#turning the tide (modern)

[illusiomagnificentia]

verses

the power behind the name (main) locket enterprises (star wars) turning the tide (modern)

[reasonsforhope]

"For the first time in almost 60 years, a state has formally overturned a so-called “right to work” law, clearing the way for workers to organize new union locals, collectively bargain, and make their voices heard at election time.

This week, Michigan finalized the process of eliminating a decade-old “right to work” law, which began with the shift in control of the state legislature from anti-union Republicans to pro-union Democrats following the 2022 election. “This moment has been decades in the making,” declared Michigan AFL-CIO President Ron Bieber. “By standing up and taking their power back, at the ballot box and in the workplace, workers have made it clear Michigan is and always will be the beating heart of the modern American labor movement.”

[Note: The article doesn't actually explain it, so anyway, "right to work" laws are powerful and deceptively named pieces of anti-union legislation. What right to work laws do is ban "union shops," or companies where every worker that benefits from a union is required to pay dues to the union. Right-to-work laws really undermine the leverage and especially the funding of unions, by letting non-union members receive most of the benefits of a union without helping sustain them. Sources: x, x, x, x]

In addition to formally scrapping the anti-labor law on Tuesday [February 13, 2024], Michigan also restored prevailing-wage protections for construction workers, expanded collective bargaining rights for public school employees, and restored organizing rights for graduate student research assistants at the state’s public colleges and universities. But even amid all of these wins for labor, it was the overturning of the “right to work” law that caught the attention of unions nationwide...

Now, the tide has begun to turn—beginning in a state with a rich labor history. And that’s got the attention of union activists and working-class people nationwide...

At a time when the labor movement is showing renewed vigor—and notching a string of high-profile victories, including last year’s successful strike by the United Auto Workers union against the Big Three carmakers, the historic UPS contract victory by the Teamsters, the SAG-AFTRA strike win in a struggle over abuses of AI technology in particular and the future of work in general, and the explosion of grassroots union organizing at workplaces across the country—the overturning of Michigan’s “right to work” law and the implementation of a sweeping pro-union agenda provides tangible evidence of how much has changed in recent years for workers and their unions...

By the mid-2010s, 27 states had “right to work” laws on the books.

But then, as a new generation of workers embraced “Fight for 15” organizing to raise wages, and campaigns to sign up workers at Starbucks and Amazon began to take off, the corporate-sponsored crusade to enact “right to work” measures stalled. New Hampshire’s legislature blocked a proposed “right to work” law in 2017 (and again in 2021), despite the fact that the measure was promoted by Republican Governor Chris Sununu. And in 2018, Missouri voters rejected a “right to work” referendum by a 67-33 margin.

Preventing anti-union legislation from being enacted and implemented is one thing, however. Actually overturning an existing law is something else altogether.

But that’s what happened in Michigan after 2022 voting saw the reelection of Governor Gretchen Whitmer, a labor ally, and—thanks to the overturning of gerrymandered legislative district maps that had favored the GOP—the election of Democratic majorities in the state House and state Senate. For the first time in four decades, the Democrats controlled all the major levers of power in Michigan, and they used them to implement a sweeping pro-labor agenda. That was a significant shift for Michigan, to be sure. But it was also an indication of what could be done in other states across the Great Lakes region, and nationwide.

“Michigan Democrats took full control of the state government for the first time in 40 years. They used that power to repeal the state’s ‘right to work’ law,” explained a delighted former US secretary of labor Robert Reich, who added, “This is why we have to show up for our state and local elections.”"

-via The Nation, February 16, 2024

[mandalhoerian]

the shape of grief.

as far as rafayel is concerned, pygmalion's is a horror story, not a myth. guy decides all women are beneath him, quite literally designs and builds one for himself, and somehow his narcissistic prayers for her to live are granted. what humans define as love and the stories they tell about it are always so revealing of their selfish nature. he only ever gets the appeal of it when he looks at his faceless galatea unable to take shape in his clay-sodden hands, and thinks, what wouldn't i give for you to open your eyes so that i could remember their exact color.

♯ ⸻ pure angst, sfw, 3.7k, read on ao3

note: directly inspired by this post about rafayel trying to sculpt mc/reader but not remembering her face. a bit late to this but i was hit with the procrastination fairies LMAO . i wrote this in a feverish delirium without caring for any canon at all, i apologize if rafayel is ooc !! this work assumes he has his memories of his life as the god of tides, you can think it as an AU if you believe he has no memories of it in the main timeline (yet.) This also takes place before the Addictive Pain anectode (if you like nitpicking and think why he doesn't have a photo of her and that this could have been avoided HAHA)

but without further ado, i hope you enjoy, please let me know what you thought!

The gallery Thomas had to basically bribe him to attend was cold with intention. Whitewashed walls were almost blinding beneath the overhead lights, each fixture angled to make the sculptures glow faintly at the edges like relics, a violin track playing at a volume calibrated for reverent hush with the crowd adjusting its voice accordingly. Somehow, the worst of it was that they'd scented the room with something floral and expensive, and it clung to the back of Rafayel’s throat. 

The exhibit was titled Breathed to Life: The Divine Muse in Modern Form. He’d read the placard twice, though once would’ve been enough. Wherever he looked, Rafayel couldn't escape from the oozed hauteur for the attempts at capturing a miracle, sculptures of taxidermied epiphanies resting under glass that was tempered with more care in Rafayel's opinion, preserved with just enough light to make the delusion shine. Words like transcendence, revelation, and worship had been worked into the catalog copy, and even the bubbles of champagne he was swirling in the flute glass was more interesting as he moved through the space slowly.

He passed a piece labeled Galatea No. IV — a full-bodied woman in bronze, lips parted in awakening, arms half-lifted as if to greet the man who had imagined her, the texture of her skin smoothed to impossible precision, idealized down to the the pores with not a single wrinkle or mole.

One of the critics standing nearby called it sublime. Another said, "She looks so real I almost expect her to blink."

Rafayel said nothing. He kept walking.

A curator caught him between rooms. She was in something backless, dark green, dripping with confidence. “You must feel at home here,” she said, beaming. “Mr. Rafayel, you're the Pygmalion of our time."

He looked past her to one of his own works, mounted near the final archway. A man slouched on a low stone, arms folded, spine curved with a kind of refusal, turned away from something but looking up at it at the same time in criticism, his face gaunt with a pinch of displeasure, half-shielded by a fall of hair. No awe or supplication.

His was the only Pygmalion in the entire exhibit, and no one seemed to realize it. Rafayel had heard some talk about how progressive it was to genderbend Galatea for gay representation, or that this could be the moment Galatea came to life and rejected her maker in a plot twist. 

Rafayel had left it up to interpretation if his Pygmalion was looking at Galatea at all. He was staring past her — past all of them, really. Every woman he ever imagined beneath him, too dull or too much or too sharp to matter. A man convinced that the thing he made was a compromise, that he’d been forced to shape it because nothing real had measured up. Neither a lover, nor a muse. A reflection bent to fit him. And maybe resenting how much of himself had ended up in the marble anyway. Nothing of the yearning saint the myth preferred. 

The gallery had tried to soften this image of human ugliness within the divine benevolence of Galateas all around, projecting wind through bare branches beside the figure, trying to frame the posture as meditative. They titled the piece Invocation. Rafayel wasn't even asked before they changed the name and he was definitely having a talk about it with Thomas after.

He offered the curator a a dismissive hand. “A flattering comparison. Though I hear his success rate depended entirely on divine intervention.”

She laughed, unsure whether it was flirtation or rebuke. “Still, what an honor. So many of us see ourselves in the myth, don’t we? The ones who love so deeply we bring our muses to life.”

He excused himself with a nod that meant nothing. Her perfume followed him down the corridor.

The flowing hallway was a blur of marble, alabaster, glass, bronze, the women luminous and soft, the men always absent — except in the titles. The Sculptor’s Prayer. In the Hands of the Maker. Love Before Breath. One artist had suspended a torso in resin, veins threaded with copper, the heart cavity open and waiting with the accompanying quote that read: “She lives because I saw her clearly enough.”

Rafayel stopped in front of it. The figure inside was beautiful and fragile, designed to be admired.

He traced the edge of the plinth with one fingertip and thought: She lives because you needed her to. Not because she wanted to.

He left the gallery floor and stepped into the auxiliary corridor lined with donor plaques and black-and-white photographs. One showed a young couple posed beside a sculpture mid-process. The woman’s face was amicable, and the man looked directly into the camera, his hand on the small of her back. The caption read: The original Galatea — forever immortalized by love.

He looked at it until the focus dissolved, and the polished surface of the frame stopped reflecting anything but his own cold expression.

Pygmalion was granted his wish. That alone was enough to make Rafayel despise him. 

A man shapes greed with his hands, pulls at the skirts of heavens like a petulant child, and the gods — watching from a distance they rarely breach — clap their hands in glee and say yes.

The myth pretended that mercy could be earned by longing, that a body sculpted by a beholder who sees himself so above others is owed because he called it love. There was no weight in that kind of miracle, only cruelty dressed as grace, a prayer granted just to mock the millions that weren't. 

Pygmalion was the epitome of human selfishness, the final limit where want transformed into greed for more than the world could grant. Only his statue, made by his own greedy hands and given life through someone else's breath, was beautiful, because only she embodied perfection to him, not because she was worth desiring but because he desired her. Pygmalion's love didn't reach past his self, it served only to feed himself and satiate him with the sight of his narcissism, like any other creation brought to life by humans for their own benefit; machines built to kill, guns painted gold so they look like art when killing — all just tools made to feed men's hunger for more.

But he would have never cared about Pygmalion if it wasn't for the gods.

Because Rafayel envied those gods, all too human in their vanity, for the power and might they wielded to give so easily like that. Their ability to move mountains without ever being touched by grief, to pull strings that bind worlds without fearing losing something of theirs; it was unfathomable to someone so bound in mortal tethers such as he.

It must feel so freeing, living like that, he thought. Must feel so good, pulling at other lives like they are your playthings. So easy to get lost in those dreams.

The same way he did back then.

The disdain covering Rafayel in a second skin as if he was an oil-soaked seagull was fuel enough to get back to work after that travesty of a gallery.

He’d been developing a concept for a painting — a large-scale composition of a coral-devoured, bleeding cathedral submerged in the sea, its steeples fractured and stretching toward the surface in a gesture that evoked both surrender and yearning, an image meant to convey the contradictions of loss and reverence, a symbolic convergence of decay and devotion. At least that’s what the so-called critics were about to yammer on about. It in fact was the fate of a certain buyer Rafayel was targeting, and the message was meant for his people and his people only.

The draft lived on the sketchbook propped against his raised knees, his legs crossed on the high stool, charcoal gripped tightly in one hand and smudging downwards the length of a pillar as he added textures and shadows to create depth. It was a hasty thing, but effective at illustrating what he envisioned, complete with notes scribbled around the edges, jotted reminders for little details here and there he needed to add to truly flesh out the piece later on. Rafayel was so distracted by a couple more things to add to the sketch that the canvas already prepared beneath the dome skylight felt neglected despite the brushes sitting ready and dipped in paint atop a palette of bruised violet scraped from stormclouds, diluted ultramarine, blue fog, a soft grime green of oxidized copper, rotten ivory, a sliver of warm rust, a cold pink scraped from the underbelly of spent roses, and more.

And yet, when he finally got up to start for good, his gaze drifted elsewhere.

Toward the bust armature.

Rafayel stood beside it, hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, head tilted sideways with one hand playing with it in thought. He loosened the buttons of the white dress shirt he wore after flinging off that horrid tie, sleeves pushed to mid forearms as he dragged a stool and took a seat before the armature, right elbow propped atop the round table to the side holding supplies, chin resting on knuckles, now gazing up at the base of the clay cast while chewing the inside of his cheek.

He had always told himself he would return to it when he was ready, when time had softened the raw, exposed nerve endings of loss, when he could render your likeness with a steady hand instead of a shaking one.

But then months stretched into a year, days faded into seasons which blended together into a period of numbness broken occasionally by an intrusive thought here and there while he focused on Lemuria and Lemuria only, and then — nothing. Until it was easier not to think about it at all. He became absorbed in his mission, dedicated to getting revenge, and avoided thoughts of you, for all intents and purposes, until moments like these where he simply sat in silence looking up at a form without feature to remind him why exactly he did what he did.

Galatea, huh?

He crossed the room with the same distracted focus he used to summon bruyous, hands rummaging through the storage shelves until he found the sealed bag of clay, not expecting it to be heavier than he remembered, dense with neglect. Dumping it unceremoniously beside the armature, he sliced it open, letting the block fall onto the slab table with a dull, resistant thud, finding it cold to the touch, too stiff to yield immediately, so he pressed it between his palms, wetting them, working the material slowly until the top layer lost its brittleness.

He didn't sit right away, hovering over the lump with furrowed brows, kneading it down into something usable, folding in water from the bowl on the side, rotating it as he moved, pushing and turning until the tension bled out. Once softened, he dunked the mass onto the metal plate mounted over the dented and sluggish, old man of a banding wheel. Only then did he sit, lowering himself onto a battered wooden stool, one bare foot braced against the leg of the wheel’s base while the other nudged gently to angle it.

All done. He reached for the wire loop tool without thinking or looking over, fingers already coated in the dull slip of moisture and clay.

The first lines came quick and confident. Indents for the eyes. The line of a nose. Just scaffolding, clearing a space where you might return to him, the only sound in the room the soft grind of his tools and his breathing. 

He narrowed the chin, adjusted the brow. Then sat back, frowning.

Too young. This was closer to the child at the beach who had hooked pinkies with him. 

He scraped the forehead flat again, thumb dragging clay down like peeling skin. The smoothed face stared up at him in blank reprieve, a temporary erasure before he tried again, less baby fat on the cheeks, sharper cheekbones this time, a more adult curve to the jaw, something more defined around the eyes, though he wasn’t sure what. A firmer mouth, perhaps. A stronger line. He reworked the nose — it ended up being too straight the first time and he chided himself for the mistake, then he decided it was too narrow, crooked it just slightly at the bridge, something he'd sworn felt right.

It wasn't long before the moment slipped from his fingers, and all the revisions felt more like mistakes than anything, tilting the whole balance of the face into something uncanny. He could pretend it was nearly familiar, but only in the way dreams pretended to be memory.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Rafayel tilted the wheel. Leaning in with an emotion-tense strain in his spine, he angled the bust toward the overhead light until the shadows shifted and spilled away from the features he’d laid out like a confession.

He stood up for a burning stretch to contemplate, stepped back, squinted with his head tilted, and stepped forward again.

Was it just him? The angle? The lighting? The fatigue of the gallery distorting everything?

After he sat back down with more determination to get over whatever this slump was that made him get you wrong over and over again, one adjustment in the temple led to a collapse in the jawline, and the later correction to the mouth made the chin too long.

The realization that the eyes looked distant now and he couldn’t tell if it was him failing the depth or the absence of something deeper was particularly worrying. Rafayel had always trusted the process, but this didn’t feel like a detour into arriving at the same destination, the clay was actually resisting him in a non-art block way and it was starting to actually bother him. 

He scraped again, set the brow differently, ignoring the thing niggling at him at the back of his head and brushing against some the internal nerve. Was it ever really that shape? Or had he once wanted it to be, and kept telling you about how doing your brows that way would compliment your features better when Algie had sat you down before the vanity in your room to try out some dresses for the ceremony and work on make-up to go along with each one of them?

The clay warped gently beneath his fingers as he tried to trust the sensation, but every stroke seemed to subtract rather than add. The frustration Rafayel hadn't sensed had made its way into his hands like fire following the path of a wick, making the cheekbone dip under the tool, and he had to sit back straighter with a huff from his nose. 

His eyes flew all over the features of the bust, the whole incomplete face. Rafayel couldn't even call it yours. One mistake or two could be expected, even pictures could be unflattering. But it was worse than that — he couldn’t figure out where it had gone wrong. The structure was exactly the same, proportions were what he remembered. The surface was close to reality enough to breathe, but the person who would come to life if they did wasn’t you, and he didn't know where he had gone wrong. 

Rafayel stared longer. A pressure grew behind his ribs, and it was beginning to feel like trying to hum a melody he hadn’t heard in years. The more he reached for it, the more the silence beneath it yawned open.

He reached up and pressed his palm against the clay, not to shape, just to feel if it might suddenly remember for him.

It didn’t.

This was someone else. Too much of him.

He looked down at his hands, coated in slip and streaked with fine dust, and flexed the fingers slowly as though wondering how long they’d been disobeying him.

He pressed the backs of the base knuckles of his thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes, pressing at the tear ducts.

Where was the scar you used to trace absently while thinking? He tried to recall the way your mouth moved when you were amused but trying not to smile. Was it one side that curled first? Or both? He had drawn it once, years ago, sketched it from memory with absolute certainty. But when he reached for it now, he found only doubt.

The chair scraped backwards and nearly toppled as he sprang to his feet, crossing to the small cabinet beside the canvas where he kept what little he dared to revisit. He almost flung the drawer halfway through the room when he yanked it open, pulled the first sketchpad he could reach, pages flipping too and frenzied to register until he paused and kept going through them slower to make sense of it. 

Eyes, alone. Dozens of them. Glancing sideways, gazing directly, lowered in thought, every single one of them slightly different in expression, none of them quite right. A nose rendered in three-quarter view with a soft crease that might have been tension. The arch of a brow, mid-expression — concern, maybe? Hair texture studies in every style you wore it that he remembers. A mouth caught in a smile with no cause. Hands more frequently than anything else — folded gently, held in motion, reaching out. The gesture of a wrist mid-turn, the curve of a knuckle mid-thought. A sketch of a nape that vanished into the shadows of the page’s lower edge.

None of them carried your name. But they were you. Bits of you. Shards. And every one of them had been committed to the page when he hadn’t even meant to — absentminded, between tasks, in the margins of other projects. A fragmented archive of heartbreak he’d been too cowardly to complete. As if assembling you would demand an answer to where you had gone, as if seeing it finished would require confronting what it meant for him to have stayed, inviting something too vast and unhealed to fit back inside him without breaking something else a lie in full.

Rafayel had underestimated the sheer amount of notebooks he'd gone through for years now, like paper towels one would wipe away their tears with. The grudges he'd immortalized left to collect dust and avoided religiously.

He could only look through a draft of your eyes and hold on to the sketchbook for dear life when his vision blurred and something trickled down his cheek. One by one, the tears solidified into pearls, striking the floor and rolling away into obscurity among the chaos of his studio.

Dropped right into the throes of a realization far bigger than he could accept.

Like a dream that slipped away upon waking, your face had receded to the place where Lemuria had sunk — unable to be grasped fully or played back clearly unless he called them forth, the rest reduced to snippets and gestures instead, images that flickered through his mind like slides projected on a screen, ephemeral and fading faster the harder he fought to keep hold of them. What remained was abstraction — softness that used to be hair, the dimple of an incisor tooth, a tilt of the mouth that belonged to laughter. Those fragments still possessed color. What they lacked were definitions that would allow him to shape the clay in your image.

He went through more sketchbooks until the last of it joined the pile around him and he was left standing motionless in the wreckage of graphite and paper spilling open across the floor like overturned reliquaries, pages fluttering mockingly gentle under the breeze nudging through the half-cracked windows, reflecting back a half-you, or an almost-you. He stared at them for a long time without moving, eyes dragging from shape to shape, as if willing one to speak with your voice.

What answered was a notification pinging in his pocket, a sound so mundane amid the shambles of his misery. He pulled his phone out in a detached daze, swiping at it with no thought.

Thomas: Pygmalion and Galatea gallery photos are up on their page! Your attendance was well publicized and people are talking about your piece, so I expect requests for interviews soon. Just letting you know 😃

 His knees gave out before the grief did, he caught the armrest at the very last possible second, and slid down the length of the sofa's side.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough. Those words barricaded his mind like blood rushing to fill a bruise.

Rafayel was a creature built from ripples, shaped by a lineage of memory so ancient it existed without written record, a primordial awareness of past pains and future sufferings alike, generations upon generations worth of invisible scar tissues patching him up like a rag doll. Cities had fallen and crumbled behind him, yet he could name their street corners and the songs sung during their funerals.

So why — how — had you slipped from him this way?

The thought unspooled inside him slowly, a wet thread tugged from a wound so raw that Rafayel didn’t dare touch it. He had thought, in some arrogant, buried part of him, that if he ever tried, truly allowed himself to miss you more than he mourned his people, and stopped tormenting himself by creating puzzle pieces of you out of scraps in his refusal to obtain a photo of you living your new life, he would be able to rebuild you perfectly. Even the gods who breathed life into Galatea would turn green with envy.

His gaze crawled back to the Frankenstein's monster of a bust, all unrelated bits and pieces that had looked like you when isolated but made no sense when he put them together, taking the shape of grief itself.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough.

He tossed the phone aside without giving Thomas an answer, threw his head back to lean on the lip of the couch, and covered his face with a forearm.

And at last, bitterly, he realized he was no different than Pygmalion: longing for the memory of a woman to etch itself into life.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Grinding, Dry-Humping, Premature Ejaculation, Coming Untouched, Switch!Jayce, Rough Kissing, Biting, Shower Sex, Angst, One Bed

Notes: I love my pathetic son Jayce, so I needed to make him just a bit wetter and sadder for… reasons. This is a two-parter, because it was looking too heavy as a one-shot and the second part still needs a bit more attention. I need to stop having too many multi-chapter projects at the same time before I go insane. Anyway, enjoy ❤️!!

(Chapter 2/End)

You tap your fingers on the wooden countertop, trying to remain calm despite the growing pressure inside your skull.

“And you're sure there's not a single other room left ?�� you ask with a tense smile, your teeth grinding against each other almost audibly.

The receptionist gives you yet another blank stare. She's hardly older than seventeen, probably helping out her parent's business, and clearly not paid enough to care about whether or not you stay or go.

“No, ma'am, there are no other rooms available for the duration of your stay,” she repeats robotically. It's as if you've been stuck in the same dialogue tree for half an hour with a badly programmed NPC. “We're a family-owned business, and we only have ten rooms available at once. Your reservation was for a single bedroom, not two.”

The exaggerated sound of her slowly chewing gum is driving you insane. “She's just doing her job’, you have to remind yourself. It's not her fault, you know that; plus, if there's anybody to blame, it's Jayce.

You turn towards the culprit in question, large shoulders slightly slumped and eyes escaping your glare. Pathetic.

“Seriously, Jayce?” you state in disbelief. “I asked you to do one thing for the trip.”

Jayce visibly takes offence to that, raising one stupidly large hand in objection:

“That's not fair, I was also taking care of bringing the prototype!”

“And I signed us up to the conference,” you hiss back. “I prepared our lecture. I got our bus tickets here and back. I made our itinerary for the whole three days. I even wrote down where we could go to bring back souvenirs for Sky and Viktor!”

You point an accusing finger at him, tapping it against his chest:

“The only thing I wanted you to take care of was the fucking motel. And you couldn't even do that right!”

He throws up both hands in exasperation, rolling his eyes. If there wasn't a minor in the same room, you'd have no qualms about punching him.

“Fine, alright, I messed up, what do you want me to say? ‘I'm sorry I'm such an idiot'?”

You exhale in frustration, throwing him one last resentful look before turning back to the receptionist: “Yeah, that would be a good start”, you scoff under your breath.

He makes a dramatic groan of annoyance behind you, like this entire situation isn't his fault.

The Academy barely gives you enough budget to attend two national mechanical engineering conferences a year. You had originally planned to go to this one with Viktor, specifically because of its location: nice and remote, the air fresh and relaxing, the few roads leading to the major cities surrounded by millennial trees and mountain peaks. The perfect place for a spark of romance to ignite between the two of you.

Unfortunately, Viktor had already scheduled a weekend seminar on the exact same date as the conference. Sky, your fourth and youngest lab partner, wasn't equipped enough to help you present all the complex features of the university's mechanical arm project. Only one other person could.

Jayce fucking Talis, and his magical ability to never do anything right.

“We'll just get our money back and find another place to crash,” he argues, walking up next to you to the counter, resting his weight against it; it creaks disapprovingly. “It doesn't have to be a whole thing.”

“I'm sorry sir,” the teen flatly interjects, still smacking the gum between her brace-clad teeth. Squish, squish. “But we require cancellations to be made 24 hours prior to the reservation. We cannot reimburse you as per the politics you have agreed to on our website.”

You'd probably get more interactive answers from a chatbot. Jayce kneads the lines on his forehead, his practiced megawatt smile starting to crack from fatigue. The girl stares at him with neither sympathy nor sadness; she brings her lips together to form a small pink bubble, letting it burst after a few seconds. Pop.

“Okay, you know what,” Jayce sighs in defeat, “I'll pay for our rooms somewhere else. It's on me. As an apology.”

This would be an excellent time to not subtly sneak in a remark on how he's always using his parent's money to get himself out of the messes he's created, but the teen speaks up again before you get a chance to:

“Sir,” she adds with her irritatingly nasal voice. “You should know the only other motel in the area only accepts new reservations until 9 pm.”

She nods pointedly towards an old grandfather clock on the wall, and the two of you look at it in sync: it's 9:06.

Now you're genuinely hesitating between strangling her or Jayce.

“You really know how to make a guy feel better, huh?” Jayce attempts with a weak laugh, the plastic smile crumbling a little further.

She only gives him a vacant gaze.

Your legs are aching from the long ride in the overcrowded bus, and the arduous walk to the motel with half the disassembled prototype on your back. You've been dreaming of laying down on a bed for the last three hours, and even if another inn was open nearby, you doubt you'd have the will to carry everything there.

“I don't care anymore,” you sigh, massaging the side of your temple to relieve some of the built-up tension. “I'm exhausted, and we need to rest if we want to be any good tomorrow morning. We'll just figure it out upstairs.”

Jayce makes a non-committal sound of agreement; if you had more energy, you'd angrily ask him if he has any better ideas he'd like to share. But you don't, so you just focus back on the unexcited receptionist. Ironically enough, the letters on her cropped shirt spell ‘GOOD VIBES ONLY’.

“We'll take the room,” you conclude, worn out.

The teen barely blinks as she inputs something into her old computer, the vintage monitor buzzing unpleasantly before she hands you two scratched keycards mechanically.

“Room 207. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay at Grizzly Country Motel,” she deadpans.

You mumble a thank you, but she either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore it in favour of going back to her cell phone, like your entire interaction had been nothing more than chasing away a couple of flies.

Jayce at least has the decency to grab both your luggage and his before you both head towards the stairs; if he’s got all those muscles, he might as well put them to use. You feel a pang of annoyance at how easily he carries the bags that you struggled to hold the entire day.

“Don't you think it's weird when they say ‘we’?” he mumbles pensively as you go up the stairway. “It's like everyone who works at a hotel is in a hivemind.”

You can't even find the will to look back and glare at him.

“No, Talis, I was actually thinking about how I'd fix all the problems you've created,” you reply drily.

You reach the second floor, knees buckling. Room 201, 202, 203…

“You'll just take half the bed and I'll take the other half,” Jayce pipes up from behind you, grunting as he pulls the last bag up. “We'll put a pillow in the middle. It'll be like nothing even happened.”

Oh, to be in the mind of Jayce Talis, where the universe is so fucking simple and accountability is a myth.

You hate how he always has an answer for everything, like it’s all so easy for him. You've fought hard to reach this point — to earn your place in the Academy, to be seen as a true scientist, breaking through barriers in a field where women remain the minority. It’s taken blood, sweat, and tears, years of effort that people like Viktor and Sky understand and respect.

Room 204, 205, 206…

But for Jayce Talis, it’s all sunshine, rainbows, and candy-colored skies. His family owns one of the largest metallurgy companies in the country, and has stocks invested in some of the biggest steel producers on the globe. He’s never had to work a single day in his life to put himself through school, never had to sacrifice anything for his dreams. You don’t think there’s a single thing he’s ever actually had to put effort in: he barely studies and still aces all his classes, hardly puts any care into his appearance, yet always looks like he’s out of the cover of the Times’ 50 Most Desirable Men. It’s infuriating to an unspeakable degree.

Room 207.

You tap one of the keycards on the handle, letting out a small sigh of relief when the mechanism beeps joyfully. Today hasn't been ideal, but at least, you're only a few feet away from a soft, comfortable bed.

You open the door, walking in with little decorum. It's small and bare, as you expected: a single window dulled by years of exposure, a box TV taken straight from the nineties, a dingy light fixture barely illuminating a greyed-out wallpaper of a forest scene, and…

“Talis,” you pause. He almost bumps into your back, fumbling with the bags in his arms.

“What?” he asks in confusion, peering over your shoulder. “Oh,” he simply says when he sees the issue.

“Talis,” you repeat slowly, trying to maintain your tone even, despite how badly you want to scream. “This is a single bed.”

Indeed, not only is there only one bed, it's evidently sized for a single person. It's ridiculously tiny. It doesn't take a genius to see that with someone of Jayce's stature, you'd have to practically sleep on top of him if you wanted to share the bed.

“Wait, I swear I asked for doubles for both of us-” he protests immediately.

“It's fine,” you cut him off, despite it being the exact opposite. The headache is getting worse, and you don't feel like arguing with him any more than you already have. “I'll take the bed tonight, and you take the floor, and we alternate tomorrow.”

Jayce puts all the bags down on the carpeted floor, visibly dejected.

“Again, I'm really sorry about this,” he mumbles, and even though you can tell it's genuine, it doesn't make you feel any better. Every ambigious prejudice you might have had against him has just confirmed itself: he’s a spoiled mama’s boy, who isn’t able to navigate the real world alone, and who’ll simply cry when he messes up things for everyone else.

“Whatever,” you grumble, sitting tiredly on the edge of the puny bed that groans painfully under your weight; it doesn't even have the decency to be comfortable. “Just means I'll have to take care of everything if we ever do symposium together again.”

He looks like a scolded puppy, unmoving, eyes avoidant, his large frame blocking the doorway. Jayce is extremely talented at making people pity him, with his huge citrine eyes and perfectly rosy cheeks. It almost makes you hesitate before adding the next words, but bitterness takes the upper hand: “This is the kind of mistake Viktor never makes.”

He doesn't reply.

You can tell that hurt him just as much as you intended with the way his body slightly curves inwards, his fits visibly clenching inside his pockets. Well, good. He's old and smart enough to know actions have consequences. He's supposed to be your partner, not a child you're babysitting.

“I'm…gonna go take a shower,” he hesitantly adds after a few tense seconds. “I'm still sweaty from the bus ride. Is that… okay with you?”

You shrug with disinterest; you know you’re just being petty now, but thinking of everything that could have been, had it been Viktor on this trip and not him, is leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Fine by me. I'll take mine right after.”

He waits a moment, like he's expecting you to add something else; maybe extend the olive branch. When you don't provide, he sighs, making his way to the bathroom door and closing it behind him.

You let your body fall back on the mattress with a heavy ‘oomph’. It's not as uncomfortable as it first seemed; it's firm, but the covers are soft, and the single pillow feels nicely fluffed. A couple might actually be pretty cozy in this bed, one body on top of the other, their libs entangled lovingly. It could have been you and Viktor.

Viktor.

Viktor, and his honey-coloured eyes. Viktor, and his teasing smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Viktor, and the way his long fingers twirl in his chestnut hair when he's focused, the way he absentmindedly licks his bottom lip when he's lost in thought. Viktor, and-

“Hey, um,” Jayce's booming voice from the other room interrupts your reverie. “C'mere for a sec?”

You groan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend he isn't there, he'll disappear all on his own.

“No, seriously,” he insists.

No luck. You get up lethargically, cursing the man under your breath.

“Left side with the red is hot, right side with the blue is cold, Talis,” you ironize. You open the door to the bathroom to see him standing in front of the shower door, thankfully still fully clothed. “Do you need help opening the shampoo bottle, too?”

He glares back at you in annoyance:

“Fuck off. Look.”

He nods towards a paper sign you hadn't noticed tapped on the glass panel, amateurishly plastified with a clear file folder.

[PLEASE DO NOT USE THE SHOWER MORE THAN ONCE A DAY. 10 MINUTES OF HOT WATER PER ROOM]

Well, you were wrong. Jayce Talis isn't just a forgetful idiot with bad luck.

He's a fucking curse.

“The room and the bed, I could forgive,” you start, fuming. But the shower?!”

“How was I supposed to know?!” he yells back melodramatically. “You told me to find something cheap to not go over budget!”

You shove him in frustration, only getting more annoyed when it doesn't make his stupidly huge body move a single inch:

“I didn't mean you should book a fucking dumpster!”

A loud, pointed knock echoing from beyond the bathroom wall silences you both.

Delightful. The neighbours can hear everything.

You move a step away from Jayce, the width of the bathroom not allowing much in terms of distancing.

“Sorry,” you mumble under your breath. You aren’t, but it's that or getting kicked out of the only open motel in miles for a noise complaint. “Yelling isn't gonna lead us anywhere. You can take five minutes, and I'll take the other five. It's gonna be short, but that's probably the best we can do.”

He at least has the decency to look appreciative, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.

“I can give you the whole ten minutes, to apologize. This is my fault,” he admits. It’s always like this with him, as if his never-ending self-pity cleanses him of any possible wrongdoing. You despise that.

“And have you stink up the whole place smelling like a football locker room? No way,” you scrunch up your nose. Just by sharing a workspace with him, you know Jayce has the hygiene skills of a teenage boy who thinks Axe body spray and cologne make sweat magically vanish; the sheer power of the unholy combination would keep you awake all night.

“Or…” Jayce trails on for a few uncharacteristically long seconds. He's usually more the type to say things before reflecting on them, but he's pinching his lips tightly, clearly hesitant about what he's going to add next. “…We could share the shower?”

You look at him with an expression frozen between incomprehension and disgust: “What?”

“I mean, it's big enough for two people to stand without touching,” he quickly justifies, raising his hands innocently. “I could take the flexible hose, and you'd just go under the showerhead. That way we'd both get ten minutes!”

He's using the overly excited voice he takes on whenever he's giving someone his sales pitch for a new, stupid idea he's had. It might work wonders on most, but you know better than to fall for it.

“So you're that desperate to see me naked?” you sneer.

“I'm trying to be helpful here!” he complains.

If you're being honest, it's not that bad of an idea. The shower is small in width, but it's quite long, making it a very viable option for two people to use at once. If you manoeuver everything right, it'll almost be like you're taking a long, nice ten-minute shower on your own.

“Fine,” you capitulate, making sure to enunciate the word painfully slowly so he knows you're not doing it out of the kindness of your heart. “But if you tell anyone this happened, especially Viktor, I'm cutting off your balls and using them to-”

“Yeah, got it, wouldn't want Viktor to think you like me,” he taunts mockingly, puckering his lips in a false kiss at the other man's name.

It's the first time you've agreed to an idea from Jayce, and you're already regretting it.

“Just shut up and get in the fucking shower,” you spit out, going back to the main room without sparing him another look. “Face the wall and call me when you're done. There’s no reason for this to be weird.”

—

He’s hard.

Very obviously and undeniably hard.

Jayce has been splashing his face with cold water for the last few minutes, to no avail. He's tried every technique he can possibly think of: running in place, breathing exercises, imagining his abuelita naked, nothing is working.

The only thing he can visualize is your body, completely bare in that shower, only a few inches away from his. The water pouring down from your hair to your shoulders, to your breasts, and then alongside the curves of your thighs, and your ass-

“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself in the empty bathroom.

It's not a secret to anyone that Jayce likes you. Neither is it a secret that you're utterly uninterested and only have eyes for Viktor, except perhaps for Viktor himself. It's kind of unfair how two-thirds of Viktor's lab partners are in love with him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get it, and that his eyes never lingered on that little mole above Viktor's lip for longer than they should have. But damn it, he wants you. He wants you to want him. Is that such an unfair thing to ask for?

You've got so much fight, so much fire in you, and he gets dizzy off the smouldering look in your eyes whenever you disagree with him. And disagree, you do: he wants to use lithium batteries, you want to use sodium. He wants to focus on reducing energy intake for the prototype, you want to focus on adding new components to it. He offers to order pizza for the group after a long day of work, you'll hear of nothing but sushi.

It drives him insane, but less in a way that makes him despise you, and more in one that makes him angrily rub his cock raw every night at the thought of that angry pout on your lips.

“-ayce! You alive in there?” comes your voice from the other room. He groans in frustration. This is a spectacular disaster in the making, and he's sitting front and center for it.

He's made his own bed and now he has to lie in it.

“You can come in!” he yells back with a noticeable crack in his voice. Not a great start.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the door creak open and close. The rustling of clothes being taken off one by one, the sound of pants dropping on the tile floor, and the unmistakable click of a bra being unhooked.

The door to the shower slides, and he feels you enter the confined space. It's ridiculous how close you are to him; he can smell the sweat off your skin, the faded scent of your perfume. His cock gives a small twitch and he glares down at it in betrayal. ‘Not now!’

You don't say a word as you turn on the faucet, the old plumbing in the walls hissing slightly before water starts to pour down on the both of you. He's not usually one for the cold, but it's refreshing, washing away the feeling of stickiness on his skin. He hums under his breath in delight; maybe it'll actually just be an awkward but relaxing shower, in the end.

The temperature rises slowly but surely, from cool to tepid, tepid to lukewarm, and then… it stops. He waits a few more seconds, throwing a discreet glance behind him to find you haven't fully turned the faucet on the hot side.

“Could you… put it warmer?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“It's plenty warm enough as is,” you reply flatly.

Now you're lying just to go against him; it's barely any warmer than if he was bathing outside in the lake.

“Why would you even fight for the hot water if you're not gonna use it?” he mumbles.

You moan dramatically in complaint: “Fine, princess, I'll bump it up.”

He sees your hand reach for the faucet, grab it… and bring it less than a centimetre closer to the warm side.

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, seriously, now start washing your greasy hair before there's no hot water left at all,” you scold him, like he's nothing more than a snivelling toddler, and not a man twice your size.

Alright, enough is enough.

“What are you-” you protest at his sudden movement, his bicep pressing up against your shoulder.

“I'm turning the hot water on so I don't die in here,” he snaps back, trying to get a feel for the faucet while still looking away from you for the sake of modesty.

“Absolutely not, stay on your side!” you admonish him angrily. You attempt to push him back, pointedly refusing to look in his direction as you blindly slap his arm away. “Wait, Jayce-”

It happens too fast for either of you to figure out what's happening. One minute you're back to back, a respectable distance from one another, and the next you've both slipped, his arms boxing you into the narrow side of the shower with your legs bumping together.

Your eyes are locked into his for a few long, painful seconds. Neither of you are moving. You're trapped in a precarious game of jenga, where you can't even see which parts can safely be removed without you collapsing on each other.

“Whatever you do,” you exhale slowly. “Don't look down.”

You visibly regret your words as soon as you say them; you must have forgotten it’s Jayce you’re talking to.

He immediately looks down.

You put an arm up over your chest with an indignant yelp, and he quickly defends himself:

“Why would you tell me to not look down? That's like saying ‘Don't think of an elephant’!”

