guess is kinda how writing works on the whole but anyway.

Here's the first chapter of a Young!Mihawk x Marine!AFAB Reader fic that absolutely no one asked for but my brain dumped on me anyway.

Whole first chapter is basically setting the scenario. Bear with me here. I intend for this to be both heartfelt and fcking hilarious in equal measure. As of right now I don't really have plans for it to carry on for more than three or four chapters, but who knows.

Timeline is set to around a decade after Gol D. Roger's death, prior to Mihawk having status as a Warlord of the Sea. He'd be in his late 20s to early 30s (don't ask me to math right now, it's almost five in the morning, I'll be more specific later). So not super-young Mihawk. He definitely already has his silly lil adorable pointy goatee/moustache that we all know and love so very much.

I don't even have a damned title yet. We'll just call it, uh. I don't know. Fucking uh........

Flight Risk

Ch. 1 of who even knows

Next Chapter Link

Young!Mihawk x Marine!AFAB!Reader

SFW for now, but not in later chapters

No trigger warnings yet, possible future trigger warnings for imprisonment, mild torture (definitely psychological, maybe physical)

Word Count: 3420

Only a few months had passed since you enlisted with the Marines, and nothing seemed to be going right. You were clumsy with both melee and ranged weapons, not particularly strong physically, and while you had improved through training you weren’t learning at nearly the same rate as the other recruits. It was no help at all that your somehow borderline useless devil fruit abilities had somehow been exposed and you were now the target of constant torment from other cadets, and even some superior officers.

You almost wanted to give up entirely.

You spent most of your free time hiding away from your peers at an old dock on the base to avoid the teasing. It was here you say now, arms wrapped around your knees and glaring out toward the setting sun after another day of being squawked at and offered crackers. All because you had taken a stupid dare from a stupid friend when you were six years old and eaten that stupid fruit.

You let out a heavy sigh at the sound of footsteps behind you, certain that one of your tormentors had discovered your hiding spot.

“Really not in the mood,” you said aloud, not bothering to look over your shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just as much fun talking about me behind my back—”

But instead, a commanding voice that made your breath catch in your throat and your eyes grow wide as saucers answered. You recognized it as its owner spoke your name aloud—anyone on base would have recognized it. You quickly scrambled to your feet and turned around to face Bogard with your hand raised in a salute, trying to keep your knees from shaking.

“S—sorry, sir, I—” He just held up a hand to stop you, and your mouth snapped shut immediately. His own mouth remained turned down in his usual characteristic frown, and after a moment he let out a vaguely frustrated sigh.

“Vice Admiral Garp requires your presence. Please follow me.”

You remained glued to the spot for a moment even as he turned on his heel and began to stride away. Garp and Bogard had shown up at the base a week ago on some business from headquarters that was being kept quiet around the rest of the base. You quickly forced yourself to follow after Bogard, your stomach in knots as you jogged to catch up to his long strides.

He didn’t speak again until you were outside the door of the office the vice admiral was occupying, turning to face you with his arms crossed. You quickly saluted again, your eyes still wide, burning the slightest bit—you were fairly sure you hadn’t blinked a single time since he had first addressed you.

“At ease, cadet.” You swallowed, lowering your hand and folding it behind your back with your other. “The vice admiral has some questions for you,” he said in brief explanation, opening the door. “Come.” You flinched as you followed him in, Garp’s booming voice meeting your ears as he shouted at someone through the den den mushi on his desk. It was clear he wasn’t in a good mood.

“Again?” he was saying, pacing behind the desk. “Yeah, I got it. Why do you think I’m at this shithole of a—” He gave a growl of annoyance, his grip tightening around the speaker. “Yes, Fleet Admiral. I think if I could manage to capture Roger, I can handle some brat calling himself the World’s Stronge—”  He closed his eyes tightly, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I’m well aware of the threat. Doesn’t make him any less of a brat. With all due respect, sir, I know what I’m doing, Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah. Understood.”

He dropped the handset back onto the den den mushi, sitting heavily in his chair behind the desk, strumming his fingers on the arm for a moment impatiently.

You felt as if you might pass out any second as you stood in front of the desk, trying to keep yourself still but still fidgeting slightly as your nervousness evolved toward something more like abject terror. There was no way this was about anything good. The vice admiral was here on orders handed down directly from his own superiors at Marine Headquarters. Vice Admiral Garp, recognized the world over as the hero of the Marines, the man that had brought Gold Roger to justice barely a decade ago.

An officer of his status wouldn’t waste his time with a lowly cadet like yourself unless the situation was incredibly dire.

When he finally lifted his eyes to look at you, you sprang immediately into a salute, and it was all you could do to keep your knees from buckling. He glanced at Bogard, standing off to the side and idly flipping through a book on one of the shelves along the right side of the office walls. “This the one?” asked Garp.

“It would seem so,” he affirmed.”

“Good.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze flickering over you. “At ease, cadet.”

Once more you folded your hands behind your back—though in literal terms, you were anything but at ease. Your face flushed and your legs visibly shaking at this point, it was all you could do to keep your eyes on his.

The vice admiral gave a small snort of amusement at your nervous state as he picked up a folder from his desk—a folder with your name written on the tab.

“Calm down, you’re not in any trouble,” he said. You still swallowed nervously, your mouth turning down ina  slight frown. He read your name out loud at the top of the file before going on. “Says here your old man was a Lieutenant. Died in the line of duty among a fleet that took on a division of the Whitebeard pirates.”

“Y—yes, sir,” you said, giving a short nod when he glanced at you from over the top of the folder. “He’s the reason I enlisted.”

“Revenge?” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

“No, sir,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I looked up to him. He wanted to make the world a better place. Safer. That’s...why I enlisted.”

He nodded slowly, observing you for a long moment as he seemed to mull over your answer. “Good to hear,” he said finally, lowering his eyes back down to what you could only assume was your enlistment paperwork. “Revenge is thankless work. Your old man was a damned good Marine. Honorable. Sounds like the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.” You relaxed the slightest bit in the approval at his tone—it was perhaps the first compliment you had gotten from any of your superiors. “Unfortunately, we’re not here to reminisce. This is official business. And confidential.” He set the folder down on his desk, still open, meeting your eyes again. “I’ll need your word right now that you won’t repeat anything we discuss here to anyone.”

Your eyes widened a little, and you nodded quickly. :Of course, Vice Admiral,” you said immediately, your heart hammering in your chest.

He nodded slowly himself, picking up a lowball glass of what appeared to be whiskey from his desk. He gestured with his free hand to the chair across from him. “Then have a seat. We could be here awhile.”

You glanced at the chair behind you, and took a few steps backwards, folding your hands in your lap. You couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of official business he might have with you. You were a new recruit, tended to blend into the background—at least you had, until word had gotten out about….

Your stomach dropped at Garp’s next sentence.

“I understand you’re a devil fruit user?”

“I…am,” you said slowly, almost cautiously. You had received nothing but jeering and taunting for your ability, even before you enlisted. “It’s…not exactly a useful ability, though.”

“You don’t think so?” he said, with a hint of a smirk, and you shook your head, your eyes dropping down to your knees. “‘Omu Omu no Mi,’” he read off from the file. “‘Zoan type devil fruit. Gray parrot.’ You’ve had the ability for…fifteen years?” You nodded shortly, your brow still furrowed in your growing confusion. “You can’t think of any application where that would be useful?”

Your remained silent for some time, wondering if it was a trick question, some sort of joke at your expense. Sure the vice admiral wouldn’t waste his time calling you here for the sake of a joke. After a moment, you shook your head, lifting your gaze, grimacing a little. “It’s, uh…been more of a burden than anything, honestly,” you admitted.

“Yeah, I’ve heard.” Your brow furrowed a bit, and he gestured over to Bogard, still leaning against the bookshelf off to the side. “I’ve had Bogard here keeping an eye on you since we got here.”

That was incredibly surprising news to you. You glanced at Bogard yourself. You had seen him around the base a few times, but it had seemed to be only in passing. While you were still rendered speechless at the claim, Garp when on.

“I read in your file that your mother’s an…ornithologist?” he said, glancing down at the folder once more. Your brow remained furrowed as you nodded slowly, trying to wrap your head around where this could be going. “So I’d guess you have a pretty good understanding of birds. How they behave, interact with humans?”

“I—”

“With all due respect, Garp…” Both you and Garp glanced over at Bogard at his interruption. He lowered the book he had been flipping through, his frown deepening. “This is still the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard of.”

“Give me a better idea, then.” After a moment, Bogard rolled his eyes, lifting the book again, still looking quite disgruntled with the situation—whatever the situation was. Garp turned his attention back to you, gesturing with a wave of his hand for you to continue.

“I-I…did learn a lot from her,” you affirmed. “She specializes in parrots and corvids. She runs a veterinary practice and rescue service for them in the East Blue.”

“Think you’d be able fool people into believing you’re the real thing?”

“Wh…wha…”

You felt like you were trapped in some strange fever dream you couldn’t wake from. Garp raised his eyebrows as he waited for your response, as you frowned, struggling to collect your thoughts into something organized enough to allow you to speak.

“I…used to prank my mom into thinking I was one of the birds in our aviary,” you admitted, almost sheepishly.

Garp let out a hearty laugh at that, his smirk spreading into a grin. “Well, if you could fool an expert, then I guess you could fool damn near anyone, huh?” You blinked rapidly as he leaned forward, crossing his arms over the desk. “So. How much do you know about a pirate by the name of Dracule Mihawk?”

Your breath caught as you froze in place, your blood running cold.

There was no Marine, likely no one in the world, that didn’t know that name. It wasn’t long after the execution of Gold Roger that he had begun making the headlines, and not for anything good. Even as a rookie he had quickly gained a reputation for being ruthless and deadly, slaughtering pirates and Marines alike with seemingly no distinction between the two. For a few years now he had gained notoriety for being considered by many to be the world’s most powerful swordsman. You had heard stories of him singlehandedly destroying entire Marine warships without batting an eye.

The man was practically a living nightmare for any Marine.

“I…I’ve heard of him,” you managed to force out weakly.

