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honeyhotteoks · 23 days ago

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an innocent man doesn't stand a chance (j.yh)

summary: it's halloween and your boyfriend has a fantasy. he wants to be the masked killer and for you to be the final girl, and he wants you to run.

note: this was written in a feverish haze of ghostface yunho brainrot, you can thank this fanart and this edit for making this one about yunho, but i have to give all credit for the idea to the nsfw audio creator augustinthewinter who's masked hookup audio killed me. also please read the warnings, this one is potentially very triggering.

warnings: ghostface!yunho x final girl!reader, boyfriend!yunho, hard dom!yunho, girlfriend!reader, sub!reader, sadism, masochism, knife play, primal play/chasing, threats of violence, heavy cnc that really looks like noncon because part of the play is that he wants her to struggle and say no BUT there are consent checks explicit throughout, rough sex, fingering, gloves, masks, breath play, impact play, mirrors, finger sucking don't look at me, dry humping, clothed sex, ripping off clothes, size kink, ass play, lots and lots of degredation including use of sl*t/wh*re/fvcktoy/c*cksleeve, yunho is seriously mean in this i'm not kidding, fear, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, creampie, subspace, there's more i'm sure but this one is a doozy. also lots and lots of aftercare!! after a scene like this i had to write detailed aftercare and confirmation of limits, so that's there too! yunho is v sweet when not in the zone.

pairings: yunho x reader

genre: smut and more smut, no plot in sight

word count: 7.9k

The party is in full swing when you arrive. The house bumping with music and every corner decorated for Halloween. You’re late enough that you can just slip in through the back door, and that was the plan from the start. Yunho arrived first, nearly two hours ago, and made excuses for why you were late, for how you might not even make it to the party. No one would see either of you come or go together, so when you both disappeared to play your game no one would ever know. You had come up with the plan in bed, whispered fantasies and what-ifs between the sheets as he rewarded your willingness to try something new with his tongue.

His fantasy is special, and to do it right you can really only do it on Halloween night.

You weave through a throng of drunk acquaintances, searching the crowd for him, but it’s not as easy to find him as you thought it would be. You’re not sure how a six foot something Ghostface killer could hide from you in the crowd of your friend’s house party, but no matter how many rooms you check you can’t see him. Nervousness pits inside you as you check your phone and see nothing. He could be caught up with friends, he could be changing his mind, but you can’t tell if you can’t find him.

Adjusting your very 90s costume, you dart away from the kitchen where a group of your girlfriends are pouring shots and weave your way into the back of the house. Maybe you can call him? Text him? Would that completely ruin the mood of psycho killer stalking? Maybe, but it’s been forty-five minutes and you haven’t so much as seen a sliver of his mask.

You flick through your phone, checking for any new messages, and then scroll to find Yunho’s contact card in your phone. Your finger hovers over the call button as you lean against the quiet hallway wall, and then in your peripheral vision you see it.

A dart of black, something looming, and when you finally turn your head, you see him. Ghostface, standing wide and imposing in the hall, blocking any way past him and back out into the party.

“Spooky,” You sigh, tucking your phone away.

Silently, Ghostface nods his head.

The hair on the back of your arms stands up. This is it.

“What? Are you looking for the bathroom or something?” You take a step or two towards him, leaning into the character you dressed for.

He shakes his head.

“Looking for me?” You bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling.

Slowly, he nods.

“Mm,” You raise a brow at him, “what’s the line from that movie? You wanna play psycho killer?”

His head tilts slightly to the side and he nods once again.

“And who do I play?”

He takes a step towards you and you fade back.

Fear starts to spread through you, even with it all being pretend, you can’t fight the feeling that your subconscious drums up in your gut.

He takes another step, and then another, and then you’re running.

Spinning on your heel you push deeper into the house, away from the party and towards a line of doors down the hall. Your heart is pounding out of your chest, your stomach a bundle of nervous trembling knots, and your hands are so slick with sweat you can barely grab the door handle of the basement. It’s not as easy to run as it looks in the movies, especially not in a tight skirt and penny loafers, and you skid down the basement stairs taking them two at a time until you slip forwards and crash down onto your hands and knees.

You don’t have time to assess the sudden sharp pain as the skin of your palm drags over the concrete floor though, so you scramble up in a flash and in a panic you weave your way deeper into the basement.

It’s familiar enough to you, your best friend’s parent’s place. You know there’s a tiny half bathroom in the far back corner, a rarely used guest bed against one wall as you descend the stairs, a collection of old video games and movies, and then around the corner to the left more and more basement, more storage, more dusty nooks and crannies to hide. You’re frozen for a split second, trying to decide the best place to go where he won’t find you, but heavy footfalls on the stairs ring in your ears like drum beats and you don’t have time to weigh your options.

You take off towards the bathroom, fumbling with the door again when you reach it.

The masked man behind you doesn’t say anything, but you hear him moving. His feet are sure and quick, the heavy fabric of his robes making a whooshing sound as he darts forwards to try and close the space between your bodies.

A panicked sound leaves your mouth as you tumble into the sink, clocking your hip hard on the porcelain and bracing yourself on the wall. Turning you reach back for the door, if you just get it latched maybe you can give yourself a second to think, to shimmy out of the very small, high set window. Pushing yourself into action you grab the door, he’s so close you can hear his breath, seconds away. Seconds away.

The door stops abruptly as you throw your body against it, six inches from closing. You push again, but it doesn’t budge, and when you look down it’s clear you’ve lost this game. His heavy black boot is firmly set in the door’s path, and you know there’s no chance for escape.

He crowds you instantly, leaving you no time to recover, his body pushing into the cramped space of the bathroom and flinging the door backwards into the adjacent wall. You stumble into the sink and he moves right up against you, the firm length of his body pinning yours in place.

For a moment everything is still, completely and shudderingly still with only the sound of your hitched breathing and thundering heart filling the room. You’re not sure what you should do - beg? Plead? Stay silent and let him do what he wants?

The masked man’s head tilts to the side as if he’s observing you, something you can’t tell through the ghostly plastic of his mask and dead black eyes. You’re trembling for real, hands shaking as they grip the cool porcelain. Ghostface leans into you, one of his gloved hands reaching for your face, a soft brush against your chin at first that turns to pressure as his fingers slide up your jaw to push you face to the side. It’s like he’s studying you, his hand slipping lower and dragging down your throat.

Your breath comes faster, stomach tight.

Ghostface closes his hand around your throat and your eyes widen. He holds you like this for a moment, his other hand locking down over your waist and gripping you tight, pinning you in place.

When he squeezes, panic bubbles through your body.

Yunho’s never choked you before. He’s never even suggested it, despite all your little jokes about how nice his hands would look around your neck. It seemed pretty clear to you that within the bounds of your relationship that was one thing he just wasn’t interested in, but whoever has you in the bathroom knows exactly how to hold your throat and where to press. Part of the fun is not knowing who’s beneath the mask, but your body still locks up, and an anxious voice inside you starts to wonder - what if? It’s not as if Ghostface is that rare of a costume choice, you see dozens of them on the street every year. It’s not inconceivable to think that at this party there would be more than one.

Your heart beats in fluttering fits and starts in your ribcage as your mind turns over this possibility, and then he squeezes. The fight comes back into you full force when you hear him sigh, his hand tightening even more and cutting off your airway. You wriggle in his arms, pushing against his chest and trying to use your hips for leverage, a startled whine ripping from your throat, but fear laces through your body as you shove against him and realize just how immovable he is.

Ghostface releases your throat, the same gloved hand slipping into the back of your hair to hold you steady.

“No!” The word tumbles out of your mouth as soon as you can properly make noise again.

He crowds you more, masked face dipping by your ear, “Shh, shh,”

You freeze.

“Safe word?” Yunho’s voice is a balm in your moment of sudden panic, his tone low and hushed.

“T-treasure,” You manage it, the realization coming back into your body that this isn’t a total and complete stranger, it’s still him. Your fear starts to melt into anticipation.

He gives you a squeeze, just one gentle pulse with his hand on your hip to communicate that he’s heard you, “Color?”

You take a second to assess yourself. This game is intense in a way that you’ve never experienced. Yunho had tried to tell you how your body might react to this kind of manufactured fear, how it would play tricks on you, how even if you knew it was him your body would still have the urge to fight and flee. You knew it, but you didn’t really understand it until this moment.

Yunho’s gloved thumb drags lovingly over your cheek for just a moment, “Color?”

If he has to ask you a third time he’ll end the scene, you know he will, but the brief flicker of tenderness in his touch reminds you of everything you already know about him. He has you. You’re safe. This is a game.

“Green,” You finally answer, “I’m green,”

One more quick pulse to your hip, he’s heard you again. More than that, he’s pleased with you.

His shoulders straighten as he draws to his full height, his body filling the space of the tiny bathroom and caging you in. You swallow tightly, audible in your ears and then he moves fast.

His hands around your waist, lifting you up and then shoving you back until you’re sitting on the lip of the porcelain sink, uncomfortably balanced and pushed back flush to the mirrored wall behind you. You yelp when he moves you, hands scrambling for purchase on something, gripping the sleeve of his black cape in desperation. Fear and anticipation pulse through you, but he doesn’t give you a rest to get your bearings.

He shoves your legs open wide and slots between your thighs and shoves your face to the side until your cheek is squished against the cold mirror, his hand a controlling brace from your jaw to the crown of your head.

“You look so pretty running from me,” He strokes your face, but this time it’s not loving, it's possessive, it’s pure control.

You grip the edge of the sink and whimper.

“Should we play a little game?” He teases, “It’s Halloween, you must like scary movies,”

Your breath quickens, “Y-yeah,”

He drops his voice low, in a mimic of the movie, “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

You’ve heard Yunho do that voice before, lazing on the couch last October when you had yourselves a movie marathon, the day he realized something about your favorite scary movie that turned you on, the day you called him out for being hard during a kill scene. It took a year for you both to work up the courage to actually act on any of those fantasies, but here and now with his mask on and his voice low, you feel that mix of terror and arousal bleeding through your body in a way only he can elicit from you.

You can’t help the little smile that passes over your lips, “Scream,”

“Meta,” He teases, pinching you hard on the thigh, “for every question you get wrong, I’m taking something off you,”

You swallow hard again.

He reaches into his black robes and then you see it, shining in the reflection of the mirror and in your hazy peripheral vision. The glint of a real knife is unmistakable, the cool sharp edge of the steel crystal clear and you can’t stop the actual fear that jolts through you. You jerk in his hold, instinct driving you for a split second, and he pushes your face harder into the mirror.

“Tch,” He makes a disappointed noise with his tongue against his teeth, “the game’s no fun if you don’t play.”

He won’t hurt you, at least not in ways you don’t already like. You have to trust that.

Settling yourself with a slow breath you summon the act he wants, find the fear within yourself and let it inform your words to give him what he wants.

“Please, don’t,” You’re trembling is real, that you know.

He shifts between your legs, drawing the knife closer, shifting it in his hand so he simply presses the cool flat side of the blade against one of your nipples. You hiss at the sensation, tightness building in your gut.

“First question,” He drags the knife a little over your nipple, “What movie franchise is Jason from?”

It’s an actual quiz, of course it is. At least he’s starting off easy.

“Friday the Thirteenth,” You reply fast.

“Correct,” He lifts the knife, and with the blade pointed away from you, he pushes up your tight tshirt until it’s bunched above your breasts.

“I got that right,” You glance down at the way he’s touching you, breaking his own rules already.

“Just getting a better view,” He insists, and then the cool knife is against your nipple again, only the thin fabric of your bralette between skin and steel.

Your body is aching in this position, but you can feel the heat off his body, and the heady tone of his voice from under the mask still has you starting to ache in different places.

“Let’s make this a little harder,” He taps the knife against you and you shiver, “what movie has a group of teenagers being stalked on an island by a killer fisherman?”

“It’s,” You start to answer but he taps the knife again and you jolt, “fuck, it’s I Know What You Did Last Summer,”

You watched it with him two weeks ago. You remember it, clear as day.

“Wrong,” The knife twists, the tip gently skating over the swell of your breast.

“Wait,” You start but he tips the knife under the center of your bra.

“I Still Know What You Did Last Summer,” He clarifies the sequel, “they weren’t on an island in the first movie. I thought you liked scary movies,”

“I,” You press back into the wall as the knife edge kisses your skin, “I… I do,”

“You’re not very good at this,” He twists the knife and drags the sharp edge out so that it severs your thin bra in half, falling open and revealing your breasts to his wandering eyes.

A little gasping sound leaves your lips, a desperate noise you try to bite back, but he hears it.

He hums a soft, amused laugh and suddenly the knife is gone, sheathed and away and he leans into your space again, “You fucking like this, don’t you?”

“No,” You insist, despite the way your stomach is in tight knots.

“Did running away get you hot?” His gloved hand skims over your exposed body, “Do psycho killers make you wet?”

“Fuck,” You whine, “no, no,”

“Liar,” He whispers, and then he delivers a pointed slap to your thigh, “spread.”

Your legs widen instinctively at his command, but he doesn’t reward you or praise you like he normally would, this is different. He reaches under the hem of your taut mini skirt, finding the apex of your thighs, and his fingers gently rub up and down from the base of your slit to your clit. A tiny gasp bubbles out of your throat.

“Are you afraid?” He all but growls.

Your stomach flips and his hand tightens in your hair, “Y-yes,”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” He finds the edge of your panties and drags them to one side.

“I don’t want it,” You answer him, body shaking now.

“Tell me to stop,” One gloved finger presses into your entrance, the softness of the leather and the warmth of his skin beneath it making you tremble.

“Stop,” You beg, “please, please, stop,”

“Why would I?” He slowly pushes inside, stretching you around his finger, “When I know how wet being fucked by a stranger in a mask makes you,”

A tense thready sound pulls from your throat as he adds a second finger.