You're staying silent, your lips into a tight line, but he's certain you're thinking of an elephant right now. He smiles boastfully and you shoot him a deadly glare, before looking away to the side. It's the first time he's ever seen that awkward little blush on your cheeks without the conversation being about Viktor. That's a win in his book.

“It's fine,” you repeat once more like a broken record, and it’s definitely more meant to reassure yourself than to keep up a pleasant conversation with him. “I'll just… squish back against the wall while you close your eyes, and I'll direct you back to the other side. No problem.”

You sound less convinced than he's ever heard you before. He must have succeeded in turning the faucet to the side during the whole debacle, because the water has grown noticeably warmer, clouds of steam starting to form in the air. The atmosphere inside the shower is shifting ever so slightly.

He doesn't want to move.

He doesn't want to close his eyes.

The colour of your cheeks has grown darker from the heat, your lips slightly parted around every audible respiration.

“Would you wanna stay like this… if it was with Viktor?” he asks breathlessly.

You look back at him with genuine confusion, and he's honestly just as surprised as you are.

“What?”

“I…” It's getting harder to think. All his blood is rushing south, leaving him dangerously light-headed. What is he saying? “I… asked if you'd stay like this if it wasn't me in the shower. If it was Viktor.”

Your frown deepens. Your eyebrows always do this cute little thing where one furrows just slightly more than the other, but he's never gotten to observe it from this close. He lets his thoughts travel into dangerous territory. Do you wear that same expression when you're on your knees, sucking some other guy off? Would you look like that for Viktor?

“I don't see how that's relevant,” you retort harshly, but your gaze is elusive. You can't hide from him, not when his face is merely inches away from yours.

“Humor me,” he requests again.

“Fine, yeah, I would! Are you happy now?” you snap, eyes locking back into his with fiery resentment.

You're embarrassed.

He's never seen you rattled like this before. The energy in the shower is electric, now, coursing through his veins like a drug. ‘There will never be another moment like this’, the voice in the back of his head provides, syrupy sweet. It’s without a doubt the worst idea he’s ever had in his life, but he can’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I could show you what he's into,” he almost whispers, the deafening sound of water hitting the ceramic flooring almost too loud for him to hear himself.

He knows that you've heard him with the way your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I mean, guys, we talk,” he explains, the words now coming out of him like the rambles of a madman. He’s in too deep to back out: it’s sink or swim. “About the stuff we like, the stuff we dream about. I could tell you what he's told me, and you can practice. On me.”

An eternity passes before you speak again, mouth just barely agape. But you're not yelling at him. You're not slapping him in the face. In fact, you're not even frowning; the expression you’re wearing is oddly vulnerable and open, like you're seeing him in a different light than you ever have before.

“You're fucking gross, Talis,” you breathe out slowly. “You really think I'm that easy?”

This*,* whatever this is, is so fragile he’s scared of shattering it by being too loud. Like he’s talking to a wild animal.

“I don't,” he promises in a low voice. “But I think you're smart, and dedicated, and you wouldn't let an opportunity to know something so personal about Viktor pass you by.”

The steam has fully blurred the glass panels around the both of you, and it feels like you're inside one of those snow globes Jayce's mother used to bring back for him from her travels when he was a kid. It's weirdly ethereal, warm and cold, frozen out of any known space and time. He’s never heard you stay silent this long, and the anticipation makes his throat burn.

“Fine,” you finally say. “But if you tell anyone-”

“Yeah I know, you'll cut my balls off,” he lets out with a small laugh, slightly delirious. He's half convinced he's dreaming. “Are we good?”

You nod without a word, shifting your head to the side slightly to avoid his gaze. He hesitantly brings a hand to your chin, holding it like you're made of glass. You don't recoil at his touch, so he gently presses it upwards, making you look at him again.

“Viktor likes it when people kiss him softly,” he smiles shyly, his heart beating as loudly in his chest as it did for his very first kiss. It’s like he’s watching a movie, like none of it is truly real. He closes the gap between the two of you slowly, waiting for you to pull away; but you don't. Your lips meet his, and it's everything he could have ever wanted.

You taste of rainwater and cherry chapstick. You’re soft in the way described by jazzy love songs, smooth and electric, a puzzle piece that just feels so unbelievably right. He wants to wrap his arms around you, hold you so tight this never has to come to an end, leave marks on your skin no shower could ever get rid of.

But he doesn't. He can't.

This is a fantasy that’s only animated by mutual gain. It’s not the climax of a romance film where the hero finally gets to kiss the heroine under the rain.

But God, does he want to pretend it is.

You pull away first, and he doesn't miss it: the millisecond where your eyes open and you look at him like he's the one you want to be kissing. The almost imperceptible moment where you're still imagining you're kissing Viktor and not him, where your irises shine brightly with so much happiness and love.

But it's already gone, like it never even happened, and you quickly wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You’re not in a beautiful London street amid a gentle downpour with your soulmate: you’re in a cramped shower in a motel, with a guy you don’t even vaguely care for.

“You should shave your stubble. It's annoying,” you mumble.

‘Viktor doesn't have one’, the sentence heavily implies. It stings, but he's not about to back off just from that either. Not when he's been given a chance like this.

“Viktor also likes it when kissing is a bit of a fight,” he adds, sounding much too eager and desperate for his own liking. “Biting, tugging hair, that kind of stuff.”

It's not a lie, per se; he's only ever seen Viktor kiss someone once, when they were undergrads. It was an end-of-semester party, and Viktor had had way too many vodka red bulls for a man of his stature and health. Jayce had found him on a couch, limbs entangled with a stranger who seemed equally as drunk, and absolutely devouring their face off.

Viktor had asked him to never let him near caffeinated cocktails again the next morning.

You look slightly skeptical, analyzing him for any signs of deception; it looks as though you find none, because you're the one who initiates this time, and there you are, the fiery woman he's fallen head over heels for.

You're going to war on him, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, savagely shoving your tongue in his mouth, one hand entangled in the hair at the back of his head while the other ferociously holds his throat in place, nails digging into his heartbeat. He responds eagerly, letting you mistreat him, encouraging you with muffled groans.

It hurts, and he wants it to never end. He can taste blood in his mouth, the metallic tinge making him dizzy, and he's so hard he could cum if you just touched his dick with a finger. He whines pathetically when you break the kiss for air, disoriented, a strand of saliva connecting you both still.

“A-aouch,” he can only manage to say jokingly.

You lean back against the tile wall, slightly breathless; you wipe away drops of red on your lip, smudging them down towards your chin, the look of a feral animal in your pupils. He feels his already rock-hard cock twitch. Hot.

“This is about what Viktor likes, not what you like. Toughen up, Talis,” you spit back.

Before he has time to formulate a reply, you're back on him, and now he's incapable of stopping himself from humping your thigh like an animal. You don't refuse him or push him away, even mercifully angelling your hip to the side to give him easier access. There's nothing but you, all over him, inside of him, tearing him apart and putting him back together. It's absolutely pathetic, and he knows it, but he can feel his release arriving in the pit of his stomach. He's wanted this for so long, there's just no way to delay it anymore.

It only takes a few more seconds before his orgasm hits him hard, the wave of pleasure making his whole body still as a plank, while you're still sucking harshly the vein on the side of his neck. He cries out once, broken and wanton, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

He comes down from the high in time to see the last of his cum painting your hip white before it gets washed away with the water. You detach yourself from him unceremoniously, putting some distance between your bodies with a frown.

“Did you just…?”

There's no room for pretending here. He's just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of his life from nothing but a fucking kiss from you. It's like he's a teenager all over again, face redder than a tomato and eyes escaping yours guiltily.

“You came. You came by just making out with me,” you repeat, visibly caught halfway between incredulity and mockery.

“I just haven't gotten laid in a while, that's it!” he justifies vehemently. He needs to change the topic quickly, or you’ll never let him live this down. “I'm always busy at the lab doing the paperwork you always skip out on!”

That thankfully seems to take your attention away from his premature accident; he's never been so grateful for your short temper.

“Seriously? You’re going to bring that up right now?” you bark, shoving him in the chest angrily.

He can still turn this around. He might not have much control over his first release, today ridiculously so, but he's been blessed with excellent stamina and a very short recovery period. Jayce is good at selling himself with speeches, and even though you're usually immune to anything that comes out of his mouth, he's willing to cheat this once and use the one chink in your armour he knows about.

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed,” he tempts you in a tone of indifference.

Your silence speaks volumes; he's got you again. Yes, it's incredibly manipulative, and when this is over he's going to spend hours turning over in his bed and despising himself. He’s always believed in doing things the fair way, the right way, and that one day he’d manage to lower your defences and etch a place into your heart all of his own merits.

But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

What kind of man does that make him?

That’s a thought he’ll just have to keep for later.

Taglist Darlings: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, @urfavlarry , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth

[lotties-ashwagandha]

WASTING TIME

agatha x rio x reader, 1.1k words.

NSFW! having sex during a trial on the witches’ road is NOT recommended… the three of you do it anyway. part of my birthday event, linked here!

“We shouldn’t,” you argue. “Not here. Not when we have half an hour to get out of here.”

Agatha tilts her head at you, surveying you with a terrifyingly mischievous expression. “Come on. Death is on our side, remember?”

You don’t oppose her point, but you’re still not convinced that Rio can save you here. Not in a trial on the Witches’ Road, in a pristine and modern mansion that is so elegant it becomes daunting. You should be working to get through the trial — not fucking in some office you found upstairs. But you sit on top of a cleared desk with Agatha standing between your thighs and half of your clothes on the ground. And though you’ve protested on behalf of your chances of making it out of here, you don’t really want her to move away — just to reassure you that everything will be fine.

On cue, Rio emerges from the shadows. She circles the desk, taking in the sight of the two of you before her. She meets Agatha’s eyes. “You pulled her back here without me.”

Agatha shakes her head. “I knew you would find us.”

“And you know I can save you here? You think I can bend the rules for you again and get you out of a trial if it closes?”

“Can’t you?”

Rio shrugs. She motions for Agatha to step back, and then takes her place standing between your knees when she does. She still speaks to Agatha, but she’s looking at you, giving you her attention in the way she runs her hands over your thighs and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. “We have twenty-five minutes to get out of here and the others are going fucking insane down there.”

Agatha doesn’t respond, just looks at Death and crosses her arms like a child.

“The Witches’ Road is meant to be a group effort, Agatha.”

“Then make this a group effort,” Agatha steps forward, gives Rio a teasing look and kisses you in front of her. Your shirt is already on the ground, one less obstacle when her hands snake up your sides as she fights for a better position to reach you from with Rio still so close. She addresses her again, talking about you like you’re not there. “Twenty-five minutes is easy. I could make her cum in ten.”

Rio scoffs. “You’re wasting time.”

“Time and tide wait for no man,” Agatha quotes sarcastically. “Or whatever the fuck it is.”

Rio rolls her eyes, and you’re preparing some quip of your own when Agatha starts kissing your neck and the words dissipate. You sigh, pleasantly this time, closing your eyes and letting her nip and suck at your collarbones — one way or another, they will take care of you. They will not let you die here.

While Agatha is working at your neck, Rio kisses you. Though she keeps lecturing you about time, her kiss holds the same hunger as Agatha’s, and you can tell she wants this just as much as you do. It’s Rio that pulls off your pants and lets them fall to the floor, Rio that is racing against the clock most fervently.

Agatha pulls back, watching the two of you for a moment before checking the clock. Then, when Rio pulls back from kissing you, she meets your eyes. “Before this trial is over, we are going to make you finish.”

Her tone is laced with sureness, but somehow the statement still contains a question – both of them wait for a confirmation from you, if you’re really unhinged enough to stake everyone’s lives on this.

To their joy, you are. You look back at the clock. “You have… eighteen minutes.”

“That’s more than enough.”

Agatha pulls you down off the desk. Before you can get your footing steady on the floor she turns you around, pushing you down so that you’re bent over the face of the desk. She leans down over you, whispers something to you about how beautiful you look beneath her that you can barely comprehend with the wave of urgency rushing through you, not because of your limited time but because of the need that comes over you when she dips a hand between your thighs and starts rubbing your clit.

Every touch is too slow, agonizingly so, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. You squirm under her, causing her to let some of her weight press down on you to keep you still as she keeps going.

“Listen to her,” Rio says to Agatha, but from where you are you can’t see her. Your senses are limited to the feeling of Agatha’s fingers circling your clit, ever so often dipping down as if she’s going to slide them into you before changing her mind.

You gasp when she finally does shove two in, dragging them out of you and pushing in again with a similarly torturous slowness. Your back arches as you try to get more from her, but Agatha is patient, giving you nothing more than what she wants.

“Hurry up,” Rio urges. You can hear the impatience in her voice. “Let me have her, we don’t have much time.”

“This was my idea.”

“Move,” Rio pulls Agatha back from you, and suddenly you’re left with nothing.

You don’t resist when Rio maneuvers you to stand up straight again, and you’re eager to lay back for her when she hoists you up onto the desk and pushes you down. You are becoming a little disoriented with the constant repositioning, but you do anything you can to drive yourself closer to release at their hands.

“Time’s running out,” Agatha reminds her.

Rio ignores her, ignores the narrowing time limit when she starts fucking you in place of Agatha, finally giving you what you’ve needed from the beginning. “Such a good girl, taking everything we give you.”

You suck in a gasp, every inch of you burning at the edge of release. Faintly in the background you hear the ticking of the clock, a quiet disturbance beneath the praise flowing from the two women above you so freely.

Rio checks the clock and then looks back down at you, taking in how your body is tense as your orgasm comes nearer, how your attention is limited to the pace of her fingers drawing in and out of you. The sight of you brings softness to her voice. “Let go for us, my love.”

It comes over you in a wave. You release a breathy moan, letting her work you through it, listening halfheartedly to the praise both of them give you.

A slow exhaustion settles over you, and you relax against the surface of the desk, taking in a deep breath. Rio parts from you before guiding you to sit back upright on the desk again.

Agatha checks the clock, and suddenly the three of you realize the gravity of your situation.

“We have to get the fuck out of here.”

thank you for reading!!! if you’d like to see my masterlist, click here! smut is not my strong suit so be patient with my little fics.

agatha all along taglist: @webism @szczurkanalowy @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf

[hivemuthur]

Tightrope - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!, frenemies/academic rivals to lovers, modern university AU. This is part of a request for @pxszels

Ch.1. | Ch.2.

word count: 6,2K

tag: #tightrope

summary: You and Viktor are tethering the line between friendship and rivalry, Jayce being one amongst the few common factors you both acknowledge (of course more is there but for the smart people you are, you tend to be very stupid about things). Oh, and you have to do a project together.

author's note: @rennethen thank you for beta reading! This has a teeny-tiny bit of angst, just for the good measure.

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

In the next couple of days, you learn a new, deeper meaning of the word unbearable. The universe works against you in the most scrumptious ways, making sure you and Viktor never get a second alone. Worse, it cripples your brain into missing the opportunities that do arise.

“Guys, I am dying. You wanna grab something to eat together?” Jayce offers, stretching and patting his belly, riding that peaceful tide of you and Viktor being on your best behaviour the whole week.

“God, yes,” you say, barely audible. But you hear it—the dry click of Viktor’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. And then you see it—the eye roll, the wince, meant only for himself as he hunches further over the workbench. Eyes closed, he looks like he’s bracing himself, and after a few very long seconds, his expression smooths into something closer to fake contentment. When he turns to Jayce, he sighs, “Why not.”

“Yay, quality family time,” Sky quips with mock enthusiasm—not from exasperation, but exhaustion. She and Jayce have hit a few bumps in their project that Viktor has gladly helped with. Overall, things started looking better three days ago, when Sky absentmindedly threw out, “Oh, how glad I am that you guys gave up on your bickering so miracles like this can happen now.”

A knowing look exchanged between you and Viktor earned you a pair of raised eyebrows from Jayce. Yet he didn’t pry, perhaps worried that pressing too hard would shatter whatever illusion you’ve created for him and Sky to feel comfortable in the workshop.

Illusion or not, the thing remains unaddressed. You share lunches in the cafeteria, where you catch Viktor staring at your hands while you do your crosswords. You could swear he’s in physical pain each time Joe picks you up for a walk or a study date. When Joe invites you to a game while dropping you off at the lab, Viktor’s hand wavers on the blackboard, and the chalk he’s holding gives a bone-chilling whine. In class, you are civil—nodding, backing each other up. You almost miss the thrill.

You work next to each other, passing tools and notes, and every time Viktor’s touch ghosts your fingers, a jolt runs up and down your spine, momentarily turning your brain off. And you have no idea if offloading some tension was the missing ingredient in your strange dynamic, but somehow, the edges of your interactions have smoothed—so much so that, currently, the calm waters begin to look disturbingly suspicious to you.

The first time it happens, you let it pass. “Very well, let’s try it,” Viktor replies to your utterly stupid idea.

You had suggested using a secondary, low-power capacitor array to stabilise fluctuations in the main circuit, arguing that it might smooth out the inconsistencies in energy output without requiring a full recalibration.

But the moment Viktor inclines his head—agreeing—your own logic catches up with you.

“Wait…” You frown, staring at the board. “On second thought, it probably won’t work because the capacitance mismatch would create a delay in discharge, which could—” You grimace. “Yeah. Let’s go with yours.”

Viktor nods, completely unfazed. “As you wish.”

But the scientist that you are, you do not let it pass entirely, do you? You try again. And again. Making your ideas intentionally just a little bit ridiculous. It’s subtle enough that Jayce and Sky don’t catch on, but you know for sure that Viktor—a man who absolutely revels in any opportunity to put you back in your place—would notice.

Until one day, you completely outdo yourself. “We could try harnessing residual static charge from fabric friction,” you suggest, dead serious.

Viktor slowly turns to you, blinking. “Fabric friction.”

“Yes,” you continue, undeterred. “Imagine if we line the internal casing with silk and rely on movement to generate small, supplementary charges. It would be incredibly efficient.”

Jayce, bless his soul, hums in thought while packing up his bag, ready to leave. “You know, there are studies on triboelectric—” He shrugs and holds the door open for Sky. “You could do some research there,” is all he says before waving you both goodbye.

“Well, what do you think?” you probe Viktor, who is visibly fighting a demon inside of him. Possibly a couple—one that wants to swat you across the head for suggesting something so idiotic, that’s for sure. One that feels, for whatever reason, that he should agree with you once more. And the one that wants to bend you over the workbench and fuck this idiocy out of you.

“We could… look into it, I suppose,” he says through gritted teeth.

And once your suspicion is confirmed, something crestfallen crosses your face. “Could we now,” you say, avoiding his gaze. “How very kind of you.”

A realisation forms in Viktor’s expression, and he looks almost relieved. “Thank God, I was worried I fucked your brains out. In literal sense,” he smirks and your breath catches, the thing being addressed so bluntly for the first time.

“I will give you one chance to explain yourself,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, not letting the heat between your legs to distract you from getting your justice.

Viktor exhales sharply, rubbing his temple as if warding off an impending headache. “Explain myself? Why don’t you explain to me the source of all those ridiculous ideas that, I might add, set us back at least a week?”

You scoff. “Well, why do you fucking endorse them?”

“I’m… trying to be nice to you,” he admits, but the words land awkwardly, like they’re foreign to him.

Your arms tighten across your chest, nails digging into your sleeves. “Why can’t you just be nice to me without buttering me up?”

Viktor’s jaw tenses, his fingers twitching where they rest on the handle of his cane, and he twists it into the floor. “I want to. I’m just not very good at it.”

You let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Oh really? Is there truly nothing nice you have to say to me outside of lies, Viktor?”

“That’s not—” He falters, his eyes darting away.

“That’s not what?” you demand, stepping closer. “Are you this desperate to get your dick wet that you have to lie to my face?”

For the first time, something shifts in his expression—his usual sharp defences giving way to something quieter, almost wounded. His gaze flickers down for a fraction of a second before he speaks your name, a soft plea, his eyebrows scrunching in worry. “Have you thought that maybe not everything is about you?”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t let it show. “Forgive me, Viktor, but I fail to see how you buttering me up is somehow not about me.”

He exhales, fingers come to pinch at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “We’ve already agreed that I think you are smart. Or brilliant, even—”

“I don’t remember us ever agreeing on that.”

He hesitates, but continues, as if you are not being the biggest pain the ass he’s ever had. “…So I was hoping you would notice it could be about me not feeling… secure enough around you.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly. “Why wouldn’t you feel secure around me?”

Viktor presses his lips together, his gaze flicking somewhere past your shoulder before returning to you. “Well.” He offers a small smile.

“Other than accidental electrocution, please,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Viktor huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Eh, well, I would say that is a good enough reason.” He tries for a laugh, but when you remain unimpressed, expression flat and expectant, he relents with a sigh. “Alright, alright. You don’t really see me as anything else but annoying, do you?”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard. “That’s… not true…”

His gaze sharpens, watching you closely. “Do you regret kissing me?”

Your jaw clenches. “We’ve done more than kissing.”

“Do you regret kissing me and then doing more than kissing?”

You falter for a beat. “You… you kissed me back. Don’t blame this on me.”

“Blame?” Viktor lets out a dry chuckle. “I am far from complaining. But if it’s a competition, you kissed me first.”

“You shoved your fingers in my mouth.”

“You let me.” His voice is smooth, unwavering, answers coming faster than you can challenge him back. Your breath catches in your throat. You’re both teetering on the edge of something—anger, desire, frustration—blurred and indistinct.

“So…” you start hesitantly, voice quieter now. “We agree that this was a misunderstanding, then?” No idea why this pops into your head, of all things. Also, no idea why you lap at it like a dog and then present it to Viktor, all slimy and bitten, expecting the opposite of what comes next.

He stills. “W-what?”

“Well,” you swallow, trying to steady yourself, “clearly having a… fling is harmful to our work ethics.”

For the first time, Viktor doesn’t have a sharp remark ready. His lips part slightly, but no words come. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Oh. I see.”

And it’s the sadness in his face, the way his eyes drop just for a second before he masks it, that twists your gut.

Desperate for anything to break the moment, you twist the knife instead. “I would expect more from you than reducing me to another stupid girl who needs to be stroked on the head.”

His jaw tightens. “A mistake, it seems,” he mutters, his voice low, restrained. “One that I am not able to fix now.” And the triumph is bitter on your tongue, achieved by kicking someone who is already fallen. As you can’t take it back you just stand there, staring at him.

A tense silence stretches between you before Viktor exhales sharply, stepping back toward the workbench. He gestures at the scattered notes and tools, his tone clipped but controlled.

“Let’s pick this up—” he swallows, shaking his head slightly. “Later. Let’s pick this up later, if you would be so kind.”

You nearly groan. Nearly. Nearly walk up to him and shake him by the shoulders. Nearly cup his face and shove your tongue into his throat, ruin his hair again and pull the shirt out of his pants to snake your hands beyond the waistband. Nearly. Instead, you still yourself and say only, “As you wish,” before picking up your back and leaving.

***

The cry you give yourself after fleeing the lab is possibly one of the ugliest this planet has ever witnessed. By the time you are done, you can barely see—your eyes swollen and aching, your nose clogged irreversibly, or so it feels, and your cheeks pulsing in rhythm with your frantic heart.

How it has gone so badly, you don’t know. Or rather, you do, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself. You have your right in this, of course—being in STEM is hard enough as it is, and it becomes infinitely harder when you’re a woman. So the blow of being patronized by someone almost closest to you burns right through your chest.

Which, of course, doesn’t mean Viktor deserves all the artillery you’ve aimed in his direction. The image of his face—sad, defeated, utterly betrayed—refuses to leave your mind, and you scowl as another round of sobs wracks through you, muffled into your pillow.

For the next three days, the only thing that greets you in the lab is a bullet-point list in Viktor’s precise, slanted handwriting:

Adjust calibration on the generator. (Values listed.)

Double-check insulation before running tests.

Run equations on conductivity using corrected parameters. (Underlined twice, just in case you miss it.)

Report findings in the log.

No sign of him. No stray coffee cups, no muttered commentary, no sharp remarks that you’ve started to crave like an addict craves their next hit. Just instructions, cold and impersonal, waiting for you each morning like a list of chores.

You aren’t stupid. He’s been coming in at night, working under the cover of darkness just to avoid you.

In class, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence, doesn’t flinch when you speak, doesn’t even seem to register that you exist. The only sign that anything is amiss is the deep exhaustion in the tight lines of his face and the way he favours his good leg more than usual.

The first chance you get, you try to corner him. After class, when the students file out, you seize the opportunity and step into his path. “Viktor—”

He doesn’t slow down. Instead, he shifts toward Jayce as if he’s bracing against the tide, latching onto him like a lifeboat. “Jayce, there is something I must discuss with you,” he says, completely ignoring you.

Jayce hesitates, clearly caught in the crossfire, then shrugs helplessly. “Uh, sure, man.” He throws you an apologetic glance as Viktor all but drags him away.

“Traitor,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your arms as you watch them leave.

A few more times, you attempt to siren-call Viktor into sparing you a second of his attention—staring at him intensely during lunch breaks and lectures, willing him to just look at you. You consider passing him a note, but it would probably only add to the already negative value of your deemed immature behaviour. You even text him, once. No response.

Finally, exhausted and out of ideas, you decide it’s time for a brief reprieve.

It comes in the shape of a rugby player with a big smile on his face and a hand that pats your back as soon as he sees the sodden look dragging down your features.

Your name follows, formed as a question, and all you can do is offer a half-smile and a sigh.

“Seriously, what is it?” Joe probes, poking at your ribs playfully. “Is it the project?”

“Uh, I guess you could say that. We don’t need to talk about it,” you say, swatting his hand away and trying your best to produce a convincing smile. But somehow, Joe sees right through it, his curiosity refusing to let the subject drop.

“Is it your scary friend?” he asks—more statement than question. “The one that keeps you on a short leash and gets impossible every time you’re late?”

“Joe,” you plead, tugging at his sleeve as the two of you stroll through the university campus gardens. You kick a stray rock in front of you, shoulders hanging sullenly, unable to even look at him. The thought of Viktor hating you has stuck to you like a piece of chewed gum in some misfortunate soul’s hair.

“Come on, you can tell me. I know a thing or two about guys, you know.” Joe bumps his shoulder against yours.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare but don’t pull away. “Satan, leave me alone.”

He chuckles, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, as you wish.”

You hesitate, the words crawling up your throat before they finally spill out. “Uh. We… kissed?”

Joe nods slowly, considering this with an unreadable expression. “Okay.”

His nonchalance throws you off. You blink at him, feeling as though you’ve missed a step in a conversation that should have been more dramatic. He catches the look on your face and bursts into laughter.

“I’m fine with that,” he says, grinning. “I said I wanted to be friends, and I meant it.”

“Okay… well, we kissed and, uh—” You shift uncomfortably, rubbing your arm. “And more, but not the way you think. And then he was… too nice to me.”

Joe deadpans, voice flat as he stares at you. “Outrageous.”

You groan, shoving his arm. “Oh, shut up, it’s not the way you think again!”

He just laughs, effortlessly dodging your half-hearted swat. “Well, why don’t you explain it to me like I’m the halfwit that you think me to be, then?”

You huff but finally surrender, relenting to his insistent curiosity. You lay it all out—carefully skirting around the more intimate details but being extensively thorough about Viktor’s behaviour afterward. Joe listens attentively, nodding along almost too ardently, as if he’s pretending this is a particularly complex puzzle.

Just as you’re about to groan and declare that you’re never telling him anything again, he shrugs and says, “Seems easy enough to me. He likes you.”

You whine his name, dragging out the syllable in protest. “Joe.”

“What?” He grins, unbothered.

“Well, what should I do if he keeps avoiding me?”

Joe taps his chin in exaggerated thought before offering, “Dump tackle?”

You groan as he bursts out laughing, swatting away your desperate weak punches with ease. “Fine, fine! Do you know where he lives?”

You shoot him a dubious look. “That’s a bit desperate, isn’t it?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you not desperate?”

“Joe, I am never desperate.”

He snorts, completely unimpressed. “You seem pretty desperate to me.”

Could it really be that you were growing a little bit desperate? Once the anger has simmered down, the vision of Viktor’s expression when he said, Let’s pick this up later, is all that remains. His sunken chest, his head bowed low.

You hold onto that image as you walk through the dorm corridors in the evening, telling yourself it’s only for the sake of a basic, decent apology. You repeat it like a mantra while hesitating at his door, debating how to knock. You’re still lost in your mind when the decision is taken out of your hands—the door swings open, and you’re suddenly face to face with Viktor.

His startled expression is the first thing you register. Your name tumbles from his lips, unguarded, as if he wasn’t expecting to see you standing there. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh…” You fidget, shifting on your feet. “Can I come in?”

He hesitates, considering you for an agonizingly long moment. Then, with a sigh, he steps aside. It’s not an invitation, not really—more like an exasperated surrender. But you take it, nonetheless, slipping past him into the room.

You glance around, taking in the organized chaos of his space. Books and notes stacked in precarious piles, bordering on neatness but arranged by a logic known only to Viktor. You smile faintly at the familiarity—you do the same.

On his desk sits an assortment of unfinished food—a half-eaten sandwich, the remains of a banana, the last bite of a protein bar resting on a plate with what looks like a massacred cake, most likely courtesy of Jayce Talis. His cane rests hooked over a drawer handle. You take a slow, uncertain stroll toward the desk, tapping your fingers against its surface before turning back to him. He still lingers by the door, guarded.

“I don’t have much time,” he says abruptly, glancing at the clock.

“Right. Your night shift at the lab begins soon, I presume?” You huff, leaning against the surface, arms hanging limply at your sides. You do your best to look remorseful without overdoing it.

“What can I say? I do not wish to endanger your work ethic further.”

“Viktor.” Your voice softens. “Will you at least hear me out?”

He exhales sharply. “Go on then.” Waves a hand at you, an awful dismissive gesture.

You swallow, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I… I was mean to you. I treated you horribly, and it wasn’t fair.” The words come out unevenly, hesitant. “I got frustrated, and I—I should have handled it better.” All the rest remains trapped. In your brain, in your chest, somewhere in your vocal chords that refuse to release the words from the prison of thought: I hope that you like me. I hope you want more than just to get your dick wet.

Viktor watches you, expression unreadable, but he nods. Thinks for a moment longer and the silence almost has you crushed.

“Thank you. I accept,” he says finally and limps towards the desk, stopping just a step away from you. “For what it’s worth, I also apologize—for making you feel like your brain is worth less than your other… merits.”

His words also come out quiet. They also seem clipped, but you might just be dreaming. For some reason, his acceptance is underwhelming. It’s almost too easy to get this forgiveness and the following apology out of him. “I… might have overreacted a bit,” you say stiffly, waiting for his reaction.

“Hm.” A noncommittal sound.

“Does this mean we can get back to finishing this project together?” And the other project as well? It itches your tongue, yet you don’t dare say it. No space for begging, you tell yourself.

“I suppose. Yes.”

“Okay.” You nod, unsure what else to say. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” A surrender. Bitter and hollow on both sides, as no romantic outburst follows. Completely different to what you’ve dared to imagine, and you scold yourself for being such a girl.

Nothing else comes from him, and you prepare to leave, but then—Viktor leans past you, reaching for something on the desk. His cheek lingers beside yours, warm, and his breath ghosts over your skin as he murmurs, “You have something on your face.”

“What—” Your question cuts off as his thumb swipes across your lip. Instead of wiping something away, he smears the cream from the desecrated cake on your mouth, and the touch is so gentle it has your breath trapped in your throat.

The speed with which you conform to playing along is almost embarrassing. Your fingers ghost over a spot nowhere near your lips. “Here?” you ask, sounding genuinely confused, breathy and pathetic, stupid girl mode overrides all the genius of your mind.

Viktor shakes his head, his gaze hooded, heavy. He’s so close that his nose brushes against yours, another warm hand comes to rest in the crook of your neck. “No.” Voice a low murmur. “Would you like some help?”

“Please,” you breathe, shamelessly.

Viktor hums, eyes dark, and lifts his hand again, his thumb brushing over your lip in another slow, deliberate stroke. But instead of cleaning the cream away, he only smears it further, dragging it to the corner of your mouth and your eyes flutter shut.

His head tilts, mouth quirks at the mistake. “Oh, would you look at that?” he mutters, gaze flicking to yours. “My method is proving useless.”

Your breath shudders out in response. “Change the method then.”

For a moment, nothing happens. He just stands there, close enough that the warmth of him presses into your skin, close enough that you can see the way his pupils have swallowed the gold of his irises. Then, slowly—so unbearably slowly—he leans in.

His lips part, and before you can brace yourself, his tongue flicks out, warm and wet, dragging over the cream at the corner of your mouth.

You still, even though all you want to do is lean in and push your mouth against his. His hand, now cupping your jaw, tightens, fingertips pressing into your skin. He lingers, lips hovering just above yours, exhaling softly into your mouth.

Heat pools between your legs at impossible speed and you feel the urge to cross them. His hair tickles your cheek, breath mingles with yours, each inhale you take filled with him.

You let out a shaky chuckle, nervous and giddy, and Viktor’s lips barely, barely brush against yours, not quite a kiss, but just as devastating. Your chest rises sharply, pressing into his, and you don’t miss the way he sways infinitesimally closer, as if drawn in against his will.

“Better?” he asks, voice low, a whisper against your lips. A hopeful one, inviting and needy.

You swallow hard. “I don’t know.” Your voice is just as quiet, nearly lost in the space between you. “Maybe you should try again.”

“It seems I myself am in need of aid,” he says quietly, his thumb already pressing against your lips. A ghost of a memory, as you part them, close your eyes, and hum, licking the sweet cream off—but you don’t stop once it’s gone.

Both your hands wrap around his wrist as you press against the heel of his palm, taking his fingers in, one by one, sucking on them obscenely. And Viktor—oh, he tries to hold on, but his hips buck into yours as he lets out a pretty, small moan, committing to memory the shape of your lips devouring his hand.

Heat coils low in his stomach too, lances across him, as your tongue flicks over each knuckle, your mouth hot and slick around him. The pressure of your lips, the slow drag of them down to where his fingers become a palm before you slide up to the tips—unbearable. He can feel the back of your throat. The base of your tongue, soft and wet. Warm to the point of his pulse pounding in his temples, in his ears, in the tips of his fingers where they disappear between your lips, and he realises he’s gripping your jaw too tightly, afraid that if he lets go, he might shake apart entirely.

Abruptly, he pulls his hand away, only to seal his mouth over yours. Fingers are exchanged for his tongue, his grip on your jaw tightens despite him, and teeth clack against each other in haste. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, puts his foot on a stack of books beneath the desk and presses you down onto his thigh.

“Use me,” he rasps into your mouth, swatting your hand away when you try to palm him through his trousers. “No. I want to see you come first.”

His fingers clasp around your hips, guiding you as you rock against him. The fabric of your skirt rides up with every movement, baring more of your legs, the rough press of his trousers a sandpaper against the delicate skin of your inner thighs. He is solid and hot beneath you, watching as your eyes grow heavy-lidded, your breath quickening, his smile turning wicked when you fist his shirt—a plea, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for. The friction is dizzying, the pressure relentless, and Viktor keeps studying you with dark, hooded eyes, drinking in every quiver, every gasp falling from your lips.

He kisses you violently, lips brutal, his tongue hard and wanting, retreating only when you moan into his mouth. He pulls back just enough to watch your chin tremble, to let the broken sounds fall freely between you, before crashing back in to swallow them. His hands slip under your skirt, fingertips searing where they dig into the swell of your hips, urging you to move faster, harder.

"You are making such a mess of me," he breathes, voice wrecked, and you can feel it—how thick and rigid he’s grown beneath his trousers. The thought of how much precum must have pooled into his underwear makes your mouth water. His thigh is soaked with you, the evidence of your pleasure smeared across the fabric, and when you slide back and forth, letting him catch a glimpse of it, he moans roughly. His teeth come to your bottom lip, then down to your jaw, your throat, marking you between kisses—each more desperate than the last, each less of a kiss and more just the press of his wet mouth against your skin. "Look at you," he rasps, eyes fevered as he tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet. "Come for me, just like this."

And you hope, hope, hope, this want is backed up with something else than just blood draining of his body, pumping between his legs. You hope it’s for you, not just for anyone, when he rasps into your mouth and holds you close.

You shift forward, pressing your thigh against his hard, aching cock, and the sharp hitch in Viktor’s breath is almost enough to send you over the edge. His grip tightens at your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as if he’s holding himself back from rutting into you.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you bury your face against the damp skin just beneath his ear, your panting breaths mixing with his. The friction crests into an unbearable shattering, and when you come, it’s with a choked, desperate, “Fuck, Viktor—”

His name leaves you in a broken gasp, and it ruins him. A slow, sweet smile curves his lips, his hands are nothing but gentle as they slide up your back, gathering you closer against him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, warm and syrupy, coaxing the aftershocks from your trembling body. “You did so well for me.”

One arm wraps firmly around your waist, holding you steady as he noses along the side of your face, breath fanning over your wet skin. “Such a pretty mess,” he croons, lips brushing over your temple, your cheek and jaw. “You look so pretty when you come. So harmless.”

It’s possibly the prettiest thing Viktor has seen, your face undone with bliss, so different to all those times when he’s seen you pissed with him or rolling your eyes at something he’s said in class. He likes those faces, too, yet the way your eyes roll when you fuck yourself on him definitely dethrone all the other versions.

He rocks you against himself lazily, your damp knickers dragging over his thigh as your body trembles in the aftermath. “I like it when you say my name like this,” he purrs, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath your ear. “Say it again for me.”

“Viktor,” you breathe, kissing his mouth sloppily. “Viktor,” comes softer when your legs weaken, and your hands find his. “Viktor,” when you drape his arms around yourself and guide him toward the bed. Finally, “Viktor,” when you sit him down, kneel at his feet, and undo his belt.

You tug at his trousers, and he—awestruck—leans back on his arms, lifting his hips for you.

And what reveals itself is more than you could have hoped for—a wet stain marking his underwear, the fabric nearly see-through, revealing the shape of his head beneath. You press a kiss to the tip through the damp cotton, and Viktor shudders, groaning as his fingers slide into your hair.

Like a delicate gift, you unwrap him from the clinging fabric, peeling it away to disclose him in the warm glow of the bedroom lamps, his cock throbbing and pink at the tip, leaking for you. With pretty hair circling it at the base, and a prominent vein running along the underside, waiting for your tongue to trace its path. You’ve missed so much in the dark confines of the storage room.

“Hm, Viktor,” you hum, inhaling his scent and trailing soft kisses along his length. “Is it a yes, then?”

“Huh?” His lower lip hangs heavy, no coherent thought managing to push through the haze fogging his mind. He strokes your warm cheek with his thumb, gazing at you so longingly it nearly renders you dumb.

“To gagging,” you say sweetly. His breath stutters and this time it’s his eyes rolling back as he groans and bucks forward, cock brushing against the curve of your nose.

“Yes,” Viktor breathes, nodding vigorously. “Yes,” he says again, sliding his tip across your tongue. “Oh God, yes,” he groans as he pushes into your mouth, and once more, you hum in approval, hands tightening around his sharp hips.