Garp scoffed at that, taking a sip from his whiskey. “Who the hell hasn’t?” he said. “Especially among us. He’s been responsible for the deaths of more Marines over the past few years than any other pirate sailing the Grand Line. And completely on his own. No crew.” He shook his head, giving another scoff. “Almost no one we’ve sent after the bastard comes back alive. Except, of course, those he lets go willingly to tell us he’ll continue to slaughter anyone that challenges him. It’s a problem we can’t ignore.”

You swallowed, the rising tension in you rendering you as stiff as a statue. You could sense where this was going…and you didn’t like it one bit.

“I’m thinking a different approach could be out best bet in taking care of the problem. Something a little more subtle.” You nodded slowly to indicate you were following what he was saying—what he was suggesting. “I’m sure you don’t want to see any more Marines die at the hands to this monster any more than I do. Am I right?”

Of course he was right—you knew it as well as Garp did. Your father had been enough. Knowing that there were so many other Marines, other men and women that might leave behind broken families, losing their lives at the hands of such a ruthless killer…it sickened you to your core.

Once more, you nodded.

“Then we’re on the same page,” he said. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, taking a sip from his glass, before he set it down and stood up. “You say you think your devil fruit ability is useless. I say it could be exactly what we need.”

“Y…you want me to use my devil fruit to…” He paced slowly behind his desk, his eyes remaining on you, waiting for you to say it. “T…to take down…him?”

“Not…quite,” he said. “Like I said, different approach I want you to use your devil fruit ability against him. But not to take him down. I think you’re probably smart enough to know that you wouldn’t stand a chance in combat against him.” You swallowed, giving a short nod in agreement. “What we really need at this point is information. Any potential weakness that he might possess. Your ability isn’t useless, but it is…unassuming. You could spy on almost anyone you wanted without them knowing. And hey, let’s face it—pirates like parrots.”

You heard Bogard sigh heavily at this statement, and you couldn’t help but agree with his wordless disapproval. Pirates like parrots was a pretty broad generalization to make regarding such a dire situation.

“Look,” Garp said as your brow furrowed once more. He stepped out from behind his desk, slowly circling your chair. “Parrots are smart birds, right?” You nodded. “And they tend to bond pretty easily with humans?” Another nod, your eyes following him as he came around the other side of your chair, stopping right in front of you and leaning back against his desk. “You could get close to him without him having any idea you’re anything but a friendly, intelligent bird.”

“or he could consider her a pest and kill her,” said Bogard dryly—voicing the exact concern that was already forming in your own head.

Garp rolled his eyes. “One, there haven’t been any reports that he makes a habit of killing animals. Two, you’d be a bird. You can fly. He can’t.”

“He can split entire ships in half from at least a hundred yards,” Bogard pointed out.

“Yeah, he can,” agreed Garp—and his confirmation of this claim did absolutely nothing to help your resolve. “But why bother killing a bird that’s already flying away? He’s killing Marines to send a message that we can’t touch him. He’s killing pirates so his competition knows they can’t touch him. What’s he going to kill a goddamned parrot for?” Another sigh came from Bogard—it seemed as if the man had been through this exact same argument before. “Worst case scenario,” Garp continued, “you fly off to safety and consider it a failed mission. No black mark on your record, brownie points for even attempting it. Best case…” He crossed his arms, his mouth spreading into a grin. “You get close to a pirate no one has been able to touch for years, and return with commendation and respect from the entire Navy. Show all these recruits that have been laughing at your abilities that you’re a hell of a lot more useful than any of them.”

You bit your lip, your eyes darting off to the side. You didn’t consider yourself vain…but you had spent fifteen years considering your devil fruit completely useless. Now you had a Marine vice admiral, a man regarded by much of the world as a hero, telling you that you could potentially use your power to save the lives of countless people. It was the exact reason your father told you he had enlisted—to protect innocent lives, to make the world safer.

“I…I’m not much of a fighter,” you said finally. “If he were to figure out that I’m a human…a Marine, I…”

“You’d receive special training before the mission,” said Garp. “Enough to give you a fighting chance at escaping if you had to. Given what we know about Dracule Mihawk, it would still be dangerous, of course. But you’d still stand a better chance alone at gathering intel than an entire fleet of ships would stand facing him in combat. As it stands now,” he said, his expression shifting into a scowl, “there are several high ranking Marine officers that believe the only chance of dealing with him is offering him status as a Warlord. There’s still a problem with that, considering no one can get close enough to him to propose the offer. If nothing else, you could get close enough to do that.”

“Which would likely be the best course of action,” Bogard interjected.

And Garp ignored him.\

“I propose,” said Garp, “that you keep an eye on him for a month. Get as close as you safely can. Search for any potential weakness we could exploit, and report back. If there aren’t any,” he said, tossing a sharp glance at Bogard, before leveling his gaze with yours again, “then you go back with the paperwork in your pocket and propose the offer.”

And possibly be killed the moment you revealed who you were—what you were. That detail remained unspoken, but you had no doubt that both Garp and Bogard had already considered the possibility, if you were already thinking about it yourself.

You could be killed. In the blink of an eye. Without any warning. You could die attempting thing. It was almost insane to even consider what Garp was proposing.

But you couldn’t ignore the possibility that it could work. That it could save countless lives from ending.

Save countless families from the same grief you and your mother had endured.

You pulled in a slow, deep breath, lifting your eyes and meeting Garp’s.

And you nodded.

“I’ll do it.” His eyebrows shot up at your acceptance. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

His surprised expression slowly split into a grin.

“You’re under no obligation to accept.” You turned your head as Bogard snapped his book shut, leveling his dark eyes with yours. Garp was already chuckling to himself, but Bogard’s expression remained grave as he went on. “You’re aware of the risk, I’m sure. The pirate in question has killed thousands of Marines to date, and I wish that was an exaggeration. This could very well be a suicide mission. If you’re doing this for recognition, I suggest you walk out of this office and forget every detail of this conversation.”

“I don’t care about recognition.” You shook your head as Bogard continued to regard you with a frown, lifting an eyebrow; as Garp tossed a glance at him that very clearly said told you so. “And I know the risk.I know I could die.” He crossed his arms, waiting for you to continue. You swallowed, going on quietly, “But…if it succeeds, then it could stop thousands of others from dying.” You lifted your gaze to meet his, straightening your back in the chair. “That’s all I care about.”

Though Bogard didn’t look entirely convinced, he wasn’t given any further opportunity to protest, as Garp let out a laugh. “You heard the girl, Bogard,” he said, reaching behind him and picking up the receiver from the den den mushi on the desk once more. “I say it’s time to get the ball rolling and finally give this madman a run for his money.”

Next Chapter Link again, for your convenience

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 12 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: pregnancy, allusion to smut, contractions, water breaking, labor and delivery, and Eddie wasn't there, epidural, medical emergency, lots of fluff

WC: 4.3k

A/N: I could not have written this piece without @the-unforgivenn 💚 everything accurate in this fic is because of her, and everything inaccurate is because of me. I love you, Annie. Thank you for asking my random birth-related questions at all hours.

Divider credit to @saradika

November 4, 1999

At nine months pregnant, everything hurts.

Perhaps that’s why when you wake up for work with an extra pinch in your back, you cast off any worries. Or maybe it’s because you still have over a week until you’re due, and first babies tend to take their time arriving, so there’s no possible way that today is the day.

You shrug on a sweater and your most comfortable pair of maternity jeans, your body heavy with pregnancy and fatigue. Your movements are sluggish, even more so than usual, and Eddie notices as he stands out the counter, shoveling a spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios into his mouth.

“You okay, Sweetheart?” he asks, tongue darting out to swipe a drip of milk from his lower lip.

Nodding, you massage just above your tailbone in a meager attempt to ease the pain. “Mhm,” you lie, grabbing two granola bars from the pantry. You unwrap one and take a big bite, letting the chocolate chips melt in your mouth. “Just ready to have this baby.” Another lie, or possibly a half truth; while you’re eager to have your body to yourself again, the prospect of labor and delivery terrifies you.

Eddie presses a kiss to your forehead, his palms gently rubbing your bump. “Eleven more days and then we’ll be a family of four.”

“Baby Brother is taking forever to get here,” Harris laments from his seat at the table, spearing a banana slice with his fork. He glances at your stomach with impatient eyes. “Can’t you do something to hurry him up?”

You cough as your husband’s cheeks flush pink; he rakes a ringed hand through his curls. No doubt he’s remembering last night when he’d innocently lifted your belly to relieve some of the pressure, only to find himself hard as a rock as his fingers lightly dug into your skin. I’ll go slow so I don’t send you into early labor, he’d remarked with a teasing wink. 

“Gotta be patient,” Eddie says now, seemingly having recovered from the brief flashback. He slurps the remaining milk from the bowl and stifles a belch, reaching for his jacket and keys. “Have a great day at work,” he kisses you, smiling against your lips, “and school.” He ruffles Harris’s hair, and just like that, he’s out the door. 

Harris finishes his breakfast, placing his empty plate in the sink and scampering to the door to put on his sneakers. You watch enviously as he ties them with ease; you’ve been relegated to slip-on shoes until your feet are no longer swollen. 

“Come on, Mommy,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulders. “I don’t wanna miss the bus.”

You silently pray that the short walk to the bus stop will ease your muscle tension, taking careful steps as you trail behind the far-too-energetic-for-8 AM little boy. 

Eleven more days. Only eleven more days, you tell yourself. The reminder has tears prickling along your lash line in a double-edged sword. You don’t think you can handle eleven more days of this discomfort, but will you truly be ready to have a newborn baby in less than two weeks? Once you give birth, you can no longer shield your baby from the world’s dangers and cruelties. Will your love be enough? Will you be enough? And how can you possibly figure it all out in just eleven days?

Your mantra of eleven more days turns out to be just six hours. Since Will became a teacher two years ago, the two of you have made it a habit to spend time together after the students’ dismissal. You’re preparing art materials for tomorrow’s class when you feel it—a trickle of liquid sliding down your leg. 

Your eyes widen, heat crawling up your neck and into your face. I peed myself at work. It had happened once last month, but it was preceded by a sneeze, and you were already in the parking lot about to go home. When you’d told Eddie that evening, the two of you laughed so hard that you’d wet yourself again. 

But this feels…different. 