“If you don’t want this,” He pulses his hand once, forcing both fingers deep into your slick channel, “why are you panting like a dog in heat?”

“N-no,”

“If you don’t want it,” He whispers, “don’t come.”

Your eyes shut as his hand starts moving, a steady pulse of his gloved fingers inside your aching cunt, curled just right in the way he knows gets you off fast. A pumping drag against your g-spot, the sound of his heavy breath, the unmistakable sensation of your own wetness making a mess between your thighs.

“Looks like you want it to me,” He adds the circle of his thumb against your clit and you jerk in his hold.

“Stop, fuck,” Your nails dig into his forearm.

“You don’t want me touching you, but you’re soaking my fingers,”

“N..No, no,” You babble, heat pooling in your gut.

“Fight it,” He pumps his fingers faster, drumming against your sweet spot, “don’t come,”

You hiss sharply, pleasure dropping low in your belly, the sensation of his gloves and his hot hand too much to bear.

“Moaning like you want it,” He laughs, pulling his hand suddenly out from under your skirt and yanking your head back to center.

You yelp at the position change and the sudden lack of contact but he doesn’t make you wait for long.

“Open,” He smacks your cheek lightly.

Your mouth falls open and he shoves both gloved fingers between your lips. You choke against the suddenness, at the way he presses down on your tongue, blinking to clear the haze from your eyes.

“Suck.”

You shiver, your lips closing over his digits, the sharp taste of leather mixed with your fluids assaulting your senses and you can’t fight the moan, the way your eyes drift shut as you swirl your tongue.

He hums, pleased, “Does it hurt?” He asks.

His question doesn’t make sense, and you blink your eyes back open to look up at the cool passiveness of his ghostly mask.

“Pretending you’re not a whore?” He clarifies and your mouth stills over his fingers. He pulls them out, delivering one more pointed slap to your cheek, and dives back down to plunge them back into your aching cunt, “Moaning like that, your nipples rock hard, and this pussy,”

You choke, a bubble building in your core as he abuses your slick channel again.

“Clenching around my fingers, sucking me in,” He chuckles, “I can feel you, baby,”

“Fuck, fuck,”

“Hold back,” He doubles his efforts between your thighs and you keen, ��if you don’t want it, tell me to stop, don’t come,”

“Stop!” You whine, giving him exactly what he wants, “Please, please,”

“No,” His thumb rubs fast, his hand practiced at making you fall apart at the seams, “you come, you keep your eyes open, and you come all over my fucking hand,”

Your breath is fast, heart pounding, and you feel the cord tightening in your belly in a way that makes you want to rub yourself back up into his touch but he has you pinned, stuck, at his mercy just like he wants.

“Come,” His voice is clear, authoritative, and familiar. Like a trained response, your body releases and cracks open into a desperate orgasm, crumbling in his hands as you pitch forward onto his shoulder and grind your hips down to take the last little bit of what you need from his fingers.

When his hand stills, you realize you’re still clinging to him and you jerk back, one hand over your mouth as you try to recover your breath.

He steps back, his hands sliding off you and body slotting out from your thighs. You can’t see Yunho beneath the mask, but you know he’s looking. You can feel his hot gaze sliding over your body and taking in every wet and shaking inch of you. Your body is throbbing with need, but the game isn’t done, he hasn’t even made you touch his cock yet, and you know there’s no way you’re making it out of this basement without that.

“Tell me again how you don’t like it,” He finally says.

You shiver.

“Cat got your slutty little tongue?” He prompts you again, voice hardening.

You swallow hard, finding your words, “I didn’t like it,”

“Mhm,”

“I d-don’t want you to touch me,” You lie.

“Yeah?” He teases, “Well then run,”

“W-what?” Your eyes flick up to the impassive plastic of his mask.

“If you didn’t like it, why are you still sitting there?” He takes a step to the side, clearing your path to the door and you slide off the edge of the sink, your loafers making a click onto the tile floor.

You swallow hard, eyes darting out to the rest of the basement.

“Come on,” He teases, and you can hear the sick smile in his voice, “try to get away,”

You look between him and the room ahead of you again.

He leans forward and you shiver, his gaunt stretched mouth at your ear again, “I can’t fuck you if I can’t catch you,” his gloved fingers yank your top down over your exposed breasts and he chuckles, “better run fast.”

You spring forwards, adrenaline pumping through your body and blood rushing in your ears. Leaping out of the bathroom he gives you a couple steps to get a head start, but he’s so much bigger than you, his stride so much longer, and he closes the distance with ease as you scramble in mock terror to get to the steps.

Yunho’s arms close around you, hauling you up off your feet and against his chest, his touch rough and probing as he drags you up into the air.

“No!” You shriek, “Fuck!”

“You think I’d really let you go?” He laughs, “After that?”

“Fuck you!” The words bubble up out of your mouth.

“That’s the idea,” His hand slides down your belly, closing over your cunt and cupping you tightly.

Your body is reacting before your mind, and you jerk in his hold, kicking back your leg and catching him in the shin with the flat heel of your shoe.

He groans and wrenches you higher in the air, “Keep struggling,” he pants, “I like it,”

You twist again, trying to free one of your arms, but he has them pinned tightly to your body, “Get the fuck off me!”

“Not a fucking chance,” He takes two wide steps to the mattress and then tosses you down.

You collapse onto the bed, the old and rarely used springs creaking under your weight, and your scramble forwards in some kind of an attempt to get your bearings, but he’s on you just as fast. He yanks you back with a hand around your ankle and in a flash he’s on top of you.

He presses one hand firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned face down to the bed, and then his body weight drops down as he straddles the backs of your thighs. Your hands curl into the bedding beneath you, rough sheets and scratchy camp blankets, nothing soft and soothing to take a moment of comfort in.

His free hand wanders, searching your body slowly. The sound of the party raging upstairs drowns out any competing noise, but you can still hear his heavy breath against the mask and your pounding heart, the sound of anticipation thick in the air around you.

Yunho presses his hips forwards and you feel the thick hard length of his cock through his costume nestled against your backside.

“Look at you,” He palms your ass, “shaking for me,”

A whimper leaves you as his fingers dig into your back.

“Do I scare you, baby?” He delivers a harsh slap to the back of your thighs and you yelp, “Are you fucking terrified?”

Another slap leaves you trembling and you hide your face in the mattress, pressing your eyes shut tight. You love when he touches you like this and he knows it. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from whining, wetness pooling in your core. He wanted you scared, he wanted you fighting, you can’t give in just because his glove on your stinging skin feels like sin.

He groans, his cock pressing down harder to your ass and you feel both his hands slide from your hips up to your back and back down again until he has a grip on your waist.

A whimper slips out from between your lips.

Yunho freezes above you, his thumbs massaging a quick circle into your lower back, “Color?”

“Green!” Your voice is muffled by the bedding but you know he heard it.

He groans, pulsing his hips to rut his cock against you again.

Even between layers of fabric, you can feel the heat of him, throbbing and ready for you. Your mouth waters as you picture it, cockhead leaking precum and Yunho’s familiar hand wrapped around the base as he directs it to your mouth.

“Little slut,” He chuckles and it pulls you straight out of your mental fantasy, “rubbing that ass on a stranger’s cock,”

Your stomach clenches, and you twitch under him.

“That’s fucked up,” He drops his body weight over you, one hand pushing your head to the side as he leans over you, “you’re so fucked up, aren’t you?”

Your breathing is fast, a thready sound in your throat.

“Aren’t you?” His voice is low, a shade away from a growl, and he rocks his hips again to rub his cock against you.

“N-no,” You try to shake your head but his hand tightens against your scalp.

“Liar,” He keeps grinding against you, his free hand snaking underneath your bodies to grope your breast, “I know a needy whore when I see one,”

You moan into the sheets as he tweaks your nipple, tears springing to your eyes as he palms you, taking you apart with every touch.

“Let’s see how you like this,” He pinches your nipple once more and you squeal at the sharp sensation that rockets through your chest, a sharp line down to your clit, and then he slides back and shuffles back to sit up over your thighs.

He pushes the stiff fabric of your mini skirt up over your ass and then you feel the cold metal again.

You jerk underneath him, and he tuts softly, the sharp edge of the weapon gently dragging over the curve of your ass cheek.

“Tell me,” He grips your flesh tightly with one hand, painfully pinching, “do you still like scary movies now that you’re in one?”

You shake your head, a whimper on your lips when the knife slips under the edge of your panties, “P-please, don’t,”

He yanks the knife up and splits one side of your panties with a taut snap of fabric, “Please?” He taunts, “Please?”

You sob softly in response.

“Is ‘please’ all you can say?” He delivers a sharp smack to your exposed ass check and you jerk under him.

“I can’t,” You shake your head into the sheets, “I can’t,”

He sighs, and you feel the knife shred the other side of your underwear and then you hear the sound of the blade clattering to the floor. With both hands free he palms your exposed flesh, squeezing you almost painfully and inspecting your exposed body.

Shivers run through you, and you try to hold yourself still for his touches.

“Which hole should I fuck first, hmm?” His fingers search you, probe you.

Your body locks up tightly, a gasp on your lips. You hadn’t discussed that, and you shake your head.

“Scared?” He ghosts his fingers over your rim.

“Please,” It’s all you can manage.

“Beg me,” He presses down with his thumb, “beg me not to fuck your ass if you’re so scared.”

You scramble in the sheets but he has you stuck, “Please don’t, don’t fuck me like t-that, you’re too big, it’s too,”

He massages one cheek and hums, “What should I do then?”

“What?” You crane to look back at him, at the masked man pinning you down.

“Beg,” He says it like he’s bored, like it’s obvious, “beg me to put it somewhere else, or I will fuck this pretty ass open and make you say thank you.”

Heat floods your belly, your body a sizzling live wire, and you fall right into step with a heady whine, “Please, fuck my pussy,”

“Again,”

“Fuck my pussy, please, I’m begging you,” Your voice sounds needy and strange even to your own ears, “I need it inside me, g-give it to me please, fuck my pussy, please,”

“Better,” His hands disappear into his robed costume and then he pushes forwards, his cock finally free and sliding up and down your slit to find your aching entrance.

“Y-yes,” You drop your head back down to the bed and in one sharp thrust, he pushes his thick length all the way inside you until his hips are flush with your ass.

Yunho groans, bracing himself with one hand on the back of your neck and the other on the bed beside you, the mattress creaking with every shift, “Needy pussy,”

“Fuck,” You moan.

“Greedy,” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, starting to pick up the pace now in earnest, “gripping my fucking cock like that,”

All you can do is hold on, bite down on the sheets and let him use you, focus on the sensation of his impossibly hard cock driving in and out and in and out.

“Are you crying for me? Hmm?” He rolls his hips, the fabric of his costume dragging against you as he fucks into you faster.

Your eyes are wet, pleasured tears bubbling up and you nod, a tiny sob passing through your lips.

“Good cocksleeve,” He presses down harder with his hand on your neck, forcing you lower into the mattress.

Your back arches instinctively, and you whine at the angle change. A few more thrusts and you’ll be done for, you know it.

“That’s it,” He pants, voice muffled by the mask, “come for me,”

“C-close,” The words tumble out.

“Come for me,” He stays steady with his thrusts, pushing your orgasm closer and closer, “come for me, come for me,”

“Ah!” You fist the sheets, legs starting to shake, “Ah, fuck, fuck!”

“Come on this stranger’s fucking cock,” He grunts, shuddering above you, his fingers digging into your skin and no doubt leaving a bouquet of bruises behind.

So close to the edge, just a little more will tip you over, and you whine, “Harder,”

He gasps, forcing his pace to clap harder, deeper, and it only takes two pointed thrusts of his cock into the deepest parts of you to send you careening over the edge.

“Coming,” You twist beneath him, moaning into your fist, “oh, god,”

“Fuck,” He curses as your muscles clench and flutter around him, “fuck, oh fuck,”

Your orgasm has your body locked up and shuddering, but when he pulls free suddenly you gasp into the bedding, “N-no, no, please,”

He yanks off any scrap of clothing you have on with frantic hands and then rolls you in the sheets so that you’re lying on your back spread open for him. You try to form a sentence, to ask what’s happening but suddenly he’s tearing off his mask and the world slows to a stop.

Yunho’s sweaty, flushed pink in the cheeks eyes blown wide with need, his plush lips parted and his chest heaving with labored breaths. In a flash he’s stripping off the costume, peeling off his gloves and kicking off his boots.

“Come here,” He spreads your thighs wider and presses down over you, his cock finding your entrance with ease as he sheaths himself again in one thrust.

You moan sharply and wrap your arms around his shoulders as he collapses over you.

“Need you,” He pumps his hips, “have to have you,”

Pleasure crackles up your body, “Yours,” you nod, “I’m yours,”

He presses his mouth to yours, kissing you hot and hard, “Fuck,” he groans.

Yunho gathers you closer, your slick bodies now flush together as he rocks into the warm cradle of your hips, “never heard you moan like that,”

Your walls clench around him.

“You wanted me to do this,” He groans between messy kisses, “you wanted to run,”

You nod, lips pressed together.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” He pumps into you harder, like he’s desperate to get as deep as possible, “my dirty girl,”

“Oh, fuck,” Your head falls back against the bed, a pleasured moan caught in your throat.

“My little fucking slut,” He groans, tipping your hips open wider, his hands tight on your skin, “so desperate to come on stranger cock,”

You whine sharply, nails digging into his back.

“Say it,” He threads a hand through your hair and tugs your head back up roughly, “say it,”

“Yes!” You whine, “Yes, I-I need it,”

His gaze darkens, the cool mask of your dominant returning, and he slaps your cheek sharply, just enough to give you a pointed sting, “Need what?”

Your brain is soft, fuzzy with pleasure, but the slap focuses you and you blink, “Need to come,” you pant as he thrusts into you, “on a stranger’s cock, need you to… fuck, need you to take it,”

He nods, lips parting open in pleasure, “That’s right,”

Your stomach tightens, pressure dropping low in your belly and you can’t stop feeling the way his cock punches into the deepest parts of you over and over again. Your eyes close tight and you hold onto him, one of your hands slipping up to his neck to tangle into his black hair.