His breath stutters as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your lips stretching around his girth. His hand trembles where it cups your cheek, thumb stroking reverent circles against your flushed skin.

“Ah—ah, you take me so well,” he murmurs, voice dazed, head lulling on his shoulders. Hand slips lower and fingers brush along the column of your throat. When he presses, just lightly, he can feel himself inside you—his own hardness encased in the heat of your mouth, the thought alone enough to send his head tipping back with a low, wrecked moan.

You hollow your cheeks, drawing him in deeper, until he’s nudging against something that makes your lashes flutter and your eyes well with tears. The sensation makes him groan, long and low, his grip on your throat tightening. “Fuck, just like that,” he breathes, his accent curling thick around the words. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the soft sounds you make sending another shudder through him. “My sweet, brilliant girl.”

This has you clenching on nothing as you moan against him, strangled and loud and Viktor’s body jolts, curling toward yours. His hips shift, making his cock press into you until your nose brushes against his base. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice unsteady, reverent. His palm presses more firmly against your throat, feeling the way you take him, the way you let him fall apart. “So beautiful like this—taking all of me—”

His words break into a curse when you swallow around him, the sound raw and desperate, and when he looks down to find you watching him, his eyes are glassy, and he’s nearly done for.

Was this all that you needed to feel like this? To be seen as a whole, both brilliant and pretty? Was this praise worth more because it’s coming from him? You don’t know, but something within you unravels as Viktor writhes and pants above you, his hand cradling your throat, another stroking your hair with admiration as he repeats how lovely you are. How good, how sweet. Nobody calls you sweet, ever. Oh, how nice it feels to be a girl stroked on the head by him after all.

It’s the honesty of his touch that nearly breaks you, when you can no longer be sure if the streaks of tears glistening on your cheeks are caused purely by the gag reflex. It’s the eyes that look at you reverently, and his mouth hanging open for you, his body exposed in ways you have never seen before. And he is so beautiful like this. So different from the man who lashes at your throat during endless debates over capacity and utility of designs. Yet it’s almost as if one couldn’t exist without the other. Tethering that tightrope together.

You let him slide in and out of your mouth, as you save all the sounds he makes in the bank of your brain, especially the one that announces him reaching his peak before the warmth of his cum coats the inside of your throat.

Viktor comes with a broken moan of your name, fingers tighten in your hair, and he shudders when his cock retreats from your mouth with a quiet pop. He immediately pulls you onto his lap and nuzzles into your neck, his arms hooking around you tightly.

“Is everything about you genius?” he hums in a deep breath, blissfully spent.

“If it were, I would’ve worked this out sooner,” you reply, dragging your finger down his chest.

“How are you?” he asks, cupping your cheeks and brushing his nose with his. A silent thank you, spoken in the language of warm skin.

“Would you avoid me for eternity if I didn’t come over?” you ask in a small voice, wincing at how expectant it sounds.

“I don’t think I’d be able to,” Viktor chuckles. “I was already breaking, to be honest,” he adds, smiling sheepishly. “I’m glad you came. So, so very glad.” A sigh, another earnest sound. He rolls you both to the side and kisses your neck. “I promise to be sweet to you from now on.”

“No,” you shake your head in his embrace. “No, I want you sincere, Viktor. Tell me when I’m fucking up. Promise me.”

And the look he gives you is where you land after your fall—slow, gentle, and firm. A space for your imminent fuck-up, welcoming and free of scolding, full of room to fix and learn. “I promise. And I would like the same of you.”

You nod and kiss him for it. The tightrope snaps gently—not under pressure, but cut precisely where you want it, another person holding it so it doesn’t slip out of your grip. Viktor holding you, as if he wants all of you. As if he’s wanted you for the longest time. You land in each other’s arms and a solid ground is beneath your feet.

He pulls you closer, his arms encircling you like a protective shield. The weight of his body presses into yours, steadying you both in a moment. You breathe in deeply, the air between you filled with a new kind of warmth. His thumb brushes your cheek, gently wiping away the remnants of your tears.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice thick with intent, as if he's thanking you for something more than just tonight.

You nod, resting your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a soft reassurance. "No more half-truths," you murmur, a promise just as real as his.

For the first time, you feel truly seen—not just for the things you’ve done, but for who you are. And in that, you find something more precious than you expected.

[satorusugurugurl]

Could I request JJK men helping you masturbate? More specifically, it's late at night and reader masturbates, they wake up but are too tired to actually do anything so they just whisper in ur ear or just guide the toy with their hand 😇 Modern AU with Nanami, Gojo, Geto, and Sukuna if possible, thank you sm I love ur writing it gets me GOING everytime you post teehee!! 🩷😁‼️

Guide You

Summary: A modern!au when during a late night solo session gets spicy as JJK men help you get off. 🥴

Characters: Nanami Kento, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Ryomen Sukuna, AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,492

Warning: Spicy, smutty stuff, masturbation, toy use, praising, language

A/N: Hi Nonnie! Thanks for the request! I hope you enjoyed it! I hope it wasn't too repetitive I kinda struggled for a bit in a couple of places! 🥲 but I loooove you thank you!! 💚💚💚

Nanami Kento:

Your husband was the best pediatric ortho doctor in the city, which came with its positives and negatives. He was paid well, loved what he did, and was able to spoil you. Rotten with gifts and luxurious trips. The downside was the hours and overtime he hated to put in and the fact that you rarely got to see you some nights.

This was one of those challenging weeks while he was on call because it seemed like every child in the city decided this was the week to break their bones. By the time his week was finally over, your poor husband was exhausted, mentally and physically

You lay in bed, gently stroking his snored into his pillow. His features were finally relaxed as he dreamed peacefully next to you. You loved seeing him relaxing, with a gentle look on his face as he finally got the rest he deserved. The poor guy was tuckered out, and when he got home, he promised to make up for the long week to you this weekend with his mouth and his cock

And you were desperate to have him

You both made several attempts this week to have a quickie in the morning, the kitchen, and the car ride to work, but each attempt was interrupted. It was like the worst kind of edging. When Nanami had gotten home tonight, you had the full intention of riding him until he passed out, but the moment you saw how tired he was, you decided your pleasure could wait until he was well rested.

That’s what you kept telling yourself: to not jump his bones, you could wait. You weren’t some Horndog that needed to be consistently fucked within an inch of her life. You could function as a normal human. Telling yourself that helped for a second before thoughts of pushing you against any surface and having his way with you had your short soaked and your pussy throbbing

Maybe you weren’t too strong

Squeeze your thighs together, rubbing some relief, but it was suddenly too hot, and your brain was buzzing too loudly at one in the morning. You needed to get off, but you didn’t want to wake your exhausted husband, which meant you needed the hell of your trusty wand vibrator

You pulled the blue toy out of your nightstand before slipping under the sheets. An orgasm would be enough to tide you over for the night. Tugging your shorts down your hips, pulling them around your thighs, you press the tip of the wand against your clit, turning it on the lowest setting. The buzzing vibrations had you moaning softly, tilting your head back against your pillow.

The simmering desire between your legs began to increase to a boil, fire, throbbing, making your legs twitch and tremble as your eyes tight, imagining being the one to touch you, bringing you this delicious pleasure that was burning hot. You pictured him slotted between your legs, tongue torturing the little bundle of nerves, while honey-brown eyes stared into yours, eagerly eating you out and driving you towards release. That image of your husband had you turning the speed to the toy up. The buzzing grew louder as you chewed on your bottom lip to hold back the moans, trying to

While you did your best to keep your moans silent with the sound of the vibrator muffled by the sheets, it was the squirming of your legs that caused your husband to stir next to you. Nanami hummed his eyes, opening them just in time to watch your mouth fall into an ‘O’ shape while your eyes shut tight. He blinks lazily, trailing down the curves of your trembling body, listening to the soft humming buzz of your favorite toy

His poor wife must be pent up. As much as he would like to roll over and fuck you into the mattress, he was too tired. He might not be able to fuck you, but he could still offering and helping hand.

You were in your fantasy that you didn’t realize Kento was right next to your ear. His breath flushed over your cheeks, his lips pressing against it. Feeling his warmth next to you and his lips on your skin, the smell of his body wash had you whimpering as you spread your leg

“Mm, that’s it, baby. Does that feel good?” Nanami whispers in your ear. “You’re trembling, and it must feel good.”

“It feels really good, Kento, so good.” Your leg shakes more as he buries his face in your neck, kissing it gently fuck

“Turn it up higher. Don’t tease yourself like that.” As Nanami’s hand wraps around the wand, he presses one of the buttons, increasing the speed to a higher setting. “You’ve been such a good girl. You deserve to cum.”

Your hips buck forward as your left-hand grips the sheets. You could feel the burning fire growing hotter and hotter between your legs, spreading down to the tips of your toes to your abdomen, where the kindling flames grow hotter. A coil tightened. You were so close, and Nanami was sleep-deprived, could tell. He turned the speed up higher with a moan, grinning against your skin as you inhaled sharply, legs clamping together as you gripped his forearm with your hand.

“Oh-Kento! Oooh fuck~ fuck I’m gonna cum! !”

“That’s right, let it go cum for me.”

“Nnngh!” Nails dug into his skin as waves of pleasure washed over you. “Oh my god! Oh my god, c-cumming~!.” Your husband chuckled, his breath warming the skin on your face as you both worked yourself down from the intense orgasm.

“Pent up, darling?”

You hum, nodding as you pull the toy away, turning it off before putting the wand on your nightstand with a pleased sigh. “Yeah, I’m sorry I woke you up.” Large, calloused hands wrap around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his body.

“No, you’re fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help out more.”

“That was hot enough to tide me over until you get some well-deserved rest.”

Nanami’s lips press against yours in a kiss as he shuts his eyes. “Then you better get some sleep. I have a week to make up for, so you’ll need all the rest you can get.” The promise of him ruining almost how you want, but the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had you falling asleep with him in your arms.

Gojo Satoru:

Gojo Satoru, your boyfriend, was well known for his company, Six Eyes. A game developing company that produced some of the best video games of the era, making your rich boyfriend even richer. Gojo was constantly whisking you away on spontaneous trips. If you saw some new viral dessert in Canada, you both were off to try it. If you were stressed, no worries; a weekend in Fiji would fix that.

While his job paid exceptionally well and was stable, he also went on many business trips. The Jet Lag was real, but your boyfriend made it a point to try to readjust his sleep schedule whenever he got home, which sometimes meant he’d stay up close to twenty-four hours to do just that. Some nights when he got home, like today, he had been up so long that he was out like a light the second his head hit the pillow.

You didn’t mind. Just sleeping next to Satoru, wrapped in his arms, made up for the two weeks he was away. But being wrapped in his arms like you were right now also had downsides. His breath was hot against your neck as his chin rubbed that sweet spot where your shoulder connected to your neck, and his leg was firmly pressed against your sex.

God, you were so horny you felt like your whole body was on fire. There was no way you could fall asleep like this wet and needy. It would be awesome if your boyfriend was up and able to help you with your situation. But the rumbling of his snores clued you in that there was no hope for two A.M. quickies.

Taking matters into your own hands, you crawled out of his koala grip, reaching into your nightstand and pulling out your g-spot vibrator. God, you were so wet you didn’t even need lube. All you needed to do was rub the toy up and down over your folds before dipping the tip inside of you. You hissed out in pleasure before pushing the toy deeper inside of the tip, pressed firmly against that sensitive, spongy spot inside of you, the one that made you squirm. With a whimper, you turned it on and began thrusting it in and out of your tight pussy.

It felt so good, and it made your body burn hotter. The familiar coil in your abdomen began twitching to life. You hummed, rocking your head forward as you laid on your side gently, thrusting in and out of you faster, working yourself up to release, but you ran into the same problem you always did with a toy like this.

It got too intense.

You’d feel yourself getting close; your legs would clamp down together, making it nearly impossible for you to move the toy when you were trying to rub circles around your twitching clit. You would struggle to keep the rhythm pace and ultimately end up edging yourself endlessly.

“Fuck!” A harsh whisper sounded as you felt your orgasm slipping away again, your legs clamping together tighter. “Come on.” You were so close you could almost cry. The sweet release was just within your grasp and kept slipping away.

Biting down on your bottom lip, watching your trembling legs try to clamp together for the third time, making it almost impossible for you to move the toy in and out. If your vibrator were charging, this would have been much easier to do. But alas, your toy was dead, meaning you had to use your fingers while trying to thrust your toy in and out of you, feeling your orgasm for the third time. You were about to give up when an ivory hand reached between your legs, finding your clit with ease.

“H-Haaah, Satoru!” you gasped out as the warmth of his body snuggled closer against your side.

Gojo had been dreaming when you cried out in frustration, his eyes open, finding you struggling to reach that sweet release. He lay there momentarily, eyes still heavy as he debated oncoming to sleep when your voice broke. You sounded like you were going to cry and not in the way. So, fighting against the drowsiness, he inched closer to you, deciding to give you a helping hand.

The sharp circles you loved around your click while he forced his knee between your legs, forcing them to stay open, giving you the chance to fuck the toy faster into your heat. The stress and struggle on you were lifted as Toru rubbed his chin over that sweet spot on your shoulder before he trailed kisses down your neck.

“I got you.” his voice was thick sleep. “I got you; you can relax, sweetheart; you can cum~”

“T-Toru—” you whine out your hand, moving faster. “Satoru!”

Your boyfriend is leaning over your body, watching you drive closer to release. “That a girl~ don’t it up, don't stop.”

“B-But—”

“Shh~ relax, baby.” Gojo’s other hand reached under your body, his hand wrapping around yours that was thrusting the toy. “Keep moving like this, just like I do with my cock. You like it when I do that, right? When I that tight little cunt?” his lips brush over your shoulder as he moves the toy at a faster speed.

Your head tilts back as you feel the coil in your abdomen tightening.” C-Close—!” you whisper, eyes rolling back into your school as you beat up.

“Yeah? Does that feel good, sweetheart? You gonna cum?” His husky breathes as you nod. “Good girlfriend, that’s it. I can feel your leg shaking. You’re gonna cum so hard.”

“T-Toru!”

“Yeah, yeah, baby, good girl, such a good girl~!” Satoru causes your body to convulse as your breathing catches in your throat. “Mhmm fuck!”

Your pulse was racing, causing both you and Satoru’s hand to still as you cum. Waves of pleasure send you rocking back against him the entire time you cry and shake, littering your shoulder with kisses until you gently pull the toy out with a satisfied cry. His hand rests over your hip, gently holding you as you toss the toy to the foot of the bed. There was always time to clean it later; you were afraid if you tried to get up on wobbly legs, you would most likely collapse on the floor.

Opting out of leaving the bed, you roll over to face Satoru. His eyes are heavy as he looks at you through white, luscious lashes with a gentle smile. Grabbing Satoru’s handsome face with your hands, you kiss him deeply, making him hum happily as he lazily kisses you back before you pull away.

“Thank you, Toru.”

“Mhmm~” his eyes finally shut as he rubs his face into the pillow before squeezing you closer to his body. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Satoru. Get some rest, honey.” Before those words leave your mouth, your boyfriend snores softly against the pillow with a gentle smile.

Geto Suguru:

The problem with dating an EMT was the fluctuating hours. Some weeks, you and Suguru worked the same hours on the same days, while others had him on the night shift. This week had been nothing by the night shift. You couldn't complain, though. At least he would have the next four days off to spend with you. You could go out on dates, fuck each other, and he could rest, catching up on the sleep he had been deprived of. You both usually did that, but tonight, there was a problem.

You were currently ovulating and unbearably horny.

Suguru had worked his ass off this week, having been on calls nonstop for the entirety of his 12-hour shift. Usually, he’d be raring to go, needing to take his frustrations out on you, but today has been hard, rough call after call. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes as a kid tissues off and made it straight to the bathroom to take a hot shower, but we’re probably passing out face first in bed.

You lay down next to him, pressing your lips together as you stared at his sleeping face. His hair fell over his eyes, and he hugged his pillow tight as his sweats hung low on his hips. One leg was underneath the sheets, while the other was bent near his chest. How was it legal for him to be this fucking hot. That wasn’t even the hormones talking. That was a straight fact.

The hormones were telling you to breed you until you cried. But Suguru’s pale skin in the dark circles under his eyes prevented you from waking him. Waking him up to satisfy your needs was cruel when you were perfectly capable of satisfying yourself.

As long as you could see his handsome face and his breath, it would be to keep you in the moment. He was out so hard he wouldn’t see you staring at him like you were some pervert while you got yourself off lying on your side facing him; you bit back a moan as you rubbed your favorite flexor toy over your opening before sliding it inside of you with a shiver

The toy was pressed firmly against your g-spot and clit. When turned on, it would flex, mimicking fingers moving inside of you. It was your favorite toy, one your boyfriend had bought specifically for you, which made this even hotter. Small whimpers left your mouth as your eyes focused on Suguru, who slept soundly across from you.

Doing something like this, masturbating in front of him without him, knowing had your walls twitching in pleasure

“Haaah—” wind, one hand, gripping the pillow behind your head while the other grasped at the sheets. The curling motion and vibrations made you wetter than you already were, which seemed almost impossible. Your arousal seeped out of you, coating your folds, thighs, and your favorite pink toy buried inside you, and the pleasure of doing it in front of your handsome boyfriend without his knowledge had you squirming, resulting in the toy slipping out of you.

“H-Huh?” The feeling of the vibrations against that spongy spot inside of you vanished. “What the?” reaching down, you pushed it back in place, but your wet walls had it slipping out again. “Y-You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You repeated the same process, pushing the toy inside, but it continued slipping out, turning your very steamy solo session into a much more frustrating scenario. It was hard to get into the moment when you were constantly having to push your favorite toy back inside of you. You finally reached down, holding it firmly in place with one hand. So you could handle the situation. Before you could lose yourself in the pleasure, you glanced back up to admire your boyfriend, only to meet his dark gaze, watching you with a lazy grin.

“S-Sugu!”

“Oh~ don't stop, please~ I love watching you get off.” he hummed with a smirk, snuggling closer into his pillow. “Could wait for the morning~ had to get out your toy?”

“Y-Yes—”

He glanced down, “Need a hand?” You can only nod as he reaches down, replacing your hand with his own. “Fuuuck~ baby, you're so fuckin’ wet.” he pushes the toy deeper inside, holding it snuggling in place.

“I-I was I-imagining you, f-fingering—nngh—” Your mouth falls agape as you watch Suguru as the vibrator flexes against your clit and g-spot perfectly. Your hips buck, and your leg trembles as you cry out softly.

“Yeah~ you always get needy for my fingers.” he gently rocks the toy black and forth, making a whimper crawl up your throat. “Does that feel like me~? Rocking my fingers against that spot?”

“Ooooh fuck S-Suguru, Sugu~”

Your boyfriend’s thumb presses the button, increasing the speed to the highest setting. “Oooh baby~ you sound so pretty, moaning my name like that.” He smirked as you grip his bicep, digging your fingers into the muscle. “You’re gonna cum~ I can tell.”

“Y-Yes! Please, Sugu, please, please, I need it!”

As much as he would like to edge you, keep this going, he was still tired. So he rocks the toy back and forth, faster and harder, drawing out the loudest moans from you. It felt so good. It felt like he was touching you while guiding a toy he had purchased for you. Your nails nearly broke the skin as you clinched your hand around his bicep, the coil in your abdomen tightening harder and harder until it finally snapped.

“I'm cumming!” screamed out legs, trembling and shaking as you gushed all over the toy. “C-Cummin’ cumming!” Subaru couldn’t help but chuckle as you arrived against the mattress; you were so sensitive, so easy to please, because he knew you like the back of his hand.

As the rippling contractions of pleasure ceased, your grip on his arm loosened before gently rubbing away the crescent moon shapes you left behind. “Feel better?” Suguru asked as he gently removed the toy from inside you.

“Yeah, it's your fault—ahh—” your words cut off as you watched your boyfriend slide his tongue slowly up the toy collecting your cum off of it. “W-What are you?!”

“A midnight snack should be enough to tie me over until I fully devour you in the morning.”

Your boyfriend nonchalantly placed the toy on his side of the nightstand before hugging his pillow and shutting his eyes as if he hadn’t just done something so sinfully hot! If it weren’t for the mere intensity of your orgasm, pulling you into dreamland, you would’ve taken him right then and there and told him to relax while you did all the work. Suguru was right; you would have to wait for a proper meal in the morning, and you would beat him to it.

Ryomen Sukuna:

Ryomen Sukuna, you’re hot, tattooed, and pierced boyfriend, was snoring next to you in bed. His right arm was in a black brace courtesy of the sofa. You had begged him to wait until you got off a call to help him move it, but he insisted that he would be fine alone. And he was until the damn thing nearly crushed his little brother Yuuji when your back was turned.

It was a hairline fracture that would quickly heal in six to eight weeks. Plus, with the hairline fracture, Sukuna could still do simple things like piercings and scheduling appointments at Geto’s tattoo shop. Your boyfriend had been lucky that he had a lot of muscles to take the blunt of the hit from the massive sofa. Your boyfriend wasn’t fortunate enough to avoid your wrath when he said he could care for himself and his brothers alone.

Hearing him say that caused you to blow a fuse. It was bad enough that he had tried to move a sofa alone! Then he dares to tell you he doesn’t need help around the house. Sukuna told you he would be fine nursing a hairline fracture while working and caring for his brothers, which caused you to tell him to shut up and stop being an asshole. That’s how you found yourself with your bags packed in the corner of his room as your ass was planted firmly in his bed while he slept off his pain meds.

He could fight you all he wanted, but you wanted to be there for him.

With a heavy side, you brush back some of your hair as you glance at the clock on the wall. The adrenaline had been pumping through your veins, keeping you wired most of the evening. You were wired after taking Sukuns to the hospital, picking up his brothers, and packing a bag to bring. Seeing that it was now one in the morning, you had a couple of choices to help with your insomnia. You could pull an all-nighter and take a nap on the day, or you could relieve the tension with an orgasm and fall asleep that way.

Having to choose between sleep, deprivation, and pleasure wasn’t a hard decision. Without any other thoughts, you reached into Sukuna’s nightstand, pulling out the vibrator he kept there for you. With that bad boy, he would be able to cum in no time. You had just laid on your back and went to turn it on the highest setting for it to do absolutely nothing. You gave it another click, finding your favorite toy dead.

“No,” you whine, leaning against the pillows. “Fuck no.” as much as you hated it, you would have to go back to the ages and get off with your hand if that was even possible.

With a soft side, you pull to the side before your swollen clit with ease. You gently began rubbing it with your forefinger and slowly teasing circles. Your toes curled as you pressed down on the bundle of nerves with a whimper. It felt good, but you weren’t sure if this would be enough for you. Your boyfriend had not only been your first for almost everything, but he has successfully ruined you for anyone else

And the smug bastard knew that, too

Rubbing your clit faster, you spread your shaking legs with a shaky sigh. Touching yourself, of course, felt good. It always did, but it wasn’t enough, whether it was the lack of callouses or how your fingers were much smaller than your boyfriend's. Or it could just be the fact that your hand wasn’t his. Those thoughts only made it harder for you to focus on the pleasure,

“Kuna,” you whispered, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes~” You were trying to mimic his fingers over your swollen bud, picturing his mouth on your tits, sucking at your nipples. “Fuck.” imaging that only increased the pleasure, making you rub yourself as fast as your fingers would allow. The pleasure only seemed to intensify, urging your hands to grab the sheets instead of continuing to get you off. “Fuuck.” They were about to slow down when Sukuna swatted your hand away and replaced it with his left one. “Haaah!”

Looking up, you found your groggy boyfriend sitting on his knees, the right hand pressed close to his chest while the other rubbed furiously at your clit. “Gotta move your fingers faster than that kitten.” his voice was deep and groggy from the sleep and the medication he was on. “You’re never gonna cum like that.” Your hands dug into the sheets and snapped your fingers faster and harder. I guess that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”

“What? You were begging me to do so. This is what you wanted, right?” Sukuna moves his hand as fast as he can as you bite down on your bottom lip when the pleasure becomes almost too much.“Then do it, cum all over my fingers like the good kitten that you are.”

“I-Im gonna—!”

“Yeah? Gonna finally cum now that your boyfriend’s helping you out?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Yeah, your fingers aren’t as rough as mine, are they?”

“No!”

Sukuna presses down on your clit harder, rubbing circles around it. “Awe, so honest~ come on, baby cum, you deserve it for telling me the truth and helping me out today. Consider this one of the many ways I plan on repaying you,” you scream, eyes going wide as your orgasm hits you with the promise of more pleasure to come.

Your body rides and arches off the mattress as you cum all over your boyfriend’s hand. You grip the sheets, eyes clamping shut as your tights clamp around her hand. Sukuna slows his fingers down, grinning as he watches your face go from scrunched up with pleasure to a more relaxed expression. His quick circles turn into lazy strokes until, finally, your legs shakily release the vice grip on his hand.

“Mmm.” he licks his fingers clean as you fix your shorts. “You taste so sweet.”

“Mhmm,” you respond almost lazily as he pulls you into his chest. Drowsiness creeps up on you, making your eyelids heavy, and Sukuna sighs heavily. “Night, Kuna; let me know if you need anything.”

Sukuna hums in response, watching as you slowly drift off to sleep on his chest. Would asking you to move in be too much to ask? Because you were everything he needed.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3

[back2bluesidex]

Clandestine - MYG (18+) [Prologue]

Pairing: Crown Prince!Yoongi X Royal Employee!Reader

Theme: angst, mutual pining, almost strangers to lovers au, modern royalty au, forbidden love au.

Word count: 1.2k+

Summary: Crown Prince Min Yoongi has a secret - He doesn't want to be the king. Neither does he want to be engaged and eventually married to the business tycoon's daughter that has been chosen for him. He is already throat deep in dilemma when you enter in his life to increase every issue by ten fold because now soon-to-be king Min Yoongi is in love with you and falling for a royal employee and pining after her is nothing short of a Clandestine affair. 

Warnings: Mature themes, implied depression, smut in later chapters, suicide attempt.

Minors do not interact!!

Masterlist | Patreon (For early access)

A/N: Happy Yoongi Day!!!!! (belated)

Taglist requests are open. Comment down to be added. Make sure to have your age added to your bio while commenting. if not, then mention your age.

Next Chapter is available in Patreon.

P.S: If you are new to patreon and using an iOS device then you will have to pay $4.5 while my monthly membership is of $3. to avoid paying extra, use patreon web instead of the app.

Yoongi has always loved the sea. 

Something about the thin line that separates but also unites the vastness of the ocean with the emptiness of the sky has always enchanted Yoongi beyond words. 

Back when he was a kid, he would visit the ocean at least once every six months - mostly with his attendants, the royal employees and his bodyguards. But as his age increased, his visits started decreasing severely. The more his face started being printed on newspapers and daily magazines, the more he said goodbye to freedom - free will. 

But today he feels free. Today he is here alone. 

The sand under his sole gives him an ecstatic feeling of nostalgia. But the weight that’s lodged inside his heart, the wound that he is yet to put a band-aid on - makes him feel like he is sinking in the sand bit by bit, little by little. 

So, he takes a step towards the ocean, shakes off the grains of sand that have attached themselves on his tailor-made, million won worth funeral attire. Yoongi keeps on walking until the dry sand beneath his feet is replaced by the wet kind. A small wave crashes on his shins and encourages him to walk further. 

So he walks. The ocean calls him and he obliges to its wishes. 

When he was seven, he almost got swept off by a huge tide. If it wasn’t for his bulky bodyguards he would have become Late Min Yoongi by now. 

The memory makes him smile. As he recalls how frightened he had been back then, he smiles even more. 

Today, though, he is fearless. He is as numb as a frost-bitten finger. He just lost his only guardian, the only human being to have a direct connection of blood with him. 

He lost a friend, his only confidant - he lost his uncle - the king of The Monarchy of Korea. 

He lost a lot. Maybe much more than when he lost his parents in that brutal turn of events. 

And somehow, he feels weaker this time. Even though he is a grown up adult, a twenty-one year old young life - he feels extremely tired. 

He feels tired after the long stretches of royal mourning. 

He feels tired of all the responsibilities that are going to fall on his shoulders very soon. 

He feels tired of the prospect of the title - Min Yoongi, the King. 

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” a rowdy, feminine skrill pierces through the light ocean breeze. The scream snaps him out of his trance and only then he realizes that the water is now at his chest. 

His expensive suit is now all ruined with the salt-water and he doesn’t give two flying fucks about that. 

He takes another step into the ocean. Under him the sand has now thinned. He can tell that he is about to drown very soon. 

Another step. Even though his ear transfers some of the surrounding noise to his brain, which vaguely sounds like screams of horror, his brain hardly registers anything. 

Another step. “A little more yoongi, and then you will be free.” he talks himself through and through. Mostly because the person, who has been screaming, is much closer now. 

Another step. Something grips a handful of his hair in a tight pull. 

“Aarrggghhhh” Yoongi groans in pain. He tries to take off the grip and realizes that it's the hand of a woman, most probably.

The other figure pulls him towards the opposite direction while mumbling something like, “what did I do to deserve this!” and “My day was already ruined enough now you had to decide to commit suicide right before my eyes” and “stop fighting! For fuck’s sake go and die somewhere else!” 

It takes the woman a full two minutes and half to take him to the shore. And once both of them were on their feet, he pushes his savior away (she falls on her butt and again that’s none of Yoongi’s business) and focuses on nursing the pain that’s currently splitting his scalp in half. 

“Hey you! I just saved you and this is what I get in return!” he can hear shock and disappointment in the voice but he has his own demons to tame. 

If he could he would have buried his head in the sand now but that’s for another day. 

“Did I ask you to save me?” He finally stands straight, opens his eyes and faces the woman behind destroying his escape. 

The woman, you, are rather small but you certainly exhibit extreme power despite your small frame. 

You have a small face - a beautiful one, big eyes, full lips - if Yoongi wasn’t mourning his greatest loss today, he would have fallen for you right here and now. 

You grasp upon having a clear look at his face. Rubbing your eyes once you straighten your posture and face him with a jaw hanging ajar. 

“Y-your hi-highness.” you grasp. Yoongi realizes the ocean water hasn’t wiped out his identity just the way he would have liked. 

“I am sorry… to intrude on whatever business you had in the ocean. Please, spare me from execution.” your voice trembles as you bow deeply. 

Yoongi laughs. For the first time in a week (or maybe months) he laughs genuinely, from the core of his heart. 

“You were right. I was trying to die. And don’t worry. I won’t have you executed for saving my life.” Somehow his words are less heavy now. He feels light. Maybe it’s the ocean or maybe it’s the presence of a stranger - you. 

But he regrets it. As soon as his words are out of his mouth - a confirmation that can make national news, can put his eligibility for the crown under scrutiny - he regrets. 

He expects you to appear shocked, grasp, fall on his knees and tell him not to die like an average person but do none of it. 

You laugh, as breezy as the ocean air. Yoongi stares shamelessly. 

“All of us want to die at a point in life. It’s alright. But you know what - you are too young. If wikipedia is right then you are twenty-one now. Try again in five or so years. Maybe it will be worth dying then?” Your speech fills the gap of Yoongi’s wit that he didn’t know he had. 

“I guess.” he murmurs, as he keeps staring at you. 

“Seems like you are alone. Have you eloped?” you question further. Yoongi can tell you are aware of the news of King’s death. It’s been announced as a seven day long national mourning day, so yeah, of course. 

But he notices how you don’t hint a word towards the obvious. He likes it. 

“Kind of. You don’t look like you are from here." He takes you in, wearing jeans and a hoodie, which are all wet because of him. 

“Yeah. I am from the city.” you vaguely gesture towards a car that’s parked not too far away from the shore.

“Could you then give me a ride back?” Yoongi takes the chance. 

Now the crown prince riding in the same car with a civilian, who is also a woman, is surely clandestine. 

But as of now, Yoongi doesn’t give a damn. 

He probably won’t see you ever again and he will take the pleasure of your company while it lasts.

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[nomie-11]

Between Worlds

masterlist!

synopsis: When a shimmering portal pulls you into the magical city of Piltover, you forge an unbreakable bond with Caitlyn Kiramman, a curious girl who shows you her glittering world. Years later, the portal reappears, but the Piltover you return to is darkened by war, and Caitlyn is now a cold, battle-hardened general. As you struggle to rekindle your bond and navigate the city’s buried secrets, you must confront the scars of time and war to rediscover the magic you once shared—and the promise you made to return.

pairings: caitlyn kiramman x reader

You had read Narnia when you were six, everyone read it at some point in their childhoods where you were from. You had read Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and The Magic Treehouse, but magic wasn’t real. Magic was a thing of stories, a world that didn’t exist and a medium that wasn’t possible. But this, shimmering, shifting, living entity in your closet was magic. 

It looked like an iridescent web, shifting and gurgling every time you reached your hand toward it. It acted as if it would like to swallow you whole, to transport you to another world, another dimension. 

But still, you couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing your hand against its pearly white colors. You touched first with one finger, then pressed another one down, until your whole hand was flush against the entity in your closet, and then you pressed your arm into it, up until your elbow. 

It happened all at one. A pull—sharp, yet soft—like the tide dragging you into an ocean of light. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t think, only tumble into a spinning abyss of sound and color. When the world stopped tilting, you landed hard on your knees, your hands sinking into something cold yet soft. Grass. 

Looking up, your breath hitched. This wasn’t your room, your world. The sky above was a shade of blue more vibrant than you’d ever seen before, streaked with clouds that looked almost painted. Strange, towering gold buildings jutted up all along the skyline, their surfaces glimmering like glass. Even the air smelled different—sweet, electric, and sharp. 

You turned, your heart hammering. That’s when you saw her. 

A girl about your age stood a few paces away, her wide, curious eyes locking onto yours. Her hair was a cascade of deep indigo, tied neatly, and her clothing—a tailored vest and high boots—looked straight out of a storybook. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice crisp yet cautious. 

For a moment, all you could do was gape. How were you supposed to explain? Your clothes—a plain t-shirt and jeans—felt glaringly out of place, as if the entire world had turned to stare at your modernity. You opened your mouth, closed it, and tried again. 

“Are you a princess?” 

“A princess?” She echoed, tilting her head. 

“Yeah. A princess, like from Disney, or… England!” You snapped your fingers, hoping she would know at least what England was, even if Disney didn’t exist in this… universe(?) you had somehow fallen into. 

“I hate to be rude, but I’m not a ‘princess,’ whatever that is,” she replied, her lips quirking upward in a faith smile as if amused by the strange terminology. “My name is Caitlyn Kiramman. And you… well, you’re not from Piltover, are you?” 

Piltover. You repeated the name in your head, trying to place it on the map that hung on the wall of your homeroom. Piltover, piltover… Piltover doesn’t exist. “I’m… not sure where that is. I mean… no. I’m not from here.” 

Her eyes scanned your clothes—your jeans, sneakers, and the faded cartoon character printed on your shirt. She looked utterly perplexed, but there was no malice in her expression, only curiosity. 

Before you could explain further, a deeper voice interrupted. 

“Cait, who is this?” 

An older man approached—a man with kind eyes holding a box of gadgets and cogs. You stiffened under his gaze, shrinking as you struggled to piece together a coherent explanation. 

“Jayce! She’s…” Caitlyn hesitated. She glanced at you, then back to him. “A traveler. I found her in the garden. I think she might be lost.” 

The man frowned but didn’t press further. “Come on, let’s get the two of you home. Your mother will know what to do.” 

—--------------------

The days that followed felt like something out of a fever dream. Caitlyn’s family assumed you were from a distant, eccentric city. They marveled at your strange dialect and unfamiliar clothing, but chalked it up to ‘cultural differences.’ 

Jayce, the older man Caitlyn was friends with, seemed weirdly interested in the Nintendo DS you had stuffed into your back pocket, asking how the screen worked and how the game played, despite you not knowing because you had bought it at a store and didn’t build it yourself. When you asked if he had a cell phone so you could call your mom to pick you up, he spent 20 hours interrogating your over cellular data and wi-fi and what a phone number was. 

And Caitlyn? She became your guide, your lifeline to understanding this glittering, bewildering world. She showed you the bustling streets of Piltover, the towering spires of the academy district, the clockwork marvels that hummed and whirred like living creatures. She laughed at your questions and called you “peculiar” with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

But as quickly as it began, it ended. 

One morning, you awoke to find the shimmering portal in Caitlyn’s room—a mirror to the one in your own closet at home—pulsating with light. A whisper in the back of your mind told you it was time. Time to go back. 

Tears burned in Caitlyn’s eyes as you explained. She argued at first, begging you to stay, but deep down, you both knew it wasn’t possible. 

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Promise me.” 

“I will,” you swore, linking your pinky with hers (another thing you had taught her one day when you made her promise to save you a cookie at lunch). “I promise.”

But promises made by children are fragile things. 

—-----------------------------------------

Years passed in your world, though they felt strangely muted. After stumbling back through the portal into your closet, you’d collapsed on your bedroom floor, clutching at your chest like you’d left your heart behind in Piltover. Your parents found you hours later, dazed and rambling about ‘clockwork cities’ and a girl named Caitlyn. They assumed it had all been a vivid dream, a figment of your overactive imagination spurred by too many fantasy books. 

At first, you fought to hold onto the memories—scribbling sketches of golden spires, random doodles of Jayce’s kind eyes and his gadgets, charcoal drawings of Caitlyn’s smile and the warmth behind her blue eyes. But as days blurred into years, doubt crept in. Had it been real? The glow of the portal, the hum of the streets, Caitlyn’s hand clasped in yours—was it all just a child’s desperate attempt to escape the terror of reality?

Life continued. Schools, jobs, growing up. Yet something always felt missing, like a part of you had been carved out and left in a faraway world. Your friends talked about travel, of finding their heart in a foreign country or a far off place, but no country on any map called to you. 

It wasn’t until you stumbled upon the cave during a hiking trip—its walls etched with shimmering patterns—that the memories flooded back. The portal stood before you, alive and beckoning, just as it had all those years ago. 

You didn’t hesitate this time. 

The pull was familiar, a spinning rush that left your stomach in your throat. When you landed, the air smelled of oil and smoke, sharp and acrid, and so different from the sweet electric scent you remembered. The skyline of Piltover had changed—darker, more imposing, with huge spheres rising up out of pillars, airships being shot into space with a beam of blue light. 

Clutching the strap of your hiking back, you made your way down the familiar streets of the once golden city down to the Kiramman estate. But as you rounded the final corner, your steps faltered. The once-grand house stood as a fortress now, its once open and ornate gates replaced with cold, closed iron and armed guards. 

You hesitated, lingering in the shadows as unease crept up your spine. This wasn’t the home you’d left behind. The Caitlyn you knew wouldn’t need walls to protect her. What had happened to Piltover?

Before you could decide your next move, the sharp clang of metal boots echoed behind you. 

“State your business,” an enforcer barked, his rifle trained on you. 

You raised your hands, stammering, “I’m looking for Caitlyn Kiramman. Please—I knew her years ago.” 

The enforcer’s face hardened. “You’re trespassing. Come quietly, or we’ll make this difficult.” 

Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but before you could protest, a voice sliced through the tense air. 

“Let her go.” 

The enforcers immediately straightened, their weapons lowering as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the iron gate. 

Caitlyn. 

Or at least, the woman she had become. 

Her indigo hair was tied up into a perfect ponytail. Her once curious eyes were colder, her posture rigid in a crisp uniform adorned with medals. She was taller, her presence commanding and distant. The girl who had laughed with you under Piltover’s painted skies was nowhere to be found. 

“Take her to the station,” Caitlyn said without sparing you a glance. 

Your chest constricted. “Cait, it’s me!”

She paused, her expression flickering for a split second before the mask of authority returned. 

“Take her,” she repeated, turning on her heel. 

You struggled against the enforcers as they dragged you away, shouting her name until your voice was hoarse. But Caitlyn didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t until hours later, after being confined in a holding cell in Piltover’s industrial heart, that she finally appeared again. This time, she dismissed the guards before stepping inside, her boots clicking sharply against the cold floor. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone detached, but there was a tremor beneath it—a crack in the facade. 

“It’s me,” you whispered, stepping forward. “Don’t you remember? The traveler who stumbled into your garden? The one who promised she’d come back.” 

She flinched, just barely, but enough for you to notice. 

“You… remember me,” you said, hope threading through your voice. 

Her jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. That was a lifetime ago. Whoever you think I was, she’s gone.” 

“No.” Your voice shook, but you stood your ground. “You’re still you. You’re Caitlyn Kiramman. You’re the girl who taught me how to climb the academy steps without tripping. The girl who shared her sweets even when I didn’t ask. The girl who pinky-promised to save me a cookie at lunch. You’re still her.” 

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slumped. The mask she wore cracked, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried. 

“I waited,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “For years, I waited. But you didn’t come back and things changed. People died.” 

“I couldn’t find the portal again,” you admitted, tears welling in your eyes. “I thought it was gone forever. I thought maybe… I imagined it all. But I didn’t, and I’m here now.” 

Caitlyn’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You don’t understand what you’ve come back to. Piltover isn’t the same place you left. We’re at war and I’m the leading general. I’m not the same person.” 

“Then let me understand,” you said, stepping closer. “Show me.” 

For a long moment, she simply stared at you. Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours. 

“Maybe,” she whispered, “it’s too late.”

request for @multi-muse-transect <3

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[aeide-thea]

This is a good point! However, you'll note that their professional affiliations are actually listed, enabling you to evaluate them, while the people promoting laundry stripping are generally amateurs with no particular textile expertise; as Good Housekeeping points out,

laundry stripping really became a household phenomenon after MrsLaurenElms posted a before-and-after TikTok in early 2020 — and since then, TikToks about laundry stripping have racked up hundreds of millions of views.

Lauren Elms is an ER nurse and self-described "Christ follower" and "wifey," attributes which do suggest that she probably has some practical experience with laundry—more than her husband, at any rate, one suspects!—but don't mean she has any insight into the actual science behind the process. Similarly, the Tumblr user whose post promoting laundry stripping blew up on here made no claims to relevant expertise, and in fact explicitly said they couldn't speak to fairly central aspects of the practice like "how often you're supposed to do this" or the effect it has on whites! So if we're going to be skeptical, we should be skeptical in both directions.

I also think it's worth considering the relevance of possible corporate bias here—no one has presented laundry stripping as a substitute for regular washing, but rather as a method of periodic deep cleaning, which means it's not in competition with Tide or Cleancult's products. Good Housekeeping does note that "[t]here are some instances where laundry stripping may be necessary, especially if you notice buildup after washing with homemade detergent," so I suppose it's not inaccurate to characterize this as a standoff between brands and 'home remedies'; but as far as I can tell, the home-remedy side of things is presenting a cure for a problem they've potentially created themselves, by using old-school detergent that doesn't get clothes as clean.

That said, I agree it'd be good to hear from people who are at the very least trying to sell you things other than laundry products! To that end, I give you Consumer Reports:

“Doing or watching the physical task of cleaning can be satisfying in the same way putting a puzzle together can be satisfying and serene—we’re transforming chaos into order and tidiness,” says Caroline Given, LCSW, a therapist and CEO of Therapy for Busy People. “With laundry stripping, I think we’re also comforted by this idea that we are visually guaranteeing freshness and disinfection.” Satisfying? Sure. Necessary? Not exactly. There are better options on the table.

Namely, preventing product buildup in the first place, by (1) making sure you're not using more detergent than necessary; (2) skimping on fabric softener, or better yet skipping it entirely; and (3) not overloading your washer, so there's adequate circulation between items and the final rinse can do its job. (That's a summation of CR's recommendations; they're echoed by Maytag, which, yes, is invested in selling you laundry products, but their angle is the machine you do it in, not how you do it.)

That said, if you have (for instance) hard water, it may make sense to strip some things periodically! But that doesn't apply to many of us, and even for people to whom it does, it's important (notes This Old House) to avoid stripping delicates, woolens, synthetics, or anything dark; CR's test engineer Richard Handel also recommends "wearing gloves and a mask to avoid touching and inhaling dispersed dust particles," precautions which weren't mentioned in the post that blew up on here. In my opinion, it's distinctly irresponsible of amateurs to blithely recommend that people bring a substance into their home that has potentially serious health risks, particularly to children (less than 5 grams of borax can be lethal to a child if ingested, according to the Children's Hospital of Wisconsin), in order to implement a time-consuming, laborious home remedy for an issue (residue buildup) that most people could have prevented in the first place just by using a little less product!

Laundry stripping may be popular in certain circles, but it's important to understand the science behind the deep-cleaning practice before you decide to give it a try. Ultimately, stripping some fabrics (like silk and wool) can actually do more damage than good—and utilizing this method too frequently can prematurely age your garments. […] [Cleancult CEO Ryan] Lupberger advises against the practice altogether, especially if you were considering Borax. "It's one of the products people often use to strip laundry, but is also an irritant. It can lead to skin irritation or a rash and respiratory side effects," he says, noting that there are concerns for exposure to humans, as well as pets. […] The shock of laundry stripping is the water—the process results in a dark, seemingly disgusting pool of filth. In reality, this discoloration is largely caused by hot water leeching the dye in your clothes, causing them to run. Stripping can, however, help remove dirt, lingering body oils, detergent residue, and hard water minerals; together these soils do contribute in part to that brown-gray water, says Lupberger. According to Tide scientist Jennifer Ahoni, "Our research and laundry expertise suggests that there are more effective methods to remove build-up on fabrics." Per Tide's findings, continues Ahoni, the stripping process can actually cause issues with many textiles. "The mechanism by which washing soda precipitates out water hardness can actually form new soap scum residues on fabrics," she says. "Additionally, we have learned that low wash pH is an effective method for soap scum removal, and washing soda raises wash pH—which is the opposite direction." Not to mention the fact that washing soda can also deactivate some detergent components, preventing your wash from getting extra clean in the first place.

[illusiomagnificentia]

modern - turning the tide

Agnes Locket is a savvy and ambitious businesswoman known for her sharp instincts and ability to thrive in competitive industries. Born into a family with a history in commerce, Agnes was taught from an early age to value innovation and hard work. She studied business management at a prestigious university, where she excelled in marketing and corporate strategy.

After graduating, she joined a start-up and quickly rose through the ranks due to her innovative thinking and ability to adapt to ever-changing markets. Her knack for identifying untapped opportunities allowed her to build a portfolio of investments that positioned her as a key player in the business world. Agnes founded her own consulting firm, specializing in turning around struggling companies, and later expanded into real estate, tech, and luxury goods. Her reputation for turning small businesses into profitable enterprises earned her the respect of both her clients and competitors.

Despite her professional success, Agnes has faced personal challenges, particularly in balancing her career with her personal life. She remains a private individual, keeping her personal affairs under wraps while maintaining a strong public image of confidence and authority. Agnes is known for her strategic mind, calm demeanor in high-pressure situations, and relentless pursuit of success, often using her network of contacts to stay ahead of industry trends.

[lxvvie]

Couples shit with Simon Riley, Modern Harefare edition:

I've talked about Simon with Pup (the dog) and Spectre (the cat), but what if the family pet was... a rabbit?

Meet Thumper, the cutest, most adorable Lop... that Simon wasn't expecting. At all. When you said you were getting a Lop, he didn't think it'd be a... a bloody rabbit. And thus a war in your home was started, one of epically adorable proportions.

Simon is convinced Thumper wants him dead. For a variety of reasons. Reasons that include waking him up at the ass-crack of dawn by sprinting across the bed and catching him mid-snore when Thumper hits his head. Yeah, luv, the bloody rabbit wants him dead.

It's that and catching Thumper nibbling on his clothes with no remorse. Because he wants him dead.

And it's also Thumper... thumping his way through life, throwing adorable tantrums because "I just gave you some lettuce, Thumps," or, "Can't eat my biscuit, mate." It's fuckin' psychological warfare, the things Thumper does to him, luv. What's so bloody funny?

Perhaps you've noticed that whenever Simon is scrolling on his yee-yee ass phone, Thumper jumps on him and knocks the phone out of his hand. With no remorse. Because he wants Simon dead. Alright, mate, if it's a bloody war you want, it's a bloody war you get.

Simon retaliating in kind, responding with psychological warfare of his own. "Gotta disarm my opponent," is what your soldier says, as he gives Thumper his favorite treat: a banana. All to throw Thumper off his game. Know what else Simon does?

Clean Thump's hutch when it's his turn. He makes it nice and comfortable again all so his bunny child can rage and thump and... mess it up in rebellion. Again. Simon can't help but be amused and chuckle. The tide's turning in his favor, sweetheart.

Whenever Thumper jumps on him, Simon... pets him. To throw him off his game of course. No thumping formed against him shall prosper. Sometimes. And when Thumper does thump in rebellion, Simon gently admonishes him like the honey bunny dad that he is. No, Simon, you're absolutely not laughing at him giving your pet rabbit a whole-ass lecture.

Bond with Distract Thumper with the game on the telly. Goes good for Simon 'cause it puts his thumping to good use whenever they miss a goal. Yeah, he feels the same way, Thumps. Now Johnny has bragging rights for the next couple of days or so until his team inevitably lets him down again.

Let Thumper follow him throughout the house for the most part. You have to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, luv.

And you know the most effective war tactic Simon has at his disposal? Cuddles. Because Thumper loves his cuddles and how Simon picks him up and nestles him in his arms. Better yet, it's when he lightly scratches Thump's head, lulling him into a false sense of security... and sleep. "Think I've won this war, sweetheart," Simon says as Thumper rests comfortably in his arms. Yeah, Simon, you sure did. And when you suggest putting your bunny baby down so he can nap some more, Simon looks at you as if you had two heads.

[neptuneiris]

Cruel Summer (03/10)

Against the Tide

pairing: modern!aemond × fem!reader

summary: at Crown's family tensions rise and you keep running into a person you shouldn't talk to. but both he and you can't help testing the waters.

words: 9.3k

thank you to @peachysunrize for being my beta reader, she also helped me in the previous chapter and I forgot to mention her, but finally here she is. love you bestie!❤

previous part • next part • series masterlist

I am so excited for you to read this chapter! from the next chapters onwards, what we have been waiting for begins (forbidden love)🤭 and I want to thank you once again for all the support you are giving to the story, you guys are amazing and you don't know how much I appreciate it🙏🏻 now enjoy!

warnings: half smut, language.

Sunset's Pier stretches along the boardwalk, a vibrant and lively place, especially on summer evenings.

In the distance, waves break gently against the pier and shore pillars, while palm trees sway in the cool ocean breeze.

Wooden planks creak under the feet of visitors, while the smell of the sea and freshly made food fills the air. 

The stores lining the pier are clearly divided, some full of luxury, with glittering windows displaying designer dresses and accessories. And there are other more modest stores, where prices are more affordable.

Or as it would be technically said among the locals of Sunset's: stores for the rich and stores for the poor.

After an exhausting afternoon trying to surf with the boys, Alysanne drags you into the stores, excited to find something nice for tonight's party.

The two of you walk between shop windows, exploring the options, especially in the stores where you can both afford to shop. But Alysanne stops in front of one of the more expensive stores. 

You watch as she gawks at a blue bikini on display on the mannequin, the color as deep as the ocean at sunset.

"Look at this!" she exclaims excitedly, almost pressing her face against the glass, "It would be perfect for tonight's party. If only I had the money to buy it," she murmurs between excited and disappointed.

You smile, understanding the desire. The bikini is really beautiful but it is obvious that the price must be very high.

"Don't you have any savings?" you ask her.

"No," she laments, "I used it to fix my phone, did you forget? I can't afford to buy a new one so I have to fix the one I already have."

"Well, I guess I—

A high-pitched laugh interrupts the conversation and when you both turn around, you instantly recognize the people.

Perfectly coiffed black hair and shiny red hair. All those impeccably dressed girls, with expensive handbags, gold accessories and designer sunglasses; Baratheon and Lannister.

But you distinguish precisely Floris Baratheon, Aemond's girlfriend.

All of them in a group watch you both with a mocking face for two things; for being in front of a store like this and for being longing for the beautiful blue bikini.

And even though they don't know you, it doesn't matter that they bother you for the radar of recognizing poor people, because the difference between you and Alysanne is too big compared to them, who can afford to shop here.

Especially since the top you are wearing at the moment is torn on one side. You don't see much but they've already seen it, as well as inspecting your dirty, old tennis shoes.

"Do you really think you can buy anything here?" speaks precisely Floris with a venomous tone, with a sneer as he looks at the bikini and then at both of you, "It's a shame you can only look. Not everyone has the privilege of affording something so nice."

"Yeah, maybe someday you can get it... in the next millennium sales."

They laugh among themselves, clearly enjoying the moment of superiority. And you clench your jaw, annoyed, especially as you watch Alysanne lower her gaze in humiliation.

"Excuse me, do we know you?" you inquire.

You obviously know them, but you won't indulge them.

"Oh dear, everyone here knows us, especially me," Floris says superiorly, adjusting her sunglasses.

"Even your kind know who we are," Cerelle also speaks with clear contempt.

Alysanne regains her composure and you instantly notice.

"Yes, we know you are such a bunch of idiotic, shallow people for thinking that the price of clothing defines someone."

"Some of us have more important things in life than spending money on something so insignificant," you too stand up for yourself and your people.

They all let out a laugh, where Floris takes a step toward you.

“Yeah, sure. The poor always find an excuse to justify their misery. How pathetic and sad," she feigns an exaggerated pout.

"I'd rather be poor than be as empty as you," Alysanne next to you snaps at her.

She arches an eyebrow at her, amused and clearly entertained, as she folds her arms in her arrogant attitude.

"Empty, huh? Well, it's better to be empty than desperate, like you two. Keep dreaming of things you can never have. But don't worry, being poor and living on the filthy side of town, dreaming is free."

"And who do you think you are huh?" Alysanne lunges at her, "You think because you are rich I can't break your face or what?"

You quickly stop her holding her by the arm, worried and of course, Floris recoils back with a frightened face and her friends don't take long to instantly surround her, shielding her as if they were her wall of protection.

"Not so talkative and brave now huh!?"

"Hey, Aly," you hold her back, "Stop it. It's not worth it."

Floris and all of them look at you both with despise.

"See? They're all savages," she says without again getting too close.

"Oh yes, very savage, just because we're defending ourselves from you making fun of us and making us less," Alysanne tells her firmly and in a defiant tone, "But you can't even defend yourself. So I advise you to talk less or I'll break that pretty rich girl face of yours."

It is clear that Floris wants to say more mean words, but she stops when she notices someone else walking towards the group, completely oblivious to the situation and you also recognize this person; Helaena Targaryen.

She with her usual calm, appears near you, but stops just in front of another nearby store, casually observing a clothing through the glass without noticing the tensions.

And you curiously notice how Floris, upon seeing her, remains silent for a moment. Then you guess that she doesn't want to show her true colors in front of her sister-in-law.

"Let's go," she orders in a lower and less confident tone than before.

Her friends obey without another word and begin to walk away, but not before giving your cousin a last contemptuous and disdainful glance at your side.

And you too, of course.

Helaena also leaves with them as they approach her, her silver hair shining in the sunlight and moving with impeccable grace.

Alysanne lets out a frustrated sigh next to you, still angry. 

"I can't believe those idiots think they have the right to treat us like this. And all because of what? For not being rich like them?" she inquires in disbelief, "Do you realize how stupid that is?"

"Let them stay in their bubble," you mutter, feeling just as irritated, "We're not rich but we're better people than they are."

Alysanne takes a deep breath, shaking off the adrenaline of the moment, then you both go your own way, trying not to let this thing that happened ruin your day.

Especially since you have another party tonight, unfortunately with those girls, but it's not like you're going to be with them.

And just as ten o'clock at night falls, Cregan's car and the excited shouts of the guys rushing you to get into the car can be heard practically all over the street.

Alysanne again shushes them, as your uncle and aunt are asleep, as well as most likely the neighbors, and you both quickly get into the car amidst laughter and scolding of the guys.

Then Cregan's car speeds up and soon all of you are walking into the Crown's side.

The party is as always; on the beach. And it's everything you'd expect being among the rich. The DJ can't miss, the clean beach, the pier, the yachts and the smell of alcohol mixed with the sea breeze, among other substances.

Tonight you decide not to focus on the people around you and together with the guys, sit on the white sand, while Cregan and Sam go for as many beers and bottles of champagne as possible.

Alysanne is also not in the mood to be inspecting and lusting after Pandora accessories on all the rich girls that are here. So the two of you relax.

Chase lights the bonfire in the center and pretty soon everyone is drinking, talking and laughing, enjoying the party and nothing else.

Every now and then some guys come up to greet Cregan, who greets them back without much enthusiasm and returns to the group, where you notice how attentive he is especially to Alysanne.

You don't say anything and just continue drinking, laughing at the guys' jokes and burning a few marshmallows, when then... you feel it.

A piercing look on your face.

You don't doubt it's a girl inspecting you, so you don't think anything of it at first. But then... it's as if that look burns you and wants to see through you, sending shivers through your whole body.

You look around, just out of curiosity, but when you raise your gaze absentmindedly towards the direction of the yachts, to the part of the deck specifically, your eyes meet piercing blue eyes.

Then you see him.

Aemond Targaryen.

Time seems to stand still and you feel more of the weight of his gaze, that same weight you felt last night on the pier, when he caught you.

You also feel a surge of nerves course through your body, with your heart racing as you remember the night before. It's not fear, but it's something close to it. 

Because now he's caught you here too, at a party of his people, at Crown's.

And the weird thing is that you didn't expect it and you feel so silly about the fact. How could you not think that he would be here and that the two of you would probably see each other after last night?

Even though it's no longer a probability, he's seeing you right now and sees what you're doing; pretending to be one of them.

You watch as his gaze briefly sweeps over the guys you're with and honestly... you don't know how to feel about it. Technically, you're not doing anything wrong here either, are you?

‘Then why do you feel so embarrassed?’

His piercing eye again focuses on you and you, for some strange reason, don't look away and neither does he. It's as if the two of you are caught in a game you can't avoid. 

No one seems to notice the silent exchange between the two of you, except you and him. But you know that talking to him, getting close to him in public, is impossible.

You know it and you know he knows it too. It's like a law in Sunset's among its locals but more specifically among those your age; the rich and the poor can't be friends.

You bite the inside of your cheek, even without both of you looking away, where both of you are too far away to say anything to each other, but the looks say it all.

Then, it is he who looks away when Floris holds his face and kisses him softly on the lips, claiming his attention. You feel a sting of something pinch your stomach and you force yourself to stop focusing on him as well.

You try to refocus on what the guys around you are saying, but you can't, not now that he's here too.

You didn't tell anyone about what happened last night with him on his pier, because nothing really bad happened, except the fact that you almost got caught.

It was just a conversation with the son of the richest man in the whole country and heir to his fortune, nothing more. 

Although the memory has followed you ever since.

Unable to help yourself, you look at him again, where you see him surrounded by his friends and also distinguish his brother, Aegon. And of course, Floris, sitting on his lap.

He is no longer watching you but you wonder what he might be thinking now that he has seen you here too.

'Probably nothing.'

You think, since for him, what happened on the pier was just a conversation, a small slip in which you both sought some solace and nothing more, an insignificant moment.

What else could he think of having shared his time with a Black Waves girl? 

You let out a long breath and your eyes roam his features, as the same thoughts from last night return to your mind when you were also slyly admiring him.

'He is so handsome.'

You think as you also admire his short silver hair and see a silver chain peeking out from between the collar part of his shirt, with that simple accessory making him look so ridiculously good.

But you cannot pass Floris Baratheon unnoticed, on his lap, talking to him and leaving from time to time some kisses on his lips or on his cheek.

You shake your head, clearly being impossible, since he belongs to a world that is not yours, to a social class that would see you as an intruder if you even tried to approach.

So you can only think that what happened on the pier was just a one-time thing, a quirk and a moment that you must now bury in oblivion.

Aemond Targaryen, as a child, does not remember a single moment when his family did not attract attention.

He does not remember a single moment where his mother did not ask him, as well as his siblings, to accompany her and his father to an event in the town for work and simply to see them all together as a perfect and powerful family.

He has forgotten the countless times where his father, Viserys, introduces him and his siblings to his associates and all those important people more as trophies than as what they really are; his children.

With Aegon the introduction is brief, for after all, no one expected his first eldest son not to follow in his same footsteps as his older first daughter did, Rhaenyra.

But Aemond knows that Aegon is... uncontrollable. 

As a teenager he began to show signs that he didn't want to go into business or anything like it or anything relatively formal. 

As much as his mother, Alicent, and even his own father and grandfather Otto tried to scold, persuade and convince him, it only caused Aegon to back away from the idea and start doing whatever he pleased.

For him only desire has always been to simply live life and find out what he really wants.

Then there is Helaena, who followed the same path as Aegon but in a more controlled way and with different aspirations to life though just as flattering, which is to study marine biology.

And finally there is him, Aemond Targaryen.

He saw the whole process of his older brothers in deciding not to devote himself to the business or rather empire that his father has built. With Aegon it all turned out to be a disaster but Helaena was more persuasive.

So someone had to do it, follow in his father's footsteps as Rhaenyra did, but this time a man, a son and that had to be him.

Daeron still lacked time to decide and grow up some more. So he watched as his father began to despair and have fights with his mother and everyone at home for not being able to choose the aspirations and decisions of his children.

So it was he who calmed the storm at home when he announced that he would apply to college to study business management to carry on the Targaryen legacy, just like Rhaenyra.

His father was overjoyed, as was his mother and for the first time, in that small moment, Aemond felt that he was finally receiving that recognition and appreciation from him.

But then he realized that it was never worth it.

After searching for so long for a way for his father to finally see him for what he is, his son, when that moment came it wasn't worth it and it didn't make him feel any better.

Because Aemond knows deep down that only his father was happy for him out of convenience, to mold him to how he wants and because that way, he is just another piece on his board.

And it became quite clear to him the moment his father expressed his idea about the Baratheon's.

Viserys, even with all he has and having an advisor at his side like his grandfather Otto, wants more.

And Borros Baratheon is that more by being the owner of the most important commercial fleet operating along the entire Pacific coast of all. Viserys needs to transport freight for its big company, which is what Borros does.

Viserys needs freight for his great enterprise, which is what Borros is all about. But Borros Baratheon is a difficult and greedy man who also wants more, even to Viserys Targaryen himself.

So he and his entire team focus on an easier target that will get him to the finish line; his daughter, Floris.

Any of his daughters would have sufficed, but considering Floris is about the same age as Aemond and his father had already seen her get her hopes up for him at events, it was the perfect idea.

At first Aemond refused. For the moment he had no intention with any girl, especially any of the Baratheon sister’s. But his father insisted.

Viserys explained to him how much he needed such a partnership and asked him to start asking her out to eventually formalize and make the deal with his father easier.

Aemond tried to help him find other alternatives, tried to make him understand that he didn't want nor could he play with Floris' feelings in that way to achieve a partnership.

But none of that helped.

His mother sided with his father, with the difference that she was more sensible on the subject and asked him to try and take the time to get to know her, that maybe he might really like her.

So he had to give in and before long, he was in a formal relationship with Floris Baratheon.

And now this is his life.

Not that much has changed, but there are these fights at home between her mother and father because there's really no love between them. 

There's also fighting between his father and his siblings over the choice of what they really want to do with their lives while they're all attending events to pretend to be this perfect family that they are.

And he's in a relationship with a person he doesn't really want to be with and as soon as the summer is over, he's going off to college to study with pressure and expectations on his shoulders for a degree he doesn't really want to study.

But as anyone in Sunset's would think, both Crown's and Black Waves; the Targaryens are perfect.

“Hey.”

A voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks up as he sees Aegon approaching him, shorts on, sandals, a white t-shirt, sunglasses and phone in hand.

"I was looking all over for you. What are you doing?"

He lets out a long breath and closes his book to place it back on the shelf.

"What do you want?"

"Get dressed. We have a party tonight," he lets him know, then starts typing on his phone.

"Another one?" he asks with a serious look on his face.

"What?" he becomes indignant, shrugging, "Come on, it's summer. And everyone will be there. Cassandra told me Floris is going."

"I don't want to go."

He looks at him with a frown.

"What are you talking about?" he asks him blankly, "You're going to stay here reading these stupid books all summer? You're going to college for another two months!"

"Helaena and Daeron will go with you, I don't understand why you want me to go too," he tells him grumpily, choosing another of the many books in the library.

"Helaena is sick and Daeron promised to stay with her to watch movies," he tells him as if were the gravest sins in the world, "Come on, man. Come with me. And I won't ask you for anything again, this will be the last time, I promise."

"That's what you always say, like I don't know you," he says as he picks up a book and sets it on the table, "You're just so fucking annoying."

Aegon lets out a frustrated groan.

"Come on, don't be like that. You'll have more time to read and be doing these boring things you like to do," he tries to convince him, pointing to the books.

But Aemond says nothing to him and, of course, Aegon starts to throw his tantrum.

"Aemond," he complains, "Come on, please."

And the sound of his voice is already starting to annoy him, especially being in the library.

“Aegon—

"Come on," he interrupts him, insistent, "I really don't want to stay here and listen to dad yelling and fighting with mom all night, man." 

Aemond lets out a long breath again and with nonchalant movements watches his brother over his shoulder, looking serious and now slowly becoming resigned.

And soon enough, they are both already in his car, driving towards the Lannister house.

Normally he wouldn't have agreed to come, but he recognizes that Aegon is right and the truth is that he doesn't want to stay at home listening to his parents' quarrels either.

Even though his house is huge, the shouting echoes through the halls, and then his father in all his anger goes against Aegon as well, where Helaena intervenes, then Daeron and finally him to try to calm the waters.

And he's tired of it.

Just last night another one of those fights happened, his mother was almost in tears and Helaena too, while Aegon and his father were shouting all the worst things possible at each other.

And that's why he decided to go to the pier after he failed to fall asleep.

As he drives, his gaze softens as he remembers you. 

He still doesn't understand how a girl like you, from Black Waves, for a whole year was going to his family's pier at midnight without being discovered. 

He doesn't understand how you did it either and he's not sure he wants to know. He was about to call security, of that he has no doubt, especially considering the robberies some of his neighbors suffered. 

Because that's what he first thought, that you were a thief and he was trying to do something with his yacht.

However, it was something in your fear and pleading, perhaps also that you didn't have something suspicious on hand to try to do harm and the sincerity in your gaze after silently evaluate you that he saw to finally understand that you weren't doing anything wrong.

It was bad to cross over private property but other than that, he saw you earlier, before he approached from a distance, sitting on the edge of the pier looking out over the horizon.

But he still had to make sure and it all turned out very interesting.

That you were on his pier, risking that you could be caught, simply because that place gives you peace and quiet, caught his attention.

It seemed... unusual. Something out of the ordinary. Maybe because you're a Black Waves girl.

But still, it's something he's not used to hearing from others in appreciating something so simple and plain but so meaningful to that person.

And being there with you... everything in his mind disappeared.

All his excessive thoughts, frustrations, pressures, expectations and stress disappeared for a moment, which is very difficult for him to do in the midst of all the storm in his mind.

And strangely, because he shouldn't have, he spent a nice time with you, an unknown Black Waves girl, even if he didn't show it much at the time.

He doubts that was a good idea, to let you stay and still tell you that you can keep going to thepier. But technically... nothing bad happened.

And doubt that I'll ever see you again, last night was just a coincidence, besides that shouldn't happen, right?

In the town where you both live, a poor girl and a rich man can't even be friends. And much less he can afford something like that because of his family name.

Again his thoughts are interrupted as they enter the area where the Lannisters live and Aegon immediately chatter excitedly about how amazing the party looks.

And soon enough the two find themselves walking onto the beach and onto the Lannister dock.

It's the same as always, there's really nothing new, just decorations, DJ, open bar with bottles of vodka, wine and champagne as well as beer, cocktails and the smell of cigarettes and weed in the salty air.

All the people are dancing and getting drunk, as well as there are other people having mini bonfires, drinking and burning marshmallows.

When a group of people catches Aegon's eye on one of the yachts, he takes no time at all to drag him along with him.

And just like that he meets Floris, who greets him very happily with a hug and a kiss on his lips, which he tries to reciprocate as genuinely as possible.

Aegon goes off to find a girl to stick his tongue down her throat and he stays on the yacht with Floris and his friends. 

Quickly some of his friends offer him drinks to cheer him up and he declines as he has to drive, so he only chooses to light a cigarette, wanting the night to pass quickly.

And so the hours pass, with nothing really interesting going on around him and Floris sitting on his lap, trying to keep up with her to also try to be a good boyfriend.

But all he wants to do is go home.

"Are you okay?"

Floris' voice brings him out of his thoughts and he turns his head towards her, where she watches him with a small smile on her lips and with one of her hands starting to stroke his short silver hair.

"Yeah," he tells her in a low murmur, then takes another sip from the only bottle of beer he'll be drinking tonight.

"Are you sure? I didn't even know you were coming. I texted you and you didn't respond," she says making a pout.

And he avoids looking instantly annoyed.

It's not that Floris is a bad girl, she really tries because she really loves him. But he doesn't feel the same and doubts he ever will, though he tries.

"Yeah, you're right, sorry, I was busy in the library," he explains briefly.

"At the library?" she repeats confused, "Why?"

"I'm getting a head start on reading books for college," he again explains as briefly as possible.

Luckily she doesn't say anything more on the subject but continues to sit on his lap and try to get him to talk, even though he's not really having any of that right now but he doesn't want to be rude to her either.

So when she starts talking to one of her friends, he looks in all directions, scanning the party without again finding anything interesting.

But then in the midst of analysis he sees it.

Or rather he sees you.

A few meters below him on the sand, confused, he immediately recognizes you, sitting among a group of guys and a girl with a bottle of beer in hand, laughing and talking to all of them.

And again he wonders; what are you doing here?

And you can't blame him, he really doesn't get it, it was surprising enough seeing you on his pier, in the most exclusive and private area of all Crown's as to also see you here, on the Lannister's pier, a Black Waves girl mixed up as if you were one of them.

He sweeps his gaze over all the guys you're with and is more surprised to see you talking and laughing with Cregan Stark.

Then he gets it all.

He's the one who gives you access, as well as your friends and that girl you're with, who he assumes must be your cousin from what you told him last night, all except Cregan belonging to Black Waves.

And there you are, again not hurting anybody, but pretending to belong to Crown's.

All the guys you're with are certainly having a great time and so are you, while he again focuses on Cregan, from whom he honestly expected it.

He doesn't include himself much with the guys from his part of town, sometimes he talks to him or Helaena, but nothing more. Now he knows why.

And somehow he can't take his eye off you.

He watches you curiously, analyzing you, seeing that you have guts, just like your cousin and your friends, to take risks like this.

At any moment anyone could expose you if they watch you too much, but you don't seem to care about that, nor do the others.

And then, his gaze meets yours.

He sees you freeze for a moment, as if you are once again trapped by him, which actually you are and he, for some reason, doesn't look away and neither do you.

Memories of last night invade him again and he can guess how you must be thinking about it too.

But he can also guess how you again feel exposed and how terribly nervous you must feel. As if you are afraid that he, now that he has seen you here too, will expose you once and for all.

But it is as if it were a game of stares, as neither of them look away from each other. It's not as if they can talk, the distance is too much, also considering that he is on top of a yacht. 

But what if this were not the case? Would the two of you talk?

Aemond knows perfectly well that they wouldn't.

"Hey, did you hear what I said, babe?"

Floris makes him turn his gaze away from you to focus on her as he feels her turn from his cheek with her hand towards her to plant a soft kiss on his lips, wanting his full attention.

And he awkwardly reciprocates as his attention is still on you.

But he forces himself to take that attention away from you, especially as he still has Floris sitting on his lap with both arms around his neck, glued to him.

And it's here that he assumes, as you do, though he doesn't know it, that what happened last night was just a one-time thing, two people seeking refuge from the world on the pier one night.

But that's all.

The two of you must not know each other, you can't talk or be seen together, mostly because of different social classes, which leads to pretending that the two of you don't know each other and haven't spoken to each other even once.

And what happened that night, on the pier, didn't happen.

A pile of dishes are placed in front of him on the table in the huge back garden of his house which is basically on the shore of the beach, having a spectacular view of the ocean, the beach, the pier, the cliffs around and also the huge houses of his neighbors.

His mother thanks the cooks, who retire and leave his mother, father and him alone.

Aegon must still be asleep, Daeron too because he probably stayed up watching movies with Helaena all nigth who is still very ill. So he is the only one who joins the breakfast.

He looks carefully at a message from Rhaenyra, which is accompanied by two PDF books.

'These books helped me a lot when I first started studying, you can read them if you want to before you go to uni so you have an idea of everything you will learn.'

Aemond reviews both books, both over 400 pages, being very dense material and being exactly what awaits him at college, but he also knows it's important.

He runs a hand down his neck and responds to her text.

'Thank you, Rhae.'

Ever since his older sister knew he would be going into business as well, she's been supporting him. 

It's not like from the beginning the two of them had a good relationship, especially since she's the daughter of their father's first wife and there was no first-rate bond, neither with him nor with her other siblings.

But now that she has a family and he has matured enough, at least more than Aegon, that relationship has slowly begun to be forged and maintained.

Besides he is grateful to receive genuine support. Especially from her, already an expert on the subject and with whom he will probably lead the Targaryen empire in the future.

"Are you going to have breakfast, son?"

His mother's soft voice causes him to look away from his phone screen and set it aside, having no interest in responding to messages from Floris or a few of his friends who were with him last night at the party.

"Yeah, sorry."

He tries to catch up with their pace, making himself his cup of coffee the way he likes it.

"Rhaenyra tells me you're planning to take a management course in the middle of summer, son," his father says, catching his attention, "Is that true?"

And he doesn't ask it in a bad way, on the contrary, it surprises Aemond to see how he has pride in his eyes. 

"Yeah, well... I think they'll do me good before I go to college."

"Yes, very good idea," Alicent says, watching him proudly as she notices all his dedication to his study, as it has always been.

"Oh yes, of course," Viserys agrees, without hesitation, "Have you found the right course yet?"

"I'm still working on it."

"But..." he frowns slightly, watching him not entirely convinced, "How are things going with that girl... uh... Floris?"

He immediately feels an uncomfortable sensation in his lower abdomen, stirring in his chair as he runs a hand over the back of his neck, biting the inside of his cheek and trying to maintain a normal appearance.

"Good," he replies briefly, without looking at him, "Everything's fine."

"Yeah?" he asks seeing his reaction, "You've been hanging out with her?"

"We were together last night," he says without wanting to go into details, wanting to get that topic over with.

And Alicent also sees how his son is starting to react.

"Floris usually comes in often during the day," she tells her husband in a soft tone with a cup of coffee in her hands, "You don't see her because you're at work."

"Well, that's good to know," he says pleased, though not entirely satisfied, turning his focus back to him, "I fully support the idea of the course, it will definitely do you good but... you can't neglect that girl. Your relationship with her is very advantageous to the company and very soon her father and I will start having meetings."

He brings a hand to the back of his neck again, staring at a fixed point on the table as he presses his lips together, controlling his emotions and what he really wants to say to him.

His mother stares at him, alert, not wanting him and his father to have fights too. But it is clear that he too is already reaching his limit.

However, Aemond knows that he has more self-control, besides he's already into all of this, so he has no choice but to accept, again, what his father tells him. 

"Is that what you want me to do?" he asks him in a low tone, honestly feeling tired.

"Of course," his father states sternly, as if it were obvious, "We must have all the most suitable people possible in the company. And the Baratheon's are crucial to our expansion."

Aemond looks up, but says nothing, because he already knows the speech. The Baratheon's, power, family and company.

"Yes but that really isn't the most important thing," his mother interjects again, "After all, Floris is a very nice and pretty girl. I can tell she really cares about you, son."

He can't help but purse his lips at that comment. He knows Floris isn't a bad girl but she's not exactly nice either. And that doesn't change the fact that he's not interested in her. 

"Yes and for that very reason you must not ruin things with her," his father insists, "We have to partner with her father and you can't let her slip through your fingers."

"Viserys," his mother calls out to him with mild reproach.

"You know how important this is, Alicent," he begins to say with reproach in his tone, "I have already lost hope in Aegon. It seems he will never change and will be a good-for-nothing for the rest of his life, taking nothing seriously."

"Don't talk about your son like that," his mother scolds him.

"I'm not going to live forever and someone has to take over the company and support this family. But that doesn't matter to him in the least," he continues, "Daeron is still young and I'm thankful that at least Aemond has taken the same direction as Rhaenyra and me."

Aemond says nothing as his mother continues to reproach, annoyed to hear how Viserys refers to her children, especially Aegon. 

And he remains silent, fed up with these discussions, family pressures, expectations and being the only one of his children whom his father seems to trust.

And the worst thing is that he can't say anything, because he knows very well that his father considers him as his last resort and in a way... he doesn't want to fail him and he doesn't want everything in his family to explode.

Even if it means he has to sacrifice his own life for the good of the family, he has to do this and it's not worth arguing with his father because it's no use and he's not going to change his mind.

His father starts to raise his voice, his mother too and he ends up going to his room with his morning already ruined, annoyed, tired and grumpy.

And when he tries to distract himself, to occupy himself with his own personal matters so as not to think too much, just at that moment Floris comes to visit.

Just now he doesn't have the capacity to want to be around her, or anyone in general, he just wants peace and quiet, but considering the conversation he had with his father, he is not able to ask her as nicely as possible to come another day.

"I was with Cerelle at my house but I got too bored, even though I told her to meet me tonight at the beach."

She begins to talk as she starts pacing all around his room he just sits there with his desk in front of him and a few books open.

"I also talked to Royce, he said he would be coming for a visit soon. My dad is still mad at him for leaving but I'm sure he'll get over it. I also heard that Jeyne wants to have a party the next week and..."

And so he listens to her voice continuously, talking about everything she did and didn't do in her day, while he puts a hand to his forehead and lets out a long breath, trying not to sound irritated.