“Oh, no.” There’s another small stream, but it isn’t accompanied by any relief on your bladder. Your worried murmur gets Will’s attention, and he looks at you with concern. “I think my water broke, but I don’t know…it might just be pee…” Your voice trails off before you can speak in circles. 

Will leaps to his feet. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” The pair of scissors he’s been using to cut out paper stars clatter to the table as he rushes to your side. 

“Call Eddie,” you mumble, gripping your bump as a cramp—most likely a contraction, you realize—squeezes at your pelvis. “Tell him to—shit—to get my bag from the apartment and bring it to the hospital.” You bite your lip to stifle a groan. “I’ll call Wayne and ask him to get Harris from the bus.”  

He nods, dialing from the classroom phone as you rattle off the record store’s number. You pull your own Nokia cell phone—a purchase Eddie had insisted upon after you got pregnant, wanting to make sure you and Baby Munson stayed safe. 

“So, um,” Will hesitates after you’ve hung up with Wayne, ending the conversation with a promise to let him know as soon as the baby is born, “Eddie was in the middle of a guitar lesson, so I left a message with one of his employees—”

Please don’t say Ev, you wordlessly plead. Anyone but the stoner who can barely remember to show up to work on time. 

“Ev, I think?”

Shit. 

Will hooks his arm with yours, providing you with the stability to stand up. “Let’s get you to the hospital, all right? Maybe it’s a false alarm or something.”

You nod, but deep down, you know that this baby is on his way. Call it mother’s intuition, you muse wryly. 

After a quick stop in Principal Sinclair’s office to explain the situation, Will helps you into his Chevy Impala, grimacing along with you when another contraction hits. “Should we be timing those?”

You grit your teeth. “Shit, y-yeah. I completely forgot.” All those birthing books you’d read cover to cover to prepare for this moment, and you hadn’t even remembered to time your own damn contractions. “We need to track how long they last and the amount of time between them.”

Will remains unfazed. “We’ll just start now,” he says simply, flicking his wrist to check his watch. “It’s 2:32. Let me know when you get another one.” He turns the key in the ignition, taking your hand before putting the gear shift into drive. “It’ll be okay. Eddie’s gonna get the message, and he’ll be here soon.”

It’s as though he can read your mind, and you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He’s right; if you are in labor, it’s still early enough that Eddie won’t miss the birth. 

You hope. 

Your contractions are one minute long and twelve minutes apart by the time you reach Hawkins General Hospital, growing slightly stronger with each wave. Will relays the information to the receptionist, his voice wavering with nerves and excitement despite his best efforts to remain calm. 

Before you know it, you’re being wheeled into a room, a laminated bracelet with your personal details dangling from your wrist. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s just past 3 PM, which means that Eddie should be here in a few minutes. 

As if on cue, the cell phone in your purse chirps its familiar ringtone. Harris had insisted that you change it from the standard option, choosing one that sounds like birds chirping. It normally reminds you of springtime mornings; right now, you’re ready to throw it through the window. 

Will passes it to you, and you punch the answer button with an impatient, “hello?”

“Hey, Sweetheart,” Eddie’s carefree demeanor wafts through the speaker, “just wanted to check in and see if you’re feeling any better. Did you want me to pick up something from the store on my way—?”

Dammit, Ev. “Eddie, my water broke at work. Will called earlier and left a message,” you manage, maneuvering around the heart rate monitor to brace for another contraction. “I’m—ughhh, shit—I’m at the hospital.”

“What?!” You can hear his sudden shift to panic; the phone drops from his grasp and clatters on the counter before he retrieves it, uttering a slew of swear words. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Your bag’s at home, right? Oh, and Harris! Shit, let me—”

“Wayne’s on it,” you tell him, hopefully putting an end to his mile-a-minute thoughts. “I just need my bag and my husband.” 

There’s a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. “I can provide both.” His humor peeks through his fear in subtle reassurance. “Be there ay-sap. I love you so fucking much.” 

“Love you, too.” A soft click tells you that he’s on his way, probably simultaneously scrambling for his keys and shouting at his employee. 

Nearly an hour later, there’s still no sign of Eddie. Will blots the perspiration on your forehead with a cloth; out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s watching the clock as well. “He’ll be here,” he says as though reading your mind. Or maybe he’s scared that he’ll have to stand in for Eddie throughout the entire process. “In the meantime, I’ll flag down a nurse so we can get you that epidural.” His words are even, but his smile is uneasy, both of you well-aware that he is out of his element. Though he’ll deny it vehemently, you know you owe him. Big-time.

“Why don’t you grab yourself some food from the cafeteria?” You’d heard his stomach growling just before, and he can certainly use a break. 

Will nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do you want anything?” he asks out of habit, cheeks tinged pink as you shake your dismal cup of ice chips. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He ducks out of the room as a nurse walks in. 

“Are we considering an epidural, Mrs. Munson?” she asks. Her bright smile is one you’ll be unable to return until after the pain medication takes effect. 

“Y-Yeah, please.” You shift uncomfortably while she examines you and announces that your cervix is four centimeters dilated. Part of you is relieved that labor is progressing at a pace where Eddie should arrive in time for the delivery; another part just wants this baby out of you, now. 

The nurse makes a note on your chart. “I’ll let the anesthesiologist know.” Another unreciprocated grin and she’s gone, off to poke and prod the next patient. 

Alone for a moment, you relish the quiet, save for the soft beeps of the machines you’re connected to. With great care, you caress the swell of your stomach where your son has developed from a microscopic speck to a full-term baby. 

“Your daddy will get here soon,” you murmur to your sensor-covered belly, “hopefully before you do.” You laugh for a second until another contraction squeezes you from the inside, shifting your expression from amused to pained. 

The anesthesiologist and Will arrive at the same time, the former pausing to let your impromptu birth partner enter first. He walks with more enthusiasm now that he’s eaten, though his meal threatens to reappear when he sees the doctor pull out the comically oversized needle. 

“Just lean forward,” she says to you, “you’ll feel some pressure, but once the medication kicks in, it’ll be worth it.” She offers you a kind smile before turning to Will and explaining, “you may need to help her.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Will mumbles, avoiding looking at the needle. You clasp your hand in his so you can sit up. The cool air raises goosebumps on the sliver of flesh no longer covered by the gown, but the chill is quickly replaced by a stinging sensation that has you gripping Will’s palm. You don’t realize the strength of your grasp until you hear him mutter, “ow,” but you don’t let go until the burning ceases. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, watching him shake out his hand. “About all of this. I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to spend your afternoon.”

He shakes his head and guides you back against the pillow. “Maybe not, but I’m glad I can be here for you.” Now that the threat of broken fingers has passed, he truly means it. 

5:46 PM. 

You’ve been in the hospital for nearly three hours, and there’s still no sign of Eddie. Will’s casually flipping through a copy of People magazine that’s so outdated, Nick Nolte was just crowned the Sexiest Man Alive. He’s visibly more relaxed now that the medication has eased your pain, chattering teeth a welcome replacement for your anguished moans.

Your concern that Eddie will miss the baby’s birth has hardened into pure fear that something has happened to him. What if he lost focus while driving and got into an accident? The weather was overcast when you’d arrived at Hawkins General; it could have started raining since then and created slippery roads, perfect for hydroplaning. The thought of him hurt while you’re unable to help him has your insides churning, and for the first time, you’re grateful for an empty stomach.

Maybe you should call Wayne and find out if he had heard from his nephew. But if he hadn’t, then both of you would be stuck worrying and answerless; even worse, if he had and didn’t want to relay bad news while you’re in such a vulnerable state–

“I’m here!” 

Relief surges through your veins, Eddie’s panting voice music to your ears. You roll from your side onto your back to see your husband standing by your bedside. Sweat drips down his temples and pools under his arms with the pungency of someone who’d just completed a marathon. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, a jacket haphazardly tossed over his shoulder and your bag clutched in his hand.

He swoops down and places his lips on yours in a series of frantic kisses, his free palm cupping your cheek as though ensuring that the moment is real. He only pulls back when you do, getting a glimpse of your face.

“Where were you?” Not an accusation, but a question threaded with genuine care. 

His nose nudges yours as he sneaks in another peck. “Did you know that Chief Hopper retired?” Your brows furrow in confusion at his non-answer to your question. “Well, he did, and the sheriff’s department decided to throw him a parade. Today. Closed off a bunch of the side streets and backed up traffic on the main ones.” He coughs out a terse laugh. “Glad I quit smoking, or my lungs would’ve given up before I hit a half-mile.”

You mull over his response for a moment before it finally clicks. “Wait…did you run here?”

He tugs at his shirt fabric in an attempt to create a breeze that will cool him down. “It was more like a walk-run combo, but…yeah.” He shrugs, no big deal. “Parked my car in a random lot and just…booked it.” His shoulder gently sag as the adrenaline from his adventure wears away. “I gotta sit.”

It’s then that he notices Will, rising from the chair and placing the gossip rag on the table beside him. “Byers, holy shit,” Eddie looks at him incredulously, “have you been here with her the whole time?”

“He has,” you answer for him, managing a grateful smile in your friend’s direction. “And I can’t thank him enough.” Will returns the gesture and pulls Eddie in for a hug, wishing you both luck before slipping out the door.

Eddie brings his full attention back to you, lacing his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes the side of your hand, bringing small but strong comfort with each gentle touch. “Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry–”

“Eds,” you interrupt before he can continue his apology, “you’re here now.”

“Yeah.” Soft, distracted, overthinking. You can practically see the gears in head spinning, His second child and the second time he’d nearly missed the birth. He clears his throat and shakes away the thought with a toss of his hair, swiping his tongue over his lower lip. “How are you feeling?” He takes in the sight of you, his wife, the most beautiful being his cynical eyes have ever seen. “You look pretty damn good for someone about to have a baby.”

You laugh. “That epidural is a miracle from above.” You’ll gladly take the chattering teeth and the itchiness over the sensation of your pelvis imploding. Eddie doesn’t share in your amusement, still focused on his own shortcomings. “Hey,” you say quietly, pulling him out of his mind with just one word. “Don’t think about the missed message or the traffic. We’re having our baby today.” You bring his hand to the apex of your stomach in the final few hours that it houses the life you two created together.

“I love you.” 