“Oh,” You’re so close, almost there, “Y-Yunho, oh, god,”

His hips thrust forward once more, burying his cock impossibly deep and then he stops. That’s when you realize your critical mistake.

“Is my cock so good you forgot your manners?” He says and your eyes fly open.

You don’t know what to say, you don’t know how to recover, your head is too mixed up to know what’s up and what’s down and you’ve never played a scene where he’s a stranger before. You’re used to your rules, you’re used to calling him sir or daddy or master, but now you feel unmoored.

“Now you don’t get to come,” He leans back, taking your wrists in his hands and pushing them down flat to the bed.

You know better than to protest, but you’re sure he can feel you shaking.

He drops closer, pinning you open with the weight of his body, his head nudging yours to the side, “Maybe you’ve forgotten who’s in control here, baby,”

Liquid heat spreads through your body and you shake your head just a little.

“So drunk on cock,” He bites at your ear, “you forgot you don’t want this,”

Your pussy tightens, and you hear him chuckle.

“Filthy,” He maneuvers your arms above your head so that he can close both your wrists together in one of his large hands, “fucked up little fucktoy,”

Your eyes roll back and you fight the urge to move your hips, his words enough to put you on the precipice.

A sharp slap stings over your exposed breast, your nipple hardening even more and Yunho draws his hips back before slamming forwards, driving you deeper into the squeaking mattress. At the painful stretch, the sharp sting inside, you do cry out.

“Does it hurt?” He thrusts again, just as hard.

You struggle under him, a little for play and a little because it does hurt, but you love the way he groans when you please him and you can’t stop, “Y-yes,”

“Too bad,” His hand claps over your mouth and then he starts to fuck you again for real.

Pleasure and pain in equal parts spike through your body, a perfect combination to get you right up to the edge of orgasm, but you know you’re not allowed. You moan into his hot hand, the sound feral and taut, tears gathering in your eyes and slipping down your temples into your hairline.

Yunho slides the hand on your wrists up to clasp your hands together palm to palm, still pinning you to the bed but offering you a line of communication you desperately need in a scene like this. He doesn’t stop, but his eyes find yours in the dim light of the basement and he squeezes your hand once. You squeeze back just once, your silent sign to keep going.

He keeps driving into you, cursing every time you moan and clench around his thick length, the mask of dominance slipping again as he starts to rut into you with artless, needy thrusts. He’s chasing his own pleasure now, with no regard for your own release.

“No one’s coming to help you,” He groans, “you’re mine,”

You can’t hear everything he says, not with your mind spinning so close to a forbidden orgasm and his pants and groans punctuating every few words, but you hear it when he says he’s coming inside you.

Thrusting deep, he spills himself hot in your belly, hips grinding into yours to milk himself dry as he moans into your ear. The bubble of your own pleasure builds with every rock of his body and you whimper into his hand, tears spilling over as you try not to let it take you.

Yunho’s hand pulls away from your mouth and suddenly his fingers are rubbing fast and firm on your swollen clit, his cock still buried deep.

“Ah, n-no, please,” You grip his hand tightly and lock your eyes closed, trying to pull yourself back from the edge, “please,”

“Fuck,” He groans, overstimulated.

You’re going to come, there’s no way to hold back if he’s going to torture you like this and you thrash under him, “I can’t,” you’re sobbing in earnest now, “I can’t hold it,”

“Shit,” He curses sharply, “come, sweetheart, come, I’m so sorry,”

At his permission, your pleasure rips through you, a hot slice of rapture rocketing up your body. Your ears are ringing, black dots over your vision, and your body wrenches up with tight shakes in a way that only a soul shattering orgasm could do. You vaguely hear your own voice, a babbled string of ‘thank-yous’ and sobs, but it feels like someone else. All you know is warmth, and the deliciousness of earned pleasure.

When consciousness starts to creep back in, the first thing you feel is Yunho’s gentle hands on your cheeks. He’s murmuring something, but it takes your mind a second to process, and you blink your eyes open slowly to find his face.

“Hey,” He’s back to soft and warm, your tender lover, “oh, there you are,”

“Mm,” You manage.

He looks you over slowly, warm brown eyes flicking over your skin, “Does anything hurt, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, still boneless and trembling in the scratchy blankets.

“Hmm?” He nudges you, pushing for a verbal response.

“I’m okay,” You respond, but your voice is small.

Yunho, so attuned to you, looks back up and shifts up the bed to meet your eyes, “Feeling floaty?”

“Mm,” You nod, recognizing distantly that the intensity of your play tonight pushed you right into subspace.

“Ah,” He smiles warmly, “come here,”

He gathers you close, arms wrapping around you as he tucks you into his chest and pulls the plaid camp blanket up higher over both of your naked bodies. His skin feels so essential, a necessity like eating or breathing, and you nuzzle into his warm chest.

“You’re okay,” He soothes you, stroking your back, “you’re safe, you’re safe with me,”

A heavy breath releases from your chest.

“That’s it,” He kisses your forehead, “breathe with me, relax with me,”

Your muscles release one by one.

“That was just a fantasy,” He soothes you, easing the knotted up feelings in your body with practiced words, “it was just pretend,”

You nod.

“Just pretend,” He murmurs, lips tender against your forehead, “none of that was real, nothing I said. I love you, and I will always keep you safe, sweetheart,”

Your fingers relax, and you realize how firmly you were gripping his arms.

“There you go,” He murmurs, “I’ve got you,”

“Yunho?” You manage, your body feeling heavy once again as you start to center.

He shifts, cupping your cheek as he leans back to get a good look at you, “Right here,”

“H-hey,” You give him a lazy smile.

He nods, brushing your cheek with his thumb, “Tell me where you are?”

“Basement at the party,” You answer.

“Good,” He nods, “now tell me who you’re with?”

“You, Yunho,” You reply, practiced now at the routine he uses to help ground you out of the scene and bring you back into reality.

“Good,” He continues, “tell me three things you can see,”

You glance around the room, “Old playstation, bicycle,” you look back to him, “your necklace,”

He smiles as you touch the silver chain around his neck, “Good,”

You stretch your stiff limbs in his arms and try to snuggle back into his hold but he’s not done yet, especially after a scene that new and that intense.

“Any pain?” His hands slide over your body.

“No,” You assure him, “a little sore, but I feel good,”

He nods, but keeps looking you over anyway. When he turns your hands in his and finds your scratched palms a little line forms between his brows, “What’s this?”

You look down at the red skin, a few shallow cuts here and there, “I fell,”

“Fell?” His brow goes high with alarm, “when?”

“When I was running, I took the stairs too fast,” You tell him honestly, “but it doesn’t hurt, I promise,”

His fingers trace over the broken skin and he nods, “You promised you’d call the scene if you got hurt,”

For how rough this man can be with you, for how many times he’s bruised you and made you bleed, he never fails to surprise you at just how tender and soft he is outside of the bedroom.

“Baby,” You close your fingers over his, “you promised you’d trust me to know my own limits, I’m not hurt, I got a little scrape,”

His lips close as he considers your words and then he nods, leaning in to kiss each of your palms warmly, “I want to disinfect these at home,”

“Okay,” You murmur.

“Anywhere else?”

“Mm-mm,” You shake your head.

“But sore?” He confirms.

“A bit,”

His fingers find your jaw, massaging the muscle there, “When we get home, we’ll run a warm bath. I’ll take care of all your aches, I know I was rough with you,”

You sigh pleasantly, relaxing into the warmth of his hand and he nods, dipping his face towards yours and capturing your mouth in a soft kiss.

“You did so perfect for me, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice threaded with emotion, “I’m so… is it too lame to say honored? I… you were so amazing, and you trusted me like that and I,”

“Yunho,” You smooth back his hair and pull him closer, “I’m alright,”

His eyes flick over your face, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” You give him the clarity he needs to know he didn’t hurt you, “you made me feel very safe, even though I was kind of terrified,”

He stays quiet, like he’s gauging the honesty of your words.

“Even when I was scared,” You lean in, kissing him quickly, “I knew you wouldn’t take it too far, and you checked in with me. I’m okay, I liked it, I love you,”

“You didn’t push yourself too hard for me?” He always worries about that, the double edged sword of a submissive who’s desperate to please.

“No,” You smooth your hand over his cheek, “I liked it alot,”

He nods and snuggles you closer, his fingertips coasting up and down your back softly. He’s quiet for a few minutes, just letting you both come down as easy as you can with thrumming house music upstairs.

“You liked it?” He finally confirms, carding his fingers through your hair.

You nod, “A lot,”

“What I said,” He kisses the top of your head, “during, about you liking it, that was fantasy too, you know that right?”

You’re quiet, taking in his words.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” He continues softly, “there’s nothing wrong with you for wanting it, all of that was pretend, okay?”

“I know,” You kiss his chest, nodding against his shoulder.

“I love you,” He squeezes you, “you know that too, right?”

You smile, wiggling up in his arms to see his face, “I do,” you kiss him softly, “I love you too,”

He nods and sighs, “I lost my head a little at the end there,” he admits, “I didn’t communicate well when you needed it, I’m sorry about that.”

Your brows knit together in confusion.

“I should have given you permission sooner,” He explains, brushing your cheek with his thumb, “I forgot myself in the scene, I didn’t mean to push you so hard.”

“Oh,” You smile, “Yunho, I’m alright,”

“I know you are,” He dips in for a kiss, “but I’m still sorry,”

“Thank you,” You murmur, pressing your lips back to his, staying warm and still and soft in this moment together, “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He nods, his broad hand brushing down your hair.

“How was the party?” You nudge him a little.

He smiles, “Fine,” he shrugs, “I was too focused on looking for you, I think everyone thinks something’s up with me.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” You laugh.

“Mm,” He nods, “and now I disappeared and we made a mess of this basement,”

“Fuck, I can’t believe you cut my underwear off, how am I supposed to get out of here,”

“I brought backups,” He grins wide, proud of himself for thinking that far ahead.

“You’re a genius,”

“There is a back door out of the basement though, right?” He looks up around the room trying to find one.

“Yeah,” You reach out, pointing around the back corner, “why?”

“It’s extremely obvious that you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life,” He presses a quick kiss on your forehead and stretches next to you, so casual about the way he just rearranged your insides, “and I’m not so sure you’re going to walk straight,”

You laugh sharply and shake your head, “Take me home,”

“Scary movies on the couch?” He squeezes your thigh as he rolls away, searching for his clothes.

You shiver, “Maybe, that might be too close to home,”

Nudging your knee he smiles, “Don’t worry, baby, it’s just a movie.”

#ateez smut #ateez #yunho smut #yunho #jeong yunho #yunho x reader #yunho fic #yunho ff #ateez fic #honeyhotteoks fics #honeyhotteoks #HAPPY KINKTOBER

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starkeysbaby · 1 month ago

Note

When the turtle incident at the beach happens the reader gets hurt saving the turtle 🐢 and rafe snap. Everyone sees a different side of rafe

a/n: i LOVE this idea. - Unfortunately i feel like i didn’t do it justice 🥲🥲 but hope you enjoy!! <3

“if i ever see you round my girl again…”

pairings: s4 rafe cameron x kook but not kooky!reader [est. relationship]

warnings: S4 E4 SCENE DESCRIBED/USED (not sure if it’s really a spoiler tho as nothing plot wise is revealed) turtles being hurt, blood, death threat, canon rafe lol, use of swear words. (pls lemme know if i forgot any)

summary: you just wanted peace between everyone, unfortunately you and a turtle became collateral damage over a kook vs pogue contest. rafe is not happy…

navigation ⋅˚₊‧𐙚‧₊˚ ⋅ obx masterlist

You were a kook? Well that’s what your bank account said. However, you were closer with the pogues and basically hung out with them or your boyfriend.. rafe cameron. that was the weird part. It had been awkward since the pogues all returned from El Dorado. You had sort of become the middle man in between rafe and the pogues including his sister, sarah. It was an unspoken rule between you and rafe that you just don’t talk about them with him which you respected. He’ll come around in his own time you thought.

When the swell came in, your boyfriend and his friends were eager to hit the beach and have a surf day to which you wouldn’t turn down. meeting up at tannyhill, you saw that topper had bought his new girlfriend, ruthie who you weren’t too keen on. You had mentioned this to rafe a while back but he said that it isn’t yours or his business to get involved with toppers love life and told you to just stay away from her if you didn’t like her to which you couldn’t argue.

Arriving at the beach you saw your friends, jj, john b, kiara and sarah and quickly told rafe that you were going over to say hi. Rafe just mumbled something as he set up his towel and told you not to be long as he stared daggers at sarah.

“hey!” you wave jogging up to the pogues, hugging sarah then kie. “what’s up y/nn (your nickname)” kie asked. “not much. just thought we’d hit the waves. i told them we should go a bit farther from here but they didn’t listen… sorry” you explained, knowing it’s best if the kooks and pogues don’t cross paths today. “you’re good. it’s them we don’t trust” jj butts in. “yeah, no. i’ll tell them to lay off..” you smile then turn to sarah. “he’s trying. he’ll come around. i know it..” you tell her, referring to rafe. Sarah just shrugs, pretending as if not being on good terms with her brother isn’t bothering her. “wanna surf?” you smile and take sarah’s hand dragging her to the water as you both laugh.

After surfing with sarah and the pogues for a while, you had joined rafe on his towel and spent an hour or so just chilling with him. He showered you in attention and you did your best to ignore ruthies little comments about the pogues and how jj is a poor sport. At one point, rafe saw you side eye ruthie for shitting on the pogues again. “hey. don’t frown.” he mumbles turning your head to face him and pats your cheek. “i don’t get her problem rafe.” you sigh. “yeah it sucks, but cmon” “no. it’s unnecessary. they aren’t doing anything to her.” you tell him, referring to the pogues just minding their business apart from that tiny squabble with jj and topper in the ocean but topper didn’t seem to care too much so why does ruthie? “i told you, ignore her” rafe says a little sternly taking your hand in his, his thumb caressing the back of your hand. “yeah yeah…” you smile as you peck him, letting it go as you didn’t want ruthie to ruin the day.