"Oh and I went to the mall with Cerelle. I bought a beautiful bag and clothes for our trip to Hawaii," she says excitedly, "My dad has already arranged everything and my family is so excited for you to come with us. I'm also..."

Her voice slowly fades slowly, becoming a distant murmur, as he sinks deeper into his seat and stares at a spot in his room.

His brow furrows and his mind drifts further away from the conversation.

He can't find a way to tell her to stop talking without looking rude and frustrated, but the last thing he wants to do is listen to her right now and the last thing he wanted was for her to show up at his house this day.

He has enough going on in his family lately, especially with his father and he's not in the mood to be dealing with people right now. 

He's fed up with everything and all he wants is to be alone while a wave of mental exhaustion washes over him. He wants to get away from everyone for a moment, to have no one bother him so he can have peace and quiet. 

"Aemond."

The hand on his shoulder and the voice so close to him brings him back to reality. He blinks and raises his gaze to Floris, who watches him in confusion.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," he says awkwardly and clears his throat, "Sorry," he says, turning his gaze to the front and stirring in his chair.

But she raises her hand towards him, placing it gently on his cheek and Aemond tenses immediately, as she forces him to look at her again gently but firmly enough.

"Are you sure? Are you okay?" she asks him genuinely concerned, "You didn't seem to be listening to me."

"Yes I was and I'm fine, don't worry," he tells her trying to sound convincing.

But Floris is having none of it.

"Is it because of your father or college?"

The silence that follows is palpable as he averts his gaze and removes his hand from her face with a nonchalant gesture. He says nothing but it's clear she's hit the nail on the head.

And Floris lets out a long, resigned sigh, already expecting that. For it is so typical of him not to confide his thoughts and feelings to her.

She's tired of her own boyfriend raising this constant wall between the two of them, where he doesn't want to open up to her. It hasn't been long since the two started dating but still, despite being a couple, there is no trust.

"Aemond," she murmurs his name softly and unexpectedly takes a seat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Floris," he calls her name awkwardly as well, trying to shake her off, "Wait, I don't—

"You know you can talk to me about anything," she interrupts him, her tone insistent but with a gentleness that she hopes will soften the situation, "I mean...I'm your girlfriend and I'm here for you whenever you need something, talk or anything."

He lets out a long sigh, feeling the weight of her insistence and the firmness with which she remains sitting on him.

The feeling of oppression invades him, both physically and emotionally.

"It's not... I don't..." he tries to speak, "Look, it's not that I don't want to tell you, but..." he gets frustrated, not finding the words or even the will to talk to her, "It's a lot of things."

"You can tell me," she insists, "Come on, babe. I just want to help you," she says as she begins to stroke his hair.

He close his eye for a moment, his patience quickly wearing thin.

"I don't want to talk," he makes it clear to her in a cold, resigned, tired tone.

She shrugs.

"Then we won't," she says simply, accepting that, "But I want you to understand that I'm here for you."

"Yes, I know," he says without even looking at her, running a hand through his hair.

"We can always do other things," she mentions with a certain tone that Aemond understands instantly.

And before he can do anything, she is already kissing him.

The kiss starts slow and soft, while he has difficulties to reciprocate at first, but Floris doesn't stop and pulls the back of his neck towards her, deepening the kiss. 

And he with all the mental chaos he has, tries to reciprocate as best he can, trying to forget at least for a moment.

Floris' hands begin to move down, sliding her fingers slowly over his chest while her other hand gently stroke his hair. Aemond tries to lose himself in the sensation, in the moment and let himself go, so he places both hands on her waist. 

She begins to move slightly on top of him, her breathing becoming more agitated and her tongue making its way between his lips, wanting more.

He tries to keep up with her and when Floris begins to rub her center against him, his body responds automatically, letting out a slight grunt without stopping the kiss. 

Floris' need is evident and when she brings one of her hands to the edge of his shirt and pulls away from his lips, she watches him with full intent and desire in her gaze, her lips red and swollen.

"I want you now," she murmurs against his lips.

He doesn't say anything, just watches her, truly not so sure. But then he thinks: fuck it.

He's tired and exhausted from carrying the weight of everything around him. He just wants to forget, if only for a few moments. So when Floris starts to take off his shirt, he allows it.

She kisses him again with more intensity and he responds with more fervor than before. 

Her hands begin to roam all over his naked torso and he stands up, both hands on her thighs, leading her towards his bed.

Soon Floris is on top of him again and feels a spark of electricity run through his skin as her hands touch the edge of his shorts, but before that happens, she slowly pulls down the straps of her dress.

Aemond watches her wordlessly, with his dark eye and indecipherable expression, as Floris complacently takes her time, enjoying every second, wanting him to desire her.

The straps fall and the top of her summer dress slides off, revealing her breasts. Aemond swallows hard, a mixture of desire and bewilderment passing through his body.

She leans into him again to kiss him, as she takes one of his hands and places it on her breast, prompting him to caress her. 

He does so, almost mechanically, trying to let himself go and lose himself in the moment, as she rubs herself against him again, making him more aware of how he begins to get hard, his breathing hitching.

But when Floris' hand descends and slips under his shorts, touching him, it is as if his mind wakes up and sends an alert throughout his body. 

Suddenly, he stops kissing her and takes her hand roughly, stopping her. Floris watches him confused and half-naked on top of him, still shaken and not understanding anything.

"Aemond?"

He closes his eye tightly and lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head and bringing a hand to his forehead, clenching his jaw.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"What's wrong?" Floris asks him without understanding what has changed so suddenly.

But he doesn't answer, just shakes his head again and pulls her hand away, to also gently brush her off of him.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

Floris watches him from his bed, still with confusion on her face and quickly adjusts her dress, covering her naked body.

Her breathing is still rapid, but not so much from desire, but from the feeling of rejection that is infiltrating her. And again, for an instant, she thought this would never happen again.

But here they are, him pulling her away and her heart broken again by the humiliation.

"It's been a while," she murmurs, lowering her gaze, “Y-you don't..." her lips tremble, "You don't touch me."

He doesn't look at her, he can't. 

"I know. I'm sorry," he says in a low tone, the apology falling with a tone of resignation.

He picks up his T-shirt that's on the floor and puts it on, bringing a hand to his hair, ruffling it in frustration. And Floris watches him still completely confused.

"I just don't get it," she insists, "We're a couple. We should... be okay, I don't know," she says confused, "And I don't understand you. You don't talk to me, Aemond."

Aemond rubs his forehead, the pressure behind his eyes growing. He doesn't know how to explain, doesn't know how to put into words all the thoughts that suffocate him.

And he can't tell her that he doesn't really want to be with her either.

"I need to go," he says flatly.

"What?" she moves quickly, catching his arm, "No, please don't go," she tells him, her tone full of pleading, "I think we should talk."

"I can't, Floris. Not now."

Without trying to be abrupt, he releases his grip and Floris, unmoving, watches him as he takes his phone and car keys without another word. 

And he walks away, leaving her alone in his room.

He has no doubt that he will be in trouble for this later, maybe she will mention what happened to her sisters, eventually it will reach her father's ears about her having problems with their relationship and then it will reach his father's ears, demanding explanations from him.

He's not supposed to let her get out of his hands, as his father says, but now he really doesn't care about that.

He doesn't want to be with her and he shouldn't have let that happen. He should have stopped everything the moment she started kissing him.

Sex has been off the table for a while now. He has only slept with her once, when they both started dating for the first time. 

He barely remembers it. It was after they both went to a party. He drank a little more than he normally does and assumes that's why what happened at her house happened. 

And mostly it hasn't happened again because he doesn't have the interest. He doesn't feel the need with her. And just when he thinks it will finally happen when he lets himself go, in the moment he can't do it because it's feels wrong and pushes her away, leaving the action half done. 

And it's not her fault, it's his doing. But he knows that if he explained it to her, she wouldn't understand.

But just like that, another new frustration joins the storm in his mind.

Now he walks towards the pier, the only place where he feels he can breathe. The sound of the waves gently breaking against the wooden pillars, which is the only thing that accompanies him as he sinks into his thoughts.

He doesn't expect anyone to follow him or look for him there. In fact, the last thing he needs is someone else demanding something from him. 

For now, he doesn't want to be the perfect son, the boyfriend who should be attentive or the future heir to the family business. What he desperately wants is to escape the expectations that stifle him day after day.

He leans against the wooden stand and stares out into the deep, dark ocean, letting his mind wander, as he feels all the frustration wash over him and in an instant, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights one.

He inhales deeply, letting the smoke invade his lungs, seeking in that sensation a temporary relief from the pressure he constantly feels. 

He enjoys his solitude, he has been used to it since he was a child. In many ways, he prefers it and finds it easier.

It is only now that he feels he is getting closer to his family or at least his siblings since his father has put more pressure on everyone. But he has not approached in the way he had hoped.

Aegon is not serious enough to broach the subject and evades his family in clouds of alcohol, parties and girls. Halaena is more independent and wrapped up in her own world, with her way of coping without getting swept away. 

Daeron doesn't yet understand the gravity of the expectations that will one day fall on him. And Rhaenyra... she's away with her own family.

And friends... he has no friends. At least, not genuine ones. They are not people he can trust without their own interests involved. 

And if he were to talk to any of them, it would be the same as with Floris; an empty conversation, full of awkward silences and expectations.

That's why at times like these, he strangely wishes he had someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't look at him with judgment or see him only as the heir who has to do his duty.

He needs someone who sees him for who he is, without expectations, without judgment. He just wants to be himself, wants to be just Aemond, without the unbearable weight of expectations.

'What would that be like?'

He wonders with genuine interest and even a certain... longing. But he knows he'll probably never know. Not with the life he has. 

He inhales deeply once more, the smoke mingling with the salty wind, enjoying the fleeting respite this place affords him. Then in the midst of his peace and quiet, the wood creaks softly under the footsteps that are not his.

He frowns and looks toward the entrance to the pier, thinking maybe it must be some of the security men, but then... he sees you.

He frowns more and attentively, he watches you walk, back straight and with cautious steps, as if trying not to make noise as you walk away, unaware of the creaking wood betraying you.

Then he wonders what you are doing here and why you are leaving. 

He remembers that he told you you could come back but doesn't understand why you're leaving. And before he can stop to think about what he is doing, he calls out you'r name.

"Y/N!?"

You stop immediately, your body tensing as if you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, again. 

You bite your lips nervously and slowly turn to look at him, some sorrow on your face as he continues to stare at you in confusion.

And well... he's already caught you, again, first here two nights ago, yesterday at the party and now here again, so what's the point?

"I'm sorry," you say, "I-I... I didn't see you on my way over here," you explain, "And well... I thought you might want to be alone."

Your gaze focuses on his, and for a second, the whole world seems to shrink down to just the two of you, as if you were the only ones on the beach, under the dim lights of the pier.

And he doesn't say anything to you, he just watches you intently. And you take that as a sign to leave.

"I'll leave you alone," you assure him in a soft tone, starting to turn away.

And again, Aemond without thinking, decides to stop you.

"Wait," he says finally, in a soft voice, "You don't have to go."

You watch him carefully and curiously as you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, a little unsure.

"Are you sure?"

He says nothing, just gives you a slight nod and you, hesitantly, finally take a step towards him and then another, beginning to close the distance to join him at the end of the pier.

An anticipation and excitement begins to grow within you, with the sea breeze and the sound of the waves enveloping you. 

You feel a slight tension begin to grow between the two of you. It's not uncomfortable but it's not easy to ignore either. And both Aemond and you know that you are both walking on uncertain ground.

But neither of you can help it.

series taglist:

@zenka69 @strangersunghoon @deliaseastar @thefireblaze @kythefangirl25 @p45510n4f4shi0n @saturnssrings @bellaisasleep @primroseluna @tinykryptonitewerewolf @barnes70stark @tssf-imagines

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Ramming Speed

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

The idea of ramming space ships into each other as a form of combat maneuver was beyond many galactic military minds comprehension.

A single spacecraft, let alone a military grade class vessel, would cost up in the billions of credits. Entire galactic economies had nearly bankrupted themselves trying to maintain a fleet large enough to secure their borders, so in turn each military ship became an asset not to be squandered lightly.

Perhaps it was this conservative mindset that nearly shattered when these powers first looked upon the Terran ship codenamed “The Ram”.

Unlike other modern vessels the ships of this new classification lacked all weapon emplacements. No energy cannons, missile launchers, rail guns; it was entirely free of weapons. What it did have was excessive amounts of armor plating, several separate shield generators, and a pair of overly powerful engines that could reach max speed in roughly five minutes.

The first time it was observed in combat was during the Terran/Crux war. Both powers had sizable fleets at their disposal and for the first couple months the two powers played cat and mouse games between each other; each trying to find a more advantageous position to commit their forces. Much to the dismay of both powers the first large scale battle was triggered by mere chance than a tactical decision.

A Crux patrol stumbled upon a Terran patrol emerging from a dense nebula in the Viper System. Both patrols requested reinforcements. Nearby patrols were soon diverted to the engagement and within short order what was a small skirmish ballooned into a full scale battle.

There were no battle lines or frontlines as ships opened fire at near point blank range with each other. Even when higher rank Admirals arrived to take charge both sides were too embroiled in the slugfest to make any more nuanced tactical moves without exposing themselves to the enemy.

It was here that the Ram emerged and showed its prowess.

Crux warship crews were not trained on how to handle enemy vessels rushing towards them. What’s more several gun crews became panicked when they saw the Ram ships rushing headlong towards them without diverting course.

With the extra armor and shielding the Terran ships not only struck head on into Crux ships but emerged from the attack relatively unscathed. In most cases the prow of the Ram ships punched clean through the entire hull of the Crux warship and emerged through the other side.

The Crux fleet desperately tried to regain order and form battle lines but each time they did so the Ram ships would plunge head first into their formation and take out the command ship coordinating the effort.

As more and more Terran ships arrived and formed their own battle lines the tide of battle soon drastically changed. After thirteen hours of intense fighting the last of the Crux fleet withdrew from the battle leaving the Terrans the victors.

A full fifth of the Crux navy was lost during the battle with the Ram ships having personally claimed 45% of the kills.

While the war itself would continue for another two years, the Ram ships and their unorthodox tactics had earned them a modicum of respect from the wider galaxy, and a great measure of fear from the Crux.

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 011

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

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

Rating: 18+ (Masturbation, religious psychosis)

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @powllito @xadaboo @magdalenacarmila @btzams @jellyforbrains @thebl00rwyrm @smiley-roos

WC: 20.2k

17th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

There are few things in this world that are truly holy.

And you, despite your deeds, have never been counted among them. The High Septon does not see you as holy. Not even your remarkable acts—curing illnesses, mending the King’s failing health, disproving age-old scientific fallacies—are enough. The King, though healed by your hands, cannot evade death; your brilliance, though it shatters centuries of ignorance, does not sanctify you. Even as the faithful gather at the sept to pray for you, their devotion cannot transform you into something divine. To the High Septon of King’s Landing, you are ordinary. Unholy.

That is until he hears it—a melody, soft and sweet, whispering in his ear. A song so heavenly that he cannot deny its origin: it must be from the Seven. The music echoes through the walls of the sept as you stand beneath the towering effigies of the Seven. The stained glass scatters sunlight, framing you in an ethereal glow, each ray dancing like a blessing upon your form.

The Seven seem to watch you, their gazes carved into the very stone of the sept. The light catches your hair, setting it aglow like spun gold. Your skin gleams with a divine radiance, smooth and flawless, while your white gown shines like a star reborn. The gold adorning your body reflects the sunlight in shimmering patterns, as if touched by a celestial hand.

And then, as though you too hear the melody, you turn your head toward the Father. The movement is graceful, purposeful. The light refracts off your skin, casting a spectrum of colors—each hue a reflection of one of the Seven. A faint rainbow dances upon you, a living symbol of divine unity.

The High Septon is struck silent. The melody still hums in his ears, and the vision before him—bathed in the sun’s radiant light—leaves no room for doubt. You must be sent by the Seven. There, in the heart of their sacred light, you stand as a vessel of their will. Holy. Transcendent.

The High Septon falls to his knees, his voice trembling with awe. “A blessing... a messenger of the Seven themselves.” He clasps his hands together in reverence, his ornate robes pooling around him like a tide of silk and gold. The sept is silent save for the soft hum of the melody, a sound that seems to dim with each passing moment. The smallfolk who had gathered outside now pressed closer to the sept’s open doors, drawn by the radiant light and the sound of something beyond mortal understanding—Or so it would seem.

“High Septon, please. It should be I who bows.” Your voice is soft, yet it carries a weight that makes the High Septon freeze in place. He watches, mortified, as you incline your head toward him, a gesture of humility that feels utterly misplaced.

“Please, no!” he exclaims, his voice trembling. “It would be blasphemy!” He moves to stop you, his hands halfway raised, but then he falters. He cannot touch you. Something holds him back—whether fear or reverence, he does not know. The light that surrounds you, shimmering with the colors of the Seven, makes it impossible to believe you are of this world. Even as the Father of the Faithful, the voice of the new gods on earth, he feels unworthy.

How can he call himself the Most Devout when he has ignored your calls for months? When he has turned away from your work and dismissed your deeds? Shame wells in his chest, his knees buckling beneath the weight of his own failings. “I have wronged you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I have failed to heed your summons, to meet you as I should. I beg your forgiveness.”

He bows deeply, pressing his forehead to the cool stone floor, his heart heavy with regret. For the first time in his long tenure, he feels truly small, unworthy of the title he bears.

And then, like the breaking of dawn, you smile. The light around you brightens, casting a soft, golden halo that almost hurts to look upon. The High Septon shields his eyes, his breath caught in his throat, as though gazing upon the sun itself.

“High Septon, please,” you say, your voice gentle, unyielding. “You needn’t beg. It is of no consequence.”

The High Septon lifts his head slowly, his heart pounding in reverence and disbelief. Your words—so calm, so forgiving—ease the tension in his chest, though the sight of you, radiant and otherworldly, leaves him trembling. He does not rise, unwilling to meet your gaze on equal ground.

“You are merciful,” he murmurs, his voice quivering. “Far more than I deserve. Your grace is a testament to the Seven themselves.”

You extend a hand toward him, a gesture so simple yet profound, and for a moment, he hesitates. The aura around you shimmers, as though the Seven themselves watch over every movement you make. Slowly, reverently, he takes your hand, careful not to break the fragile sanctity of the moment.

“High Septon,” you begin, your tone warm and inviting, “I come not to reproach but to seek guidance. You are the Father of the Faithful, the voice of the Seven on earth. Surely, you can help me understand their will.”

His breath catches, and he nods fervently. “Of course, my lady. Anything within my power. I am yours to command.”

You smile again, though this time it is softer, almost conspiratorial, as if inviting him into a sacred trust. “I do not seek to command, but to learn. The Seven have blessed this world with their wisdom, and I wish to understand their teachings more deeply. I feel their light, but I lack clarity. There are answers I need—answers that only they can provide.”

The High Septon straightens slightly, emboldened by your words. “If the Seven have chosen you, as I now see they have, then you are already closer to their wisdom than any of us. But I would be honored to guide you as best I can, to walk this path with you.”

“Then we shall walk it together,” you say, your voice like a balm. “The Faith is vast, and its mysteries profound. I seek to cultivate a relationship not only with you but with the Seven themselves. If they have granted me their favor, it must be for a purpose. Help me uncover it.”

The High Septon’s heart swells with purpose, the doubts that had plagued him vanishing like shadows before dawn. “I will dedicate myself to this task,” he vows. “With the Seven as my witnesses, I shall help you find the answers you seek.”

You squeeze his hand gently before releasing it, the light around you softening but never fading. “Thank you, High Septon. Together, we will uncover their will and ensure that their light shines brighter than ever before.”

As you turn to leave, the High Septon remains kneeling, his heart alight with a newfound resolve. He looks to his hands, now covered slightly by your blessing, they too shine as bright as the Seven. The Seven had sent him a guide, a vessel of their divine wisdom. He would not fail you—or them—again. 

…

21st day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

When Aegon first tried the herb you called "weed," he wasn’t fond of it. It burned his throat, sharp and unforgiving. Yes, Aegon is a Targaryen—fire made flesh—but it still burns. Over time, though, he came to admit you were right. It did get better. It always does.

Which is why he sits here now, perched on the highest point of the Red Keep, looking out over King’s Landing with smoke curling lazily from his lips. The cold wind bites at his face, and for once, the weight pressing down on him feels lighter. You were right about this too: there’s no better feeling than losing yourself in the wind while the world below feels so very far away.

“So, I heard you’ve gotten your foot in the faith,” Aegon says, exhaling a plume of smoke. For a moment, he feels almost like the dragon he’s supposed to be, like the conqueror whose name he bears. It’s fleeting, but it’s there—a taste of what it might be like to accept the crown his mother pushes on him.

He glances at you, standing beside him with your eyes fixed on the bustling city below. The wind whips your hair across your face, and Aegon notes that same faraway look you always seem to have. You’re high—it makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that you always look like this, as though your mind is in another world entirely. Why? Aegon doesn’t know.

(And frankly, he doesn’t care enough to find out. You’re fun—he’ll give you that. Aegon can admit he enjoys your company, your wit, your odd mannerisms. But you also bother his brother, and Aegon, despite all his misdeeds, loves Aemond. Loves him in a way he’s sure Aemond, deep down, loves him too. So, no, Aegon doesn’t care to unravel your mysteries, because he’s certain Aemond is the cause of them. And Aegon loves his brother more than he cares for you.)

You extend your hand toward him, and Aegon passes you the ‘blunt.’ (Or so you called it) It doesn’t take long before you’re exhaling smoke, matching him with ease. “Yeah,” you say, leaning back, “I’m a pretty lucky person, I think. Always have been. But lately, my luck’s been running thin. Guess it was saving up for that encounter with the fuck-ass priest—or Septon—or whatever the fuck they’re called.”

Your vulgarity makes him chuckle. The randomness of your phrases, the chaotic way you piece together words—it’s absurdly creative. Aegon files “fuck-ass” away for later use, much like he did with “fuck with.” You’re a poet of profanity, and it’s hilariously endearing.

“You don’t fuck with the High Septon?” Aegon asks, extending his hand for the ‘blunt.’

“Nah, I do,” you reply, passing it back. “Mans got me in, you know? Just didn’t like how he switched up on me when—by chance—something happened. Now he worships the ground I walk on. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice. Just… crazy to see.”

“What happened?” Aegon leans back, smoke curling from his lips, his smile lazy and knowing.

“Who knows? Weird shit, for real,” you say with a shrug, your tone dismissive.

Aegon studies you for a moment. He suspects you know exactly what happened. A part of him even thinks you orchestrated it—whatever it is. But right now, he doesn’t have the mind or energy to sift through the peculiarities of your schemes. It’s easier to let the questions drift away with the smoke, at least for now. 

“Word.” Aegon hears you laugh beside him, the sound breaking through the haze of smoke that lingers in the air. He turns, lifting a brow as he takes another hit, the ember of the ‘blunt’ glowing softly in the dim light.

“It don’t sound right with your posh accent,” you tease, letting out another laugh that pulls a grin from him despite himself. “Pronounce the ‘r.’ That’s how it’s done.”

“I like the way I sound,” Aegon counters smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. He watches as you shrug and sit back, exhaling smoke in a slow stream.

“So, when will I get to hear your music?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his voice.

“Never.”

Aegon turned swiftly towards you watching you with brows furrowed as you attempted to blow out an ‘o’ shape. (Aegon saw you do it once and you both ran around yelling.)

He stares, incredulous. “What!? Why?”

You shrug casually, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I don’t know where my phone is.”

His jaw slackens. “What?”

“I was pretty bummed out at first,” you admit, your tone light despite the words. “For the first few days, I was suffering from withdrawal, but now… I’ve come to terms with it.” Another shrug, as if it means nothing, but to Aegon, it means everything.

No. This wasn’t just your loss. This was his loss. The music he had wasn’t enough anymore—not after what you’d introduced him to. He can’t live in silence now, not after hearing the melody of No Church in the Wild or the haunting beauty of Are We Still Friends? How was he supposed to go back to the same old tavern ballads or the Red Keep’s dull minstrels when you’d opened the door to something timeless, something transcendent?

“How did you lose it?” he presses, his voice sharp with urgency.

You glance at him, unbothered. “People going through my stuff,” you reply simply, and Aegon stiffens.

Oh. Him.

His brother’s face flashes in his mind, unbidden. Aemond. Of course. Your little secret isn’t so secret anymore. The strange contraptions you’ve hoarded and hidden away are probably being picked apart by his ever-curious, ever-judgmental younger brother. Or worse—Aemond had already known about them long before Aegon did. Either way, it didn’t matter. What mattered was this: it affected him.

Aegon leans back against the cold stone, running a hand through his messy silver hair in frustration. He needed your music. He needed to hear Timeless again, just one more time, to feel that strange, inexplicable pull that only your land’s melodies could offer. The silence felt unbearable now, heavy and suffocating.

“I’ll find it,” Aegon declares, his voice uncharacteristically firm as a rare clarity seems to pierce through his haze.

“Yeah, good luck with that. Your brother isn’t exactly thrilled with me these days.” Your tone is dismissive, casual, but it’s enough to make Aegon pause. His determination to recover your music remains, but now there’s something else nagging at him. Why is Aemond upset with you?

“Well, what did you do?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Nothing.”

“You had to do something.” Aegon presses, leaning forward as he narrows his eyes at you.

“I swear, I didn’t do anything. That’s why he’s mad,” you say with a chuckle, taking a long, final drag of the blunt. Smoke swirls around you, and Aegon watches the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Well, then do something!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“And risk getting him even more upset? No, thank you.” Your words are accompanied by a lazy exhale of smoke as you offer the blunt to him. Aegon shakes his head, declining. This wasn’t a joke to him—not this time.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.” His tone is playful, teasing, but there’s a sharper edge beneath it. He’s poking fun, yes, but he’s also genuinely curious.

Your reaction is immediate. You choke on the smoke, coughing harshly as you hurriedly toss the rest of the blunt out the window. “I’m not!” you snap, defensive, your brows knitting together as you abruptly stand. Aegon tilts his head back to look up at you, his amusement fading as he watches the tension ripple through your frame.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you repeat, quieter this time, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself rather than him.

Aegon studies you for a moment, his earlier grin fading into something softer—almost contemplative. Defensive or not, there’s something in the way your voice wavers, something in the way you won’t meet his eyes, that makes him wonder. Whatever his brother had done to make you like this, Aegon doesn’t know. 

He leans back, crossing his arms as he watches you. “If you’re not afraid of him,” he drawls, his tone laced with skepticism, “then what’s stopping you?”

Aegon watches as your jaw tightens, but you don’t answer. The silence between you stretches, and Aegon lets it linger, his gaze sharp and searching. Whatever game you and Aemond were playing, Aegon decides, it’s a dangerous one.

…

25th day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

“Tag! You’re it!” 

Ser Criston watches as you run around with Jaehaera and Jaehaerys. You had been playing with the twins for quite a while now as Helaena sits far off mumbling. “First shall come the gnashing tide, a flood of scurrying claws,”

Ser Criston was advised to ignore the Princess' odd behavior. You had been spending more and more time with Helaena and Ser Criston can only surmise it has something to do with Aemond spending more and more time in the training yard always upset. 

“You missed!” Ser Criston watched as you dodged Jaehera’s hand. You always stayed just out of reach and it was clear that the twins were planning to gang up on you. And they did. They both cornered you but you ran towards Jaehaerys stepping out right before leaning left and spinning out his reach. “Oh! Ankles have been taken! I took out your ankles Jaehaerys.” You began laughing as both of the children hopped on top of you as you sat down. 

That’s when the twins veer toward him, giggling as they dart behind his cloak. He feels their small, sticky hands clutching the pristine white fabric, pulling it taut as they hide. Criston stiffens, resisting the urge to sigh.

You approach, your breath coming out in light huffs as you slow to a stop before him. Your body almost seems lazy. Your eyes relaxed and it almost seems as if you're not fully here. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you crouch slightly, pretending to search for the twins. Criston remains still, his face impassive as you attempt to coax the children from their hiding spot.

“Using a knight for cover, are we?” you tease, glancing at Criston with a knowing grin. Criston looks down. The whites of your eyes are slightly red. Like you’ve been crying, but they’ve been red for quite some time. Such a carefree smile you show him. Nothing like the silent woman that day in the council room. “You can’t hide behind him forever.” He watches your eyes flicker down towards the twins as you stand up pretending as if you’ve lowered your guard.  

He doesn’t respond, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as he waits. You’re unpredictable—he’s learned that much. And yet, as the twins erupt into laughter behind him, their little bodies finally darting out from their hiding place, Ser Criston finds himself... watching. Always watching. Because whatever game you’re playing, he knows it’s not as innocent as it seems.

“Woah!” Ser Criston’s attention flickers toward Aegon as he lifts Jaehaera into the air, her giggles echoing through the garden.

“Prince Aegon,” you breathe out, surprise threading through your voice.

“My lady,” Aegon nods in acknowledgment, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “What are you playing?”

“Tag,” little Jaehaerys pipes up, tugging at his father’s trousers with eager hands.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, a quiet observer of the boy he once watched grow into a man now playing with his own children. Though he knows the weight of such responsibilities came too soon, Criston remains impassive, his expression betraying none of his thoughts.

“The plague of rats, their shadows stretching across the lands.”

His gaze shifts briefly to Princess Helaena, her soft murmurs drifting on the wind. As always, he forces himself to look away, as instructed.

When his eyes return to the scene before him, the knot in his chest tightens. It is then he notices it—the easy familiarity between you and Prince Aegon. In your arms is little Jaehaerys, his small hands clutching your shoulder as you glance toward Aegon with a smile. Too familiar. One could almost mistake you for his wife with how naturally you interact.

It isn’t long before Aegon joins in on the game, chasing after the children with exaggerated steps that send them into fits of laughter. Yet, for Ser Criston, there is a melancholy that lingers in the air.

Though Prince Aegon is now well into his twenties, no matter how Criston views him, he still sees a boy—running, laughing, playing. Not with his children, but with children. There’s a hollowness to the image that Criston cannot shake, one he dares not examine too closely. His eyes shift to Princess Helaena, and suddenly, she isn’t the mother of two (Though soon to be three, or so it is rumoured by the maids.) but a quiet fourteen-year-old girl sitting alone, detached from the world around her.

He tries to banish the memory, but it clings to him—the year her small belly swelled with a child, and it was clear that she was much too young for it. How wrong it looked, her small underdeveloped body swelling with twins.

And then there’s you.

Ser Criston doesn’t know you, not truly. To him, you seemed like any other courtly lady at first glance (Except you never were, because you did not have a name. You still do not have a name.) save for the peculiarities that have since come to define you. You are close in age to the royal adults—children, really, at least in Criston’s eyes. Yet, as he watches you laugh and dart behind trees with the twins, he sees something unsettling: a regression.

There’s a flicker of something in the way you move—instinctual, fluid, and practiced. It’s not just playfulness fueling your evasion but a muscle memory, a honed reflex that speaks of something far more sinister than a game of tag with children. Ser Criston’s brow furrows as he watches. This isn’t the carefree jest of a lady indulging the younger royals. This is survival, disguised as mirth.

Aegon, for his part, seems oblivious, his clumsy movements no match for your speed. He barrels forward with all the grace of a charging boar, his hand swiping through empty air as you spin away, light on your feet. Your laughter rings out again, but Ser Criston isn’t fooled by its melody.

What is it about you that feels so out of place, so wrong?

The thought gnaws at him as he observes the scene, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword. You don’t just evade; you anticipate. Every feint, every twist is calculated. It’s almost unnerving how natural it seems for you to be one step ahead, as though this isn’t a game to you at all but something far more serious.

And yet, you smile—wide and radiant, your cheeks flushed with color as you run away from Aegon and the children. For a moment, you appear as harmless as they do, a vision of innocence and joy.

But Ser Criston can’t shake the feeling that it’s a mask.

“Their teeth will gnaw the fragile peace, spreading whispers of decay,” Helaena murmurs once again, her voice barely audible over the sound of the children’s laughter.

“Ser Criston!” Aegon’s voice carries across the garden, his tone laced with boyish amusement as he calls out. “Capture her!”

Criston gives a curt nod, his duty as unshakable as ever, and begins his approach. You stand your ground, arms crossed as your lips curve into a smirk.

“You’re cheating, Aegon,” you call out, your voice teasing but firm. “That’s not fair.”

“Rules do not apply to a Prince of the Realm!” Aegon replies with a laugh, his grin as wide as the sky above.

Criston notes the flicker of your gaze toward Aegon before making his move. Lunging forward, he reaches for you, but you step back, just beyond his grasp, nimble as ever.

A smile plays across your lips, a playful challenge in your eyes as you dance out of his reach once more. Undeterred, Criston lunges again, his focus narrowing, but you twist away, leaving him empty-handed.

It was a game to you—to Aegon, too—but to Criston, it is something else entirely. For just a moment, as the chase continues, he wonders if he is being played as much as the game itself. 

“Come on, Ser Criston!” Your teasing voice carries through the garden, light and playful, as you dart away with the agility of someone far too familiar with evasion.

He exhales sharply, his patience thinning as he begins to give chase. Duty compels him to follow, though there is a part of him that questions why he’s being roped into such childish antics.

Before he knows it, Aegon joins in, his laughter loud and uninhibited as his children squeal and sprint alongside him. Their delighted giggles mix with your own, a symphony of amusement that contrasts sharply with Ser Criston’s singular focus.

Sounds of laughter ring in his ears, growing louder with each step. But to Criston, this isn’t a game—it’s an obligation. He isn’t here to entertain; he is here to serve. He pushes himself harder, his armor clinking with each determined stride, as his eyes stay fixed on you.

You dart around a tree, Aegon and the children following suit. It’s chaos, pure and unbridled, as you all weave between the garden paths. Criston moves with precision, his every step calculated, but you remain maddeningly out of reach.

“Faster, Ser Criston!” Aegon calls out between breaths, grinning over his shoulder. “She’s making a fool of you!”

Criston clenches his jaw but says nothing, focusing on closing the gap between you. He can feel the weight of Aegon’s jest, the implied challenge in his words. It’s not the first time Aegon has tried to needle him, but today, it feels different.

Finally, you pause near a fountain, momentarily caught off guard as you turn to check your pursuers. Criston sees his chance. With a burst of speed, he lunges, his hand outstretched.

But at the last second, you spin away, your laughter ringing out like a bell. “Too slow, Ser Criston!” you call, your grin infuriatingly triumphant.

“And from their filth shall spring the curse of crimson sores.”

Helaena’s soft, cryptic words hang heavy in the air, and for the briefest moment, they seem to freeze you in place. Your smile falters, your laughter dies, and the light in your eyes dims as though the weight of some unseen burden has fallen upon your shoulders.

Ser Criston doesn’t miss it. The sudden shift in your demeanor sparks a flicker of curiosity within him, though he buries it beneath his sense of duty. Whatever troubles you, it is not his concern.

Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Criston lunges forward and seizes your wrist, his grip firm. “Caught,” he announces, his voice tinged with triumph.

But the victory is short-lived.

In your attempt to twist free, your heel catches on the hem of your dress. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as you stumble backward, pulling him with you.

The world tilts for a fleeting second before a loud splash shatters the stillness of the garden.

Cold water engulfs him and you both as you both tumble into the fountain, the shock of it jolting Criston from his focus. He surfaces quickly, sputtering as droplets stream down his face, his hair clinging unceremoniously to his forehead.

You emerge a moment later, your dress heavy with water and your expression caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. For a beat, the two of you simply stare at one another, both dripping and equally at a loss for words.

Then, you laugh.

It’s not the polite laughter you might reserve for a courtly jest, nor the restrained giggle that punctuates your playful teasing. This is unrestrained, unabashed laughter, spilling from you like the water cascading from the fountain’s edges.

Criston scowls, running a hand down his face to wipe away the water. “This is hardly amusing,” he mutters, his voice low and irritable.

“Oh, but it is,” Ser Criston hears Aegon reply as he laughs. Your laughter mixes with Aegon’s and his children, and even a small giggle from Helaena. Eventually your laughs subsided into soft chuckles as you wring out a section of your dress.

“Ser Criston Cole, the ever-dutiful knight, bested by a fountain. Truly, a tale for the ages,” Aegon jeered, his voice ringing with amusement.

Criston huffed out a sharp breath, his patience wearing thin as he yanked you to your feet with more force than was necessary. His grip on your arm was firm—unyielding, even—as though he were anchoring you to the moment, making sure there was no chance for you to dart away.

He looked down at you, taking in the way the water clung to your features. Your reddened eyes, framed by damp lashes clumped together, gave you a doll-like appearance. The sunlight caught in them, giving way to a beautiful color. 

In this way all eyes look beautiful in the sun. All eyes look beautiful when catching the sunlight, not just yours.

“And tag,” Aegon announced, tapping your other arm with a laugh.

Criston’s grip didn’t falter as you shifted slightly, your body tensing with the intention of lunging toward Aegon. But before you could make your move, Criston pulled you back sharply, keeping you firmly at his side.

“Oh, come on, Ser Criston,” you quipped, raising a brow as water dripped from your soaked hair. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”

He didn’t respond, his lips pressed into a hard line as his gaze lingered on you. Whatever that phrase meant, it was irrelevant. What mattered now was keeping you from whatever mischief you were undoubtedly planning.

“Brother!” Aegon’s voice rang out again, louder this time.

Criston’s sharp eye caught the subtle change in you. Your smile faltered ever so slightly, and though it lasted only a moment, your entire demeanor seemed to stiffen. The vibrant energy that had been radiating from you mere seconds ago dimmed.

So there were issues.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought before Aemond’s familiar figure appeared, his stride purposeful and his face a mask of cold disdain. The contrast between the two brothers could not have been more apparent—Aegon, all reckless energy and smirking irreverence, and Aemond, a storm contained within human form.

“Having fun?” Aemond’s voice cut through the air, low and biting. His single eye flickered briefly to Criston before settling on you.

“Loads,” you replied, your tone far too casual, though your stiffened posture betrayed you. “We’re just playing a game.”

Aemond’s gaze didn’t waver. “A game,” he echoed flatly, his tone making it clear he found the notion ridiculous.

“It’s called tag,” Aegon interjected with a grin, clearly enjoying the tension that crackled in the air.

Criston felt your arm twitch in his grip, and he tightened his hold slightly, a silent warning. Whatever this was, he was not going to let you escalate it.

“And I see Criston has already captured the prize,” Aemond remarked, his eye narrowing as he gestured vaguely toward you. “How fitting.”

Your jaw tightened, and for the first time, Criston saw a flash of something raw in your expression. Defiance, perhaps. Or was it fear? He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it burned briefly before you masked it with a forced smile.

“Well,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered just enough for Criston to catch it. “You know me.”

“Do I?” Aemond replied, his voice like ice.

Criston’s grip on your arm was the only thing keeping you rooted as the tension between you and Aemond thickened, the unspoken weight of whatever grudge lay between you pressing down on everyone present.

“Ser Criston, release her.”

Dutifully, Criston did as commanded, his grip loosening immediately.