His eyes shine with emotion. He’s here, not only in this moment, but throughout the entire pregnancy. He didn’t bury himself in music or booze or other arbitrary distractions. He’d read What to Expect When You’re Expecting cover to cover, had gone to all of the doctor’s appointments, made sure to keep the kitchen stocked with your cravings and free of your aversions. He’d picked up the household chores (and delegated some to Harris) to ease your workload and wiped your tears when you’d cried while watching two squirrels play in a tree. 

You never asked him to do any of it; you never needed to. 

“I love you, too.”

It all happened so quickly. 

One minute, Eddie’s watching the monitor spike with a contraction, utterly bewildered by the power of pain medication. 

“You really can’t feel that?”

“Just some pressure, but nothing like earlier. I told you; it’s a godsend.”

After hours of strategic breathing, a plethora of ice chips, and a steady outpouring of love between you two, you’re about to tell him that you feel the urge to push. 

And then a nurse rushes in. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson,” he begins, urgency evident even through his calm exterior, “your baby is experiencing late heart rate deceleration. We need to begin delivery immediately.” He glances at Eddie, then at you. “I’m going to check your dilation to see if we’ll try a vaginal delivery or prepare for a cesarean birth.”

 The blood drains from Eddie’s face as he processes the information, the lighthearted energy completely zapped from the room. “Is…is she…are they…”

The nurse finishes the examination, removing his rubber glove. “Ten centimeters,” he announces. “I’ll page the doctor.”

It’s a whirlwind, with almost no time for panic to set in. The doctor and the other nurses arrive immediately, and when Eddie takes your hand, you can feel him trembling. 

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to be strong for you. Your face says it all: you’re terrified, and you need him to be your rock.

“You’ve got this, Sweetheart,” he whispers fiercely, pushing past the lump in his throat. “You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and I’m so lucky that you’re having my baby.” He kisses your forehead; out of the corner of his eye, he sees the medical staff preparing for delivery. His heart skips a beat, and the realization hits that he’s about to be a father of two.

You’re exhausted, a salty mixture of sweat and tears decorating your face. Gritting your teeth, you push while Eddie coaches you, reminding you to breathe and allowing you to swear at him without even batting an eyelash. It’s mostly a blur, with all of your energy concentrated on getting this baby out, but you vaguely recall telling him that he’s not allowed to even think about touching you again.

“Almost there,” he cheers, flashing an awestruck smile so wide that his cheeks ache. “C’mon, you can do it! Oh, my god, you’re a goddamn superhero.” 

Three giant pushes later, you hear the telltale newborn wail as a nurse coos, “Happy birthday, little man! Here’s your mama!” She gently places your tiny baby on your chest, quickly wiping off the vernix covering his body. 

“He’s here!” you manage through simultaneous laughter and cries. You carefully hold him against you, kissing the wisps of curls on his scalp. “Hi, baby boy!” Turning to Eddie, you blink away the mist coating your eyes. “We have another son,” you choke out.

He just nods, relishing in the wonder of becoming a father again. His pointer finger grazes the baby’s little half-closed fist, only looking away when the nurse asks him if he’d like to cut the umbilical cord. “Y-Yeah. Please,” he awkwardly adds, doing exactly as he’s instructed. 

As the baby is lifted from your torso to be assessed and measured, Eddie kisses you with a passion you’ve never felt before, even from him. You can see that he’s crying, too, and he wipes his cheeks haphazardly.  

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, punctuating the statement with another kiss. “I couldn’t have asked for a better mother for my kids.” His nose rubs yours tenderly. 

You smile at him. “Do you want to call Wayne? I won’t be up for visitors until the morning,” you add, “but I just want to let him know that the baby’s here, happy and healthy.”

“In a bit,” he murmurs, watching the nurse carefully swaddle his newborn son in a hospital blanket. “I just wanna hold him first.”

Eddie takes your baby from the nurse, shifting to support his head. “Hey, buddy. I’m your dad.” His body slowly sways as he rocks back and forth. “You gave us quite the scare just now. I see you’re following in your big brother’s mischievous footsteps.” He swears his heart melts when the infant opens his mouth to yawn. “Yeah, you’ve had a busy day. Same here. But it was worth it, huh?”

He wears fatherhood so naturally, so perfectly. You wish you could capture this feeling in a jar and save it forever. For now, you settle for watching him fawn over his newest son, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is Eddie murmuring, “and let me tell you: you have the best mommy a kid could ever ask for.”

Morning arrives after a restless sleep. You know the nurses are just following protocol when they examine you every hour, but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it. 

But the next knock on the door is one that you welcome willingly. Harris and Wayne stand there, waiting for permission to enter. You smile when you notice Harris shuffling his feet and shaking his hands in an attempt to expel some excess energy. 

“Come on in,” Eddie whispers, beaming, “there’s someone very special we’d like to introduce you to.”

Harris rushes to your bedside, peering at the bundle in your arms. “My baby brother!” he squeals, jumping up and down. 

Eddie puts a finger to his lips. “He’s sleeping, so we have to be quiet, okay?” He ruffles Harris’s hair as the boy nods. “Do you wanna hold him?”

“Yeah! I mean, yeah,” Harris lowers his voice, sitting down on the bed. You scoot over, careful not to move too quickly, and he melds into your side. He’s always been small to you, but compared to his baby brother, he seems so grown up. 

“Okay, hold out your arms like this,” Eddie instructs, demonstrating the correct position, “and you’re gonna make sure to keep his head nice and safe, because he can’t hold it up on his own yet.”

Harris sports a look of concentration as you and Eddie work in tandem to place the baby in his arms. “He’s got the teeniest nose I’ve ever seen.”

Wayne laughs at this, watching his older grandson snuggle his youngest. “Does this little fella have a name yet?”

“Oh, right.” Eddie chuckles. “Gentlemen, this is Hendrix William Munson. ‘Hendrix’ after one of the most talented guitarists to grace this planet, and ‘William’ after an amazing friend and substitute birth partner.”

“Hendrix,” Harris repeats incredulously, never taking his eyes off of his brother. “I’m Harris. I talked to you when you were in Mommy’s tummy, remember?” Hendrix lets out a long exhale, like he’s acknowledging the question. “I know you’re still too little right now, but when you get big, we’re gonna play together all the time. Except when I’m at school.” He looks over at you expectantly. “Can I bring him to school with me? Like for show and tell?”

“Maybe when he’s older,” you say, lacking the bandwidth to point out the logistics of his request. 

Harris wrinkles his nose, but his expression quickly softens. “Yeah, you’re right. He can’t even do any tricks yet.”

It’s quiet for a moment, everyone focused on the two Munson boys. Surprisingly, Wayne is the one who breaks the silence. 

“You two have one beautiful family,” he muses, an arthritic finger grazing Hendrix’s blanket. “Y’should be proud of yourselves.”

Eddie gives his uncle’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Couldn’t have done it without ya, Old Man.”

Wayne knows this, accepting the compliment with a bashful grin but saying nothing further. 

Peacefulness surrounds the five of you, soft conversation seamlessly weaving its way into the calm. You can’t kid yourself; most days will be pure chaos, balancing spit-up and school plays, field trips and feeding schedules. And once Hendrix starts walking—and running—you’ll need all cylinders firing. 

But today, right now, you soak in the serenity. Just you and your boys. Your family. 

--

[hgfictionwriter]

Maybe This Time - Part Four

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Confessions finally come to light and Jessie has the chance to ask you what she should've asked you years ago.

Warnings: Mild language. Outside of that - none. Just fluff, fluff, fluff.

A/N: I'm ignoring the most recent Thorns results in this story, btw lol. They're gonna rebound - I know it! Previous parts for this series can be found on my masterlist.

"Nice playing tonight. Congrats on the win." 

Jessie smiled to herself as she sat on the twin-sized bed of her hotel room and laid back, resting her head on the pillow.  

A few team members were still downstairs in the hotel restaurant, but she was beat and needed some downtime. She knew Janine would stay down with the group for a while, so this was her chance to get some solitude.  

"Thank you! I'm super happy with how the team was playing together today. And away games can be tough, but I'm stoked. Anyway, enough football talk lol how was your dinner?" 

"Well, you play Utah next – I'm no expert analyst, but as far as I can tell, your chances for 3 points are good lol. And dinner was delicious – thank you for asking. [Y/friend] and [Y/other friend] went out for drinks after but I called it a night. I'm exhausted after this week." 

"Lol I don't want to jinx anything, but yeah, you may be right about those 3 points. Sorry to hear you're so tired. You had a super stressful week though – I know work was crazy for you and then your brother showing up out of the blue. Yeah. That's a rough week. I'm sorry I'm not there to help more." 

"What are you talking about? You were so helpful. I bet you thought you were done hearing about my family drama, but here we are again lol. It's just a lot less common now – thank God. And anyway, what about you – what are you up to? Don't feel like you have to text me. I know you're with the team." 

"It's not a problem – seriously. Call me anytime. And it's all good – I've retreated to my room early. It's been a long day." 

"Okay, still, don't feel like you have to respond. I know you need your me-time; take it if you can get it." 

"It's alright. Really.-" 

Jessie stared at her phone for a few seconds as she contemplated continuing her thought. Screw it.  

"-I'm happy talking with you."  

She hit send and subconsciously held her breath for a second before remembering to breathe. She worked to dismiss any mounting anxieties, but had a hard time denying the way her pulse had quickened. It only got faster when she saw you starting to type. Her eyes remained fixed onto the screen until your reply came through.  

"Well that makes two of us." 

"As in I'm happy talking with you." 

Jessie chuckled, relief going through her body. She lifted a finger to her mouth and mindlessly chewed at her skin. Her brow creased as she contemplated her next move. Thoughts ping-ponged inside her mind before she threw caution to the wind – very intently so – and started texting. 

"Lol I understood." 

"Hey, are you busy next weekend? There's this pop-up exhibit in town for a few days. Maybe we could go and grab a late dinner together after?" 

"Are you talking about the CityScape exhibit? I wanted to go to that! Yes, that sounds amazing." 

Jessie beamed from ear to ear. 

"Okay, awesome. I'll get tickets." 

"Thanks, just tell me what I owe you." 

"Nothing at all 😊" 

"Stop it. Tell me what I owe you. Or I can just buy dinner, then. Whatever works." 

Jessie huffed. She was conjuring up a rebuttal when another message came in from you. 