While you packed up, unknown to you and rafe, ruthie was convincing topper to just ride the truck over to the pogues to mess up their set up. You in the meantime went over to the pogues to say bye, only to find them saving a turtle hatch in which you started assisting with. The next thing you know, you see ruthie driving her truck at a high speed straight at you. While sarah and kie do their best to get the turtles out of the way in time, you stand in front waving your hands trying to get ruthies attention to stop her. “hey! hey!!! stop! there’s a hatch!” you call out but she doesn’t hear you. you can vaguely see topper yell at ruthie, probably to stop but she’s just laughing. kiara notices ruthie has no intention of stopping and quickly pulls you out the way.

Luckily no turtles were hurt at that point but you see ruthie circling around to go again. You stand up again, trying to stop her. Rafe has also noticed this and starts making his way over to get, in his words, your stupid ass out of the way. You realise ruthie yet again has no intention of stopping so you quickly go to pick up a turtle that was in the way but you get hit slightly by the truck, knocking you out.

“what the actual fuck?!” kiara yells rushing to you, she takes the turtles from you and calls for rafe who’s at your side in seconds. He looks up at a shocked, somewhat guilty looking ruthie. “what the fuck is your problem?” he spits “did you not see her fucking standing there telling you to stop!” he yells as he takes off his shirt to wrap around a bloody scrape on your knee from something in the sand. Overall you weren’t too badly hurt but might need some stitches. That was enough for rafe to see red though.

As sarah goes to fetch water to splash you awake, ruthie stutters “i.. i thought she’d get out the way. why would she just fucking stand the-” kie cuts her off “there was a turtle hatch! look what you did! she was tryna save this turtle” kie yells at her, showing her the hurt turtle to which ruthie turns her face away from. “why the fu-” rafe cuts himself off on questioning you to wake you up with the water sarah got. As you felt water being splashed on your face, you sit up. “what happened?” you groan. “y/n im so so sor-” ruthie starts to apologise but rafe cuts her off. “no. you shut the fuck up and stay away from my girl” rafe snaps causing topper to get involved. “hey now rafe-” but again rafe cuts him off. “control your bitch, top” he huffs shutting topper and everyone else up.

He lifts you up and walks towards his truck. “my head hurts..” you mumble. “i know baby.. gonna get you to the hospital aight” he gently whispers to you to which you just nod. With a final “don’t pull shit like that again” from rafe, he places you in the passengers seat before shutting the door and quickly going up to ruthie. “if i ever see you round my girl again… i’ll kill you” he murmurs up close to her face in a terrifyingly dangerous way. Apart from sarah and a few of the pogues, no one has ever seen rafe like that.. so scary.. so threatening… so murderous. Ruthie just nodded which was enough for rafe to leave the scene so he could take you to the hospital.

a/n: hope you enjoyed - kinda struggled to find a way to set the dynamic where reader is dating rafe but close to the pogues at this point in the show cuz i couldn’t see rafes defending someone so furiously unless he was dating her 😭

requests are open!! enjoy lovelies - liv <33

#starkeysbaby #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron imagine #outerbanks s4 #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron x y/n #obx s4 #obx #outerbanks

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ssahotchnerr · 8 months ago

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omg could you maybe write something about reader going to one of jacks soccer games and all of the moms are jealous of her bc she’s with hotch

not so friendly competition

omg i absolutely can cw; fem!reader, jealous suburban moms, one tries to make a pass at aaron, established relationship, small angst?, pettiness, aaron being adorable <3 wc; 1.3k

from the moment you arrived - a hand clasped in aaron's, jack excitedly sprinting ahead the two of you - you could feel the target on your back.

the warm, refreshing morning suddenly felt quite stuffy. as if strangely enough, there wasn't enough air to go around. the feeling especially solidified when aaron gave you a sweet, parting kiss - him off to uphold his coaching duties, you off to find a spot on the grass to set up your chair.

you half expected it, the feeling out of place and self consciousness; this was jack's second season playing soccer, aaron's second season coaching, and most of the players had returned from last year. long story short, and entering a relationship with aaron only a few weeks after jack's season had concluded, you were the new face.

not only that, you were missing a common trait amongst the others. you weren't, by definition, jack's mom.

it was a silly, technical notion, and it was quite possible you weren't the only outlier, but you simply wanted to belong there just as much as the others. to feel as if you belonged.

and that's definitely not how you currently felt.

despite your perception - hoping you had falsely and quickly misjudged the atmosphere - you offered the moms a smile and a hello as you got settled. you got maybe one, two responses in return, before they resumed their ongoing conversation without you. any hopefulness that remained, deflated as you sat there silently.

and while you weren't exactly listening to them, you could still make out bits and pieces of their conversation. however, your ears fully perked up at the mention of aaron. which also brought you into the discussion.

"you're with the coach?"

her question wasn't based on genuine interest, a getting-to-know-type basis, a friendly conversation starter. but, it was rather accusatory, as if you'd done something detrimentally wrong.

you nodded, your eyebrows furrowing briefly in confusion. "yes?"

"like... with him?"

oh.

the standoffish environment wasn't due to you being unwelcome, or, at least not in the way you had previously anticipated. it was jealousy, plain jealousy. they must've spent all of last season ogling aaron, and here you were, getting in the way.

again, you nodded in confirmation. a few grimaces were produced amongst several faces, igniting something deep within you, suddenly feeling very protective of aaron and your relationship.

you casually shot back, relentlessly, "why, is that a problem?"

the mom shrugged, pulling her eyes from yours annoyingly, as if you'd done her an injustice.

she didn't stop there though, uttering something under her breath. while you didn't hear what it was exactly - the low tone definitely indicated she had just insulted you in one way or another.

and choosing to remain on the civil side, you held your tongue.

the whispers continued sparingly; as much as it stung, and as much as the red-hot feeling that had settled in your body was uncomfortable, why should you let it affect you? they weren't a threat, they were suburban moms - probably peaked in high school, probably relied off their husband's salary, probably thought they were better than each and every person they came across.

you could be annoyed, but you weren't worried. the bigger picture, you had what they wanted; you had aaron. you've already won, despite any fights they attempted to pick.

"i need to stretch my legs." the same woman abruptly said, loudly to gain your interest.

she promptly rose, walking towards the team's bench. or more specifically, right up to aaron.

she was quick to strike up a conversation with him - overdramatizing her already-shrill laugh, displaying open body language, the sweetest smile she could muster up.

what did you in, a 'friendly' touch to his arm before she retreated, whenever she finished saying whatever the hell was so important she had felt the need to interrupt his coaching for.

and throughout such, aaron appeared as his typical friendly self as he engaged with her, as expected. although a look of confusion did flash across his face when she graced his arm.

your jaw clenched in anger, but you kept reminding yourself: her actions were just to spite you, just to piss you off, and you refused to give her the reaction she seemingly so desperately craved.

so when she returned, with an awfully smug look plastered on her face and dropping into her chair with a sense of pure satisfaction, you kept your focus forward. you came to watch jack's game, and that's exactly what you were going to do.

but during the mid-game break, once aaron had finished talking with the kids and they sprinted back onto the field to practice some goals, did you approach him.

"hi sweetheart," aaron mumbled into your skin as he kissed your temple, one of his hands comfortably finding your back. "enjoying the game?"

you nodded, offering him a timid smile.

"what's wrong?"

"nothing." you lied, tucking yourself into his chest. you took a deep breath and sighed, smelling the traces of light sweat and grass clinging to him.

"you don't think i buy that, do you?" he asked, a gentle, almost comical tone to his words - all to lighten up your present tension. "what is it?"

you shook your head, "i don't want to talk about it..." your eyes shot over to your new best friends, whose eyes were glued to the two of you. "here."

aaron glanced over at them, profiling immediately. "are they giving you a hard time?"

after a moment's hesitation, an annoyed huff escaped you. "let's just say they're not too happy that the coach is taken."

"what?" aaron laughed breathlessly, his face scrunching the smallest amount in confusion. "half of them are married."

"clearly that doesn't matter, they're still over there undressing you with their eyes." you arched an eyebrow, the scowl on your face only deepening.

"c'mon, you're too pretty to make that face." aaron lightly teased, kissing your pout gently. at the touch, your face did relax, the ends of your lips itching to turn upwards into a smile.

"oh they're gonna hate that you did that."

aaron shrugged, kissing you again. "let them."

you surrendered yourself to your smile, but you still frustratedly crossed your arms in front of your chest. "it's ridiculous."

aaron was quick to untangle your hands, holding onto them and applying a gentle squeeze. "you know you don't have competition. you have me."

"i know. that's why i feel so stupid i'm letting it bother me." you gritted through your teeth. "what did that one woman even say to you?"

"truthfully, i couldn't tell you. i wasn't paying attention." he answered honestly, his eyebrows drawing into a line as he even attempted to mentally recall it.

you couldn't help but laugh, pressing yourself more into him. "you're insufferable."

"i try." aaron joked, but his expression switched tactics, to genuine concern as he moved in front of you, "in all seriousness, are you going to be okay?"

"yeah." you brought your hands to his chest, running your thumbs against his pecs affectionately. you already were. "i have you, don't i?"

"and you could always stay here with me." aaron playfully, but earnestly offered. "and be my beautiful, thoughtful, astounding, beautiful assistant coach."

"you drive a hard bargain," your eyebrows rose, feeling his chuckle underneath your fingers. "but it's okay. i'm not gonna let them think they're running the show, or that they can step on me like that." you shook your head. "and as needed, i might have to flaunt you around."

aaron grinned, proudly. "that's my girl."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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zarameraki · 11 months ago

Text

♡₊˚☀️・₊✧ 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶'𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 & 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 ♡₊˚☀️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 he's obsessed to the max 𖥔 ceo x baker 𖥔 grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 she talks a lot x he listens a lot 𖥔 spoils the literal shit out of you 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content in vague details 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 super soft nanami 𖥔 close proximity 𖥔 he loves kissing the fuck out of you

: ̗̀➛ words: 7.7k

: ̗̀➛ notes: you guys are so sweet for supporting my toji fanfic which is why i wanted to write another and this time its about my husband, the father of our children, the man who deserves every beautiful thing in this world. if you enjoy my work, please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy!

Nanami Kento entered your bakery at exactly six o' clock.

You carefully observed the moments he dedicated to perusing the array of pastries, the vibrant mountain of macaroons, and the freshly baked, warm casse-croûte that you unfailingly prepared for him when he clocked out. There was a tender quality to his countenance, noticeable in the slight release of tension between his brows as the soft, buttery flakes dissolved on his tongue in your presence. Without fail, he consistently left a generous tip in your travel jar, dedicated to a solo trip to Malaysia.

"Did you know they've got this thing about not wearing yellow in Malaysia?" you mentioned during your initial meeting, eyeing the distinctive black-dotted tie worn by the stoic salaryman. "Well, not that your tie would get you in trouble; it's not entirely yellow. In fact, I think it's perfect as it is, just like your hair, which also has a touch of yellow.”

Please cut your tongue off.

Anticipating a polite nod and perhaps a slightly regretful five-dollar tip left in the jar, you were taken aback when he queried, “Why is that?”

“Oh, uh . . . a bunch of protesters wore the color during a demand for their prime minister to step down," you stumbled, feeling a twinge of embarrassment for veering off into an unintentional crash course. Dropping trivia about Malaysia wasn't exactly the same as flirting. "So, it's kind of become a symbolism for protest and, well, threat. I read it in a book once. I don't know if it's a legitimate law, though."

“Do you like reading?” he asked, still interested in conversing with you. “Most people would Google information.”

“I like reading. It’s easier to retain information that way.”

Nanami acknowledged your gesture with a nod of gratitude as he accepted the casse-croûte and exited your bakery. Anticipating that he might not return due to his reserved nature and your awkward attempts at compliment-flirting, you were surprised to find that he was, in fact, full of surprises.

Nanami became a regular visitor. Day after day, for the past year, he arrived at precisely six o' clock. He continued his routine, whether he purchased a box of pastries, a pair of bagged bread loaves, or simply a casse-croûte and a small cup of milk coffee. You always prepared his order five minutes ahead of time, just in case you were occupied with other customers.

"Enjoy!" you chirped, casting a warm smile at the customer you just served as the bakery slowly emptied, leaving only Nanami browsing the delightful array of small cakes. "Good evening, Mr. Nanami!"

Nanami raised his head in your direction. "Good evening." He finally settled on the black forest cake from the open freezer and brought it to the counter.

"Special occasion?" you inquired as you rang him out, sneakily not charging him for the casse-croûte and coffee. There was a special occasion of your own that you were eager to share, hanging from the tip of your tongue.

"An intern's birthday."

"Sounds fun!" You had been saving up for your birthday present since summer, and Nanami had played a significant role. "When's your birthday?"

"July third."

Your eyes widened with surprise. "No way! Mine is July sixth. We’re summer babies."

“Happy belated birthday,” he said, fishing for his wallet, gaze barely meeting yours.

"Same to you." Offering the sandwich and coffee, you extended them towards him. "Consider it a belated birthday treat."

Nanami’s brows crinkled. “I cannot accept.”

"Why not? It's a gift." You slid the items closer with a subtle nudge, leaving him little room to refuse. "And you've given me a priceless gift, Mr. Nanami." Your eyes hinted at the tip jar's location, which now lay empty.

“Were you robbed?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.

“What—? No! Oh my god. You’re so funny.” A chuckle escaped behind your fist, and he observed you momentarily before glancing away. "I'm heading to Malaysia next week!"