“My lady.” Aemond extended his hand toward you, his expression as cold and unreadable as his tone.

Criston didn’t miss the hesitation in your movements, the way your gaze seemed to flit just past Aemond’s hand, as though searching for something—or someone—else. Still, after that brief pause, you placed your hand in his.

The moment your fingers touched his, Aemond’s grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who held the reins. He wasted no time turning on his heel, leading you away without so much as a glance back.

“I will excuse myself,” you called over your shoulder, your voice forced into a semblance of calm. “I must gather a change of clothing.”

Aemond’s steps didn’t falter, but his eye flicked toward you, sharp and questioning.

“You’ll have no need,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Criston watched the two of you disappear around the corner, your figure still visibly stiff beside Aemond’s towering form. The air that remained in their wake was thick with something unspoken, something that left Criston unsettled.

“My brother,” Aegon muttered with a smirk, breaking the silence as he approached Criston. “Always so dramatic, isn’t he?”

Criston said nothing, his eyes lingering on the empty corridor where you had been led away. Aegon’s humor didn’t reach him. Something felt…off. But it wasn’t his place to pry. At least not yet.

It wasn’t long before Aegon dismissed him to change. His white cloak was soaked through, the weight of it dragging against his shoulders. Criston’s jaw tightened as he made his way down the hall.

“I think you’re overreact—” Your voice rang out, you were giggling and laughing, only to be cut off abruptly.

Criston’s steps slowed instinctively, his gaze shifting to the dark corner ahead. There you were, pressed against the stone wall, with Aemond looming over you like a shadow. His dominant arm was raised, where his hand lay, Criston knew. He knew by your eyes, wide and pleading, and your hand raised holding onto Aemond’s arm. Ser Criston did not falter. He resumed walking, his pace steady, his gaze deliberately forward. He didn’t acknowledge the strained sound of your breaths that echoed faintly in the silence.

(The honor of Ser Criston Cole died long ago)

You polluted so much. Criston had always known that. You had polluted Aemond, a prince he believed would never behave in such a way toward a woman. Yet here you were, dragging him into the chaos that seemed to follow you like a shadow.

Ser Criston told himself it wasn’t his place. The Queen had not commanded him to intervene. The crown had not tasked him with your redemption. Still, as he walked away, the unease lingered like a sour taste on his tongue. Aemond was changing. And for better or worse, it all seemed to lead back to you.

…

Alicent cannot count how many hours you have spent staring at her sworn hand. The way your gaze lingers on him, with that peculiar curiosity you seem to carry for everything, makes her skin prickle. You had begged for a horse—so insistent, as though you believed yourself entitled to such privilege. Alicent does not doubt you wanted to ride alongside the men, away from her watchful gaze. The High Septon’s words about you echo in her mind: the gods sing through her; her skin is a reflection of the Seven themselves. Nonsense.

To Alicent, all she sees is a harlot reaching too far. A harlot who has already corrupted her son. She feels her throat tighten at the thought and resolves, with steel in her heart, that you cannot meet Daeron. You must not. Her sweet boy, her last hope—the only one she can still convince herself is untainted.

Her eyes flick to the high-collared dress you wear, elegant and modest in cut, but it does little to conceal the faint, creeping purple at the base of your neck. A bruise. Alicent feels the muscles in her jaw tighten as she forces her gaze back to your face.

It is your fault, she tells herself. Aemond would never… Not unless it was necessary. Her son is dutiful, measured, and righteous. If his hand left its mark on you, then surely it was deserved. It had to be. You push too far, speak too freely, play too dangerous a game.

You do not look toward her, your focus instead turned to the carriage window. Your head leans slightly out, as though you are eager to escape even this small space you share with her. The sunlight dances on your skin (there is a shine to it, but Alicent will not admit that. She will not admit that she too can see the small specks of the color of the seven on your skin.),the faint breeze tousles your hair, your impossibly long dark lashes, the same flushed look you always seem to have even as the wind blows, and finally your plump lips that shine in the sunlight, but to Alicent, there is nothing graceful or pure about the sight. There is only calculation in you.

“You’ve grown awfully quiet,” Alicent remarks, her tone laced with an air of authority that expects a swift and proper response.

You straighten slightly, turning your gaze toward her, though you keep your head bowed in deference. “There is little to say, Your Grace, that would interest you.”

“Is that so?” Alicent’s voice is sharper now, her posture rigid. “You’re rarely so reserved when others are around to listen.”

There’s a flicker in your eyes—something unreadable that Alicent does not like. “I only meant that my thoughts are unworthy of wasting your time, Your Grace.”

She narrows her eyes, studying you. There’s no outright defiance in your tone, but the undercurrent of something unsaid needles at her. Alicent grips the edge of her dress tightly, a quiet storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

“You are to tread carefully in Old Town,” she says, her voice firm and deliberate. “The Faith is not as easily charmed as my husband or my son.”

Your head bows further, your tone soft and measured. “I understand, Your Grace. I will do my utmost to meet the expectations of the Faith.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the perfect response, yet somehow, it still feels like an affront. “Good,” she says, though her tone is far from satisfied. “Oldtown is not a place for missteps.”

“I would never dare, Your Grace.”

Her gaze flicks back to the faint bruise once more, and she resists the urge to sigh. Foolish girl. Alicent is convinced it is your audacity that led you here. You provoke too much. You speak too freely. And her son—her son—had merely reminded you of your place.

The carriage jolts slightly, and Alicent’s hand grips the armrest for balance. She turns her gaze back to you, but you’ve already returned to staring out the window, your expression unreadable.

Alicent watches you in silence for a long moment, her mind whirling. The Faith may sing your praises now, but Alicent knows better. There’s something about you that doesn’t belong—something that unsettles her. Whatever game you are playing, she resolves to put an end to it before it can spread further.

The road stretches endlessly ahead, and for the first time in years, Alicent finds herself praying—not for herself, but for the strength to protect what little remains incorrupt.

Time stretches on, a monotonous drone of hooves and wheels against the dirt road. Your gaze remains fixed on the world beyond the window, your eyes following the guards as they ride in rhythm with the carriage. Every so often, your gaze lingers on Ser Criston Cole, though your expression betrays little. Finally, you lean back, letting the glass pane fade from your view, and close your eyes.

Alicent watches you from across the carriage. Your breaths are soft, measured—a lull that seems almost serene. You, a mere commoner, asleep in the presence of a queen. The thought should anger her. It should ignite the same righteous indignation that has kept her spine straight through decades of duty. But instead, it settles like a lead weight in her chest, pulling her down, suffocating her under its quiet enormity.

And then your head tilts back, your features soft in repose. But the calm shatters for her as the high collar of your dress shifts, revealing the deep purple marks circling your neck like a cruel mockery of jewelry. Her breath stills.

Alicent’s fingers twitch in her lap. There’s an itch beneath her skin, one she can’t quite place, but it festers as her eyes remain fixed on you. She grips the folds of her dress tightly, her nails pressing into the fabric, then against her palm. Aemond wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t have done this. He is good—he is better than this.

Her nails dig deeper, but the itch refuses to fade. Her gaze flickers between the bruises and your still form. You sleep so peacefully, as though you have no weight to carry. But Alicent can feel it. She feels the weight of your presence, the way you’ve crept into her life like a shadow she cannot escape. You infect everything—her court, her children. It’s you. It has to be you.

She scratches harder, the skin of her palm breaking beneath her nails. It isn’t enough. She bites at the side of her nail, tearing at it until she tastes blood. But even that doesn’t ease the ache building in her chest. The sight of those bruises—those vile marks—gnaws at her. You must have done something. Provoked him. My son would not… could not… unless it was necessary. It is your fault. You are the problem.

Her breaths grow shallow as the ache twists into something unbearable. The itch deepens, crawling up her throat, demanding relief she cannot give. The carriage feels too small, too confined. Every jolt of the wheels rattles through her bones, every breath a knife she cannot avoid.

“Stop the carriage,” she says, her voice hoarse and brittle.

The carriage lurches to a halt, the abruptness jolting you awake. Your eyes blink open, hazy with confusion, and you glance toward her. Alicent doesn’t look at you. She cannot. She forces herself to step out, the rush of cool air biting against her flushed skin.

The guards look to her for instruction, but she ignores them, her eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. The stillness of the air feels deafening, the weight of her thoughts pressing harder now that she is no longer confined.

Behind her, she knows you are watching. You adjust the collar of your dress, your hands pulling it higher, though it can never truly erase what she has seen. The bruises remain etched in her mind, as much a scar on her conscience as they are a mark on your skin.

Alicent stands motionless, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Aemond wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the thought circles back to her, relentless and cold. Unless it was necessary.

The wind brushes past her, carrying with it no answers, only the bitter chill of failure.

Unless it was necessary.

How could it not be? How could it not be when you tempt those around you, flitting through their lives like a spark too close to dry kindling? You walk as if you belong everywhere, stretching your arms wide as though ready to embrace the world. Your steps are light, but your presence weighs heavy. You look at everything with those wide, curious eyes, as if you are discovering Westeros anew.

Alicent watches, her jaw tight as you meander over to the horses being tended by the King’s Guard. She watches as you run your fingers along their manes, pulling at tufts of long grass to feed them. Her lips press into a thin line as you strike up a conversation with Ser Arryk, who humors you with a faint smile, answering questions she can’t quite hear.

Unless it was necessary.

The thought loops endlessly in her mind. It has to be true. It must be true. How else could she reconcile the sight of those bruises on your neck with the son she raised? Her perfect, dutiful boy who would never harm without cause. You must have provoked him. You must have done something.

Alicent’s hands curl into her skirts, her nails digging into the fabric. She cannot stand it—cannot stand you. The itch resurfaces, crawling beneath her skin, making her feel raw and restless. Her gaze meets Ser Criston’s, and she finds him already watching her. His face is unreadable, but his presence only sharpens the itch. It prickles her arms, sends gooseflesh rising across her skin.

It is wrong, she knows, this loathing that wells within her every time you are near. She tells herself it is because you are dangerous, because you have ensnared her son and polluted her household. She tells herself that no mother could endure what she must endure, watching you move so carelessly through her family’s fragile world.

But Alicent also knows she cannot survive much longer in your presence. The mere thought of returning to the carriage with you, sitting so close that she can hear your breaths, makes her stomach twist. The itch demands relief, and she scratches at it in her mind, even as her resolve cracks.

“Give the girl a horse,” she murmurs, her voice low but firm, a queen’s command. Without waiting for a reply, she retreats to the carriage alone. The door shuts behind her with a heavy finality, sealing her in a space that feels marginally safer now that you are no longer there.

Inside, the itch subsides, though only slightly. Her hands tremble in her lap as your voice drifts through the air, clear and bright.

“In all honesty, I cannot ride well, Ser Arryk. I’m afraid I will need lessons. Sorry.”

Alicent’s lips curl into a grimace. Why would you ask for a horse if you cannot even ride? It makes no sense. Nothing about you makes sense. You are a puzzle she does not wish to solve, a disruption she cannot ignore.

The carriage jolts as the horses start moving again, and Alicent leans back, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to find peace. But even here, away from you, your presence lingers like a shadow, impossible to shake.

Alicent is given an hour of peace before your voice rings out again, slicing through the fragile silence she had desperately clung to.

“I think I’ve got it,” you announce with an air of triumph, the sound of hooves clattering unevenly as you approach.

Her jaw tightens instinctively. Slowly, she opens her eyes and peers out the window of the carriage. There you are, perched precariously atop the horse, wobbling slightly as you grip the reins. One of the guards walks alongside you, holding the bridle steady, while Ser Arryk watches from a few paces away with barely concealed amusement.

“Steady!” Ser Arryk calls out, his voice laced with patience.

“I am steady!” you snap back, though your swaying posture betrays you. “This is easy. See? I’m practically a natural.”

Alicent exhales through her nose, long and slow, as though releasing the weight of her irritation. But the truth is, she can feel the annoyance bubbling beneath her ribs, like hot oil threatening to spill over. She has no desire to watch this display of yours, this... spectacle.

Alicent looks outside and suddenly you're making the horse gallop and while you sway, the speed of which you have managed to ascertain this skill…Alicent rests her head against the back of the seat ignoring the prickle she feels.

“My Lady please go with caution!” Alicent can hear Ser Arryk or Ser Erryk yell after you. She can only imagine just how you are riding now. The wind blowing through your skirts as your horse continues to gallop. (And Alicent can picture the sun illuminating your face as fragments of the Seven shine upon your skin. Though she will not give any acknowledgement that she can see how the High Septon may have been fooled by you.)

After hours finally the sun was beginning to set. It wasn’t long before everything was set up. Alicent looked around. You were nowhere in sight…and neither was Ser Arryk. 

Harlot.

Alicent’s eyes flickered to Ser Criston once more, but he was already on the move, drawn away from her as always. She remained in the carriage, waiting as the men prepared the camp, listening to the distant clatter of armor and hushed orders.

Then—shouting.

“STAY WITH THE QUEEN!”

The call rang through the night, sharp and urgent. Alicent turned toward the window just as the full moon bathed the camp in cold, silver light. And then—hands. Unfamiliar, rough hands yanking her from the carriage.

She screamed, a shrill, desperate sound. No—no, no, no! She cannot die. Not now. Not when the realm needs her. Not when her children would be left without her. What would become of them?

“SHEILDS!”

The thud of arrows sinking into wood filled the night, the sharp twang of bowstrings cutting through the chaos. Alicent’s breath came in short, panicked gasps as she struggled against her captor, her thoughts frantic. Where is Ser Criston?

Still looking for you.

Selfish, reckless, insufferable you.

And now, because of you, because of your ceaseless ability to command attention, she was here, vulnerable, desperate for her sworn shield—yet you had him as the wrath of the Seven crashed upon her in full force.

Why?

Was it because she had violated the sacred vows of marriage? Because she was a mother who would go to any lengths to protect her children? What crime had she committed so great that the gods saw fit to damn her like this?

Alicent barely had time to think before she was shoved to the ground, the impact rattling through her bones. Warmth splattered across her face. A metallic tang filled her mouth. Blood. Not hers.

She screamed.

Why must she suffer? How much more must she endure before the gods smiled upon her? Had she not done everything right? Had she not abided by the Seven? Had she not fulfilled her duty as a wife, as a mother, as a queen? She is not the one who birthed bastards.

The screams and clamor of battle dulled into ringing silence, her breath shallow and uneven. The chaos melted into an eerie stillness, and then—hands. Strong hands lifting her from the ground.

She could not see who they belonged to. The moon hung full and bright above them, yet its light did not reach her. Be they rogue men or the King’s Guard, she did not know. The gods had left her blind in the dark.

Then, at last, a voice.

Ser Erryk. Or was it Ser Arryk? Their faces blurred together in the dim light, indistinguishable. If they were both here, then—

Where were you?

Had you been killed in the chaos?

Something warm trailed down her temple. Slowly, Alicent raised a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the thick wetness. As she pulled away, the dark smear on her skin became visible.

Blood.

Alicent’s breath shuddered in her chest, though she did not allow herself to tremble. The knight wiped her face, the blood smearing before it was cleared away.

“Tis not your blood, my queen.”

No, it was not. But whose was it?

She barely registered the chill of the night, the acrid scent of blood still thick in the air. One of the twins turned from her, disappearing toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” she asked, though her voice sounded distant to her own ears.

“The lady was left alone in the woods with Ser Criston and her horse.”

The words settled over her like a burial shroud. The lady. You.

So you were dead.

Alicent exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. She had no doubt. Ser Criston had killed you. He was always thorough. Always dutiful.

Her own words returned to her, whispered in the confines of her mind.

Unchecked, yes, but not for much longer.

She had nodded to him, and he had understood. (He always did.) This had been the best time. A death under the guise of an attack. A necessary evil.

She stepped forward, her pace steady but laced with urgency. She needed to see it herself—no matter how gruesome, no matter how stained with blood. The truth could not be avoided.  

The guards moved with her, silent specters in the night. Seven in total. Four from the City Watch, their golden cloaks muted beneath the moon’s gaze, and three from the Kingsguard, gleaming white even in the gloom.  

For her protection, she had briefly assumed. After all, only the finest warriors in all of Westeros were chosen to serve the Crown, and three of them walked by her side. But it was not for her, was it? No, not for the Queen of Westeros.  

It had taken only a few hushed words from Viserys—words spoken in passing, laced with an unease she had not heard from him in years—for the realization to sink in. He worried for you. The three were for you. 

How could they not be?  

You, who played the role of a god in her husband’s eyes. You, who bent the King’s ear with ease while she, his lawful wife, was left to wither in silence.  

The forest stretched before her, vast and unyielding, the trees gnarled like the grasping hands of the dead. Shadows coiled between the trunks, thick and endless, swallowing the light of the moon. Had it not been for the gleaming white of the Kingsguard’s cloaks—like fallen stars against the darkness—she might have been lost to the night entirely.

It was not long before she heard it—muted cries, soft and broken. Alicent halted mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

The moon had not shone for her, offering no solace, no guiding light. But for you… the moon bathed you in its radiance, casting you as something otherworldly amidst the gnarled shadows of the trees. The sight sent a ripple of unease through her.

Fear. She had never feared you before. Not truly. Not in the way she feared you now, standing there with the Seven seemingly dancing upon your skin, your form aglow beneath the silver light.

Something black streaked down your cheeks, pooling at your chin, yet it was not for yourself that you wept. No, your sorrow was reserved for the creature at your feet—the very horse you had met mere hours ago, now gasping for breath, its life slipping from between your fingers.

The moon did not shine for Alicent. The Seven did not smile upon her. But for you? They wept with you, grieved with you, their presence so stark and undeniable it made her stomach turn.

She cannot understand it.

How the light clings to your features, how it renders you ethereal. How you kneel beside the dying beast, shushing it with soft murmurs, your voice weaving through the cold air in a tongue she cannot place. “Santificado sea tu nombre,” Yet, she knows—you are praying.

And that—more than the blood, more than the darkness streaking down your cheeks—makes her ill.

"By the gods."

She shouldn’t swear. She knows she shouldn’t—another reason for the Seven to turn their faces from her. But Alicent cannot stop the words from slipping through her lips, breathless and shaken. Because this cannot be. You cannot be.

The High Septon had spoken of divinity, of the gods whispering in your wake, of holiness reflected in your very skin. But Alicent had already damned you in her mind. She had condemned you as a harlot, a corrupter, a creature born to bring ruin. The gods cannot claim you now. (But perhaps you had always been theirs.)

Yet here you are, and the world bends in your presence. The forest, once thick with shadows, parts for the moonlight that clings to your form. The dark streaks down your cheeks, the tremor in your breath—it is not for yourself that you grieve. You cry for the dying beast at your feet, hands pressed to its shuddering side as if you might will life back into it. And the gods—her gods—watch over you.

Alicent cannot bear to look.

Her gaze seeks out Ser Criston, her sworn shield, her ever-faithful hand. But when she finds him, he is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed upon you and behind him are blinking lights as the lights of the forest shine for you and those who repent. 

And then Alicent feels it—a lurching sickness, twisting deep in her stomach. Because she knows that look. Awe. Repentance. The quiet devastation of a man who was meant to kill you but cannot.

Her eyes look towards you once more, your eyes red as you cry and pray for the dying animal and more lights begin to flash behind you. Rhythmically almost.

She turns away and retches into the dirt.

The sound of her own breathing, ragged and uneven, barely drowns out the silence behind her. She does not need to turn back to know what she will see. Ser Criston’s morningstar lying useless on the ground. A blinking light on it. His sword cast aside. Another weapon with blinking lights that sit upon it. His white cloak dirtied at the edges but forgotten in his reverence. And worst of all—the truth written plainly in his eyes.

He was going to do it. He was going to carry out her will.

But he could not.

Not when the gods themselves seem to shield you. Not when the Seven have wrapped you in their light and forced his weapon from his grasp.

Not when they have chosen you.

…

But you left.

Aemond knows he was wrong. He knows it deep in his bones, in the quiet moments when he is alone in his chambers, staring at his own reflection in the polished steel of his dagger. The bruises he left upon your throat haunt him. A phantom wrapped around his fingers, a weight he cannot shake.

(But did you have to act like that with Cole? Did you have to hold onto him? Did you have to continue to humiliate him? Why is that you deem it proper to humiliate a Prince of the Realm? )

But you—you should have told him. If you had only spoken, if you had only trusted him, then it wouldn’t have come to this. He wouldn’t have had to force it from you. Wouldn’t have had to feel his pulse pounding in his temples, his fingers tightening against something so soft, so breakable. Wouldn’t have had to see the shock in your eyes, the betrayal that stole your breath.

He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. That it was you who made him do it. But the thought is hollow. Aemond has spent his whole life mastering control—of his mind, of his body, of his rage. And yet, when it came to you, all of that control unraveled, slipping through his grasp like sand in the wind.

And now you are gone.

He tells himself it is for the best. That you will see reason in time. That you will return. But doubt festers in his chest like an open wound, aching, throbbing, refusing to heal.

You left. And Aemond is beginning to fear that you might not come back.

You wouldn’t leave him. Would you?

Not when he knows the most intimate parts of you, and you of him. Not when you unraveled each other in ways no one else ever will. Not when he owns a part of you—a part that lingers in the very bed he lies upon, in the imprint left on the sheets, in the scent still fresh on the linen.

You could not leave him. Not when Aemond has been your solace, your refuge when the world turned cruel. He knows it. You found something in him—he saw it in your eyes, heard it in the way you whispered his name in the dark. You cannot walk away. Not when you know he is more capable than the others. More than Aegon. More than Jacaerys. More than Cole. More than Daeron, should you ever meet him. More than anyone.

With Aemond, your worries disappeared. You told him so. He never even had to ask.

You will come back. Of course, you will. And when you do, everything will be as it was.

Even if you make him suffer in your absence, even if you seek to punish him with distance—to make him hate you—he will endure it. Because Aemond is nothing if not resilient.

Aemond simply is.

Yet there is a doubt that creeps in his mind as he bucks his hips upwards into your sheets, desperate to inhale your scent. 

No, Aemond can take it. He can take it, swords twisting into him, Dragon fire pecking at his skin, blows from the strongest warriors and fighters. He can take it. (Except he cannot, he cannot take having you gone, even if you are coming back soon. (And you will…right?)) 

Aemond is desperate, it’s been days since he’s last had you, since he’s last tasted you. You are a necessity. 

And he is a necessity. You have made it so. Aemond wonders if you too are on a bed in Old Town, mayhaps your fingers between your thighs. Desperately trying to recreate him as he is trying to recreate you now.

You will come back. You will come to him. You must come back to him.

Him? Aemond, a Prince here in your bed desperately trying to find you? He cannot go on living like this, you will come back. 

You are ideal. Had you only been born with a noble name, you would’ve been perfect. Though he supposes your attempt to claw your way up is endearing as well.

But by the gods, he needs you now. Your familiar warmth. His body that now longs for your warmth. 

Aemond has worked hard to mold you to him, and you are for him.

You cannot have him like this. Hopeless, turned boy once more searching fruitlessly for his mother’s affection. (Now you do, however, you have him wrapping his hands around his cock trying to simulate the feeling of your hands that have never known a day of work, while his face is buried into your sheets trying to smell you once more.)

Aemond knows he lost his temper with you. It wasn’t on purpose, he swears it wasn’t on purpose. He cannot recreate your hands with his own, his own that he knows that holds the weight of his betrayal of you. A distinct whimper slipped through his parted lips. Aemonds chest rose up and down, releasing the short gasps.

God, he needs your lips. Those kisses that he remembers as if it was only yesterday. The sweetness that to him tastes like honey. Aemond can only hope to try and remember when his body would enter yours little by little, while he kissed your tender skin. 

Another groan left him. Those sounds Aemond made that he knows would have you clenching around him. Every minute, no, every second of it, it was perfect. You exist for him. You have to when you react to him in such a manner. 

But now you're gone.

His hand wrapped around the throbbing genital, fisting it after his first climax had his vision blurring, tears sparkling his lash line.

Aemonds hand never stopped. It's what you would've done, as revenge perhaps…a get back at him?

Excuse after excuse. Aemond longed for your presence beside him and if you weren't gonna appear, he'd have to visualize you inside his mind.

The large, veiny hands were replaced with the cold of your own, Aemond shuddered, head tipping back against the bed frame. His eyebrows scrunched together, eye half-lidded and allowing the pleasure to seek through his veins.

A finger caught on the thin slit, spreading the pearly-white pre upon the tip, rubbing the spot, a giggle leaving your lips, watching as his cock sprung up. Pumped and angry.

Aemond blanked out, his hand was mindlessly keeping the rapid movement of stroking his length, roughly so. He blinked away tears, painting the scenes of you together inside his head.

The imagination was truly a powerful thing.

A coil tightened in his stomach, a cold touch to his dick and the thumb caressing his tip.

Again. Again. And again. 

Until the pain turned into pleasure, all his thoughts faded out, crawling out of his head.

“F-fuck! You…come!” He slurred.

Sensing his next climax about to crash down on him. His head was mushy, squeezing the muscles of his face together.

“Please…! I never–!” The white filling spurted out of his cock, now coating the whole length by the continued strokes,

“–meant it!”

It sent that paralyzing chill up his skin until it reached his neck, Aemond fell back on the bed exhausted, overstimulation having his body slowly ticking into sleep.

Another snicker had his heart dropping to his stomach, eye blown wide.

Yet…you weren't there. He was slowly losing the rope that he clutched onto. The fabric that had his sanity tightly bound together.

“You’ll come back.” Aemond looks down towards his mess on your sheets. It was fine. It’s how it was supposed to be in the first place. Silently slipping under your covers he covered himself completely as sleep took him.

…

"And the King has approved of this?"

Ser Criston lingered just beyond the heavy doors, the hushed murmurs within barely muffled by the thick wood. It had taken three days—three days—for the Grand Maesters to grant you an audience.

How absurd. You carried the King’s word.

(And perhaps, if Ser Criston’s eyes had not deceived him, the will of the gods as well.)

That night, gods be good, he was to strike you down. He bit the inside of his cheek as he listened to the murmurs behind the door. He felt sick. So sick when he saw you crying. He had thought you hurt yourself, or perhaps one of the bandits had gotten to you before Ser Arryk could strike them down. But it was quickly dismissed when he crossed paths with Ser Arryk informing him you had no such injuries. 

And yet, the image of you remained burned into his mind—the moonlight kissing your skin, the gods weeping with you, the streaks of black down your cheeks like some holy anointment. The horse’s dying breath rattled in the cold air. His fingers clenched at his side.

He had been meant to kill you.

Alicent had willed it. He is her sword shield. What she wills he does. His sword, his faith, his duty—he had steadied himself for the blow. And then the gods had turned his weapon to dust as they wrapped you in their light and they danced upon your skin. 

He had seen it in Alicent’s eyes. The horror, the fury, the sickness of a woman who had called upon righteousness only to find the gods had already made their choice. And not in her favor.

Ser Criston closed his eyes briefly, willing the memory away as the murmurs beyond the door grew sharper.

“And you, a woman, was the one to propose it?” one of the Grand Maesters was saying, his voice filled with mockery. “I am sure you are a woman who is coquette.” Criston’s eyes narrowed. (He knows he once regarded you as such once before, but was he wrong? Is he right? Ser Criston does not know anymore.)

There was a pause. The rustling of parchment.

“If King Viserys so desires it, with the approval of Otto Hightower, then we shall look it over honestly.”

A scoff. “Otto Hightower is not a man to be ‘persuaded.’”

Criston exhaled sharply through his nose. The Maesters could play at logic, at reason, but they had not seen what he had seen. They had not stood in the presence of something they could not explain.

Another voice—one that made his stomach twist.

“Yet his name is signed. Everyone in the small council has signed it. If they all signed, should it not be a sign that it is worth a look? Regardless of who proposed it?” Your voice sounded and guilt twisted in his stomach. 

He had not felt guilt like this in almost a decade. 

He must will himself through it. 

Criston Cole has a role to play and he will play it well. The role of Ser Criston Cole, an honorable knight, who had taken an oath of celibacy, and is the sworn shield to Queen Alicent Hightower.

(Yet he did not play his role when he saw you against a wall with Prince Aemond’s hand around your neck. He was not honorable then.)

This must be a test of sorts. But for who, he does not know. 

Criston does not know anymore. 

Criston had once believed himself a man of unwavering faith, his conviction as firm as the steel he carried. He had followed the will of the gods, the will of his Queen, without question.

And yet, as he stood beyond those doors, he can only listen as they ridicule you, and mock you. Criston Cole does not know what to feel as he hears you petition for the people, hears your voice heavy with conviction. 

Ser Criston’s hands remain empty, his sword untouched, his faith in tatters—he could not help but wonder:

Had the test been yours?

Or had it been his all along?

Ser Criston lingered just beyond the heavy doors, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw rigid. The voices within were hushed yet sharp, their tones laced with authority and condescension. He should not be listening. He should not care. And yet, his ears strained to catch every word.

“You think you can do what Maesters for decades could not?” The voice was old, lined with skepticism, the weight of experience carried in its rasp.

Criston imagined the scene inside—wrinkled hands folded over thick robes, chains rattling as the Maesters exchanged glances. He could picture the way they sneered down at you, their superiority draped around them like armor.

“You are not properly educated, nor can you be,” another scoffed. “Women cannot become Maesters. Only midwives.”

A pause. He could almost hear the way you tilted your head, the way your lips would curl, sharp as a blade before you spoke.

“I can assure you, I wield proper education. Some would wager, more advanced than yours.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Criston exhaled sharply through his nose. A bold answer. Too bold. You had no fear, did you? Or perhaps you did, but you wielded it as a weapon rather than a chain. (Yet Criston knows the Gods protect you.)

A shift of robes. A deep inhale, drawn through gritted teeth.

“Mind your tongue,” the elder Maester snapped, his voice taut with barely veiled irritation. “You are foreign. Where you come from, I’m sure they use dirt as money. You are not special. You are commonly born, without a name behind you. You are a woman.”

The words settled in Criston’s stomach like a stone, heavy and unyielding.

Another man might have laughed—might have found amusement in your humiliation, might have thought it fitting. But Criston only pressed his palm against the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening until his knuckles burned, his jaw clenched so hard it sent a dull ache through his skull.

He did not know why.

No, you were not like him. You were nothing like Criston Cole. He had been a fool to think otherwise. And yet, for some reason, the realization felt like a betrayal.

Criston Cole had never stood where you stood. He had never been in your position, just as you had never been in his. He had never been protected by the gods. That was the difference, wasn’t it? That was why you stood so assured, so unshaken—not because you placed faith in yourself, but because you placed it in them.

Envy is a disease blooming within him, curling its way through his ribs like ivy tightening around stone. It festers in the quiet moments, in the spaces between breath and thought, poisoning him with its whispers.

(Envy is a disease.)

Envy—for the way you stand unbowed beneath their ridicule, for the way their scorn does not touch you as it once had him.

Envy—for the appearance of self-assurance when he has never known such a thing, when every step he takes is burdened with doubt.

And now, envy that claws at him from the inside out, sharper than any blade. Envy for your unmovable faith—the kind that has not only endured but has been rewarded.

“Proper education?” Another scoffed, incredulous. “You speak as though knowledge is plucked from the air like an apple from a tree.” A faint rustling of parchment followed—a deliberate gesture, no doubt, a reminder of their many tomes, their vast libraries. “We have spent decades studying, interpreting, refining our craft. And yet you, a nameless girl, would have us believe you possess wisdom beyond our station?”

Another chuckled, low and derisive. “She thinks herself above Maesters. A scholar, perhaps? Did you sit at the feet of great men and scribble down their words like a dutiful little scribe? Or did you trade whispers in the dark, learning your lessons between silken sheets?”

A ripple of laughter followed. Criston’s grip on his sword tightened.

(Why? He cannot say why. Why should he care when you are nothing like him.) 

“Perhaps she fancies herself a healer,” another mused, his voice thick with amusement. “Is that what you are, girl? Did you brew a few herbs, press a few leeches to flesh, and now you believe yourself learned?” A beat of silence, then a sneer. “Or is your skill in another craft entirely? A different kind of medicine, one that does not require ink or parchment, only a well-placed smile and willing men?”

The laughter was louder this time. Ugly.

Criston exhaled sharply, staring at the thick wood of the door as though it might crack beneath his gaze. He should not be here. He should not care. He should turn on his heel and walk away, let you fight your own battles, let you bear the weight of their scorn alone.

And yet.

He remained rooted in place, listening.

“I bring the word of King Viserys and I ask that you would so humbly listen to what I have to say. My proposition of—” Your voice finally came out, though now…Criston could not recognize it. 

No you were nothing like him. 

Nothing at all, but your voice sounds so much like his when he was denied his life. 

“Do you truly think you can live up to someone like Bran the Builder. I think not. You are the King’s glorified messenger. The faith may smile upon you, or so it said, but here, the Gods will not help you. You are a girl who has mistaken arrogance for knowledge. A child playing at wisdom. A woman who believes herself exceptional simply because she dares to speak above her station.” One chided and Ser Criston only stands and listens. 

It was bound to happen. The rules will not bend for you. (But are there rules for gods? Criston does not know.)

“Tell me, then,” the eldest among them finally said, voice soft, but no less cruel. “If you are so learned—so wise—why, then, are you here? If you were half as clever as you claim, you would have already found another way. Instead, you come before us, expecting the respect of Maesters, yet bearing none of their titles, none of their chains.” A pause. A smirk, perhaps. “Or did you think you could charm us as you have others? Shall we bow to the wisdom of a woman who was never meant to possess it?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Criston clenched his jaw. He knew this game. He had played it himself, once. He had wielded his own tongue like a blade against you, testing, pushing, waiting to see if you would break.

And now?

Now he could not understand the sickness curling in his gut, the bitterness on his tongue as he listened to them flay you apart with nothing but words.

"I know," one of them sneered. "Go out into the streets of Old Town and beg for coins while preaching your grand… proposition. If the people find your cause worthy, then perhaps—perhaps—we shall spare a scholar or two to help you make sense of Bran the Builder’s work."

Laughter erupted, a chorus of mockery that echoed through the chamber.

Then, silence.

A voice, heavy with condescension, cut through the stillness. "Women do not possess the minds of men. No man will ever bow willingly to the weaker sex."

"Then I wonder how you will fare when the day comes that you are forced to bend the knee to Crown Princess Rhaenyra."

The door creaked open, drawing all eyes toward Ser Criston. His gaze found you, and for a moment, he hesitated. Your expression was unreadable, your eyes glassy, distant—yet there was something simmering beneath them. Something neither he nor the gathered men could name.

He watched as you walked past him, your shoulders trembling ever so slightly. A silent tremor, but a tremor nonetheless.

(Ser Criston’s honor had been lost long ago, but he prays his faith has not.)

So he follows.

Your voice, low and sharp, spills into the corridor—a tongue he does not understand, but the venom in it is unmistakable.

"Desgraciados. Que chinguen toda su puta perra madre."

The words slip through gritted teeth, hushed yet seething, as though cursing the very air you breathe. Ser Criston watches the way your hands clench at your sides, the tension coiling through your frame like a storm yet to break.

He watched you storm into a room, the door nearly slamming behind you. For a moment, he lingered outside, uncertain, before stepping forward. The flickering candlelight inside cast long shadows against the stone walls, and when you turned to face him, the golden glow only made the raw humiliation on your face more stark.

“What?” Your voice wavered, your hands planted firmly on your hips as if bracing yourself against the weight of the moment. Your shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths, and though you tried to hold your composure, he could see the gloss in your eyes.

“Can I help you?” you asked again, sharper this time, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you.

Criston remained silent, unsure of what to say, of what he was even doing here.

Your lips pressed together, your chin lifting in defiance. “Have you come to laugh at me? I know you do not like me.” The words were forced, brittle, as if saying them aloud might solidify them into truth. “And I can understand why. Loyalty is a noble trait of yours. But I ask that you would spare me and not kick me while I’m—”

Your voice broke. A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another. You tried to catch your breath, swallowing hard against the sobs that threatened to consume you, but it was no use.

“While I’m down.”

The words barely made it past your lips before your breath hitched again. You turned away, as if unwilling to let him see you like this, but Criston knew—some wounds, no matter how much you willed them away, could not be hidden.

He took the chance to step closer—may the gods forgive him for not interfering sooner.

“What do you want from me!?” You had already stepped inside, but he followed, drawn forward despite himself.

Criston bit his lip, uncertain. You were nothing like him. He should not be here. His sworn duty was to Alicent. He was meant to kill you. He should kill you, for it was the will of the beacon he followed. You did not matter because he could not live through you any longer.

“My lady, the Maesters, spoke overly harsh words.” His voice felt foreign to him, softer than it should be.

Criston cannot live the life he once wanted—his honor is lost, despite the clean white cloak draped over his shoulders. His nobility is tarnished, a stain no absolution could erase.

A queen cannot restore it. (A queen has only worsened it.)

His nobility cannot be given.

But perhaps the gods can bless him still. 

The idea is quickly shattered by a scoff. Your scoff. Maybe the gods scoff at him as well.

“Now you want to act noble?”

For the salvation of himself, for the salvation of his beacon—perhaps.

“And where were you when I asked for your help?”

Shame pools in his stomach, heavy and unrelenting. He cannot look away from you, not when your eyes are red, raw with tears that still fall.

“You looked at me, Ser Criston.” Your voice wavers, but there is fire beneath it.

A sharp shove against his chest. He does not move. He will not move.

“And you left me.”

Another shove. His breath stirs, but he remains where he stands, bound by guilt.

“You left me. No good knight—no knight from the songs or stories—would have done that.”

Another shove, harder this time.

“You left me there, and now you want to act noble?”

The words strike deeper than your hands ever could. He deserves them.

“He is a Prince of the realm.” It’s not all his fault. How could he attack a Prince of the realm? His job is to protect them. To protect the righteous.

(But you were not righteous. Or were you? Criston Cole no longer knows.) 

“Loyalty is only as noble as the cause it serves.”

“I am a King’s Guard!” He will not let his loyalty be questioned. He will not let his Queen be questioned. Not by you. Not by you who has corrupted a prince.

“Then why are you here!? I am no royal! Why are you here?” You snap at him, your hands rushing to gather your belongings, your frustration evident. You’re preparing to leave, to return to Hightower.

“Yet you are involved with a royal.” He shouldn’t have said that. It was gossip, rumors, and unworthy of his station. But when he sees your reaction, he knows it struck a nerve. You freeze.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. So get off your high fucking horse and get the fuck out of my room!”

Another shove, though this time your eyes are dry. The remnants of your tears cling to your face like a map of the pain you’re carrying.

“Get out! You have no idea who I am or what I’m doing, so get out!”

“I am to escort you back to Hightower.” He forces the words out, but there’s a heaviness in his chest. Maybe Criston was too far gone, lost in the shadows of duty and shame. If the gods would not take him, then who would?

“I want someone else, so get out. I don’t want to see you!” You push him again, this time with a finality that stings. He takes a step back, giving in to the distance between you.

“I will be waiting outside.” His voice is low, as if the weight of his own failures is too much to carry in a single breath. He will follow the beacon that always shines for him, even if it’s nothing but a dim, distant flicker.