"Okay, I have to confess something. It's been weighing on me for years and this just totally made me think of it again." 

Jessie frowned as she wracked her mind for any possibility of what you may be referring to.  

"Okay. What is it? Whatever it is, I'm sure it's okay." 

"Lol you say that now." 

"K. Remember when we went to that underground art show and then dinner and drinks in WeHo a few months after we first met? Or more specifically, remember when you asked me if I wanted to go to that?" 

Of course she did. You looked amazing that night. She was grateful that Teagan and Mia were there to distract her because if it had just been the two of you, she wasn't sure if she'd have been able to function.  

"Yeah, I remember. Why?" 

"So, full disclosure, I legitimately thought you were asking me on a date to that. When you showed up with Mia and Teags? DEAD. Let's just say it was a very humbling experience hahaha. So embarrassing! Enough time has passed that I can admit to it lol. It cracks me up now." 

Jessie didn't even realize her mouth was agape. Her mind was absolutely foggy and turned upside down as she reread your message again and again. She felt like she was having an out of body experience. Her mouth was dry and she started stammering even though there was no one to hear it.  

She needed to talk to Janine.

Before she even knew what she was doing, she found herself hauling open the hotel door and started padding down the hall until she realized she didn't have shoes on. She whipped around in a flurry to go back into the room and grab her shoes.  

"Shit!" She exclaimed as she more or less faceplanted into the door when it didn't open as she turned the handle. In her fluster she forgot she needed a key to open it. She stared down blankly at the lock for a few seconds before belatedly realizing she'd left the hotel key in the room. "Oh my god," she growled under breath. She spun on her heel and looked down the hall as she contemplated what to do.  

She looked back down at her phone and called up Janine. She let out another frustrated growl when the call went to voicemail. She texted her. "CALL ME. NOW." 

She paced back and forth in the hallway for a few seconds before looking back at the message you sent. Now anxiety around not replying to you was setting in. She didn't want you to think she was put off by what you said, but she also didn't know what the heck to say. This was too precarious a situation.  

She stood there motionless for a moment as she weighed her options and before she could start to overthink things she took off down the hall to the elevators.  

Once inside, she hit the 'M' button and the button to close the doors repeatedly in a vain attempt to move this journey along faster. She groaned when the elevator slowed at one of the floors along the way. She offered the joining guest a stiff smile and felt heat rush to her face when they glanced down at her sock feet.  

Once at the main floor, she took long, brisk steps towards the restaurant where she'd left the team and searched the remaining crowd for Janine. She spotted the blonde at a table towards the back and took a few steps into the restaurant – hoping not to get caught by the host. Thankfully, she caught Janine's eye. She waved the blonde over with uncharacteristically exaggerated movements and the blonde just frowned at her. Jessie's shoulders slumped in momentary defeat and frustration before she gave the girl another pointed look and gave a sharp wave. The blonde held up her hands in concession and got up. Jessie caught the curious looks the rest of her team gave her and offered a mere wave of 'hello' before grabbing Janine by the arm when she approached and dragging her out into the lobby.  

"I need your help." 

"What the heck!" Janine complained as she jerked her arm out of Jessie's grasp and shook it out for show. "What is going on? And why are you in your socks," she went on as she gave Jessie a disapproving look.  

Jessie bit back a sardonic, tense reply and instead just held up her phone to Janine's face. The blonde winced at the sudden movement and frowned as she read the message, before her jaw, too, fell like Jessie's had earlier.  

"Oh my gosh," Janine said in bewilderment. Jessie nodded repeatedly. "Oh. My. Gosh! Okay. So – what the heck – you left her on read?" 

"I didn't know what to say!" Jessie responded with a harsh whisper, gaze flitting about as she tried to not draw further attention to them.  

"Oh my gosh, Jessie. You're the worst," she said with an eye roll as she began to usher the smaller girl towards the elevators. Before Jessie could protest, Janine held up her hand in declaration, "Okay. We need a game plan..."

Jessie's mind was still racing as she stared vacantly at the elevator floor deep in thought as she pieced things together. Suddenly, she inhaled sharply, eyes growing wide as she lifted her head to look at Janine.

"She went on her first date with [an ex] like a month after that night! Wa-" She stopped herself momentarily, thoughts resetting before she started again, "Wait - do you think if we'd actually had a date that night that she wouldn't have dated her?"

Janine gave her a long stare that tapered into a look that was half sympathetic, half pointed. "Jess."

"Oh my God," Jessie groaned as she rubbed her face.

"Sorry - that was probably really awkward. That was a long time ago. And obviously it was all good in the end. Anyway, now I can die with an unburdened soul lol.”

“What do I say!” Jessie said, her voice rising while her heart beat out of her chest.

The elevator dinged as they reached their floor and the two looked at each other before exiting and heading to their room.

“Well, this could be your opportunity. Why not just tell her that you liked her? I know you aren’t comfortable telling her you like her now. But you can admit to it for the past,” Janine suggested.

Jessie’s eyes scanned around as she processed the different scenarios and outcomes that could arise. Her instinct was to say “no”, but she really couldn’t find a logical reason to deny it. She huffed.

“Okay. Well. What - I just say ‘Oh hey - speaking of funny stories, I had a crush on you for years. And I’m glad your exes hated me, cause guess what, I hated them because I was jealous’?” Jessie said moodily as she crossed her arms.

“Maybe not that,” Janine said with a sidelong glance.

The girls talked hurriedly, debating back and forth about what to say until Janine threw her hands up in relinquishment.

“I told you what I think. It’s your call. This is your relationship. Or - would-be relationship,” she relayed.

Jessie sighed heavily once more and sat down on the edge of her bed. She had to chill out. She reminded herself that this time things were supposed to be different. And that she was different, and not so scared.

“Sooo does that mean you would’ve said “yes” to a date? Wish I had known. I would’ve gladly taken you on a date.”

Jessie exhaled slowly as the message sent. She looked up to Janine and ignored how her ears were ringing.

She glanced back down and immediately saw bubbles come up.

“Lol! I’m sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“Jessie! Come on.”

“What? I’m dead serious. Question is if you would’ve actually said ‘yes’.”

“I wore my nicest dress and actually put in the time to do my hair and make-up properly. So I’ll leave that up to you to interpret.”

“Janine,” Jessie complained, her pitch rising as she rubbed her face in aggravation before bringing the hand down to slap against her leg. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Well I could’ve told you that,” Janine rebutted without hesitation before pausing and giving a small shrug. “For this situation anyway.”

Jessie exhaled in frustration again as she readjusted position on the bed, eyes still transfixed on your text. You know what? She might as well own it.

“Well, I’m an idiot. I truly thought I didn’t have a chance with you. For the record, you looked stunning that night. But also for the record, I liked you just as much in your everyday clothes and makeup or when you didn’t try at all.”

By now Janine was kneeling on the bed behind Jessie, hands on Jessie’s shoulders as she watched everything unfold. She was started to make a remark when she let out a loud gasp as Jessie’s screen lit up with a call from you.

“Oh my gosh!” Janine exclaimed.

“Shit!” Jessie said as panic began to rush through her. She was about to accept when she noted Janine’s head right next to her and she shook the blonde off of her. “Go!”

“Oh now you want me to leave,” Janine protested.

Jessie waved her off and took a steadying breath before answering and holding the phone up to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Jessie Fleming. You start off by giving me a heart attack - just leaving me hanging after I share my deeply embarrassing and humbling story. And now you come out of left field with - I think - a confession of your own? Are you fucking with me right now?”

Jessie choked and coughed at your wording. You didn’t sound mad at all. Bewildered? Yes.

“No. No I’m not,” she said much more tentatively than she’d intended.

The line was silent for a few seconds and Jessie was about to check if the call dropped when you spoke up again. This time you were the one who sounded tentative.

“Okay. Wait. Let’s recap. So-” Jessie could practically hear you thinking. “-you’re saying you would’ve wanted to go on a date together?”

Jessie pushed her hair back unnecessarily. “Um, yeah.” She shook her head out and spoke more confidently. “Yes. I would’ve.”

She heard you give a disbelieving chuckle. “But you didn’t,” you said slowly, but matter of fact. “I’m sorry. I’m just kind of shocked,” you laughed further. “You felt like you didn’t have a chance with me? Are you serious?”

Jessie exhaled, eyes set on the floor as she gave a shrug of her shoulders. “Dead serious.”

“Come on. The great, unattainable, Jessie Fleming, liked me? Impossible. I mean, yeah, we were close, but you never really showed any indication of it being more. I mean, at most it must’ve been short lived.”

Jessie tried to process your words that were coming at her a mile a minute. You gave her an out. She could say it was a fleeting thing. A curiosity. But, Janine was right, this really was the chance.

“Uh,” Jessie rubbed her face distractedly, feeling heat rushing to her cheeks, “if ‘short lived’ means all through uni, then sure.”

The call was silent again and Jessie could hear her pulse throbbing inside of her head until you finally spoke again.

“Now you’re really fucking with me."

Jessie's body continued to heat up and she tugged subconsciously at the collar of her shirt.

"I've said too much already. I mean, it was obviously short lived on your end - which is totally fine."

"Why do you say that?" You questioned.

Jessie frowned, making a face and ignoring how Janine was attempting to look occupied with her own thing, but clearly eavesdropping.

"What do you mean?" Jessie asked, careful not to sound argumentative. "You dated a lot of girls in university. Well, not a lot. You know what I mean."

She heard you give a short laugh on the other end of the call before speaking wryly.

"Well, maybe - no, never mind." You exhaled lightly. "Anyway - it's all in the past, but, consider me stunned." You gave a bit of a chuckle. "I hope you're more forward with girls now than you were then. I really didn't know you had any interest."

"I was shy," Jessie offered as she scratched her temple. "Like painfully shy. And you were so pretty, and smart, and charming - I just didn't know what to do."

A glare crossed Jessie's face as Janine hopped down in front of her and mouthed 'Tell her you like her!" as she gestured wildly in the air.

"Well, now I'm extra confused about why we didn't stay in contact after university. If you liked me that much," you stated without challenge.

Jessie sighed. She'd told you enough. She didn't need to get into how desperately in love she was that she needed to cut herself off from you altogether to even have a hope of moving on.