Nanami gave a subtle nod. Although his lack of a more animated response disappointed you, you understood that shortness was his nature. "Congratulations.”

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami. Your generous tips really made a difference. They covered half of our trip.”

“Our? It’s not a solo trip?”

You let out a little nervous laugh. Should you really be telling Nanami about your crippling love life? Would he even be interested? Well, he seemed to listen carefully when you talk. Maybe he wouldn’t care, but you really needed someone to talk to about this. Unfortunately, all your friends were too busy with their marriages to care.

“Well?” Nanami prompted.

"Right, sorry. It's just—I've actually been seeing someone. Funny enough, we met in a Facebook group for solo travelers. He lives in a nearby town.”

Unexpectedly, Nanami's first question caught you off guard. "Can you trust him?" His concern surfaced, causing you to pause. "I'm only asking because you met this man online. You can't trust strangers on the internet."

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami, but I’m capable enough to know about stranger danger," you said with a funny smile, dismissing his parental concern. "Besides, we’ve gone on a few dates over the past month."

Nanami's frown remained intact. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you paying for him, too?"

"Yes."

“Why?” Nanami asked, firmly placing his palms on the counter, making it clear he wasn't leaving until he was convinced you wouldn't get in trouble during your Malaysian adventure.

"What do you mean 'why'?"

His mouth opened but then closed into a thin line, his forehead lines deepening. "It’s not my place to tell you what’s right and what isn’t—"

"Yes, you’re right about that," you interrupted.

"—but this is bordering on recklessness. You cannot use your trip’s money to pay for a man you’ve known for a mere month. Why is he even in the traveler’s group if he cannot afford to pay for himself?"

"Mr. Nan—"

"You are being scammed."

Your teeth clenched together. You rarely got impatient. Years in the hospitality industry and dealing with misogynistic tenants didn't break you. Even setting up your bakery and almost draining your savings didn't dim your optimism.

But getting scolded by someone who barely spoke more than five sentences to you in a whole year of being a regular? That's pushing it.

He didn't know you or Toji, the guy you're seeing. He didn’t understand how much you appreciated him accompanying you. So what if you covered his share of the trip expenses? Toji promised to pay you back, and he's been paying the bills for your dates. They might not be fancy, but it's the gesture that matters.

Sure, Nanami chipped in some money, and you're thankful for that. But he has no right to question you. Other people also contributed to your travel fund; it's not like he single-handedly financed the whole trip. You appreciated his support, but he was not in a position to lecture you.

With a sigh, you managed to contain your frustration and said, "Have a great rest of your night, Mr. Nanami.”

Nanami's frustration was palpable as he stood firm, his gaze piercing through the windows of your soul. “I suggest you take my advice into serious consideration. It would greatly upset me if you had the chance to visit one of your favorite countries taken from you.”

You didn't bother watching him go. Instead, your discovery awaited you at the counter—the money for the coffee and casse-croûte lay there, accompanied by a crumpled yellow note that had slipped to the floor. Moving around the counter, you picked it up and smoothed out its wrinkles.

What greeted you was your own name scrawled across the sticky note, repeated around fifty times, the letters overlapping in a chaotic dance. Some were hastily scratched out, while others were executed with perfect cursive precision. You didn’t know what to make of it.

During your confusion, a new customer walked in. Quickly, you pocketed the note, focused on carrying on with your day despite the lingering frustration that Nanami's cryptic message had left in its wake.

Toji never showed up.

You waited for him for two agonizing hours, extending the torture even more after your flight had taken off. It dawned on you that he likely didn't bother getting a ticket. He probably pocketed the money you sent him and vanished into thin air. Every attempt to reach him failed miserably—your calls were forwarded, and the fifth one hammered the heartbreaking truth that he had blocked your number. To compound your misery, you sent him a string of text messages that refused to deliver your pain. You didn't even know where he lived, as your encounters were always in the obscure locations of your budgeted dates.

The thought of reporting him to the police crossed your mind, accusing him of theft, but the lack of photographic evidence left you helpless. To make matters worse, he hated taking pictures, and you were uncertain if the name he provided was even real. All that remained was a flicker of hope that you might cross paths with the bastard and unleash your pent-up rage with a hard kick to his dick.

With a heavy heart, you gathered your strength, brushed away the tears until not a single trace remained on your lashes, and lugged your suitcase and carry-on outside the airport, hoping to hail a cab.

The idea of facing the upcoming days at work felt agonizing, goading you to spend them in the isolation of your shabby apartment. You were engrossed in a depressing routine—microwaved dinners, aimless hours on the couch, and a marathon of old cable TV shows.

As hunger struck again, you contemplated your options. Baking seemed like a possibility, but motivation had abandoned you. Pasta could be an option, but the lack of noodles and tomato sauce made it impractical. So, you settled for the one thing that required no ingredients: crying.

At least that was free.

Despite the inner turmoil, you mustered the strength to shoulder your overcoat, sporting your fleece pajamas printed with candy canes and well-worn second-hand boots.

The short walk to the corner store felt longer than usual, the biting cold making you clutch your threadbare coat tighter. Your teeth chattered in protest as you entered, and the rush of warm air was a momentary relief against the chill. Fingers numb, you mindlessly reached for familiar comfort snacks—chips, chocolate milk, anything to dull the ache.

A hand much larger than yours beat you to the last packet of croissants.

“Ah, sorry.” You let it go. “All yours—” You choked as you looked up, and up, at Nanami staring at you wide-eyed, his hazel eyes flickering at a rapid speed as if he were hallucinating your presence. Your face flushed with embarrassment, and the weight of the past five days crammed upon you—his uncanny prediction, your own naivety, and the sting of being swindled. “Mr. Nanami . . . ”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in—”

“Good night.”

With a dismissive shake of your head, you left the basket on the counter, mumbled a quick apology, and retreated back into the biting cold.

You’ve faced tons of humiliating moments—slipping in front of customers, your purse strap getting snagged in a door and dragging you back, and that one unforgettable instance when a little boy labeled your eyebrows as caterpillars in front of a line of onlookers. Yet, none of those incidents could hold a candle to the awkwardness of bumping into the very man who had warned you about the ill-fated choice of paying for a stranger's trip—stranger now—when it was supposed to be your trip.

You felt a firm grip on your wrist, making your restless pacing suddenly stop.

Startled, you turned around to find a pair of expressionless hazel eyes and a slightly out-of-breath figure. Now is not the time to ogle Mr. Nanami’s broad shoulders, you idiot!

Releasing your wrist, he handed over a white, plastic bag. With a raised eyebrow, you peered inside to inspect its contents. It held everything from your shopping basket, including the last packet of croissants. Even more unexpected, he had paid for it all.

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” you assured, your eyes already scanning for the nearest ATM, just in case you forgot. "But for now." You pulled out the packaged croissants and extended them toward him. Your body was shaking, not because of November but because of how you were scammed after being forewarned by Nanami. “Please. Take it.”

He took your small hand in both of his, the warmth immediately melting the tension in your body. “So cold.”

A soft giggle escaped you at the obvious observation, and you placed your free hand on top of his. "So warm." Sniffling, tears welled up in your eyes. "You know what else is warm? The sun. And it's yellow. It's so yellow."

“Factually speaking, it is white.”

You wiped an arm across your nose. “What?”

“The sun. It’s white. It’s only yellow in children's books.”

You weren't about to argue with the guy who vindicated your slip-ups. Still, given the circumstances, you wished he'd soften the bluntness and let you bask in the illusion that the sun was a simple shade of yellow.

"I've always loved the color yellow," you mumbled. "Maybe getting scammed was a blessing. I'd probably get fined for wearing yellow otherwise. I couldn't afford to mess up on my trip. Besides, it all depends on the shade, right? Imagine how many fines I'd rack up just testing which shade of yellow suits me—"

Nanami tugged you close, capturing your lips with his.

A sharp intake of breath filled your lungs, eyes widening in surprise. Instinctively, your hands pushed him away, fingers grazing your tingling lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t—Don’t worry. About it.” You tucked your lips in and tasted chocolate and mint—two of your favorite combinations. Nanami always seemed like the kind of man who would hate both flavors independently and dependently. “You’re okay. I mean—You’re okay in general. You’re not okay with kissing. You’re probably great, I’m sure.” Your tongue traced the curve of your lower lip, and Nanami’s eyes followed the motion. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

You walked up to him, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and tugged him down a notch, your lips colliding with his.

Nanami's touch was calculated, his hand sailing onto your cheek, feeding warmth to your cold ear before vanishing into the labyrinth of your hair. Simultaneously, the other serpentined to the small of your back, his magnetic energy drawing you snugly against his chest. His warm tongue delicately swept across your lower lip, an unspoken cue that encouraged you to part your lips in response.

Nanami deepened the kiss, your tongues stroking against one another feverishly as if it were your last kiss. Who knows? Maybe it could’ve been. But the way he kissed with such desperation, releasing soft moans, not allowing you a moment to catch your breath, made you think that maybe this was just the start.

And you kissed him back just as needy.

If your hands slightly released their hold on his lapels, you'd gently cup the sides of his neck, rising on your tiptoes. And if your calves protested, you'd draw him down, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers entwining in his pale, golden locks. The taste of mint chocolate lingered on your lips, and a smile curved on your mouth as he stole a quick peck, pulling back just to gaze into your eyes for a moment before kissing you again.

You’re not sure how long you two stood and kissed there. Nanami was the one who always took the lead, savoring the taste of your pink, tender tongue, kissing your chilly cheeks and dewy eyes. The desire for each other made it hard to break away, yet the need for a breath of air was undeniable.

Finally, you decided to be the one to step back, signalling the end of your first kiss with him.

Your bottom lip tingled as you pulled it in, jaw aching from the infectious smile that had taken over your face. You couldn't help stealing glances at the tall man before you, who returned your gaze with a soft, almost imperceptible grin. Yet, in his eyes, under the gentle glow of the streetlight, you could see the excitement and joy of kissing you, twinkling brightly.

“I'm gonna—”

“I should—”

Both of you sighed; you with a soft chuckle, and him with a discreet throat-clearing.

“I've already missed quite a few workdays,” you said. “Gotta earn that dough if I want to make next month’s rent.” Nanami didn’t quite catch your bakery pun, but he nodded in agreement.

“Right,” you murmured, subtly veering to the side, putting on a little show as you started to walk away. You admitted it—you were a hopeless romantic. You secretly hoped for him to steal a kiss on your cheek and watch until you safely disappeared around the corner. “I’m off now.”

“Goodnight,” Nanami replied, subtly licking his lips for the sixteenth time. Yes, you were keeping count.

“Night-night.”

Nanami strolled down his end of the sidewalk. You followed suit, turning down your street.

Luck had only sometimes been on your side when it came to men and their romantic gestures. Oh well. At least you experienced a passionate kiss from one of your favorite customers. Asking for more seemed a bit too much—

A hand gently pressed against your back, and as you turned, it gracefully curved around your waist, drawing you in. Nanami caught your gasp and kissed you with an urgency that doubled, holding onto you as if his life depended on it, lifting you off your toes. Three sweet pecks later, he released you, both of your faces flushed.

"Get home safely," he whispered, walking away without a second glance.

That night, you couldn't help but giggle into your mascara-stained pillow.

The morning after, you were a whirlwind of joy and light, twirling through the bakery with trays of freshly baked pastries, replenishing boxes and take-out essentials. You greeted customers with an extra dose of sweetness, and to top it off, you even handed out a tray of delectable chocolate jam cookies. And you wore a yellow bow in your hair.

The oven beeped as the casse-croûtes finished baking, signaling their readiness for Nanami's arrival in just five minutes. You took special care in preparing his milk coffee, indulging in a quiet chuckle at your undeniable favoritism. Though the neighborhood bakery wasn't bustling with a large customer base, your attention was solely dedicated to him—your only regular as everyone else buzzed in the distant city an hour away.

With his coffee prepared and two casse-croûtes packed, you added a chocolate-mint cookie to the bag. Then, you decided to rearrange the shelves of gift baskets to pass the time.

Setting up the ladder, you ascended the shaky steps until you were eye to eye with the fifth shelf. Heights were never your forte, which, in hindsight, was another reason why flying to Malaysia was out of the question. The more you thought about being scammed, the more your heart wrenched from your lost trip. You’d again brought out your tip jar and prayed the odds were in your favor. Hell, maybe you’d ask Nanami to join you if you decided to take your relationship to the next level.

As you secured the bow on the basket, your gaze landed on the clock—6:30 p.m., and Nanami was a no-show.

Anxiety surged through you in an instant.

Did he leave you hanging? Maybe that kiss was a turnoff, and he chose to disappear rather than be upfront about finding you too overwhelming. Did your breath smell bad? Were you a terrible kisser? Or, worse, did something happen to him?

A torrent of worries flooded your mind, breaking through like a burst dam. Each imagined scenario seemed more nightmarish than the last, causing your head to spin. Recent events, like Toji's betrayal, fueled this self-doubt, made you question your intuition. While Nanami was clearly wealthy, consistently tipping a twenty each day, you found yourself questioning whether he had plans to use you for something else. As if that weren't enough, doubts crept in about your appearance and your optimistic, extroverted personality.

It started to make sense, didn't it? Nanami led a tranquil life, sticking to a routine of work and home, while you were a whirlwind of spontaneity—constantly buzzing with new ideas and discussions, unable to sit still or resist laughter at the silliest jokes. Everything seemed to fascinate you, yet nothing appeared to faze him. How could you have been so naive to entertain the thought—

“Good evening.”

“Ah!” you yelped at the sudden baritone intruding into your thoughts. Your foot, betrayed by the unexpected intrusion, lost its balance on the step. Your arms flailed in a desperate attempt to find stability as you teetered backward, the impending hazard of a severe concussion and potential spinal cord injury looming.