…

“Tis been four years, Uncle. I am aware my letters have not been as frequent as they should, yet… I find myself tense.” Daeron’s voice was measured, though his fingers curled slightly where they rested. He looked toward his uncle, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps.

Four years. Four years since he was sent away from his mother. Four years away from his brother—though from what he has heard, he wonders if that was for the best. Four years apart from his only sister, now a mother of two.

Daeron Targaryen, the fourth son of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, does not know what to feel as he rereads his mother’s letter, announcing her arrival in Old Town. Would she be proud of him?

(He is a boy with no mother. It is only natural to yearn—for her presence, for her approval. For some validation that he has not been forgotten.)

“Your mother will be happy to see you,” his uncle said, and Daeron gave a firm nod.

A moment later, they entered the chamber. His mother sat by the window, bathed in the light of the setting sun. In four years, she had not changed. The tired look she always wore had not lifted, nor had the anger that seemed to smolder just beneath the surface.

Yet when her eyes met his, all his worries faded.

A smile bloomed on her face—warm, genuine. A smile meant only for him. It was infectious, and Daeron felt his own lips curve in response.

“Mother.”

“My boy.”

Before he could say another word, she was in his arms. The last time he had held her, he had been shorter. Now, he towered over her, but in her embrace, he still felt small. Her hands, soft and warm, cupped his face, and he leaned into her touch.

“How you’ve grown.” Her voice held something deeper—pride, yes, but also sorrow. A wistfulness that made Daeron furrowed his brows.

“I was worried,” she murmured. “You write less and less these days.”

“The fault is mine, not yours, Mother,” he admitted. “I have found myself… occupied as of late.”

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable before her smile returned, albeit weaker. She traced his cheek with her thumb, studying him. “Tell me,” she said, gently but firmly. “What is it that keeps my son so busy that he forgets his mother?”

Daeron hesitated. There were many things—his training, his studies, the expectations placed upon him in Old Town. But there was also something more. A restlessness that had settled in his bones. A feeling that he was meant for more than quiet halls and whispered prayers.

He exhaled slowly. “I do not forget you, Mother. Never. But I—” He paused, searching for the words. “I feel as though I am standing at the edge of something, waiting to step forward. And yet, I do not know where that step will take me.”

Alicent studied him for a long moment before sighing softly. “You are growing into a man, my love. And men must find their place in the world.” Her fingers lingered at his temple, brushing back a lock of silver hair. “But wherever you go, whatever path you choose, you are still my son.”

Daeron swallowed, nodding. He wanted to believe her, to hold onto this moment, but he could not shake the feeling that whatever lay ahead would change everything, for his mother always has reason behind her actions. Why she was here in Old Town, she never said.

The next few hours passed with Daeron simply basking in his mother’s presence as she spoke with his uncle. He listened, half-engaged, yet his mind drifted elsewhere—toward his brothers.

Uncle Gwayne never mentioned them, not once, as he conversed with his mother. That alone was enough to stir unease in Daeron.

“And this law, you do not present it, sister?”

His uncle’s voice carried a sharper edge now, drawing Daeron’s attention. He straightened slightly, ears keen to the shift in tone. Behind him, he felt his mother go still. He turned just enough to catch a glimpse of her face—rigid, unreadable.

What could make her react in such a way?

The answer came swiftly.

You.

The next hour was spent speaking of you. The newest addition to the Red Keep. And, to his mother’s evident horror, a potential addition to the family—by marriage.

You and Aemond.

Or so his father had suggested, according to his mother’s tight-lipped retelling.

Just who were you?

A woman who had seemingly restored his father’s health, yet disturbed his mother’s peace.

Daeron knew it was wrong to judge before even meeting someone, but the mere mention of you unsettled his mother. That was reason enough. He would not allow it—not a foreigner.

“And what do you have to say on the matter, sister?” his uncle asked.

Daeron turned his gaze to his mother, expecting the same anger she reserved for his bastard nephews or, on occasion, his eldest brother. But what he found instead was… hesitation.

Uncertainty.

Nervousness.

No. You could not remain.

His thoughts were soon reflected in his mother’s words.

“If Aegon is to be king… she cannot stay.”

Daeron watched as his mother reached for her brother, her grip tight, her voice carrying something that unsettled him.

“But Gwayne… brother, what I have seen from the girl—may the gods forgive me for ever wanting to do away with her.” A sharp breath. A pause thick with unspoken things. “Brother, she is…”

Distress. Genuine distress laced her tone.

You?

You had unsettled the Queen herself?

“I do not know what she is. I fear—”

“Fear what, sister?”

She swallowed, the words slipping through barely parted lips.

“That mayhaps, for proper forgiveness from the gods, a marriage between her and my son will be best.”

Just as Daeron was preparing to ask what importance you held and where exactly you were, a prickle ran down his spine.

Tessarion.

The sensation was unmistakable, an unspoken pull deep in his bones. His dragon was calling him.

He shot to his feet.

“Daeron?” his uncle called, brow furrowed.

“Tessarion calls me.”

“For what reason?”

“I do not know.”

His uncle regarded him for a moment before nodding. “Go. I will remain here and speak further with your mother.”

Daeron turned to Alicent, bowing his head before leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead—the same way she had once done for him, when he was still small enough to tuck beneath her chin.

“I will meet you for supper,” he promised.

And with that, he strode out, the weight of an unknown summons pressing against his ribs.

Whatever awaited him, he would soon find out.

Daeron rode swiftly across Oldtown, the familiar spires of the Hightower fading behind him as he reached the makeshift dragon pit. There, he found Tessarion—his proud, blue-scaled dragon—tugging against her chains, her body trembling with barely contained agitation. She wanted to fly. No, she needed to fly.

He did not hesitate to oblige her.

The moment the chains were loosened, Tessarion took to the sky, her wings slicing through the crisp air as she carried him high above the city. But she did not stop there. Higher and farther she flew, as if something unseen pulled her forward.

Then Daeron saw it.

A shadow in the distance—vast, black, and impossibly large. His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had never seen anything so massive, so ancient. Fear coiled tight in his chest, and Tessarion responded with a defiant roar.

"Daor, Tessarion!" he shouted, gripping the reins. No. Whatever that thing was, it could swallow them whole.

Another roar sounded. His grip tightened around the reins of Tessarion. The roar was deafening. He could feel it in his bones. The way his bones shook and it hurt his ears, the sound was so strong. Groaning, he forced Tessarion to turn back and take him back to Old Town. Whatever or whoever it was, Daeron wouldn’t stay around to find out. 

Unfortunately, the other beast decided otherwise. A sudden gust of warm wind hit his back, and he turned sharply, his blood running cold.

Gods be good…

It was an ugly beast—great and ancient, its green hide worn and weathered with age, its teeth long and jagged. And it was gaining on him.

“Naejot Tessarion!” He urged and his dragon dove. Though through the wind he heard his name. Someone was shouting his name. Turning he saw the large beast diving with him, though the head was so great, he could not see who was on the dragon. 

Daeron’s heart pounded in his chest as Tessarion descended, skimming just above the ground before leveling out. Behind him, a thunderous thud echoed—the large beast was landing. Each of her steps sent tremors through the earth, as if the ground itself might crack beneath her weight.

His gaze flickered to Tessarion. Would she ever grow to such a monstrous size? He doubted he’d live to see the day—doubted she’d even be his by then.

Tessarion rose once more, and as Daeron turned, his eyes settled on the figure now visible atop the massive dragon.

He and Tessarion dove again, closing the distance.

Then he saw him.

A face he hadn’t laid eyes on in years—so changed from the boy he once knew that, for a moment, he doubted himself.

Until his name was shouted.

"Brother."

Daeron’s jaw tightened.

Aemond.

And that meant…

This was Vhagar.

The Queen of Dragons.

Daeron guided Tessarion to land, his dragon’s claws kicking up dust as she settled. Overhead, Vhagar let out another ear-splitting roar, and Daeron winced at the sheer force of it. The Queen of Dragons soon lowered her ancient head, her massive eyes fixed on his smaller dragon with something almost like curiosity—or perhaps indifference.

Sliding off Tessarion, Daeron turned just as Aemond dismounted from Vhagar.

A weight settled in Daeron’s chest.

Prince Aemond Targaryen. The One-Eyed Prince.

The stories of his older brother had traveled far, tales of his prowess on the battlefield, his ruthlessness, his command over the largest dragon alive. Had he entered the tourneys, he would have dominated them, carving his legend alongside that of their uncle Daemon, just as the Rogue Prince had done all those years ago.

Aemond was taller than Daeron remembered, though perhaps that was no surprise—he had always been taller. Two years his elder, yet it felt as though an eternity had passed since they last stood face to face.

Back then, Aemond had been just his older brother.

Back then, he had two eyes.

And no dragon.

Now, he stood before him, draped in black and steel, the weight of war and Vhagar’s shadow behind him.

"Daeron," Aemond spoke at last, his voice smooth but edged like a blade.

Daeron straightened. "Brother."

A moment stretched between them, heavy and unreadable. Then, with measured steps, Aemond closed the distance.

"You’ve grown," Aemond observed, eyeing him with an intensity that made Daeron bristle. "Oldtown has not made you soft, I hope."

Daeron lifted his chin. "You’ll have to test that for yourself."

A ghost of a smirk touched Aemond’s lips. "Perhaps I shall."

Daeron grinned, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around his brother in a firm embrace. His older brother. The one who had once been the family’s jest now stood before him, taller, commanding.

Aemond was no longer the boy Daeron remembered—he had grown into his frame, his presence looming. Daeron suspected he now stood taller than their bastard nephews and perhaps even Aegon himself.

"What brings you to Old Town?" Daeron asked, a playful lilt to his voice. "Come to chase after Mother?"

The energy between them was light, easy. He had always gotten along with Aemond. In his youth, Aemond had been softer, and Daeron had naturally gravitated towards him. Even when Aegon teased him—mocking that Aemond might one day steal his dragon—Daeron never believed it.

His big brother wouldn’t do that.

In truth, Aemond had been the one to play with him and Tessarion whenever he could, always watching out for them in ways no one else did.

"No," Aemond replied, his voice quieter, more measured. "No one knows I’m here."

Daeron watched as Aemond stepped closer to Tessarion, his single eye filled with something unreadable. He lifted a hand but hesitated, glancing back at Daeron for permission.

Daeron would never deny his older brother. He gave a nod.

"She has grown much since I last saw her," Aemond murmured, his gloved hand running over Tessarion’s shimmering blue scales.

Tessarion did not flinch. She allowed the touch.

"I only began riding her last year. This is my first time beyond Old Town." Daeron glanced toward the massive green beast. "So this is Vhagar."

"Queen of Dragons," Aemond affirmed. It was fitting, Daeron supposed, that his brother had claimed the largest and most formidable of dragons—the last living relic of Aegon’s Conquest. Aemond had always yearned for greatness.

"Why are you here, brother?" Daeron asked, stepping closer to Tessarion.

"Have you seen Mother?"

Daeron resisted the urge to sigh at his brother’s habit of answering with another question. "I have."

"And the woman who travels with her?"

Daeron frowned. "There was no woman. Only Mother."

Aemond’s expression tightened. "Ser Criston?"

"The Dornishman?" Daeron had heard tales of Ser Criston. The man who bested the Rogue Prince in battle. The man who came from no noble name, yet he is one of the seven in the King’s Guard. Ser Criston Cole is a well known name.

"Yes."

"He was not there," Daeron said firmly. "It was only my mother."

Daeron caught the flicker of annoyance in his brother’s eye.

“Who is she?”

Then, your name left Aemond’s lips.

You. Again.

You, who made his mother speak in hushed, fearful tones. You, who now had his noble older brother seeking you out with urgency. Who were you to command such attention?

Aemond offered no explanation, only the weight of his silence.

“I heard mention of her being at the Citadel,” Daeron added, watching closely.

The moment the words left his mouth, Aemond stiffened. His spine straightened, his fingers flexing at his side, and something unreadable flickered across his face—something Daeron could not quite place.

“Daeron,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “Can you bring her to me?”

Daeron hesitated, brows knitting together. “Why?”

Aemond turned to him then, his lone eye sharp, assessing.

“Brother… have you taken a lover?” The words felt absurd the moment he spoke them. Aemond—their mother’s ever-loyal son, rigid in his discipline, a man who lived by duty alone—taking a lover? Unthinkable. You, of all people, the one who sent their mother into whispered prayers and sleepless nights? Impossible.

Aemond’s lips curled slightly. “Of a sort.”

Daeron’s head snapped toward him, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and alarm. “She is your lover? Do you know how she torments our mother? And you would take her to your bed!?”

“Daeron.” Aemond’s voice darkened. “You do not know our mother. You were raised in Old Town, far from her shadow. I see you have grown well and true, but her… caution is not as well-founded as you might believe.”

“Aemond, she is our mother,” Daeron shot back, voice tight with frustration. “And you would choose this—this foreigner over her counsel?”

Aemond exhaled sharply, as if barely restraining his temper. When he spoke again, his words were measured, his tone carrying a weight Daeron had not heard in years.

“Mind your tongue, brother.” His gaze held no room for argument. “Can you bring her to me?”

Daeron clenched his jaw. He had been away too long—long enough to feel the shift, to sense the distance between them now. The boy who once followed Aemond’s lead without question had grown into a man who no longer recognized the brother before him.

But for the sake of old loyalties, of blood and brotherhood, he would not deny him.

“I can.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable once more. “This stays between us. I will wait here. See that no one follows you.”

“How will I know it’s her?” Daeron stopped in front of Tessarion. 

“Offer her water from a vendor. She’ll decline it. Then offer her meats, she’ll decline that as well.”

Strange.

Daeron nodded, murmuring a few words to Tessarion before setting off. Now to find you.

You were said to be near the Citadel, accompanied by a Dornish knight. That alone should make the search easier—Dornish men stood out in Old Town, their dark hair and sun-kissed skin a stark contrast to the pale, flaxen heads of the Reach. Still, Daeron found himself doubting the ease of his task.

Tessarion deposited him safely back in Old Town, her great wings stirring dust as she settled into her pit. He ran a hand along her shimmering blue scales, bidding her a quiet farewell before turning to retrieve a horse.

As he rode toward the Citadel, he repeated your description in his mind, over and over again. Yet the more he turned it over, the more he wondered if he should take it with a grain of salt. Aemond’s words had been brief, and something about them had felt… deliberate. Carefully chosen, as if he did not want to say too much.

What had his brother truly meant by of a sort?

A lover. A conspirator. A pawn.

Or something else entirely?

He exhaled sharply and urged his horse faster. Whatever the answer, he would find it soon enough.

Daeron’s sharp eyes caught sight of a white cloak, the pristine fabric standing out against the muted colors of Old Town's streets. Beside it stood a woman, her eyes rimmed with red, as if she had been crying.

Well, that fits the description well enough.

And beside you, just as Aemond had said, was a Dornish knight. A man with the unmistakable sun-darkened skin and sharp, narrow features of his people.

Daeron narrowed his eyes. Aemond had warned him there was something distinct about you—something he had not put into words. And now, seeing you for himself, Daeron understood why. He could not place it, not exactly, but there was something inherently… Strange about you.

(Though Aemond had never called you strange, not aloud. That was Daeron’s own word for it, and he would not shy from it. You had committed the crime of making his mother afraid, and if the Queen feared you, then you must be something.)

Frowning, he pulled the hood of his cloak low over his silver hair and steered his horse toward a shortcut. He needed to separate you from the Dornish knight. Best not to cause a scene in the open streets.

As he maneuvered through the winding alleys, his gaze flickered back toward you. The way you spoke to the knight was… aggressive. Your posture was rigid, your hands tense at your sides. Even from a distance, Daeron could tell that whatever you were discussing was not a friendly exchange.

Clearly, you were not happy with him.

Interesting.

Perhaps he wouldn’t need to intervene at all. If fortune was on his side, you would storm off on your own. But if not… well, he had other means of ensuring you followed him.

“I’m hungry.”

The words were quiet, almost petulant, but Daeron caught them all the same. Your voice was thick—congested from tears, no doubt. Why had you been crying? That wasn’t his concern.

“You can eat at House Hightower,” Ser Criston replied, his tone clipped, leaving little room for argument.

Daeron watched as your expression crumpled, your eyes glistening once more. Again? He nearly rolled his eyes. If his brother—his noble, disciplined brother—had truly taken a lover, he never would have expected this. You were… spoiled. Soft.

“I don’t want to eat there.”

“We must return.” Criston didn’t turn back as he spoke, already moving ahead of you.

Daeron saw his opening.

You had stopped, glancing around as if weighing your options. He could see it in the subtle shift of your posture—the flicker of hesitation, the restless energy in your limbs.

“No,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. “I want something from here.”

Ser Criston remained turned away, oblivious to the danger of leaving you unattended for even a moment. A mistake. One Daeron wasted no time exploiting.

In a single fluid motion, he closed the distance, clamping a hand over your mouth before you could so much as gasp. Your body jolted, a wild, instinctive struggle immediately following, but Daeron was stronger, quicker. With an iron grip, he dragged you back into the alleyway where his horse waited, your feet kicking out uselessly against him.

You fought like a wildcat, but Daeron only chuckled under his breath.

So, you weren’t entirely soft after all.

Daeron hoisted you onto the horse with little effort, swinging himself into the saddle before spurring the beast forward. You squirmed in his grasp, your movements frantic, but his hand remained firm over your mouth, muffling any protests.

For a while, you fought him. Then, just as suddenly, you stilled.

Only when he was certain you were far enough from prying eyes did Daeron finally release you, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

Fear. It was plain in your eyes, in the stiffness of your stance, in the way your gaze darted—searching, calculating, already trying to find a way out.

Daeron tilted his head, observing you with mild curiosity. This was the woman who had their mother so shaken? The one Aemond had spoken of with such weight? He couldn’t see it. You were just… a girl. A little strange, perhaps, but normal enough.

You swallowed hard. “Listen, please, I don’t know what this is, but—” your voice wavered, pleading, “—I have to go back.”

Daeron said your name again, slower this time, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue. His brow arched, expectant.

“Who?” you echoed, blinking up at him in clear confusion.

His lips parted slightly. That wasn’t the reaction he had anticipated. He repeated the name, firmer now, but the response was the same—uncertainty, an unfamiliarity that sent a ripple of unease through his chest.

“Listen, I don’t know who that is or who you are,” you insisted, voice thin with desperation. “But…I need to get back home. Please, ser.”

Daeron’s stomach twisted. Gods be good. Had he just kidnapped the wrong girl?

His mind raced, scrambling to piece together an explanation, to make sense of the situation. He forced himself to school his expression, to keep his features composed, but a pit of dread was already forming in his gut. What in the name of the Seven would they think of him now?

“You’re not her?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill again, your distress evident in every stiffened muscle, in the way your hands clenched at your sides.

No. No, it couldn’t be you.

The woman Aemond had spoken of, the one their mother feared, the one whose mere presence had left Criston Cole shaken—she wouldn’t be like this. She wouldn’t be trembling before him, sniffling through unshed tears, looking as though the world had just caved in around her.

Of course not.

Daeron exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. What now? He couldn’t just leave you here, alone in the alley. But returning empty-handed would be an even greater humiliation.

Damn it all.

“You’re sure?” he tried again, grasping at some slim chance that this was all some misunderstanding.

You stared at him, expression incredulous. “I—yes! I just told you, I don’t know who you think I am, but I swear it, you have the wrong person.”

Daeron muttered a curse under his breath. What a disaster.

"May the gods forgive me," Daeron muttered, exhaling sharply. "My sincerest apologies. I was under the impression you were someone else."

He hung his head, shame settling like a stone in his stomach. This was going horribly. An unforgivable mistake. Yet even as he acknowledged it, something about you gnawed at him.

How could you not be the woman Aemond spoke of?

You were different—so different that you stood apart from everyone around you. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way you spoke, the way your presence lingered even in silence.

"Why in the world are you kidnapping girls in the first place!?" you snapped, your voice tight with anger and disbelief.

Daeron flinched, heat creeping up his neck. He felt like a child being scolded. Which, he supposed, at this moment, he was.

Worse still—he needed to answer you. 

He needed an excuse. He cannot say he was taking you to his brother. Aemond was clear in his instructions. 

He swallowed hard, glancing away, feeling the slow, mortifying burn of embarrassment creep across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, laced with an unfamiliar hesitance.

"I have… fallen in love with the woman I thought you to be."

His head hung low and the words felt heavier than they should have, like some unintended confession. (Had he looked you in the eye, he would’ve seen that you too shared his complexion of embarrassment.) A ridiculous notion, really, considering he was not confessing to you. And yet, standing there—his face burning, his pride sinking—he could not deny that it felt like he was.

Daeron Targaryen had never once needed to vie for a woman's attention. It was given freely, eagerly. He had accepted it with ease, with appreciation.

But now? Now, standing before a stranger, burdened by his own foolish mistake, he found himself truly understanding—perhaps for the first time—the women who had confessed their affections to him before.

Because gods be good, he could not imagine being in their place and actually being rejected by a person you truly feel for.

"Oh. Oh dear."

Your voice carried a mixture of disbelief and amusement, and before Daeron could muster a response, you laughed.

Not a nervous chuckle, not a scoff—but a genuine, incredulous giggle.

His mortification deepened. He had been prepared for anger, even for tears, but this? This was somehow worse.

"You can’t just go around kidnapping women you’ve fallen in love with," you teased, shaking your head. "Much less a woman you don’t even seem to really know."

Daeron clenched his jaw, willing his face to cool. "I was under the impression she would come willingly," he defended, though even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Your brows lifted, amusement still dancing in your eyes. "Willingly? Well, you’ve certainly taken a bold approach."

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will return you," he muttered.

You tilted your head, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh? No more kidnapping in the name of love?"

Daeron groaned. "Must you phrase it like that?"

You grinned. "I must."

He turned away, muttering a prayer to whatever gods might spare him further embarrassment. But as he moved toward his horse, he hesitated, glancing back at you.

"You are… different," he admitted, frowning slightly. "Are you certain you are not her?"

The mirth in your expression faded just a little, replaced by something unreadable. "Quite certain, but I am deeply flattered.”

And yet—Daeron wasn’t.

He needed to be sure. Just a little longer.

"To express my apologies," he began, trying to keep his voice even, "may I treat you to a meal?"

Gods, this was humiliating. What if you said no? He might actually die from the shame of it. He prayed, just this once, that the gods would grant him mercy.

You blinked up at him before shrugging. "I could eat."

Oh, glory to the gods.

But that feeling returned—that nagging sense of wrongness. No lady, whether highborn or low, had ever responded to a Targaryen prince in such a way. Even common folk, at the mere sight of his white hair, would straighten their posture, soften their words, try just a little harder to present themselves well.

But you? You were… comfortable.

Daeron fell into step beside you, his horse trailing behind, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He watched the way you moved—confident, despite the faint flush still lingering on your face. You did not carry yourself like a woman taken by fear, nor a woman eager to please.

No, there was something familiar in the way you walked, the way you spoke.

But why?

"Tell me," he ventured, studying you carefully, "where is it that you call home?"

You didn’t hesitate.

"Everywhere and nowhere."

Daeron faltered mid-step. His brows knit together as he turned to look at you fully. That was not an answer most would give. Not a lady of court, nor a common woman, nor even a sellsword passing through.

It was an answer that meant nothing and everything.

"Everywhere and nowhere?" he repeated, skeptical. "That is hardly an answer at all."

You glanced at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yet it is the only one I have."

There it was again—that wrongness. Or was it rightness? He could not tell.

Aemond had spoken of you as if you were something unnatural. He had expected… well, he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

"You are a peculiar woman," Daeron muttered, more to himself than to you.

"And you are a prince who kidnaps women to confess his love," you shot back, smirking.

“It was a mistake.” Daeron urged like a little boy insisting he didn’t take an extra sweet even if the evidence was on his face.

“Still I do not think the woman who you speak of would take kindly to it.” Finally, you both reached a stand and Daeron handed his horse off while his hood remained on. Scandal would follow if they saw him with a commonborn. 

"Of course," Daeron replied smoothly, though his steps slowed as they passed a stand selling cakes. He glanced at you. "Would you like one?"

"What is it?" you asked, eyeing the display. Obviously they were cakes, but…Daeron digresses.

He blinked. "Cakes."

"Ah. What kind?"

How was he supposed to know? He had never eaten here. He gestured toward the selection instead. "Which would you prefer?"

"Carrot."

Daeron nearly recoiled. Carrot? Who in their right mind ate… carrot cake? What even was carrot cake? It sounded horrid. Strange. You were strange. You had to be her, yet you insisted otherwise.

"The vegetable? I doubt they make such a thing."

"A shame. Pumpkin?"

"Hmm…" He glanced at the vendor. "I think not."

"Then I don't know," you mused.

"Honey cakes? Or perhaps apples?"

"Oh, I’ve had honey cakes before. They’re alright. But I haven’t tried apples." Daeron liked apple cakes. Better than honey in his opinion. 

Daeron nodded, turning to the vendor. "Apple, then."

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Then we’ll return, and I will buy you a honey cake,” Daeron replied easily. Not that it will come to that. Anyone who didn’t like apple cakes was untrustworthy.

The vendor handed him the pastry, warm and fragrant with cinnamon, and he passed it to you. He watched as you took a cautious bite, your expression unreadable at first. Then, after a moment, you hummed thoughtfully.

“Well?”

Daeron watched you shrug. “They’re alright, I’ve had better.” From who? The royal cook? Daeron took a bite from his own. He continued to watch you. There was no way you weren’t her. Daeron was sure of it, but how would he get the answers from you? 

“Offer her water from a vendor. She’ll decline it. Then offer her meats, she’ll decline that as well.”

Right. 

“Would you like some water?” He turned towards you watching your lips twitch ever so slightly. 

“No.” One down. Daeron walked slowly trying to spot a meat vendor. 

“How about a meat pie then, I doubt you only eat cakes.”

“No thank you. I don’t eat meat.” Daeron eyed you from the side. 

Daeron’s grip tightened slightly around his own pastry. Two for two. His brother’s instructions had been precise, and you had followed the script perfectly—almost too perfectly. If you were playing a game, you were damn good at it.

“You don’t eat meat?” he asked, feigning casual interest.

You shook your head, wiping your fingers clean. “No.”

“Why?”

You blinked at him, as if the question had caught you off guard. “I just don’t.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. Daeron kept his expression even as he nodded.

“Strange,” he mused. “Most people don’t get the choice.”

“Well, I do.”

There it was again—that ease, that confidence. You didn’t speak like someone struggling through the world. You spoke like someone above it.

He hummed, as if satisfied with your answer, but his mind was already elsewhere. This wasn’t just a coincidence. 

He had you. What a sneaky girl. You put Daeron through hell thinking he had taken the wrong girl. (Though…there is a small part that will admit this was fun, if only a little. So…Daeron supposed he could see the slight allure.)

Aemond had been right.

Now he just had to bring you to him.

Daeron kept walking, his steps even, making steady progress toward the Dragonpit. He cast you a sideways glance, his voice light as he asked, “Have you ever seen a dragon?”

You nodded, hands folded before you. “I have. Wondrous creatures.”

He hummed. “How many?”

You hesitated for the briefest moment, as if calculating your answer. “A couple… in the sky. Maybe three.”

“Have you ever met any of the riders?” he pressed, watching you closely.

“No.” The answer came too quickly, too easily.

Daeron tilted his head, pretending not to notice. “What do you think about the royal family?”

“I’ve heard many things.”

“Such as?”

You exhaled, your gaze drifting forward. “The next queen seems promising. The king, even in his old age, makes way for progress. The princes of the realm are each as handsome as they are strong.”

Daeron bit back a smirk. If only his nephew had heard that.

“And the lone princess?” he asked.

“She is kind,” you answered simply.

“Prince Aegon?”

“Adventurous,” you said, lips twitching in amusement.

That was one way to put it. How kind you were with words.

“Prince Jacaerys?” Daeron kept shooting questions.

“Kind.” And you responded just as fast.

“Prince Lucerys?”

“Determined.”

“Prince Joffrey?”

“Small.”

Daeron chuckled under his breath. Then, ever so casually, he asked, “Prince Aemond?”

You hesitated. It was slight, barely noticeable, but he caught it—the way your fingers curled tighter around the folds of your sleeves, the way your gaze flickered for just a moment.

Then you smiled, tilting your head as if considering your words carefully. “Fierce.”

Daeron grinned. He had you now.

At last, the two of you reached the Dragonpit. You slowed your pace, glancing toward the great stone structure before turning back to him.

“Listen,” you said breezily, “I’d love to stay, but I have to go. Good luck finding this woman of yours.” You took a step back, then added with a playful tilt of your head, “Though, allow me to graciously offer some advice—don’t kidnap her.”

Daeron exhaled through his nose, half amused, half exasperated. Gods.

He watched as you turned to leave, your steps unhurried, as if you hadn’t a single care in the world.

Then, just before you could disappear, he called your name.

You stopped.

Slowly, you turned back to him, a knowing smile curving your lips. “You got me,” you admitted, nodding as if to concede. Then, with a glint of mischief in your eyes, you added, “So close.”

“You did fool me, in the beginning,” Daeron admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips as he called for Tessarion. The dragon responded swiftly, emerging with a graceful yet powerful stride. “It was good,” he added, conceding that you had put on quite the performance.

But then he watched as you dropped the act almost instantly. No startled gasp, no wide-eyed wonder at the sight of his dragon. That, more than anything, assured him—he had been right about you all along.

His gaze remained fixed on you as Tessarion lowered herself, ready to be mounted. He needed to secure you properly; she was barely large enough for him, let alone the both of you. But before he could move, you spoke, voice laced with amusement.

“So, you’re in love with me?”

Daeron’s breath hitched. Heat flared in his cheeks as he instinctively shut his eyes, mortified. “That’s not—”

By the time he opened them, you were already running.

Tessarion reacted before he could even issue a command, leaping forward as flames erupted from her maw, blocking your escape. Your scream cut through the air as you stumbled back, falling hard onto the stone floor.

“I wouldn’t suggest running,” Daeron said, his tone calm but firm.

“Yeah, no shit,” you shot back, breathless from your near escape.

“Listen,” you continued, voice edged with frustration. “I have no idea why you want me, but I don’t know you, and frankly, I am so done with men right now.”

Daeron sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m not—” He exhaled, composing himself before meeting your gaze. “I’m not interested. My brother has requested you.”

He watched as your shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the fight in your eyes dimming just a fraction. Something in him wavered. Was his brother forcing you? No. Aemond wouldn’t do that.

…Would he?

It had been oh so long since he’d last seen his older brother. Four years was a lifetime, and time had a way of changing even the best of men.

Daeron clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to sigh as he stepped closer. Your eyes, glossy with unshed tears, met his, wide and uncertain. You looked like you were about to cry again.

He exhaled slowly. Gods.

“Listen…” His voice softened. “If you truly do not wish to see my brother, I will not force you.”

Blood was blood, but Daeron had been raised with honor. His uncle had made sure of that. Whatever Aemond’s reasons were, Daeron would not be the kind of man to drag a woman against her will.

For a moment, you only stared at him, then quickly shook your head, swiping at your eyes before the tears could fall.

“No, I’ll go,” you murmured, voice steadier than he expected.

Note: extra long for y'all 🙏

Previous I Next I Masterlist

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

[moeitsu]

The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 4 - The Current Knows No Master Summary: Hosea is a steady presence, helping Arthur unravel his past and the dangers that come with it. Tension builds between you and Arthur during a heated moment, where your physical closeness stirs unexpected emotions. You begin to sense that your unspoken connection could change the relationship forever, as feelings of vulnerability and trust deepen. wc: 10k tw: none really, exploring anatomy, slight nsfw Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

AN: This might be my new favorite chapter. Got a bit carried away, but I'm pretty proud of it! Serving up some sweet hot angst :)

I've also started a tag list! I'm still blown away that people are reading this let alone enjoying it! If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters please let me know!

tag list: @photo1030 @v3lv3tf0x @ireallyhonestlydontcare

Hosea shifted his weight, flipping through Charles’ medical report with one hand while his sharp eyes flickered between the clipboard, Arthur’s imposing figure, and me. He repeated this process several times, skimming the notes, muttering under his breath, then stealing another glance at Arthur as if to make sure he was real. For a man who had spent over three decades running an aquatic rescue center, he was taking the discovery of a mythical creature with remarkable composure.

The deep lines on his sun-weathered face twitched with contemplation, but there was no fear—just curiosity. Hosea Matthews was a man who had seen it all. As the owner and benefactor of the Heartland Aquatic Rehabilitation Center, he was more than just a businessman—he was a scientist, a teacher, and above all, a protector. He thrived on educating the public about marine conservation, often leading school tours and speaking with journalists to spread awareness of our mission. No creature was too broken or beyond saving in his eyes. If an animal found itself within these walls, Hosea would sooner strike a deal with the devil himself than abandon it to fate. And that devotion extended to the people under his care, too. He treated his employees like family, fiercely loyal and deeply invested in each of us.

The clock on the wall ticked past 7:10 AM. The facility would open to the public in less than an hour, it was typical for Hosea to arrive early and check in on his employees and resident patients. But I had a gut feeling he would be clearing his schedule today. Not when something like this had landed in his lap.

“Two hearts…” he muttered, rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully. He looked at Arthur again, then back at me, as if I could somehow confirm what he’d read in the report. “Incredible. One to pump blood to the gills, the other to circulate it through the body, if I were to guess.”

His voice carried the same fascination I had felt the first time I pressed my ear to Arthur’s chest and heard that mesmerizing, rhythmic thrum. But unlike me, Hosea’s wonder was tempered with calculation—already, I could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to piece together Arthur’s biology. I had no doubt that by the end of the day, he’d be buried in every marine textbook and research paper he could find, chasing the impossible.

Hosea tossed the medical notes onto the counter with a soft pattering clink, exhaling as he stepped closer to the pool. His boots scuffed against the tile, the sound swallowed by the steady hum of filtration systems and the gentle slosh of water as Arthur shifted ever so slightly. Despite my presence, Arthur’s slitted eyes remained locked onto Hosea, watching his every movement with wary precision. His dark blond hair drifted like kelp caught in a current, fanned out around his partially submerged face. Even now, after everything we’d been through together, his instinct was still caution.

With a groan that betrayed his age, Hosea crouched at the pool’s edge, resting his forearms on his knees. He ran a weathered hand through the white strands of his hair, lips tugging into a wry smile. “I have to be honest—I really thought John and Charles had teamed up to play some kind of sick prank on an old man.” He chuckled warmly, shaking his head. “But I can see now that I was the fool.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “I bet John wishes this was still a prank. He had a hard time with it all last night.”

Hosea’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Sounds like my boy.” He glanced back at Arthur, studying him as though he were trying to commit every impossible detail to memory. “What did you say his name was?”

“Arthur,” I answered softly. “And he can talk. You just need to be patient, he’s—”

I trailed off as Arthur’s eyes found mine, those deep blue depths glistening with something fragile. A silent plea. Fear, uncertainty, trust all woven into one unspoken look. That strange, aching need to protect him surged through me again, something deeper than instinct, something almost primal. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt it down to my bones.

“He’s had a rough night,” I finished, voice quieter now.

Hosea hummed knowingly, his gaze flicking to Arthur once more. “Well, Charles isn't one to spare any gruesome details in his reports. Sounds like he’s been through hell.” He leaned in slightly, offering a warm, reassuring smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arthur. My name is Hosea Matthews—I run this rehabilitation center. I can see you’ve already met some of my crew. They’re good people. And we’re gonna do everything we can to help you, son.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The slow, deliberate flare of his gills spoke for him, a flicker of unease passing through his body like a ripple on water. At first, I didn’t understand why—until I caught the briefest twitch in his expression at Hosea’s choice of familiarity. Son. The word struck something in him, something painful.

He told me about his ‘family’ only moments ago.

My stomach twisted at the memory of his broken voice, the raw truth laced beneath the simple words: Don’t have a home. His trust was slow, a fragile thing, and I knew then that Hosea’s kindness—though genuine—was still too much, too soon. But not with me, a small voice in my mind whispered. Arthur trusted me. That realization wrapped around my heart and squeezed, an intoxicating blend of responsibility and something deeper, something I wasn’t ready to name.

“Once that wound starts making some progress, we’ll get you into a bigger tank,” Hosea continued, his voice gentle, coaxing. “You’ll love it here, I promise.” He winked, as if that alone could lighten the weight of everything Arthur had endured.

Arthur remained silent, but his gaze flicked back to me, as if waiting for my confirmation. And for the first time since last night, I wondered if I was becoming more than just his rescuer. If I was becoming his tether. His anchor in a raging sea of uncertainty. 

It almost felt…good to be needed, to be trusted with something so beautiful yet fragile.

I crouched next to Hosea, exhaling a hesitant sigh as I searched for the right words. “About that, Hosea… There’s something rather, uhm—miraculous I discovered about Arthur this morning.”

Before he could ask, I extended my wrist, tilting it so the sunlight filtering through the skylights caught on my skin. The light refracted off four iridescent scars, polished like streaks of opal, running in perfect parallel lines.

Hosea’s sharp eyes narrowed. He reached out, taking my wrist in his weathered hands and pulling it closer. With a quiet hum, he retrieved a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and perched them on his nose.

“Count my lucky stars,” he murmured, smoothing a calloused thumb over the scarred flesh, where the once-torn skin had knitted itself back together seamlessly. “I’ve never seen something like this in all my days.”

“Me neither,” I admitted, still in awe of the truth I had barely begun to comprehend. “He’s got some kind of accelerated regeneration ability—and it’s not just his own body that heals. He can use it on others. I don’t know the extent of it yet, or its limitations, but the wound he suffered last night has nearly vanished.”

Hosea exhaled, thoughtful as he turned my wrist this way and that, watching the scars catch the light like shifting pearls. He was a man who had seen plenty of strange things in his lifetime, but even this seemed beyond his understanding.

“He’s truly something incredible,” I continued, voice dipping lower, heavier. “But I’m afraid there are some bad people who want to take it from him.”

“The harpoon, you mean?” Hosea asked, cocking an eyebrow. Of course, nothing ever got past this man. The moment I mentioned Arthur’s ability, he had already pieced together that there was more to this creature than what was written in the report.

I stole a glance at Arthur, watching the way the water rippled gently around his partially submerged face. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, he was still. Then, the faintest nod—a gesture so small it would’ve been imperceptible if not for the subtle movement of the water.

He was giving me permission. Trusting me to speak on his behalf. Trusting me to share his past with the only people willing to help him.

And I wouldn’t take that lightly.

Without hesitation, I launched into everything I had learned. If anyone could help us—if anyone could save Arthur from the torment and cruelty that had shaped his existence—it was Hosea Matthews.

I told him Arthur was only half siren, that his father had been human and had taken him from his mother at a young age. I explained how this man had sold him off like livestock, trading his own son to a group of scientists who saw him as nothing more than an experiment, a resource to be drained. They had exploited his ability to heal, used his body without regard for his pain or his will.