"I mean, we don't need to rehash it all. Anyway, recap, I liked you, you were open to a date, but I stupidly didn't ask you out." Jessie chuckled, trying to keep things light. She cleared her throat and the heat that had started to fade from her face came raging back and she began to fidget. "And, um," - she glanced to Janine for reassurance - "I don't know. If you're open to it, maybe we could finally have that date. When I pick you up next time, it could be a date - for real."

She heard you hum before speaking.

"That sounds really nice. Yes. I'd like that a lot."

Jessie's eyes lit up and her posture straightened immediately as she looked to Janine excitedly. The blonde gave a boisterous, but silent celebration.

"Okay," Jessie said, her voice growing tight momentarily as she tried to remain composed. She cleared her throat and relaxed her shoulders. "Sounds like a plan, then."

A/N: Part Five is available here.

[astonmartingf]

NOBODY KNOWS ; FA14

dbf!fernando alonso x ex-red bull engineer! reader . . . barcelona in the summer of 2019, what a time to be alive. and what better way to spend the break with a retired world champion as a tour guide

amgf woahhhh hehehehe so... yeah 👍 this was so fun to write ughh i love them so much and i know i saw that to all pairs in my works but i do love them all so yeah. there will be an accompanying part because somehow i furthered the plot even more and got too immersed in the story so... enjoy like always <3

not my fault ; part one

The summer of 2019- as much as you loved every bit of memory in Barcelona, you’d rather bury those thoughts down a hatch never to be seen from the day of light. But sitting in his garage, name and number sticking out from all corners, a familiar scent lingering reminding you of the late nights and early mornings spent over his house in the city.

Taking a deep breath, you regulate your emotions, keeping them at bay and clinging onto the last bit of professionalism you could muster. As far as you know, Fernando invited you here for one thing and one thing only, and just like the other teams he’s only interested in what you could offer for the longevity of the team.

Considering the latest buzz of his contract renewal, you could play a key part of the remaining time he has with Aston Martin. Along with the fact that Newey has left Red Bull, though it remains a hush to the majority of the paddock, moreso to the fans, and it was clear that people’s eyes were on your move.

Seeing you in the Aston Martin garage would raise more rumors, as it was normal seeing you alongside your stepfather in the McLaren garage. Closing your phone and leaving Sebastian on read, your eyes linger around the garage, fully immersing yourself in the experience. If you were to join the team for the next season, possibly the next races.

You watch the hustle and bustle of the team as they prepare for qualifying, a familiar experience, nothing too different from Red Bull, despite issues with the higher ups, the mechanics and engineers make do and focus on the race ahead for the team. Something you can no longer look back at fondly due to other internal issues you had with the team. 

Watching the mechanics interact with one another, the smiles and serious air as they hover around the car. You’re not one to deny that you missed working in the paddock, and as much as you enjoyed your break, you’re itching to work on the data of cars. Maybe that’s why your stepfather had put his feet forward in the matter and gave you a chance to see the team for yourself, despite it being on behalf of Alonso which still irked you to some sense, it’s nice to be inside a garage outside McLaren and see the inner workings of a team, look at different perspectives.

“I’m surprised you agreed to Mark’s invitation.” You freeze from the familiar voice emerging from behind you, you haven’t moved from your spot but you can sense his presence, just inches away from you, the scent of his perfume wafting over your nose, taking you back instantly to your summer getaway with him.

Maybe Sebastian was right, maybe you’re still hung up on the minute memories you spent with Alonso, memories made too long ago. Yet in such a short time he managed to hook you into this feeling, the very moment you’ve been thinking about for so long. “I’m not one to decline an invitation, even if it was from you.” 

You turn around, facing him for the first time in what seems to be four years, not like you’re counting but the sight of him leaves you out of breath. You thought you’d be more mentally prepared to see him once again, or at least that’s what you convince yourself with.

His presence lighting a fire inside you, the familiar passion burning through him, you can feel it. You don’t look away from his gaze, keeping your eyes straight into his, trailing down to the movement of his mouth, but your ears fall deaf at whatever he could be spouting on and on. “Pardon?” Biting your lip, you blink your eyes lost and embarrassed at your lack of attentiveness. You watch Fernando’s lips thin before a smirk rises, taunting a reaction out of you, “I wanted this to be a professional meeting but I guess it can’t be helped that we’re one minute in the conversation and you're already distracted because of me. Is something bothering you sweetheart?"

You roll your eyes at the audacity of this man, he surely knows how to push your buttons. "I assure you there is nothing bothering me, there are simply other things more interesting in my mind. You on the other hand— asking Mark for a favor? What are you twelve?" You don't miss the irked expression on his face when you point out his excuse for inviting you in his garage.

Huffing, Fernando inches forward as you subconsciously lean back on the wall behind you, "Well you better pay full attention because things are about to be interesting." Flashing you a wink before slamming down his helmet, walking towards his car as qualifying comes to a start.

His words leave you out of breath, so much for acting unbothered, Sebastian has truly jinxed this day. You watch as his car flies past the pit lane onto the tracks of the Chinese Grand Prix. 

As time passes by not only the qualifying session comes to a close but your high emotions as you inch towards the edge of your seat, celebrating with the team as Fernando clinches into P3 for the starting formation for tomorrow's Grand Prix. You find yourself in conflicting emotions— the longing feeling of being a part of a team and working with Fernando Alonso himself.

Despite your unusual relationship with him, you'd hate to admit it but you're always rooting for him in his races. Aside from Oscar, the only driver you've shown support open or not is Fernando. To quote Lando from last year's season, "Who wouldn't want to see Fernando Alonso win?" And he's right.

Personal biases aside, you truly only want the best for him, and you know that won't happen if you're in the team with him. As much as you want to, you'd rather not ruin the familial environment of the team. Your situation with Fernando and personal biases and grudges will definitely come in the way, because as much as you'd front and act like it didn't matter to you, he was and still is one of the biggest losses in your life.

Call it the right person, at the wrong time but you're still hurting and being in the same space as him, you can envision yourself celebrating the highs and lows of the team and it's all too much for you. You don't want to be stuck as coworkers with the man you first—

Sighing, you shake the thoughts clouding your head and focus on the positives for this race. Watching Fernando walk towards the interviewer with a big smile on his face, the more conflicted you are with your emotions. You try to escape the hustle and bustle of the garage, hoping to avoid Fernando before he comes back. 

But luck seems to be avoiding you, as you quite literally bump into Fernando whilst trying to escape him. Grabbing your wrist before you could walk any further, he pulls you closer, hands hovering between his lips and whispered in your ears, "There's something we need to talk about after the race.”

Your eyes wander looking for an excuse, but you remember that this could be your only opportunity to decline the offer his team could be asking you for the remainder of the season. "Sure. Where should I wait for you?"

Your response seems to have taken Fernando off guard, "You can wait for me here, or if you want somewhere more private, you can always head into the motorhome." 

Parting ways, your head can only form any more responses before you go into a complete spiral. Nonetheless, you're well aware that the only answer you can give him is a rejection. Because you can't trust yourself to work with him after all that has happened to you.

You jump, surprised as Fernando barges in his private quarters of the team motorhome, "Having you been waiting a long time?"

You shake your head, getting comfortable in the cushioned chair beside his bed, "Why'd you call me here by the way? What do you need to discuss with me that requires privacy?"

Fernando smirks before sitting on the bed, "After the interview with Rosberg, he asked me if we were in a relationship, considering he saw you in my garage earlier. I for one don't mind having this conversation outside but I know for a fact that you wouldn't want anyone hearing about our conversation now."

Your face curves, tracing back on your thoughts of how Nico could be able to piece such information, the only person you told was Sebastian, "You're a blabber mouth is what you are. What re you asking me that, for all I know you could've told half the grid!" 

Fernando scoffs, shaking his head in disapproval, "I'm sad you think that about me sweetheart, but sadly it wasn't me. Like how you made me promise that I won't tell a soul, I didn't tell anyone. But one detail that Nico mentioned piqued my attention, apparently you told Vettel, who told Lewis, who told Jenson, who told Rosberg, who in turn then asked me if that actually happened. I'm surprised your stepfather hasn't found out about us."

Sebastian. You curse under your breath, more shocked with the amount of drivers who knew about you and Fernando, minus Seb, you thought nobody knows. "Can you stop referring to Mark like that." 

Fernando raises his brows, his words rub you off the wrong way, knowing well enough that he's only doing this to elicit a reaction out of you. "But you refer to him that way, what's so wrong? Are you scared?" Fernando chuckles in a deep and slow voice, as frustration builds up in you.

"Fuck you Alonso."

"Oh you did, and it was so damn good we did it again and again. I think you remember it clearly, or would you like a refresher?" The way he casually mentions your past occurrences astounds you. You become more cautious after his words realizing that you're stuck in a small space with him, and a bed literally beside you. 

Your thoughts make their way to wat you, as you think back of your late nights shared with him in his bed. Swiping your tongue over your lips, you shuffle in your seat mulling over a better response to catch him off his feet. You can't lose to him like this, your pride won't let you. 

But before you could speak, Fernando presses his fingers over your lips. "You don't have to say anything, whether or not you agree or like it, what happened between us was a fact and a reality you should accept. I for one loved the short time we had together."

Your eyes shake, confused about this all. Even more questions emerge from your head, has Fernando been thinking of you since then? If so, why is he telling you all of this now? He said he loved the short time you had with him, why didn't he want you to stay then?

Your curiosity is killing you, but you've already made your front to act unaffected by it all, which only confirms that you're not ready to work with him at all, as much as you would love it be. Which he hasn't mentioned at all, is this why he invited you to his garage? A rekindling of an old flame, gone far too long in the past. 

But the matter of fact is until you decide to be honest to yourself, it'll remain like it was before, because nobody knows.

[wukong-s-only-wife5000]

Hi there if possible could we get a Monkey reborn where he is Jealous please?<3

Reborn!Wukong: Jealous.

Content/Trigger Warnings: N/A.

Authors Notes: I think that Reborn Wukong is the most easily jealous out of the four Wukongs that I'm going to write. Make this before the movie. Definitely will be making a fluff taking place after the movie and involving Fruitie. Enjoy!