But just as you were prepared to shake hands with God, Nanami's powerful arms swooped in at the last possible moment. With a secure hold, he cradled you in a bridal style, and you clung to him like a shaking puppy, arms looped around his neck.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his breath slightly labored.

You gingerly peeled one eye open to peek at him. His expression was one of calm disorientation; eyebrows knit together while his lips maintained a straight, tight line.

"Yes," you whispered, soothed by his timely intervention.

Nanami steadied you back onto your feet but maintained a firm grip on your elbows. “Look at me.” As you did, he inspected each eye closely while keeping his hand steady on your left cheek. He checked below your jaw, down to your dusty palms, which he cleaned with his silk handkerchief. He also patted down your tousled hair. "Are you sure you're okay?"

“Mm-hmm.” You could cry from how gentle he was with you. “A-Are you okay?”

“I am now.” He took a composed breath and effortlessly retrieved his suitcase from the floor, brushing off invisible dust. “I apologize for being late. My . . . car broke down.”

"What? Oh my god! Do you need me to give you my mechanic's number? I promise he's not as bad as the Google reviews say. He's actually quite a sweet man. And he gives me a friends and family discount because my father was close with him." You beamed, and Nanami squinted his eyes as if the brightness of your smile momentarily blinded him, but he tried his best to reciprocate.

“Do your parents live here?”

You shook your head. “They passed away a while ago.”

“I apologize.”

"Don't be." You quickly switched subjects by fluttering towards the counter to pick up his items. “Tell me how your coffee tastes.” You turned around, adding, “I switched to a new brand of milk—”

Nanami pressed his lips against yours, momentarily freezing you. His seamless transition afterward could have fooled an onlooker into thinking you'd been married for years. "Thank you.” He took a sip and nodded thoughtfully. “It’s great. Everything you make is great.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, sudden shyness enveloping you. From the kiss? The compliment? Him? You didn’t know at all. “Do you still need me to give you the mechanic’s number?”

“It’s all right. I had it fixed. Minor battery issue, that’s all.”

“Ah, okay. See, that’s why I prefer to walk.”

Nanami glanced elsewhere, nodding. “Then, would you like to walk with me after you’ve closed?”

“Oh.” A subtle flicker of surprise crossed your features. Nonchalantly, you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear before smiling warmly. “Of course, yes. I’d love to go on a walk with you. Where are we going? There are lots of cafés in a nearby shopping district. I know all the best places to take you to.” A grave thought struck you just then. “Oh, actually. Hmm.”

Curious, he tilted his head down, meeting your worried gaze. "What is it?"

"Well," you began, your thoughts taking a cautious turn, "you probably have a set time to be home unless you live nearby. In that case, we could spend the entire evening strolling around. Only if you're interested, of course."

Nanami’s lips twitched. “I live nearby.”

“Where?” You weren’t ashamed to have been so upfront. It was more of a precautionary measure.

And he didn't seem bothered, quickly revealing the familiar neighborhood you instantly recognized. It was a fifteen-minute walk from your own place.

"May I step out momentarily to make a call?" Nanami asked, pulling out his phone. It was the latest model you noticed—one that came out last week and mocked your own that was five versions older. “It will be quick.”

“By all means.” You had to fix your hair and make-up anyway.

Nanami nodded and exited the shop, leaving you to flee behind the counter. As you crouched down to check yourself in the small mirror tucked away in the lower drawer, you couldn't help but feel a warmth on your face from the unexpected collapse, the sweet, brief kiss, and his impeccable navy blue suit decorated with yellow cufflinks. Maybe a café was too casual for him; a restaurant might have been a more suitable choice. An expensive choice. However, you were adamant about not letting Nanami cover the entire cost.

Upon his return, five minutes later, you both settled at one of the three round tables in your bakery (he even pulled out your chair for you). Sipping on your coffees and enjoying the casse-croûtes and chocolate pastries, the conversation seemed somewhat one-sided. Yet, Nanami's aloof demeanor never made you feel inferior for dominating the dialogue. He listened to every word and vowel with his undivided attention, nodding alongside and adding in short sentences when he could relate to your childhood shenanigans.

"Wait," he interrupted, causing you to halt in your tracks. The sun cast a warm glow on his face, making his eyes narrow into slits, but God did he look handsome. He extended his hand and brushed a thumb near your lips, discovering a small chocolate smudge. Swiftly, he licked it clean and tidied up the area around your lips with a napkin. "Beautiful."

“What?”

Nanami was a deer in headlights. He sunk his head, beating himself up from murmuring his thoughts aloud—at least, that’s what you concluded. "You look beautiful," he declared with more assurance, his gaze on your face. "You are beautiful, Y/N."

Oh, my.

Your heart was going to claw itself out of your chest. You could cook an egg on your face from how heated it had gotten. In fact, you were burning hotter than the sun, which continuously made him squint and blink. “Thank you.”

He nodded twice, finishing the remnants of his coffee. Rising, he disposed of the cups and wrappers in the garbage bin, then extended a hand to help you stand. "I'll wait outside while you close up."

At a lightning pace, you ensured that everything in the bakery was safely unplugged and shut off. Grabbing your purse, you gave yourself a quick once-over in the mirror, adjusting your face and hair. Stepping outside, you meticulously locked the door and gates.

Without a word, Nanami entwined his fingers with yours, causing you to smile like an idiot at him. He maintained a straight, vigilant gaze, seemingly unresponsive as you wrapped yourself around his arm. A subtle smirk tugged at your lips when you felt his muscles flex.

You walked for hours, café-hopping and trying pastries, baked goods, and sweet drinks. Every time Nanami attempted to cover the expenses with his cash, you scolded him, insisting that since you had suggested the place, you should be the one to pay. It was a rule you had read about online, and all your friends stuck to it religiously. The thought of Nanami spending his hard-earned money on your interests made you feel incredibly guilty.

As a matter of fact, you were feeling guilty about tons of things. He told you he worked at an investment firm, which meant it was a nine-to-five, likely sporting a migraine he kept hidden, and now he was being dragged around the shopping district by you, forced to listen to you because he was a man who didn’t complain, wouldn’t complain, and long, story short, you wanted to die.

“Kento,” you muttered, removing your hand from his, goosebumps rippling on your skin.

“Yes, darling?”

Your chest felt like it was being clenched in a fist. “I'm . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you do all this. For making you pay for everything. For dragging you around when you're probably on the verge of exhaustion." Avoiding his gaze, you fixed your eyes on the concrete beneath you. “I know I can be too much sometimes—well, all the time.” A self-deprecating chuckle escaped your lips. "Exes in my past relationships have made it clear. I get overly excited easily, crave attention like one needs oxygen, trust people too easily to the point of getting scammed, and, well, I don't bring anything particularly special to the table. I'm sorry, Kento. Maybe it's best if we just stay friends?”

Nanami’s soft fingers lifted your chin up. Your words absolutely shattered his face, leaving you to feel worse than before. His lips were parted into a frown, his brows were scrunched up, brown irises flickering like he couldn’t believe you said that. This was the most reaction he had given you in the year that you’ve known him.

“No,” he said.

You blinked the tears gathered at your waterline. “No?”

“No.” Nanami took a calming breath, closing his eyes. His forehead gently pressed against yours. “Please, let me be selfish for this once. For you. I can’t let you go—I won’t let you go."

"Kento—"

"I want to do this, Y/N. I want to pay for everything. I want you to drag me around because I’ll never be too tired for you.” Nanami drew back and cradled your sobbing face in his large hands. “I know I fail to show it, darling, but I love your excitement. I love paying attention to every detail of you because you’ve become my oxygen source. You’re a good, kindhearted woman, and anyone would be lucky to be seen by you. And you don’t have to bring anything to the table because there isn’t one dividing us, keeping us lengths apart.” His lips brushed your forehead, imprinting his words into your mind. "I want us to be more than just friends. I want us to be best friends. Lovers. In this life and the ones that follow."

You could explode.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, seeking support as if the ground beneath you was about to crumble. Yet, you knew he would catch you, just as before. He was so real, embracing you wholly, both of you breathing in each other's scents to confirm a human like this could exist. How grateful you were he stumbled into your bakery that one rainy night, and how grateful he was that you offered him free coffee and a casse-croûte while he was freezing and trembling. His presence brought life to your bakery, gave you something to look forward to when you were at your lowest, and you gave him . . . everything. You were his everything since the first day.

As the shared silence lingered, Nanami's phone shattered the moment, its noisy ring cutting through the haze. You instinctively stepped back, but he clung to your hand as if afraid you might slip away.

Never, Nanami Kento. You’re stuck with me.

When he took out his phone, you caught a glimpse of the contact name: Satoru (assistant).

Before you could process the fact Nanami had an assistant, he swiped right. “Yeah?”

The voice on the other end resonated with loud cheerfulness in the quiet alleyway. Nanami half-rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Leave it there. I’ll be there when I want to.”

The assistant chuckled and sang his goodbye, the cheerful tone abruptly cutting off as Nanami ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Do all stockbrokers have assistants?”

He tilted his head. “I’m not a stockbroker.”

“Oh? I’m sorry. I assumed because you worked at an investment firm.”

“Yes, I was a stockbroker.” He nodded, warming your hand in his, then casually added, “But I own a firm now.”

Your brows hit your hairline. “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. We have several locations around the country. Kento Investments. Have you heard of it?”

Heard of it? You were a client some time ago when you were starting your bakery. All you encountered were glowing reviews about their ethical practices, a refreshing leave from the scheming ways of most investment firms that had previously taken advantage of you. It stood out as the industry leader in your research, and the team was lovely in guiding you through the process, so much so that you even invited them to your grand opening.

"Ah, you have." Nanami grinned, gently tilting your chin upward and closing your gaping mouth. "Therefore, my darling, don't feel guilty about me covering the expenses. I'm quite secure in my position to support both of us for centuries."

All you could manage was a disbelieving chuckle as you rested your forehead against his chest. Taking it as an invitation, he embraced you, crowning you with kisses.

Lifting your head, you said, "There's something I want to get for you."

"What is it?"

Hand-in-hand, you pulled him back toward the bustling district, the sound of his deep laughter echoing in the air. Your own laughter naturally joined in.

As you strolled past a vendor selling accessories, your attention was drawn to an item you had briefly noticed earlier in your walk. Although you planned to purchase it the following day and surprise him in the afternoon, tonight felt like the perfect moment.

Politely approaching the elderly vendor, you asked, "Could I please try those on?" He handed you a pair of round sunglasses with a green tint to the lenses. Standing on your toes, you carefully placed the glasses on Nanami's nose, adjusting them to sit perfectly on the bridge. The sides of the spectacles featured a stylish steampunk design that complemented his narrow, sharp features. "Handsome.”

"I'll take it.” Nanami reached for his wallet. However, you were one step ahead, swiftly bringing out the spare change you had set aside in your coat pocket. You had already calculated the price, ready to outsmart him in this little game of charity.

“Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you said to the shop vendor, ignoring Nanami’s stare.

“Y/N.”

“Yes, darling?" You looped around his arm and began your stroll down the sidewalk. “Oh, come on. Let me be selfish and treat you once in a while.” You cut off his protests with a kiss.

He surrendered instantly.

Over the next four weeks, you didn’t realize how quickly you’d become comfortable with Nanami. Like clockwork, he would arrive at your bakery, patiently occupying a table until your duties with customers or decorating displays finished. Now resembling a vibrant florist shop, the bakery owed its transformation to Nanami's thoughtful gestures—bouquets of flowers in every shade of yellow, orange, and white became an amusing routine. As you arranged them in vases, you would burst into fits of giggles like a maniac.

You and him were like a Venn diagram, overlapping in unexpected places. He enjoyed non-fiction, classics, and history books; you immersed yourself in the world of romance and mystery novels. TV nights were a compromise between his love for documentaries and your penchant for anything sappy on Netflix, occasionally spicing things up with a true-crime documentary. His fascination with astronomy met your fixation with astrology, and surprisingly, he didn't scoff when you read the lines on his palms. Instead, he appreciated it just as much as you cherished his nightly photos of the moon and his ability to name the stars above.

At least, you were both Team Cats.

Nanami introduced you to his friends, including his quirky assistant Gojo, who had a habit of shamelessly flirting with you, seemingly just to get under Nanami's skin. However, your boyfriend was secure enough not to let it bother him. Yet, a trace of possessiveness would emerge during sex—when the two of you were entwined in bed, bodies bared and bathed in the aftermath of shared sweat.

Exiting the restaurant after a delightful dinner date, Nanami turned to you and suggested, "I'd like to invite you to my home tonight."

Finally, you thought, resisting the urge to dip your toes into the topic of visiting his home, especially considering he had been a frequent guest at yours.

The fact that he lived nearby had always puzzled you; he mentioned it casually yet never extended an invitation for a simple coffee or a chat on his welcome mat. Weekends saw him working from your living room, staying overnight, but on weekdays, he'd only spend a brief hour or two with you before heading home, a practice that seemed counterintuitive given his closeness. Despite the confusion, you hesitated to jeopardize your relationship by fishing too deeply.

So far, Nanami hadn't given you any reason to doubt him.

"Are you sure?" you asked cautiously.

"Absolutely, darling.” Nanami took your hand and planted a small kiss on the back of it. "I apologize for the delay. I've been having it . . ." He casually flicked up his sunglasses that had slipped. ". . . renovated."

“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, I’d love to!”

Nanami nodded and leaned down to kiss your cheek. “Thank you for being so patient. I know it was eating you alive. You're not exactly the master of hiding your emotions.” He gave you a small smile and kissed your cheek again.

You responded with a smile that crinkled your nose. "Just a bit anxious, that's all."

"Understandable.” He guided you toward his neighbourhood, exchanging a warm smile as you nestled against his arm. Observing the goosebumps on your skin and the faint shivers, he realized you had forgotten your cardigan. Without hesitation, he removed his blazer and draped it around your shoulders, helping you slip your arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the pleasant scent from the collars. "You always smell so good."