But I left out the part about his son. That felt like a piece of Arthur’s past that wasn’t mine to share. He had so little as it was—no home, no family, no freedom. His memories, even the painful ones, were all he had left of his identity, the only proof that he had ever been someone instead of something.

Hosea listened in silence, his face unreadable, though I could see the sharpness in his eyes—the way his mind was already moving, fitting the pieces together. But when I spoke the name, the name of the man who had claimed ownership over Arthur, his expression shifted.

“Dutch van der Linde,” Hosea repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze turned distant, clouded by thought—remembering, calculating, connecting dots I hadn’t even drawn yet. He let out a slow, measured breath, and when he spoke again, his tone was grim.

“Oh dear. This isn't good.”

Arthur sensed the shift instantly. His body tensed beneath the water, muscles coiling like a predator readying for a strike. He rose slightly, his gills flaring and on full display, his lip curling back in a silent snarl. The sharp ridges of his shark-like teeth glinted beneath the morning light.

This was not the fear of a man—it was the instinct of a creature who knew he had been backed into a corner. The predator turned prey. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The water around him rippled with the force of his body preparing for a fight, knowing that if it came to that, he would not go down without one.

For the first time since I had met him, I saw not just the man or the creature—but something caught in between.

Something dangerous.

Something monstrous. 

Arthur’s entire body was wound tight, his muscles flexing beneath the water’s surface. His teeth, sharp and lethal, remained bared just enough to send a warning. A storm brewed behind his ocean-blue eyes, dark and turbulent, and for the first time, I realized just how close he was to snapping. 

I felt the tension rising fast, thickening the air like a pressure drop before a hurricane.

“Hosea,” I said carefully, keeping my voice even. “Do you know of this man?”

Arthur’s fingers twitched at his sides, his claws flexing, his body poised as if he expected to fight his way out of here. He needed answers, but he also needed to be calmed before he did something that betrayed the gentle nature he had shown me.

Hosea stood slowly, exhaling a long sigh as he scratched his chin, pulling his thoughts together. “Dutch is a kingpin in the pharmaceutical industry.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Pharmaceuticals?

“I’ve never heard of him before,” I interrupted, rifling through the list of billionaires who ran the healthcare industry. Names of powerful CEOs and corporate giants ran through my mind, but Dutch van der Linde wasn’t among them. Surely, if someone in the healthcare industry had a creature like Arthur under their study, the world would know about it. His existence wouldn’t be a secret—it would be a scientific revelation.

“That’s because he operates underground,” Hosea explained. “Think of it like the black market. He has unorthodox ways of testing and collecting data. We crossed paths many years ago, before I opened this facility. He offered me a partnership of sorts, wanted to use my knowledge of marine life to push his ideals. His plans.”

I swallowed hard, the tendrils of fear curling tight around my heart.

“Plans for what?” My voice was quieter now, uncertain. “Is he trying to make a drug from Arthur’s mucilage? To cure cancer or something?”

It was a hopeful thought, but the moment the words left my mouth, I already knew the reality was much darker. I had seen it—the proof was written in the scars scattered across Arthur’s body, each one a testament to suffering and cruelty.

Hosea’s expression darkened. His voice, when he spoke again, was void of any warmth.

“No, my dear.” He met my gaze, unblinking. “Men like him don’t have other people’s best interests at heart. Dutch isn’t looking for a cure. He’s looking for immortality.”

The breath hitched in my throat.

“He—he wants to live forever?”

Was that even possible? Arthur’s ability was accelerated healing, but had this man found a way to harness it? To manipulate it, weaponize it—use it to halt aging entirely?

Was that why they had wanted Arthur to give them a son? So they could continue their exploitation for generations, creating a lineage of sirens bred for their abilities?

A knowing smile ghosted across Hosea’s lips, though it held no humor. Perhaps it was my naivety that amused him.

“Not in the way you think,” he said. “Dutch is a businessman, an opportunist. Money and power—those are the only things he believes can make a man eternal. Wealth that never runs dry, influence that never fades.”

I felt my stomach turn.

Arthur hadn’t just been a captive. He had been an investment.

And Dutch wasn’t going to let his most valuable asset slip away so easily.

The familiar clank of metal filled my ears as the door to the examination room creaked open. The sound alone was enough to send ripples of tension through the air, a reminder that we were no longer in the fragile quiet of the morning. Almost simultaneously, I heard Arthur shift in the water—or rather, felt the splash as he disappeared beneath the surface.

He had retreated again, gliding to the farthest edge of the pool. But the space wasn’t large, offering little sanctuary. Beneath the water, I saw the faint outline of his curled tail, drawn tightly to his body in an attempt to make himself smaller. To disappear. Oh, this poor sweet creature… My heart twisted painfully at the sight.

He was so frightened. Using all his energy, which should be focussed on his healing, to appear brave in the face of the unknown. Every new sound, every unfamiliar scent put him on edge. The stress was coiling around him, dragging him deeper into the instinctual fear of an animal who had spent too long being hunted. The primal impulse to retreat, to hide, to disappear. Already, I wished we could go back to how things had been just hours ago, when he had been more at ease, when he had welcomed my touch.

But now, reality was creeping back in. And Arthur was retreating into himself.

The door fully swung open, and John strode in, carrying a tray with three coffees balanced in his grip. The rich, bitter aroma cut through the sterile scent of the examination room, grounding me in something familiar. Without a word, he set the tray down on the counter with a quiet thud.

I slipped off the lip of the pool, sinking into the water’s embrace. It was warm, a soothing contrast to the cold tension in my muscles, heated by the morning sun and the underwater pads Lenny had installed for Arthur’s comfort. The exhaustion of the night before, coupled with my less-than-ideal sleeping arrangements, pressed down on me like a weight.

I needed rest. I needed a clear mind to tackle this. But even as fatigue settled deep in my joints, the water offering momentary relief, I knew my first priority wasn’t myself. It was him.

Arthur needed reassurance. He needed to know that everything was going to be alright—even if I wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

“Morning,” John rasped, his voice rough with sleep. “Thought you guys could use some caffeine. There’s breakfast sandwiches in the breakroom, too.”

“Thanks, son,” Hosea said warmly, reaching for one of the coffees. The steam curled in the air, fogging his glasses as he took a careful sip.

John walked over to the pool and extended an iced coffee toward me. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect—my body desperately needed the energy.

“Thank you, John,” I murmured, wrapping my chilled fingers around the plastic cup before taking a grateful sip.

Iced mocha caramel. He always grumbled that I was drinking more sugar than actual coffee, but he remembered my order nonetheless. It was a small thing. But right now, these small things meant everything.

Behind me, I hadn’t even noticed Arthur had lifted his head out of the water until John made a disgusted noise.

“Yeesh, he’s even uglier in the daylight. Look at those beady eyes, and those freaky little things coming out the side of his head…”

I snapped my head up at him, mouth already open in protest. “John—!”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t the prettiest either, sunshine.”

The deep, gravelly timbre cut through the room, stopping John mid-sentence. His entire body stiffened, face draining of color and mouth gaping as his eyes darted toward Arthur, who was now watching him with an infuriating amount of amusement.

“What the fuck?” John sputtered, pointing an accusing finger. “H-he talks?!”

I couldn’t help but snicker at his reaction, and I wasn’t the only one. I noticed Hosea’s expression shift as well—the weight of our conversation that had hung over him only moments ago giving way to something softer, something like awe and quiet amusement.

Arthur smirked, swimming closer, his chest puffing slightly as he rose higher out of the water. “What, did an alligator eat half your brains?” he taunted. “’Course I talk. You think I’m some kind of inane half-wit like you?”

John’s face turned an impressive shade of red. “Listen, shark boy, we saved your scaly ass. You best remember that.”

Arthur smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Oh, I remember plenty—like you nearly drownin’ in three feet of water.” His voice was smooth, but his wit was sharp as an urchin’s needle. “I’ve seen beached fish put up a better fight. You swim ‘bout as well as a mudskipper in a desert.”

“That’s enough, boys!” Hosea cut in before John could dig himself any deeper, though he couldn’t quite stifle his own laugh. “Lord above, you two bicker like brothers, and you’ve only just met.”

John huffed, crossing his arms, but I caught the flicker of reluctant amusement beneath his irritation. Really, how could anyone stay mad when trading barbs with a creature as sharp-witted, articulate, and downright magnificent as Arthur?

Hosea patted his shoulder, steering the conversation back on track. “I’ve gotta make some calls—see if Sadie’s heard anything about Dutch or his whereabouts. John, go check on the main tank, make sure it’s suitable for our new friend. And see if Kieran’s got some mussels or fresh fish. He looks like he’s about ready to eat you.”

With a playful wink, Hosea turned back toward Arthur and me, leaving John grumbling under his breath.

Sadie Adler was the local fish and game warden, but calling her that didn’t do her justice—she was a force to be reckoned with. Fierce and unyielding, she handled everything from enforcing conservation policies to investigating violations, and if Dutch Van der Linde was operating anywhere nearby, Sadie was the first to turn up with a keen eye for intel. She wasn’t just a woman of authority—she was a dear friend to the facility, having been there from the beginning, offering advice, helping with the heavy lifting, and supporting Hosea, John, and the rest of the team whenever they needed her. Her loyalty ran deep, and while she commanded respect in the wilderness, she was equally dependable when it came to the people she trusted. If Dutch was on the move, Sadie would be there to track him down, and if things escalated, she’d be the one to lead the charge. 

With Sadie involved, the ball was finally beginning to roll, and everyone knew that when she was on their side, they had an unshakable ally.

John let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that could only come from someone who was used to this kind of banter, but there was no masking the reluctant compliance in his eyes as he nodded. Then, with a skeptical glance at me, he shot a question over his shoulder. “The hell are you grinning for?”

A giggle bubbled up from my chest, and I leaned closer, lowering my voice just enough so Hosea wouldn’t hear me instigating. “You got schooled by a fish.” I couldn't help the amusement that flickered in my eyes. Watching John get taken down a peg by Arthur was too good to pass up.

John’s eyes narrowed, his grin tugging at the scars on his cheek, and for a moment, I could see the challenge in his gaze. “No wonder he’s taken a liking to you,” he said with a sly chuckle. “Weird attracts weird.”

I rolled my eyes, but before I could throw back a sharp retort, John grabbed his coffee, tipping the cup toward me with a mock salute. “Charles should be here soon,” he said, turning toward the door. “He’ll want to examine him again before we move him, so do whatever it is you do and tame the beast before he takes a bite out of one of us.”

The playful edge in his tone was still there, but I could sense the underlying tension. Arthur was no beast, not really. No matter how much he tried to act like one. And despite everything he had endured, there was something in his eyes that made me want to keep protecting him, keep reassuring him that he didn’t have to be that thing. He wasn’t that monster.

As John stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him, I turned back toward him in the pool, where Arthur still lingered, his gaze distant but locked on me. A quiet understanding passed between us. Like we were both waiting for the moment we could be alone. 

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊

Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the door, his sharp eyes flicking back and forth as if he were anticipating the next stranger to walk through or waiting for John to return and pick up where they'd left off—some battle of wits, no doubt. His posture was tense, as though any moment could break the fragile peace that had settled between us. I leaned back against the edge of the pool, letting the water rise slightly as I sank lower, my chest now submerged in the warmth. The water was comforting, but there was a heaviness in the air that I couldn’t shake.

“He’s an ass, don’t let him get under your skin—or, uh, scales,” I said, trying to inject some levity into the conversation. But even I knew how lame it sounded. Still, it felt important to say it, to reassure him. Arthur's silence was almost suffocating, and I wondered if he even understood the weight of the words I spoke. Was it possible to explain something like that to a being whose species was so vastly different from my own?

It was still surreal to be conversing with a creature like Arthur, an entirely new species that I’d only ever heard whispered about in stories. If word got out about his existence, would the world demand to know every detail of our conversations? Would people try to study him, dissect every interaction like some scientific experiment? Would Arthur ever trust anyone enough to open up to them, or was it always going to be just me?

There was something so human about the way he spoke—his cadence, his pauses, even the faint traces of emotion in his voice—but at the same time, it was undeniably alien. His accent, no doubt learned from his captors, added a rough edge to his speech, but it wasn’t just that. His voice held an animalistic undertone, as if the words were trapped behind sharp teeth, struggling to find their way out. Some of his syllables seemed to catch, like they couldn’t make it past the sharp points of his canines. Others came out incomplete, slipping through his gills before they could fully form. And then there were the growls, the hisses, and the purring—subtle sounds that humans certainly didn’t make.

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the edge of the pool, rolling my neck to ease the strain in my muscles. I needed a moment to center myself, to shake off the weight of the day. It felt like the world around me was pressing in, and I just wanted to breathe, to reset. For a while, the only sound was the gentle splash of water as Arthur remained still, his gaze still locked on the door.

After a beat, as if confirming the coast was clear, Arthur spoke again.

“He’s afraid of me,” he said, the words rough but certain.

I mulled this over for a moment, considering the layers beneath his statement. “Well, I wouldn’t say afraid,” I replied, my voice soft but thoughtful. “Definitely a bit anxious, though. He’s... not used to things like you.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of something I couldn’t quite read crossing his expression. It wasn’t a smile, exactly, but it was a subtle shift, a hint of self-awareness.

“Anxious, huh?” he mused, as if testing the word on his tongue. Then he shook his head, as though he was finding some small amusement in it all. “So that’s what I smelled on him.”

Smelled? I jerked my head, gods above. I was so quick to forget I was talking to someone that was more animal than human. I shouldn't be surprised he could smell the chemical changes in emotions. 

Arthur swam toward me, his body gliding through the water with an effortless grace, coming to a stop just inches away. My pulse quickened, the proximity sending a jolt of heat rushing through me. He was so close now that I could feel the warmth radiating from his chest, a slow, steady heat that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the beat of his twin hearts. His skin, still slick with water, shimmered in the soft light, every movement stirring the surface around us. I could almost taste the closeness of him—the way his warmth mingled with the coolness of the water between us.

He was propped up on his tail, using it like a seat, the motion fluid and powerful. The way his tail coiled reminded me of a serpent, sleek and dangerous, its strength hiding in every subtle shift. I could feel the silk like tendrils of his tail fin tickle my feet. It reminded me of just how massive he was, how he towered over me even submerged in the water. I could feel the weight of him without him even needing to touch me, a presence that filled the space and consumed my thoughts.

Hell, if he moved any closer, his hips would be flush against mine. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, my body instinctively responding to the proximity, to the heat of him. The space between us felt charged, thick with something unspoken, and yet, I couldn’t look away. I was caught in the gravity of him, the tension hanging between us like a thread waiting to snap.

I let out a nervous chuckle, trying—and failing—to keep the air light. “John’s been known to skip a wash. You’re probably catching a whiff—”

Whatever composure I had shattered the instant Arthur leaned in, his head dipping into the crook of my neck.

A sharp jolt of electricity shot through me as the tip of his claw ghosted over my skin, pushing my hair aside with agonizing slowness. My breath hitched. The warmth of him was palpable now, his chest so close that I could feel the steady rhythm of his twin hearts. The faint rush of water against my skin wasn’t just from the pool—it was from him, the movement of his gills as he exhaled, hot and damp against my throat.

Was he—was he smelling me?

A familiar heat curled low in my stomach, an unwanted but undeniable thought slithering its way into my mind. What would his tongue feel like there? Would it be rough or impossibly soft? What would the ridges be like? Would he taste me the way predators do, slow and deliberate, savoring the sensation?

“I never smelled fear on you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The words were felt more than heard, vibrating against the sensitive skin of my neck.

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering beneath his breath. I should pull away. I should put space between us. But I didn’t. Instead, I tilted my head slightly, unconsciously giving him more access to the most vital spot on my body. Blood rushed to my head, hot and quick making me feel dizzy. 

“Should I be afraid of you, Arthur?” My voice came out steadier than I expected, but there was no denying the weight behind the question.

Arthur hesitated. He pulled back slightly, and already I mourned the loss of his warmth. But before I could process the absence, he shifted again, bringing his face to mere inches from mine.

His pupils had expanded, swallowing the blue of his irises in deep, endless black. I swore I could see my own reflection in them, distorted like a black mirror, the water between us barely disguising the intensity of his gaze.

“I’ve hurt people,” he admitted, his voice lower now, quiet with something that almost sounded like regret. The confession sat heavy in the space between us, thick and unspoken for a long moment before he added, softer still, “I hurt you. And still, you don’t fear me.”

I took a slow, deliberate breath. That’s what this is about.

I lifted my chin slightly, meeting his gaze with renewed steadiness. “It was an accident,” I countered, my voice stronger now, more assured in our proximity. “You acted on instinct. I don’t hold it against you in the slightest.”

Arthur studied me, his lips parting slightly as if he had more to say, something deeper, something unspoken that lingered between us like the charged air before a lightning strike. But instead, he remained still, watching, waiting—his breath fanning softly against my lips, close enough that if I shifted even an inch, we would…

I forced myself to exhale. I wasn’t afraid of him. But maybe, I should have been.

My hands remained beneath the water, hidden between us as I moved with deliberate slowness. Tentatively, I let my fingertips trail up his side, barely skimming the surface of his skin. The warmth of him was staggering, a stark contrast against the cool air above the water, and as my fingers passed over the ridges of his ribs, I swore I could feel his breath hitch.

Then, I touched his gills.

They were unlike anything I had ever felt—soft, impossibly delicate, like wet velvet beneath my fingertips. The moment I brushed against them, a shudder rippled through Arthur’s body, his muscles tightening beneath my touch as he exhaled a breath that was more of a shiver.

His head dipped toward mine, lips parting ever so slightly, as though he were preparing to steal the very air from my lungs. The space between us grew impossibly small, the tension thrumming so thick it felt like it could snap at any moment. My breath stilled, mirroring his as I tilted my chin up, parting my lips just enough, as if my body already knew what came next.

He was so close I swore he could feel the pounding of my heart against my ribs, rolling in like thunder, wild and unrestrained.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t close the distance.

A part of me trembled with nerves, another with anticipation, and gods above—I was aroused. That insatiable warmth coiled low in my belly, twisting into something tight and aching between my legs, something that burned hotter with every second we lingered in this breathless moment.

Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled past my lips, my voice barely louder than a whisper. “What do I smell like?”

Arthur inhaled, and for a moment, I swore he was tasting the question as much as hearing it. His pupils, already large from our proximity, expanded even more, turning his eyes into endless black pools. His gills flared around his neck, and that soft bioluminescent glow flickered to life, melting between us like sunlight dissolving into the ocean depths.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice deep and thick with something unreadable. “Like those little noises you make when I touch you.”

A sharp inhale caught in my throat, and it was only then that I realized—somewhere in the span of our conversation, he had trapped me against the edge of the pool. His arms caged me in, hands planted on either side of me, his body close enough that the water between us felt inconsequential.

And then, as if to prove his point, he dragged the back of his knuckles slowly up my bare arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. A small, breathy sound slipped past my lips before I could stop it, a sound that felt dangerously close to a whimper.

Arthur responded immediately.

That sound—my sound—triggered something deep within him.

A low, rolling purr rumbled from his chest, vibrating through the water between us, and fuck—I felt it between my legs. The sensation was subtle yet devastating, a deep, resonant hum that sent warmth curling through my spine, pooling where I ached for something I couldn't name.

His eyes never left mine as he leaned in just enough to brush his lips against my ear, voice dipping lower, rougher, when he added, “And musky… unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before.”

My breath hitched.

He—he could smell my musk?

No. Scratch that.

He could taste it?

My body tensed, heat flashing beneath my skin as I stared at him, equal parts mortified and breathlessly aroused. But Arthur only smirked, that damned knowing smirk, like he could read exactly what was running through my head.

And gods help me, I wanted him to. 

I suddenly felt like my own body had betrayed me, my hormones conspiring against logic, against reason. Of course I should have known his senses of smell and taste were intertwined, that he could sense me in ways no human ever could. The thought sent another wave of heat rushing through me, pooling low in my belly, coiling tighter between my legs. Hell, I was probably saturating the water with it by now.

Arthur breathed in deeply, his pupils darkened, a limitless sea of midnight, his lips curling into a grin that was nothing short of sinful. He was taunting me, reading my every thought, my every flustered attempt to gain control over my body and the way it ached for something I couldn’t deny with words. His gills flared beneath my fingertips, the movement almost instinctual, a silent plea or perhaps a challenge.

I took it.

Slipping my fingers beneath the delicate slits, I stroked the silky underside of his gills, and oh. They were impossibly soft, like the gentlest brush of a cloud against my skin, warm and slick beneath my touch. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine, but it was nothing compared to his reaction.

Arthur shuddered.

A low, guttural sound tore from his throat, thick with raw need, and his hips rolled forward, pressing flush against mine. The friction sent a bolt of fire through me, my breath catching as every nerve in my body ignited all at once.

The sound that followed was entrancing—his siren song. A deep, desperate groan that rumbled from his chest, vibrating through the water, through me. It was the kind of sound that spoke of hunger, of instinct, of a need so primal it threatened to consume him whole.

And gods help me, I had never wanted something so badly in my life.

I was utterly breathless at the sight of him. This massive, magnificent creature curling into me, arching into my touch as if my fingers on his gills were the only thing that mattered to him. His tail lashed through the water, powerful and restless, the motion sending small ripples over my skin, like even the sea itself responded to him.

My hands trembled slightly, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I caught the edge of one of his frills between my fingers, rolling it gently, reverently, sliding my touch up and down like I would a length of the finest silk.

Arthur groaned again, this time deeper, rougher, pulled from somewhere inside the hollow of his belly. His hand shot down, wrapping around my wrist—not to stop me, but to hold me there, to keep me touching him, to anchor himself in the sensation.

He was unraveling beneath me. And part of me wanted to see how far he could go.

Pressed against his chest, I could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his twin hearts drumming beneath my fingertips, their pace betraying just how much I was affecting him. His hips rutted into mine again, slow but deliberate, and then—I felt it.

A more…private appendage that had been tucked inside his body. It was new. And strangely different.

A firm hardness pressed against me, emerging from beneath his scales—hidden before, but now unmistakable. Heat coiled low in my stomach as realization dawned, my breath hitching as I instinctively glanced down.

Below his slit, I noticed a subtle shift in his body, the scales parting, revealing something I hadn’t seen before. A new opening, a previously concealed gap where something more was stirring to life.

Arthur let out a sound between a growl and a groan, thick with something raw and unfiltered, and then—he said my name. Low, guttural, almost pained.

“You have no idea what this does to me.” His breath came fast and uneven, each exhale warming my already feverish skin.

His eyes snapped open then, locking onto mine with an expression so intense it stole the air from my lungs. It wasn’t just need, though that was certainly there—dark, all-consuming, a hunger I wasn’t sure he could tame. But beneath the desperation, I caught something else. Fear. Anticipation.

Like he was waiting to see what I would do next.

Like he was afraid of what he might do if I didn’t stop him.

And suddenly, the weight of it all came crashing down on me.

Only hours ago, my curious fingers had been teasing his entrance, innocent in my exploration. And now—oh shit. Did he think I was offering myself to him? That I was trying to mate with him? I had no idea what their rituals even entailed, had I crossed a line? Could we…would our bodies…fit? 

I wasn’t even sure myself why I had done it. I had gotten so wrapped up in him. In the way he looked, the way he sounded, the way his body responded to my touch as if I was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

And yet…

If we were in another time, another place, another body—maybe then, I wouldn’t have stopped myself. Maybe then, I would have indulged in the darker curiosities swirling through my mind.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I wasn’t entirely sure why I said it. Was I apologizing for touching him? For stopping? For stirring something between us that neither of us fully understood? 

Was I sorry for being the one to rescue him? That John had called me and not one of the other girls? Would it have been easier if someone else had taken my place—if I had never been the one to pull Arthur from the brink?

Or was I sorry for something else entirely?

Sorry that I couldn’t seem to define the ache growing inside me, the pull that had started as fascination but was quickly morphing into something far, far more dangerous. Sorry that I couldn’t understand why his fixation on me felt almost equal to my own fixation on him.

Two creatures, worlds apart, dipping their fingers into a current so strong it threatened to pull us under the tide.

And I was starting to wonder if I wanted to come up for air.

All I knew was that, in this moment, I had tangled myself—and this poor, beautiful creature—into a storm of confusion and frustration, and heaven help me, I wasn’t sure how to unravel it.

My voice came softer this time, barely more than a breath.

“I’m so sorry.”

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊

Charles pulled off his blue latex gloves with a practiced flick, sending them sailing through the air before they landed neatly in the waste bin. The movement was effortless, second nature, as he busied himself with tidying up his medical tools, the clink of metal against metal filling the otherwise quiet room.

“His wound is healing nicely—much faster than I expected. Though, if I had known he had accelerated healing, I probably wouldn’t have bothered with the stitches,” he chuckled, shaking his head like he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“You did the right thing, Charles,” I reassured him, my voice softer than I intended. “He was going to bleed out if you and Lenny hadn’t done something.”

Charles hummed in agreement, but my focus had already drifted back to Arthur.

He lay stretched out on the examination table, his massive form suspended just above the water level of the pool. The setup was temporary—meant for quick assessments, not extended stays—but he looked tense, his muscles rigid beneath his slick, bioluminescent skin.

When Charles had arrived shortly after our… moment… it had taken a considerable amount of coaxing on my part to get Arthur to emerge from the shadows curling along the edges of the pool. The morning sun had shifted, casting longer streaks of light through the skylight, but Arthur had lingered in the dim corners, watching warily as Charles entered.

At first, I thought it was fear that kept him hiding, but then—I caught the subtle cues, the tiny tells I had grown so accustomed to. The way his gills fluttered unevenly, the way his tail curled slightly around himself, not in defense, but in something almost vulnerable. Embarrassment. Shame.

Guilt churned hot and thick in my stomach.

Had I ruined something between us?

He had been so open with me, so trusting, letting me touch him, explore him in a way that was undoubtedly intimate. And I—I had let my own selfish curiosity, my treacherous, hormone-addled body, lead us somewhere neither of us had been prepared for. Had I confused him? Frustrated him?

Stars above, had I hurt him?

The sickening thought settled deep in my gut like a stone. The last thing I ever wanted was to make him feel used. To make him feel exploited—like the men who had stripped him of his autonomy, who had treated him as nothing more than a tool, a resource to be controlled.

I swallowed against the rising nausea and cast a glance at the clock on the wall. Early afternoon. I had spent nearly the entire morning in the water, and my body was starting to feel the effects—my fingers had pruned, my skin tight and dry from the salt. And god, I was hungry.

As if sensing my growing exhaustion, Charles threw me a lifeline.

“I’ve got a few more patients to check on after this, then I’m heading home for the day. You want me to give you a ride to Clemens Cove so you can get your truck?”

And some rest.

He didn’t say those words outright, but they hung unspoken between us. His offer was casual, lighthearted, but I caught the concern beneath it—the way his gaze lingered on the fatigue etched into my features, the way his tone softened just enough to let me know he noticed.

And honestly? I wasn’t about to argue.

I nodded, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “That would be much appreciated. I was worried I’d have to walk back.”

Charles cocked an eyebrow, his lips tugging into a playful smirk. “Now, what kind of gentleman would I be if I let a lady wander halfway across town after the day you’ve had? Besides,” he added, giving me an exaggerated once-over, “you look about two steps away from passing out, and I’d really rather not have to explain to Hosea why I found you face-down in a ditch.”

A tired chuckle escaped me, shaking some of the tension from my shoulders. “Well, when you put it like that…”

His grin widened, warm and genuine. Charles was an undeniably handsome man—everyone could see that. His soft brown eyes held an innate kindness, warm and rich like melted chocolate, but there was strength behind them too. When he gave orders during an emergency rescue or a high-pressure surgery, his voice boomed, steady and commanding, filling the room with an authority no one dared question. But there was another side to him as well—the one that spoke softly to the children who came through on educational tours, explaining things in a way that made their eyes light up with curiosity. The voice that turned gentle when he muttered to himself while solving a problem, focused but never frustrated.

Charles was smart. Resourceful. A quiet force, yet one that commanded respect without ever demanding it.

My friendship with him was different than my friendship with John. John and I pestered each other like siblings, always quick with a sarcastic remark, always toeing the line between playful bickering and actual affection. But at the end of the day, we had each other’s backs like family.

With Charles, it was something else entirely. Easier, in some ways. More complicated in others.

He had been my mentor when I first started working here, the person I turned to when I felt out of my depth. But beyond that, he was a friend in the truest sense—someone who listened without judgment, someone who understood without needing every detail explained.

And right now, as exhaustion pulled heavy at my limbs, that understanding meant everything.

The gentle clinking of medical tools brought me back to the present. Charles was sifting through a tray, his fingers moving methodically over the various packets of needle tips, checking their gauge and length with practiced efficiency. I watched as he selected one, examined it under the light, then clicked his tongue and tossed it back, continuing his search.

“Everything alright over there, Captain?” I teased, the old nickname slipping out with ease. It came from the early days, back when he’d take me out on his boat to assist with rescues and releases, back when everything felt simpler—before this.

A few strands of black hair had slipped free from his bun, framing his sharp features as he glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Just looking for a needle that’ll penetrate his skin. I want to collect a few blood samples and run some tests on that mucilage you told me about earlier.”

I barely had time to process his words before Arthur moved.

He bolted upright on the table so suddenly that I jerked back, the water sloshing around me as my footing slipped. My stomach twisted, not just from the shock of his reaction, but from the raw, breathless panic in his voice.

“I ain’t doin’ more tests,” he said, his chest heaving, pupils blown wide.

Shit.

“Easy, Arthur,” I soothed instinctively, lifting a hand as if to calm a wild animal. “They won’t hurt, just a quick pinch.”

But the moment the words left my lips, I regretted them.

I had been so caught up in trying to reassure him, in trying to help, that I had completely forgotten why this would send him into a tailspin.

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his body going rigid. “I been pinched enough,” he snarled, his voice thick with something bitter and laced with old wounds. His gills flared, sharp and aggressive, and when he spoke again, his tone was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely-contained fury. “I’m not givin’ you blood, or anythin’ from me!”

The air in the room thickened, the tension snapping tight like a riptide, pulling everything under in an instant. His body was coiled, wound so tight with fury that it seemed ready to burst. Every muscle in his frame tensed, his gills flaring wide like a warning. The unspoken threat in his posture hung heavy in the air, a low, menacing hum that made my breath catch in my throat.

A dreadful thought clawed at the back of my mind, growing louder with every second.

Could he be pushed past the brink?

Had he felt this kind of rage before? The kind that came when he was captured, when he fought for his freedom? His words echoed in my head, his voice haunted by something darker. 

I’ve hurt people.

My stomach twisted violently as the terrifying question ripped through my thoughts.

Did he kill his captors?

The weight of the possibility hung in the room like a shadow. As if the earth itself could sense his turmoil as a dark cloud rolled over the sun, shrouding the room in a dark gray light. 

Would he do it again? Would he lash out, and if so, at me? I could see the storm in his eyes, and the way his breath came in short, sharp bursts told me he was on the edge of losing control. It was as though I was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for something—anything—to tip him over the edge.

Charles, to his credit, remained calm. He didn’t back away, didn’t flinch, but his expression softened just enough to show he was trying to level with him. “Arthur,” he said evenly, “I have no idea what I’m working with here. I can’t give you the proper care if I don’t know what’s going on inside your body. You need to let me study you first.”

The words struck a nerve.

Arthur’s body tensed, his muscles convulsing like he was preparing to strike. His fins flared—all of them. The ones along his arms and head, the ones that normally lay flat against his body, had risen in a display I had never seen before. And they were pointed. Perilous. 

Then, something new happened.

Arthur opened his mouth, but what came out wasn’t English. Wasn’t human human speech. 

A string of guttural, unfamiliar words spilled into the air, rough and raw like stones grinding against the ocean floor. The sound was deep, layered, yet there was something melodic buried beneath the harshness, something that almost resembled a song.

I froze.

Was this his natural language?

Arthur’s chest rose and fell, his throat working as he spoke in that strange, haunting cadence, his bioluminescent veins pulsing faintly as if responding to the rhythm of his voice. My heart pounded as I watched, transfixed, completely unprepared for the deep ache that curled through my gut at the realization—

This was something ancient. Something that belonged to him. To his kind.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was meant to hear it.

Charles shot me a brief glance, his eyes cautious as he registered my intent. I could see the hesitation in his gaze, but I mouthed the words, I’ll be okay, go, and a quiet understanding passed between us. I tilted my head toward the door, an unspoken trust settling over the room like a heavy blanket. He nodded, not questioning me, as he packed his tools and made his way out of the pool, leaving us alone.

Arthur’s eyes followed Charles as he left, but his anger didn’t fade. Instead, it simmered, a storm still roiling beneath the surface. His dark blue eyes locked onto mine, pupils narrowed to razor-thin slits. The intensity in his gaze felt like it could cut through me, a searing heat that left me breathless, almost paralyzed.

I took a tentative step toward him, my hand reaching out slowly, almost instinctively. To my surprise, he spoke again, his voice thick with panic.

“I—I don’t want to be studied,” he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush, tinged with fear and raw emotion.

I softened my voice, offering him the calm he so desperately needed. “Then we won’t study you, honey.”

But it wasn’t enough. His walls were still up, defenses razor-sharp. “You gonna chain me up?” He shot back, his voice harsh, laced with bitterness. “Poke me and shock me till I can’t fight back? Cage me here ‘till you get your fill of research?”

I was close now, close enough that I could see the tremors in his frame, the way his muscles tightened beneath his scales. My heart ached for him, for the torment he’d endured. But I also knew I had to find a way to reach him, to calm the storm inside him before it tore us both apart.

I let my hand slide gently up the smooth, hard length of his tail, cautious but tender. The warmth of him was intoxicating, a pull that made my chest tighten, but I kept my touch steady, moving with reverence. I avoided the sharp fins that had risen along his hips, the ones I hadn’t noticed before—pointed and rigid, like a warning.

“I would never,” I said the last word with as much severity as I could muster, my voice low and unwavering. “Do you remember what I said to you last night, and again this morning?”

I knew the memory of my words would be enough to give him a moment of pause. I needed him to breathe, to step away from the raw edge of his rage.

I slid my hands further up his body, feeling the heat of his skin under my fingertips. Slowly, I placed my hands beneath his palm. His webbed fingers curled around mine immediately, the gesture instinctual and comforting. He was still trembling, but the tension in his muscles eased just slightly.

“These hands…” I began softly, giving him the space to finish the sentence himself.

A long, shaky breath escaped him, and for a moment, I thought I’d lost him. But then, his gills flared gently, settling back down as he found his ground again. His voice, when it came, was softer, quieter, almost reverent.

“…would never hurt you.”

“That’s right,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, a weary smile tugging at the corner of my lips. His words, though simple, soothed something deep inside me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to hear that, needed to know that this—whatever this was between us—wasn’t one-sided, wasn’t born from a place of control.

But even as I smiled, the exhaustion hit me all at once. A yawn escaped me before I could stifle it, the weariness of the day creeping up on me like a tide pulling me under. His outburst had drained the last of my energy, and I longed for the comfort of dry clothes and the soft embrace of my bed.

Gods, it had been a long day.

Once I was certain that Arthur’s anger had settled, I moved to help him slide off the exam table. As I shifted it out of the way, I couldn’t shake the weight of everything that had transpired. How the hell had we gotten here?

“I’m really sorry about all of this, Arthur,” I murmured softly, my voice tender as I spoke the words. “You’ve been through so much already... I never meant to cause you more stress.” The sincerity in my tone was almost palpable, a quiet ache threading through my chest as I looked at him.

He didn’t answer, but instead ducked beneath the surface of the water, his sleek body gliding effortlessly through the pool. His tail flicked powerfully, sending waves crashing against the sides, as though he was trying to burn off all the remaining energy, the anger still simmering beneath his skin. I could feel the pull of his restlessness, a quiet undercurrent to everything he did. He needs more space. The thought hit me like a sudden revelation, and I knew then that this was only temporary. His body wasn’t built for such small confines. He needed room to move, room to breathe.

He surfaced again, shaking the water from his hair and glancing at me with that familiar, guarded expression. “John should have everything ready for you soon,” I said, my voice warm, reassuring. “You’ll have more room to swim. Places to hide, if you choose. And I’ll talk to Kieran about getting you some food.”

I was about to step out of  the pool, but before I could even walk away, something cool, slick, and strong wrapped around my ankle.

Arthur.

I froze, the contact sparking an electric pulse that made my heart race. I looked down, and for the briefest of moments, I could swear there was a hint of something innocent in the way he held me—something that didn’t belong in the immense creature I had come to know.

“You’re leaving?” His voice, thick and uncertain, carried through the stillness.

My heart squeezed as I looked back at him. There he was, his large frame hovering in the water, but his expression was so vulnerable, so human, for lack of a better word. His gaze softened with a trace of something almost sad, and god, if sirens could pout, this one was certainly pouting.

“I’ll be back in the morning, honey,” I explained, trying to sound as reassuring as I could. I gave him a small smile, hoping it would settle him, but even I wasn’t sure it would. He needed comfort, but I needed to calm my own turbulent thoughts. “I need to get some sleep.”

He nodded ever so slightly, the gesture almost imperceptible, before finally releasing me. The warmth of his grip slipped away, leaving me feeling hollow for a second. I walked toward the wet mat, grabbing the towel that hung on the wall, preparing to leave the pool and head to the locker room when I heard his voice call my name again.

“Hmm?” I called, surprised by the soft note in his voice. I turned back, still rubbing the towel through my wet hair, waiting for him to speak.

“Do you have a mate?”

The question hit me like a splash of cold water. It left me blinking, caught completely off guard. “I—do I have a what?”

His massive figure loomed there, suddenly seeming so small in the vast space of the pool. His head dipped as if to hide the uncertainty on his face. “Are—are you spoken for?” he asked again, his tone now tinged with a kind of nervousness I hadn’t expected from him.

The silence between us deepened, stretching long and heavy, as my mind tried to wrap around the weight of his words. He was asking if I had a partner. If I was dating anyone. My breath caught. Why would he want to know this? I felt the heat of a thousand questions rise to my lips, but none of them felt right.

Before I could speak, Arthur muttered something under his breath, and in that moment, his voice cracked just slightly, like a raw edge exposed. “Forget it.”

With a swift, graceful movement, he slipped back beneath the water, vanishing from sight.

No, I don’t.

The words hovered on the tip of my tongue as I stared at the spot where he had disappeared. The urge to reach out, to tell him that no, I wasn’t spoken for, that there was nothing tying me to anyone else, was almost overpowering. But I stood there, feeling my heart pounding in my chest, watching the water ripple in his wake.

I couldn’t chase him. 

Not yet.

AN: I love this silly little sea boy. Next chapter is gonna include his pov because I feel like everyone deserves to know what's going through his head right now. Poor thing is so horny and scared, and you know what, me too Arthur. Me too.

I'm blown away by the love and feedback I've received for this so far. I genuinely though this would be something that stayed hidden in the deep dark caves of the fandom ocean. But here we are, thank you so so much for reading. It warms my little monsterfucker heart <3