<---Previous | Start | Next--->

He couldn't help it. He was just… naturally territorial, especially when it came to you. In his defence, though… How dare that bastard even look at you like that? How exactly? With his eyes. That punk that ran the Inn you all were resting at for the past three days had no right to look at his goddess or have the audacity to openly flirt with you in front of him. 

Since you all checked in, whatever his name was had continuously given you the sweet eye, but you either didn't notice it or didn't care. In Wukong’s mind, your innocently pure soul didn't see it, since you didn't.stop.talking to what's his face. He wasn't anything to look at really, Wukong was taller than him and compared to the Monkey King, the human was a twig, and that was saying something.

I could take him out easily. He thought to himself as he watched with narrowed eyes as you spoke with the male with Wujing. His punishments would be limited considering his master already went to bed, so the only thing he had to worry about was your wrath. Sun Wukong, The Great Sage Equal To Heaven, the Monkey King, the Demon King… couldn't stop himself from boiling over with pure jealousy at the fact of human male audacity.

“(Y/n), can I talk to you for a second?” He asked through gritted teeth as he tried to remain calm. 

“In a sec,” 

You should've taken this as a sign, but the conversation with the mysterious stranger was too exciting, you didn't see the signs. The poor Demon King was seething and on the verge of dragging you away by force, but he knew better than to do that. 

“(Y/n),” he once again tried to get your attention. 

“Can't you see we’re talking?” the male looked at Wukong in slight annoyance, yet you still didn't see the red flags… not till it was too late. 

“Wukong!” you scolded and were about to run over to check on the poor guy who was kicked through three trees, but Wukong grabbed you by the arm and dragged you away. “Wukong, listen to me!”

“No, you listen!” he finally snapped as he turned to look at you. “I don't know if you realized this, (Y/n), but you're mine,”

“I know that,” you always got so flustered when he reminded you of that fact, especially when he said it in that growl that gave you goosebumps.

“That punk was flirting with you, and you let him!”

“What are you talking about? He wasn't flirting with me,” You were kinda oblivious to others flirting, getting used to Wukong being the only one to flirt with you. He sighed heavily and turned away from her. 

I should've known… He thought to himself. 

“It was obvious to everyone that he’s been flirting with you since we got to this piece of shit temple.”

“C'mon, Sunny, that's not nice,” you said and got him to release you.

That wasn't true… was it? You really did think he got a bit too comfortable with you, but you just thought he was being hospitable to a travelling guest… apparently, not everyone saw it that way.

In all honesty, since you started dating Wukong a little over a year ago, the advances of other men seemed to naturally filter out of your head. You only saw Wukong in that light, there was only him for you and you for him. Of course, he knew this, but he has had too many restless nights about some human man taking you away from him.

“What the hell was that for?!” The human looked at the Demon King with narrowed eyes as he stormed back over holding his arm. 

“You're getting too comfortable with my woman,” he snarled as he got in the male’s face. “So I gave you a light warning.”

“Light? You almost killed me!”

“But I didn't,” he tilted his head slightly. “Is that little body so weak it can't withstand a little kick?” he raised a brow slightly.

“Okay,” you immediately got between the two to avoid your boyfriend giving the male any more ‘gentle warnings’. “That's enough.”

“I'm just talking,” he looked at you with a much gentler expression. He turned back to the human male with a glare when he scoffed in disgust at the new information. Wukong’s manly instinct was right, the bastard was just trying his hand to bed you. 

“You're actually with this hairy demon?” he looked at you in scorn. 

“Pardon?” you couldn't help but question him. 

“I didn't think a beautiful girl like you would degrade yourself being with an unwanted mongrel-” Wukong's mouth opened slightly in shock as he looked from the male you'd just punched to you. 

“You better not dare speak ill of him ever again,” you warned, giving the man a menacing glare that pleased and made the Monkey King smirk at you. He could kiss you at that very moment. “Unwanted mongrel? He's mine. He may be a demon, but he is more wanted and loved than you could ever dream, and with a personality like yours, I understand why you're single.”

He'd never thought it possible, but he was immediately more in love with you at that moment than before. Yes, he was yours, all yours. Unaware, Wukong straightened up while his prideful expression turned to the man holding his now swollen cheek. He knew how it felt to be hit by you because he had been hit many times before. Even though you would feel bad and apologize when you hit him too hard, treat him like your little baby afterwards.   

“Whatever,” the male scoffed and walked away, not wanting to risk either of you hurting him more. 

“Big jerk,” you grumbled and puffed your cheeks slightly in frustration. He smiled slightly at your display before he took the hand you punched the guy with and kissed each knuckle softly… which not only calmed you down but made you extremely flustered.

“That's my girl,” he smirked a bit at you before he intertwined your fingers with his. He couldn't help that he was protective, he just didn't want to lose you. You were his everything, his anchor, his peace, and his love. 

“Wukong~” 

Oh, no… He knew that tone and, as he looked at her, that smirk. 

“What is it?” he questioned, as if he didn't already know what you were going to ask.

“You wouldn't happen to be… jealous, would you?”

“No,” he huffed and folded his arms. “I just don't like that some bastard thinks that he can flirt with you in front of me.”

“That's jealousy,” she chuckled, but hugged his torso and buried your face into his chest. “Foolish Monkey King. Don't you know that you're the only person I’ll ever love?”

“Yeah… but I'm not a person” he mumbled stubbornly, trying to ignore you, but his blush gave him away. He found comfort in both your words and your embrace. You could tell that the demon king was starved for touch and affection. He was weak against your simplest advances.

“Wukong, look at me. Come here,” you said as you reached for his face. Instead of lowering himself as you wanted, he picked you up by your thighs and brought you to his level.

“Hm?” He tilted his head, smug as ever to see your expression as he held you in his arms.

“Look, I don't care if you think you're just a devious demon that only does wrong… I know that you have the purest heart and soul. I love you, you stupid demon, nothing and no one will ever change that,”

You hugged him tightly, making him tense, but quickly relaxed and buried his face into your neck. You always knew just what to say to warm and make his stone heart, which he swore he didn't have, race and have him weak to you, just puddy in your hands. 

“I love you too, peach.”

“You don't need to be jealous, especially not of someone like him,” she assured, and though you doubted mere words soothed his worries, they did. 

“Good.” he tightened his grip a bit. Because you're mine.

“I am…” You smiled and held his face as you pulled back. “And you're mine.” That made him smirk at you before he carried you to bed to get some… sleep, and cuddle… a lot.

[siddyyyyyyyy]

Only Friends

Tim Drake x Reader

wc: 0.8 K summary: You both get flustered in an interview warnings: none, no y/n used a/n: got this silly idea while daydreaming (once more) even though i have three fics going on rn. (also, it would be better if you know the concept of 'World's most searched questions' from Wired) enjoy!

It was like every other day, just getting ready for an interview, taking the interview before doing the other stuff you have to do by yourself. It's simple, not too stressful or overwhelming. And you are actually quite excited considering it's not an usual interview. It's actually on the 'The Web's Most Searched Questions', it feeling a little exciting to be in such a format for the first time. For preparation, you watched some interviews of other actors or different celebrities to make sure you got the concept, also making sure you got the times and location right with your co-star, Tim Drake. He's in most interviews with you because of the latest movie you both acted in together. This time, being enemies in the movie. Other movies or shows, you had either neutral or romantic relationships together. But in reality, you were nothing more but friends and colleagues. You considered yourself lucky with such a nice and funny colleague, having known him for a few years already. Besides the more romantic and heated scenes, you both remained close friends throughout your career.

Once you both are ready to take the interview, having the mics set and camera pointed at you, it's time to begin. The staff explained to you one last time of how it all works, having your big card of questions first. You both inteoduce yourselves to the audience, well, camera, and slide off the first tape to the first question. It reads your name, followed up with a question, if you played in a show from six years ago. Of course, you answer it truthfully, it going well for now, explaining briefly when that show aired and how it was playing that part. Moving on, the next question is just as normal as the other. A simple question about one of the films you once starred in, answering honestly again. The next one is a little bizzare, even to you. It reads your name, followed up with a rather random and personal question. "... am I, what? Do I gossip on set?" You read aloud, being mostly confuses on why that's the third most searched question on Google about you. Where did people get that idea from. You turn to Tim beside you, still confused. "Did you start that rumour?" He can barely contain a straight face at you, shaking his head while cracking up. "I think it's about the secret pictures of us 'gossiping'." Tim answers, putting air-cotation-marks with his hands at the last word. There were a few pictures the paparazzi took of you both whispering things to each other, but you never really thought too much about it. And you definitely were gossiping, it was just rude to be truthful about it. "Ah, right. These pictures still haunt me at night, but no. I do not gossip on set. I wait until I get home." You joke lightly as you look back to the camera, continuing with the next question on the board in your hands. The last four questions go on without any weird one's popping up, until you uncover the last one. "... and Tim Drake couple?" You read aloud again, your brain short circuiting at the question. You and him, a couple? Seriously? You knew people like gossip, but was that actually serious? Tim blushes slightly beside you, glancing over to you to see your reaction. You seem just as taken aback as him. There's not much to say, really. Finally, you shake your head and look back at the camera, trying to make it as casual as possible. Ignore the five seconds of silence before your answer. "Nope. Never been together." Tim nods in agreement, keeping his wyes anywhere but you. You really haven't expected this to go awkward, considering interviews bever get awkward. There's always someone talking, either the interviewer, you, or the staff. But this is genuinely awkward. Embarrassing even. You are sure you will get nightmares about this exact incident years later. Clearing your throat, you hand your board back to the staff, Tim getting his own now.

His first question is just as light as yours, the mood getting quickly back to the one before. It's light, fun and easy. You talk a little too and poke fun at Tim as he answers his question, eventually getting to the third one.

"Tim and Drake couple with..." He trails off, seeing your name at the end. This time, it's rather annoying than embarrassing. He sighs out and look towards you briefly before frowning at the camera. "Guys, we just had that question. It's embarrassing, really. We're not together, even if our roles say otherwise in some movies." Tim explains slightly annoyed, noticing how embarrassed you are at the question. You shouldn't be, considering it's definitely not your fault and people just like some gossip. However, you also feel some different kind of emotion stir up in you. The idea of being with someone, of people knowing you are together with someone is new and sounds way better than denying it all the time. Of course you won't say that on an interview, let alone to Tim, your long-time best friend of a couple years. You both know it won't get to something more than that, both being strict about that in your friendship. You've crosses the line of friendship in roles, qs actors, before but it never felt as good as actually being with someone.