Nanami bent down, kissing the side of your neck right above your racing pulse. "As do you," he murmured against your skin. "Always."

“Gosh, you're so flirty,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his midsection and burying your face in his chest.

“Come on now.”

You walked for another ten minutes, taking a five-minute pit stop to pet a stray cat before stopping in front of a towering residence building. It was one of those extravagant ones boasting a fountain in the lobby and a vigilant security guard who greeted Nanami with a two-finger salute.

Hand on your back, Nanami guided you toward the elevator with mirrors on all sides.

He exuded an air of sophistication in his neatly rolled-up black dress shirt, complemented by beige pants. His pale, blond hair was slicked back, a Rolex clasped his wrist, and veins corded his well-defined forearms. The sunglasses you had given him rested atop his head.

As Nanami caught your eyes on the reflective surfaces, a sudden blush warmed your cheeks. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, fingers idly playing with the golden butterfly bracelet he had given you on the night he asked you to be his girlfriend. “I was just . . . God, you’re so beautiful. Sometimes, I think I’m dreaming of you. And I don’t want to wake up from it.”

Nanami released his grip on your hand, wrapping his arm around your waist. He tilted your chin upward and planted a lecherous kiss on your lips. As you stumbled backward, your back met the cool surface of a mirror, and you clung to his biceps. He continued kissing your jaw and nibbling at your neck.

“Ken—Wait, there’s a camera!”

“I own the building.”

Without allowing you to react, he kissed you fervently, his hands framing your face and his knee pressing between your legs. Your hips ground against the muscled surface, creating a heated friction that drew a moan from him.

The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival, but Nanami was undeterred. He refused to break the kiss. Lifting you effortlessly, he cradled you with a single forearm beneath your backside and your arms encircling his neck. Laughter echoed as you entered directly into the main corridor of his penthouse.

“Your front door is an elevator?” You marveled with an open jaw.

“Yes, it seems so.”

Oh, how you loved his monotonous replies.

Nanami gently placed you onto the expansive white surface of his couch, smoothly moving over your body to continue.

“I knew you were a clean freak,” you said between his kisses, “but your penthouse looks like it was bought this morning.”

“Two weeks ago.” He kisses down your neck, sideways toward your left shoulder. “That’s why I waited to invite you. Gojo was having the place decorated. I've installed a library for you, too. We can go book-shopping this weekend.”

"Wait, what?" You pushed him back by his chest, incredulous. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. You mean to tell me you moved in just two weeks ago?"

"Yes," he answered, tilting his head slightly perplexedly. "When you asked about my residence, I panicked and couldn't come up with a proper answer, fearing you might decline my invitation for a walk. So, I bought this building from the previous owner on the spot. There are also commercial benefits. Quite a strategic move, if you ask me." With that, Nanami resumed his attention, focusing on kissing your collarbones and skillfully lowering your dress, exposing your chest to him.

But you were still stuck on the subject like a pesky fruit fly. “But you don’t live here?”

“I don’t.” His mouth brushed over the mound of your left breast. “I live in Shibuya.”

“Shibuya? Kento, that’s an hour and a half away!"

"Hmm." He glanced up, mouth sucking at your nipple.

"You've been faithfully coming to my city every single day, all the way from Shibuya, for a whole year? You've been burning all that gas just to be with me?"

He broke away to say, "Gojo drives me occasionally," and switched to your right breast.

"Nanami Kento, are you out of your mind?"

Finally, he released you and sighed. "I fail to see the issue here." He appeared so innocent, with his moist lips, tousled hair, and a crumpled dress shirt.

You hurriedly sat up, readjusting your dress, which seemed to displease him. "I'm at a loss for words." Your gaze caught the weariness etched on his face, the bags under his eyes, the slow, heavy blinks signaling his desperate need for sleep. "You haven't actually been living here, have you?"

Upon hearing that, Nanami let out a weary sigh. "I do it when I'm too drained to make the drive back on weekdays."

As the details of his schedule fell into place, you flinched inwardly. He would rise at the crack of dawn, dedicate endless hours to handling clients at the office, and then endure a lengthy drive to your city, only to spend his evenings with you before leaving around midnight to return to Shibuya. The only time he would stay overnight at your place was on Saturdays, and he would depart early on Sundays for work. And all this time, you had believed he had an office in your city.

Oh, God.

You loved him.

You loved him so much.

Tears welled up in your eyes at the realization of just how much he loved you. The man had gone so far as to purchase an entire building in your city just to be closer to you. He showered you with affection at every opportunity, devoted his alone time to you with undivided attention and mind-blowing orgasms, and his bank transactions were probably dedicated to you.

“I don’t deserve your kindness,” you whispered.

“Neither did I the night when we met.” Nanami’s words always had a comforting effect on you. He gently pulled you onto his lap, and you curled up like a fetus, planting a kiss on his cheekbone. “I’ve loved you for a very long time, Y/N. I love . . . God, I love you so much. I didn't realize I was capable of feeling this much love for another human until I met you. It was all locked up inside me, and you held the key all along, darling." Leaning forward, he smoothly swept his blazer and delved into the pocket, revealing a small yellow box. With trembling hands, you accepted it and opened it to find a petite, golden key inside. “Our front door is an elevator.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“Move in with me.”

“Kento—”

“I know. I know it's quite early to discuss this, and I want to give you the space and time to consider it. As you mentioned, your lease ends next month, and I'll officially be transitioning to remote work with a few business trips every other week. It would mean a lot to me if you decided to join me on those trips." He gently placed the key in your hand, kissing your fist. "I'm scheduled to travel to Malaysia next month."

Overpowered with emotion, you choked out a sob and immediately lunged at him with a hug, causing both of you to stumble backward as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He loved you. He wanted you to move in with him. He wanted to travel with you, starting with Malaysia. Suddenly, the tips he left in your jar took on a deeper significance, backing the idea that you weren't meant to journey alone, why you weren’t meant to go with that swindling bastard. As Nanami's gestures of kindness and service became increasingly evident, your tears welled up, choking him in a tight embrace that eventually had him laughing.

Last November, Nanami Kento had stepped into your small bakery, raindrops clinging to him, unknowingly marking his permanent presence in your life.

7K notes · View notes

dragonbarbie · 2 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni

summary: aemond targaryen is tasked with bringing the stormlands to his brother's side. but when he arrives he finds the new regent, old lord Borros' young widow, isn't as pliant as he had anticipated. he finds himself drawn to the poised, commanding lady of storm's end, much to his horror. but he refuses to leave without bringing this storm to heel

word count: 12 k (ye gotta suffer for ye smut what can i say)

tags: mentions of past forced/arranged marriage, reader is a member of a minor baratheon branch and is Borros' widow but no other traits are described, smut, handjob, choking kink, fingering, p in v sex, hate sex, creampie, cowgirl, mention of moontea, hints of dom!aemond? or hes just being a control freak i mean the line is very thin [lmk if i missed something]

sidenote: this was such a fun one shot to write, i was writing aemond after so long i think i got a bit carried away hytftgyhuijo do comment/ask and lmk if you'd like this as a series cause i might just have ideas for that

The hall of Storm’s End was cold, the stone walls rising around you as you watched the storm raging outside through the window, expecting to see your guest arrive at the dreary scene any minute. The screech of a dragon approaching managed to reach you, louder even than the sound of thunder. You did not wait to catch a glimpse of the creature for yourself, instead your black gown swept as you made your way to your late husband’s seat, the dark fabric pooling around your feet as you sat, spilling over the stone like a dark tide.

The unmistakable roar of Vhagar’s wings heralded Aemond Targaryen’s arrival, accompanied by a loud ‘thump’ of what you imagined was the ground straining under the beasts feet, to signal just how close to your home the dragon had landed. The dragon’s arrival even rattled the windows, a reminder of the power the prince carried with him—power you knew he intended to wield like a blade. Your jaw tightened for a brief moment. Vhagar’s presence wasn’t just a spectacle, a grand display of power and might; it was a threat.

Your lips curled ever so slightly in distaste. The prince’s arrival on the back of a dragon, no less the largest alive, was nothing less than a veiled threat. He wanted you to know the might of the greens, to feel the heat of dragonfire on your doorstep.

You stretched out your hands and placed them on the arms of the stone seat, chin up, back straight; determined, to be seen as a commanding presence. You wore no crown, but you would impress that this was your land. Your posture must reflect as if you were carved from the same storm-hardened stone that made the keep, a Baratheon through and through, even if from a lesser branch of the family.

You belonged here, not merely as the old lord’s widow and the new one’s mother, but by your own right too – you had to hold onto that as the gates to the hall were flung open after a few minutes of anticipation.

In he stepped—Aemond One-Eye, cloaked in Targaryen arrogance, his long strides purposeful, each movement precise, till he reached the middle of the hall. His single eye fell upon you immediately, his gaze sharp and assessing, like a man who expected you to yield at the first word. You did not move.

After a few seconds, he continued his steps once more and you let him approach, watched him close the distance until he stood before you. Then, with all the decorum expected of his blood, he bent low and kissed your hand. “My lady Baratheon.” His voice sounded as cold as his hand felt against yours.

“Prince Aemond,” you said, your voice as smooth as silk, yet laced with an undercurrent of steel. “Storm’s End bids you welcome… and your dragon.” you tilted your head ever so slightly, the hint of a smile on your lips. “I must say, it is not every day one finds a beast as colossal as Vhagar at their gates. Her presence is... difficult to miss.”

Aemond straightened, his eye narrowing ever so slightly. “Vhagar’s presence is a reminder of the strength our House offers to those wise enough to stand with it, my lady. A reminder, of a promise of protection.”

“A reminder,” you mused, leaning back in your chair as though you held all the time in the world, “or a threat?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “Only to those who would stand against us, my lady.”

“Ah,” your eyes danced with playfulness, “and I suppose I must decide whether to accept this…. protection…or risk the wrath of your beast?” Your displeasure at being forced to house the ancient creature as you made the decision about whom to side with was clear. Vhagar’s presence cast such a long shadow, it hung over every word that was spoken in that great hall. You knew Otto Hightower had expected the mere presence of the dragon would encourage the frail, young lady, who’d only been appointed regent because she had the good fortune to give birth to a son unlike Lord Baratheon’s first wife, to come on side without much fuss. You were going to cause him much disappointment.

Vhagar might be mighty, but you would not give in to the feeling of fear at her attendance. You would stand your ground before the prince, and not let him make the mistake to think that he could intimidate you.

Hands clasping behind his back, the prince’s good eye bore into your face, his voice low, laced with a hint of warning “you appear to be a wise woman to me, my lady. You understand how unwise it is to provoke a dragon.”

You laughed softly, the sound ringing across the otherwise eerily quiet hall “Is that what I’m doing, Prince Aemond? Prodding at the dragon’s belly?”

He was trying to impose upon you the upper hand he held, to dangle the danger of his dragon over your head to get you to agree to his demands – you deflected it as if by a flick of your wrist, which left him surprised. He knew you understood him perfectly well, and he was starting to understand you too now, as you lifted your hand to your chin, and leaned on your palm to watch him almost lazily.

Your eyes sparkled with an unspoken challenge as you watched him, letting the silence linger, enjoying the way his patience seemed to thin with each passing second. You could tell he was uncomfortable with how the tension had shifted, though his eyes never left yours and his expression betrayed nothing but you observed how his nose flared up in an indication of the underlying anger and frustration. He was a dragon, yes—but one that had yet to learn patience. You would teach him.

“You know why I’ve come,” he finally said, trying to pull the conversation back into his control. “My grandsire has written to you already of my intent. A marriage alliance between our houses. I would take in marriage one of your stepdaughters, in exchange for the strength of the Stormlands at our back.”

“Ah,” you sighed, “such a generous offer. The strength of Storm’s End married to the might of your house would certainly be something. At the very least it would ensure your brother cannot be defeated outright in a land battle.” You had gone over this with your husband’s advisers multiple times, you knew the strength of your army, the advantages it brought to either side, like the back of your hand. “And yet…” you paused, lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. Aemond straightened his back, tapping his leathered foot, realising you were not going to make his work easy.

“… I have to wonder, why you think I would choose the promises of the Hand over the promises of… others?” you spokepointedly but did not mention the name of his half-sister Rhaenyra, but he understood where you were signalling. “Your brother is not the only claimant with dragons.”

Aemond forcefully replied, in an attempt to demonstrate his advantage while keeping his bubbling anger in check, “The largest dragon in the realm is before your gates. The whore of Dragonstone with her bastards could never match Vhagar.”

His words were filled with vitriol, but they did not move the lady Baratheon. You simply mused “I confess, the notion of the mighty Vhagar at my beck and call is... tempting–” Aemond’s jaw clenched at how you implied him or his dragon would be at your ‘beck and call,’ but he bit back his tongue “–but power is a fickle thing, your grace, is it not? Today, it flies at my gates; tomorrow, it may burn them. If not your dragons’, then your half-sister’s. To stand with either one of you is to stand against the other. And their dragons.”

Aemond took another step forward, refusing to let your words unsettle him. “Storm’s End has always been loyal to the Crown. We expect no less now.”

“Yes but which crown must we bow to now remains unclear, yet.” You casually replied as you rose from your seat, the dark material of your gown swirling around your feet once more. The firelight caught the fabric, casting shifting shadows that made you seem like a figure from a half-forgotten tale – larger than life, and ethereal, not quite inhabiting the same plane as the prince. “As I am sure you are aware my late husband’s father swore an oath to support Rhaenyra. While I do not dismiss this hand of friendship your grandsire, the Hand has offered us, I cannot accept it either.” You met his gaze as you looked up at him, unflinching, your smile pleasing yet razor-sharp. “Loyalty, Prince Aemond, is a curious thing. It can shift, like the sea winds of this land. And I... well, I would prefer to remain more flexible in my allegiances. At least until I’ve had time for some careful consideration.”