Ignoring your thoughts as best as possible, you move on with Tim. His questions are rather more funny than yours, him messing around with his answers a little as well. There's a sloght difference you noticed, and it's that people seem to take you more seriously. Probably because of the roles you play, maybe because of the personality you put on for the media. Either way, it creates an interestjng dynamic between you and Tim overall. Fans seem to like it, and it seems to work great as usual on interviews. But you never thought they could think of you both in that way. The video is finished and you both return to your own cars, hugging goodbye as usual.

◐

A few days have gone by after that interview, and you decide to check it out. The video has about four million views by now, considering the video got published about three days after you filmed it. You start to watch it, skipping through it a little before the weird question. You seem indeed confused and flustered bt the question, them having edited your moment in a funny way. A computer buffering sound on the background, zoomed in into your face with a loading icon at your forehead. It's actually funny, even if it wasn't funny when you were answering it at the moment. Tim seems just as confused for a moment, you both denying the question as politely and smart as possible, to avoid useless scandals or rumours. Okay, wasn't so bad. Tim's part was less humerus, actually nore straight to the point with hoe annoyed he answered the question. The video ends after you say your goodbyes to the camera, getting to the comment section. You read the first few one's, them being supportive and sweet. The longer you scroll down, the more you start to lose hope in your fans. They genuinely seem to ship you. It would've been funny, but now that you think of it... it doesn't sound too bad. You make your way to some fanfic websites you still know from your earlier teenage years, searching up your name with Tim. Indeed, thousands of suggestions pop up, not having expected more than hundreds of thousand people wrote some kind of romantic content between the two of you. You are really sure Tim would hate you for it, but you go ahead and read some of it. Most were just some silly short stories about the two of you being in love on set, but some were the most heart and gut-wrenching fluff you've ever read. You didn't touch the angst tag, being too scared of getting hurt over fictional problems.

You take a break from everything, deciding it's best to never touch anything like that ever again and ignore it overall. You and him were just friends. Nothing more, nothing less. You would sacrifice everything for him and make sure he stays happy, but never cross the line between friendship and partners, in fear of ruining anything. He would most definitely do the same, if not more for you, but there's no way you'll ever be more than what you are now. Drying off your few tears, it's time to get to the next set of filming, staying friends with Tim. 

←MASTERLIST

a/n: also, sorry for being dead in the last few days or weeks, idk, but there's a few things going on and i won't be able to reply or post as quickly as before, but I'll try!! hope you enjoyed it

[yourmomxx]

Heyyy omg I saw you looking for criminal minds requests. Would it be possible to request something for derek morgan?? Maybe a protective derek where he's freaking out after hearing that reader is hurt (reader can be bau as well or just regular civillian, it's up to you) and ends up smothering her. Thankyouu so much 🥺💞

a/n: I totally could see Derek Morgan do this, honestly, this is so good. Anon, thank you for your request, I really hope you like how it turned out!

"Derek, seriously, I'm fine!"

"Uh-huh, sure. Tell that to the x-ray the doctor made of your double fractured ankle."

You tried really hard, you did, but at the end, couldn't resist the urge of rolling your eyes.

Derek - your dear, caring, passionate boyfriend, who you loved endlessly (most times) - had acted this way for the past few days. Four, to be exact, four and a half if one counted the day he spent in the hospital with you, not leaving your side even to get coffee.

It had been, a few days ago, that you had broken your ankle.

Fractured, twice.

It happened while you were coming down the stairs, you'd slipped on a patch of the sleek wood and tumbled down the remaining three quarters to the bottom.

It was the most stupid and idiotic way to break a bone, honestly, but it had happened to you either way.

You'd known Derek was out on a case, somewhere in Milwaukee, you honestly didn't remember all the town's names all that exactly, which is why you had satisfied yourself with only sending him a quick text after an ambulance had shuttled you to the nearest hospital.

The doctors had told you that you would be fine, just that they were pretty booked this time of year and your treatment could take longer than usual.

It's why you stayed the night.

When you had woken up the next day, mind still a bit foggy and ankle swollen and hurting more than it would any normal day, you had never expected to actually see your boyfriend earlier than that evening.

But you'd been wrong.

Because there he stood, Derek Morgan, in all his tight-henley, muscular glory, talking with one of the doctors who'd briefed you about your condition the day before, an invested look on his face, just a few feet outside your open hospital room door.

The clinical, white sheets rustled as you straigthened yourself up.

"Derek?" The soft call of his name made your boyfriend look up, just as the doctor stepped away.

A smile played around his lips as he made his way over to you. You were still baffled about his showing-up, when he leaned down and pressed a greeting kiss to your mouth.

"Hey, sweet thing," Derek mumbled.

With a grunt, he sat down in the worn-out, yellow cushion chair and regarded you with deep concern in his dark eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

You tilted your head.

"Like I fell down the stairs and double-broke my ankle not even twelve hours ago."

Derek's mouth left a soft chuckle. You grinned.

"What are you even doing here, I thought you had a case?"

He raised his hands in a defensive manner. "Whoah, now don't be too excited." There was no bite behind his words, or the eyeroll you gave him in response.

"I'm serious, baby," You said. "You didn't have to be here, I'm totally fine."

Derek leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His gaze didn't leave yours.

"We closed the case about two hours after you sent me that text," He explained. "When I read what happened, I pushed everyone to pack their things just a bit faster than normal, we took the jet, and now I'm here." He opened his arms. "End of story."

You cocked an eyebrow. "How much faster?" You asked.

Derek weighed his head. "A lot faster."

You let out a laugh. "God, you are crazy," You breathed out, cheeks pushing your eyes closed with how wide you were smiling.

Derek reached out and took your hand into his, the warm weight laying comfortable in your palm.

"Only for you, mama."

His hand squeezed yours and you smiled.

Turns out that hospitals were the. worst.

At first the willingness with which all staff was tending you with, it felt like a blessing, for once not having to do the most mundane tasks by yourself - because honestly, who wouldn't want that? - but as time passed by, it all seemed to weigh down on you.

You were practically chained to a bed that wasn't yours, and therefore in no possibility as comfortable as the mattress you were used to. The clinical smell of sanitizer started burning in your nostrils, and your eyes felt blinded by the exact same shade of white that covered every wall, surface, and sheet in your sight.

You almost groaned when a white cast was put on your leg to stabilize it. Derek had just grinned at you and promised to bring Penelope over at some point, with a set of acrylics, glue, and rhinestones.

That's when it had started. The Doctor had told you to rest up for a while, don't put too much weight on your left foot where you had broken your ankle, and come in for regular check-ups.

You should've known then, that you were doomed. Because since you had left the hospital that afternoon four - three and a half - days ago, Derek had not once thought about leaving your side.

For anything.

Any. Thing.

He was being so sweet with it, of course, because Derek Morgan didn't know to be anything else, but over time, having this constant worry hung at you for tasks that should have been the simplest of everyday life was draining, and made you grow agitated.

If you needed to compare it, it felt like being sixteen and your parents checking in on you while you were at a friend's birthday party every hour on the clock, all over again.

You were standing in the kitchen right now, spatula in one hand, the other perched warningly at your hip, a pan on the stove ready to be heated up and a disapproving look on your face, staring down Derek Morgan who stood accross from you with his arms crossed and an almost stronger "Don't try me"-attitude than you had.

Almost.

"Baby," You said, slowly dragging out each syllable. "I understand and do appreciate your concern, but I am fully able to cook lunch."

"The doctor said not to put too much pressure on your foot," Derek shot back. He gestured towards the kitchen island. "Scurrying around for at least half an hour without a break is what I call 'too much pressure'."

The only pressure you were feeling right now was the exasperated groan that you fought back of pushing out your chest.

"I feel alright," You reassured him. "And if I really feel like it's too much, then I'll sit down and take a break."

Derek shook his head. "Will you, though?"

You sighed and put the spatula in an empty space on the kitchen island.

As smoothly as you could, you walked over to your boyfriend, supporting the weight on your unmoving leg by leaning your hand on the kitchenette, as you had discarded your crutch on the other side of the room.

Derek raised his eyebrow at that.

Finally reaching your boyfriend, you put your unoccupied hand on his cheek and let your thumb softly stroke over the stubbled skin.

Derek ever so slightly leaned into the touch.

"I'm just worried 'bout you," Derek murmured quietly.

You nodded slowly. "I know."

You did. And you understood. With all the death and hurt he saw, day by day, night after night, how could he not be?

"But baby, you gotta believe me when I tell you that I can take care of myself. That I know my limits." You gestured around vaguely. "That I can cook lunch for myself and my beautiful, kind boyfriend."

A hushed laugh escaped Derek's chest. His dark eyes found yours and the glimmer in them softened, turned a whirl of worry into a smooth tide.

"You just gotta watch out for you," Derek said. "I know you like to push yourself, don't like admitting defeat."

His hand came to rest on your forearm of the hand that was still tenderly lingering on his cheek. The soft tickle of his thumb drawing absentminded circles seeped through the thin layer of your clothing.

"But taking breaks is okay. There's a difference between being weak and just taking care of yourself."

Derek dipped his knees slightly when he noticed your gaze flashing to the floor, to catch your attention again.

"And I have never, not once in the time I've known you, known you to be weak. Alright, sweetheart?"

The warmth was radiating off his strong body, and infiltrating every single one of your concious senses. Unaware you were doing it, you leaned closer to him. The breeze of his cologne wrapped around you in pure comfort.

"Alright," You said. "Alright, I promise I'll take care."

Derek held your gaze. His fingers pushed a loose strand of hair away from your forehead. "That's all I wanted to hear."

The quick peck you pulled him in for by the neck quickly turned into an open-mouthed kiss, Derek's tongue circling yours for the briefest of moments, before finally gaining dominance.

You attempted to press further into him, but your hard time keeping balance wouldn't allow it.

He pressed one last, small kiss to your nose before backing away.

You smiled at him cheekily, still supporting yourself on the cold stone of the kitchenette, and laboriously turning around to finally get to make the food you'd fought so hard to be able to cook.

"At least let me work the stove."

"Derek!"