Impatience grew within Aemond, you could see the tension in how rigidly he stood. He could sense you were slipping from his grasp, just as easily as the wind slipped through the cracks of your keep’s stone walls. He needed to push harder, to make you commit.

“This is a matter of great urgency, my lady, I—” He was about to press further when you let out a soft sigh and brought a hand to your temple, feigning weariness. “Forgive me, my prince, but I find myself dreadfully fatigued. The burdens of leadership weigh heavily on one such as I. You must understand... after all, I am but a woman, and we are so very frail. We were not built to rule you see… is that not the core reason your brother has raised his banners against the Princess after all?” your eyes seemed to goad the prince to challenge you on your words.

Aemond clenched his folded hands behind him, but betrayed none of the irritation simmering beneath his surface. He could see right through your act. There was nothing frail about the Lady Y/N Baratheon. This was another move in your game, a way to delay him. You were stalling, that much was clear.

“Lady Y/N,” he began, stepping forward again, “we cannot afford—”

“There will be time, Prince Aemond,” you interrupted, finality in your tone, a dismissal thinly veiled behind sweetness “Plenty of time to discuss alliances and armies. Storm’s End is yours for as long as you need it. Make yourself at home.”

Aemond stiffened, realizing that you had no intention of continuing this conversation tonight. You were dismissing him, and there was nothing he could do to force your hand without showing his own weakness.

You turned then, moving toward the doorway with a graceful ease that contradicted your words of weariness. Aemond was fuming with frustration which had finally sept through the cracks of his unbothered exterior. This was the first task he had been assigned as they had started to draw their banners, the first contribution he was expected to make for his family’s cause. He refused to go back empty handed. To win the Baratheon’s to their side was his duty, and he had no intention of returning without anything other than the Stormlands in his pocket.

Just as you reached the threshold, you stopped, casting a glance over your shoulder, your voice light but edged with mockery. “Oh, and do let the staff know whatever your beast will be having. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting, would we?”

Aemond’s grinded his teeth at how you were daring to treat Vhagar as if she were no more than a hound at the gates. His dragon, the largest and most fearsome alive, reduced to a mere beast by your dismissive words. Aemond would not find it so easy to deal with the new lady of Storm’s end as most had expected. Borros’s widow may not have the years of experience to strengthen her, she was a young thing yet, that the old lord had married for the purpose of producing him sons; yet, even he would have never expected you to become this formidable a defender of his seat as you had become.

He watched as you disappeared into the shadows, having given him nothing. Everything in your manner told him one thing: this woman would not bend easily.

You stood beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of your son’s little chest. Seeing him safe and sound was all that kept you going, so whenever your mind would be distressed over the politics and games around you, you would try to be around your son to remind yourself why you were doing all of this in the first place.

Royce slept soundly, a peaceful expression on his innocent face, his tiny hand curled around the edge of his blanket. But peace was an illusion here in Storm’s End, where every decision threatened to shatter the fragile balance you were fighting to maintain. You smoothed a stray lock of dark hair from his brow, your heart heavy with the burden of his future. All this you did for him, to ensure his safety, his future, his seat. One wrong move, and you would not pay for it alone.

Behind you, the crackling fire in the hearth could not chase away the cold reality of the letter from Rhaenyra, now resting on your writing desk – it served as a reminder for you, a reminder that a storm was brewing outside. Ser Byron Swann finally brought you out of your brooding thoughts. “You’ve been quiet for some time, my lady,” came Ser Byron’s voice, tinged with concern as he stepped forward, his armour gently clinking in the quiet room. Byron had been a faithful bannerman to your late husband, and so far to you. You appreciated his counsel and concern.

Not taking your eyes off Royce, you spoke “To choose incorrectly would mean risking his future. The Stormlands could tear itself apart.” Your bannermen, always watching you with suspicion for being a woman who dared to hold power over them, had already whispered their concerns. Some remembered the oath Borros’ father had sworn to Rhaenyra years ago, binding them to her claim. Others had made their displeasure plain—a woman on the Iron Throne, abomination they had muttered darkly, displeased with the idea of a queen ruling over them. The Stormlands was teetering on the brink of division. Then there was the fear of dragons, which prevailed over all else.

You straightened, hand lingering on the bedpost as you turned away from the sight of your son and addressed your counsel more directly. “Choosing Rhaenyra might honour the oath, but it could also fracture the Stormlands beyond repair. Choosing the Greens...” You hesitated, the thought of Aemond Targaryen flashing briefly through your mind. “...may bring us under the protection of dragons, but at what cost?” Otto Hightower was perhaps the most infamous schemer in the land, and the ‘King’ Aegon was by all accounts a useless drunk. Not to mention his younger brother…

Byron crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Neutrality is not an option either, not with the eyes of both sides upon us.”

You sighed wearily, and agreed “No, choosing neither would invite war right to our doorstep instead.” You paced toward the hearth, placing a hand on the frame of the fireplace as you watched the flickering flames that seemed to reflect your thoughts, anxiously moving, untamed. You had been strong when facing the prince, unwilling to back down or give away any fears you might privately have. Now you had no need to hold onto such a façade, you could admit to yourself that this was an extremely slippery situation you and the Stormlands were in. Your brow furrowed with worry as you looked into the flames, willing for an answer to leap out from them.

Byron's eyes followed you closely. As if he could read your mind, he tried to voice your thoughts “There is no right choice, my lady, you can only hope to pick the lesser of two dangers.” If only you could tell which was which, you thought of who Borros would pick momentarily, but then found yourself thinking that you’d never much cared for his strategic opinion anyway, so there was no reason to rely upon it now.

“what did my lady think of the Hightower’s messenger, the one-eyed prince?” Swann curiously asked.

What did she think of Aemond? A dangerous man, undoubtedly—sharp, calculating, and ever poised for battle, even when the fight was merely in words.

And yet… there was something more. Something you would not, could not, name aloud. His cold, unyielding demeanour stirred something in you—something that made you wary, but also intrigued. Aemond Targaryen was not a man easily thwarted, and that made him dangerous. His arrogance was palpable, his strength undeniable, but beneath that was a fire, simmering just beneath the surface. You had seen it in his eye, in the way he watched you. His features were sculpted as if by marble, standing so close to him you could see why your septa use to tell you the Targaryens were closer to gods than men, you had verified the fantastical accounts of their Valyrian beauty for yourself. You found yourself tilting on the side of agreement with those opinions.

Your fingers tightened ever so slightly on the stone beneath it as you leaned towards the fire. You weren’t a fool. You knew the allure of power, of danger. And Aemond embodied both.

The memory of Aemond’s lingering touch when he kissed your hand, and the veiled threat of the dragon that waited outside your walls, sent a chill down your spine.

You drew in a slow breath, forcing yourself to focus. Attractive or not you could not afford to be distracted by immodest thoughts of the Targaryen prince, not when everything hung in such a precarious balance.

You turned back to meet Ser Byron’s eyes with your own hardened gaze. “Only that to take Aemond Targaryen lightly could prove to be a grave mistake.”

Aemond stood at the narrow window of his assigned chambers, watching the endless churn of the sea beyond Storm’s End. The wind here was relentless, beating against the stone walls with the same fury that seemed to linger in the air since his arrival. It matched his mood—restless, frustrated. He had come to Storm’s End to secure an alliance, to bring the Baratheons to his brother’s cause. But instead, he found his thoughts tangled in something far more distracting.

Lady Y/N Baratheon.

He stepped away from the window and moved towards the small desk, settling into the chair. A half-written letter to his grandsire lay before him, waiting to be finished. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. Aemond dipped his quill into the ink and resumed writing.

My Lord Hand, I arrived at Storm’s End to find the lady regent in full command of her seat. Y/N Baratheon is not as easily persuaded, as was expected...

His quill paused. His mind drifted back to your first meeting in the great hall. You had been seated on the Baratheon throne, the seat of you late husband. Yet you did not look out of place in it for a second, one could have been easily forgiven for mistaking to think you had been born to it and were not merely guarding it as your son’s keeper. Your alluring eyes had met his without flinching, without the slightest hint of deference. You were calculating, composed, and beautiful—there was no denying that. But it was more than just your appearance that held his attention. There was something in you that challenged him, intrigued him.

Aemond set down the quill on the table with force, flexing his hand in frustration. The same hand, he realised as he looked down upon it, which had held your own to his lips only hours ago. He had felt it then, a pull. A quiet draw towards you that had nothing to do with the game of politics and alliances.

He had seen it in the way you looked at him, how your eyes had lingered when he kissed the back of your palm—a small, fleeting moment that had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had sensed it the moment you welcomed him with that cold smile, that hint of mockery in your tone when you’d spoken of his dragon. Vhagar was meant to remind you of what he could bring to bear against your house, yet the you had barely blinked. Instead, you’d made a jest of it, turning the veiled threat back on him with the ease of a seasoned player in the game.

You wielded your wit like a blade, much like he wielded his sword. You had unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected. And that pull he felt towards you was as unwelcome as it was undeniable.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. This was not what he had come here for. He was not a boy, not some green fool led astray by a pretty face and a clever tongue. He was here for duty—for the future of his house. For his brother’s crown. Y/N Baratheon might be all captivating, but she was merely a pawn he needed on his side, nothing more.

Aemond shook his head and returned to the letter.

I will continue to press our advantage and remind them where true power lies.

With a resolute shake of his head, Aemond signed his name to the letter.

Duty. Only duty.

The days at Storm’s End had settled into a routine of formal dinners and polite conversations, surrounded by the awful weather which seemed ever present outside the walls of the ancient castle. Aemond had been introduced to Lady Y/N’s stepdaughters soon after his arrival, and each one, in her own way, seemed determined to gain his favour.

This was very much to Aemond’s annoyance, and very very much to your own entertainment. You held no great love for your stepdaughters, Floris was the only one you tolerated really. All four of them had been rather uncourteous to you when you, young as you were, not much older than the oldest of them, had first married their father so quickly after their mother’s death. You hadn’t been able to voice how unfair it was for them to lay the blame for that on your feet when it was your father who had practically forced you into the union with Borros. After their father’s death the girls were pretty much on your mercy, and you had decided to be generous enough to keep them under your protection – they were your son’s family after all, even if utterly tiresome. You supposed the responsibility to get them respectable marriages also befell on you, when you thought of Aemond’s offer.

Upon hearing the news of the arrival of a prince they had leapt at the chance to be introduced to him, which you had obliged. That ought to keep him occupied in the meantime, you’d thought with a smirk.

Cassandra, the eldest, had made the first move. She had practically thrown herself into the role of hostess, her wide-eyed enthusiasm grating on Aemond almost immediately.

“Oh, Prince Aemond!” Cassandra exclaimed the moment they were introduced, clasping her hands together as though she were greeting a long-lost friend. “What a joy it is to finally meet you!”

Aemond inclined his head stiffly, already sensing where the conversation would go. She wasted no time in becoming over-familiar with the man who seemed to do nothing but ice her out. Cassandra was pretty enough, but her excitement bordered on ridiculous.

“Tell me,” she continued, undeterred by his silence, “is it true that your dragon is the largest in the world? What a marvelous thing to behold! My father always hated those things but I assure you, I don’t share his aversions one bit—”

Aemond barely managed to suppress an eye roll. Cassandra’s chatter washed over him like the ever-present rain outside—relentless, loud, and entirely uninteresting. His mind wandered as she continued to babble about the wonders of dragonriding, and before he knew it, his gaze had drifted across the room to where you stood, speaking with one of your bannermen.

Unlike your daughters, you were calm, composed, your every movement deliberate. You had a way of carrying yourself that commanded attention without demanding it. There was no loudness, no need for theatrics. You simply were.

“Prince Aemond?” Cassandra’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he blinked, realizing she had asked him a question he hadn’t heard. He looked down at at her out of the corner of his eye, her eyes were wide with anticipation, waiting for a response.

He forced himself to focus. “The sight of Vhagar is stunning, yes, though I doubt she would be as charmed by your enthusiasm as you imagine.” There were few who could stand before his great dragon and not buckle at the knees, he did not think the eldest of the Baratheon girls was one of those rare few.

Cassandra giggled, utterly oblivious to his lack of interest. “Oh, I would never presume to charm a dragon! I’m sure it takes someone with great strength and skill to command such a creature.”

Aemond only nodded, eager to end the conversation. His thoughts were already drifting back to you, who had now turned and caught him watching. You smiled faintly, a knowing glint in your eyes, before turning back to your conversation. He felt a flicker of frustration. You were too aware of his distraction, and it seemed you enjoyed keeping him off balance.

His encounters with Maris, the second eldest, were no better. Maris was clever, and her need to prove it often left him feeling as though he were being interrogated.

“Prince Aemond,” Maris began one evening during dinner, her eyes gleaming with a curiosity that made Aemond immediately wary. “I’ve always been fascinated by Valyrian history. The legacy of Old Valyria, the blood of dragons… surely, someone like you must know its intricacies better than most.”

It was one of Aemond’s favourite topic of study, and thus, initially he was intrigued by her interest in it. “yes, I have read the histories diligently. What parts hold your particular interest?”

“Oh the doom, of course.” And there she lost the prideful dragon-prince, for he was as attached to the legacy of his family’s old homeland as one could be, at the mention of its downfall his face turned to an immediate grimace.

Which was apparently a hilarious scene.

A stifled laugh from the other end of the table made him lift his eye off the younger girl to you, who were hiding your mouth behind the white napkin.

His gaze had drifted to you many times that night already. You had sat at the head of the table, right across from him. Your demeanour blasé, unbothered by the efforts of your stepdaughters to capture his attention. Every now and then, your eyes would meet his, and there would be that faint glimmer of amusement in your gaze, as though the entire charade was a source of quiet entertainment for you. And now, you had dared to openly laugh.

It irked him, the way you seemed to understand his thoughts without him ever voicing them.

Maris pressed on, oblivious to his distraction. “I’ve read that Valyria’s fall was as much due to internal strife as external forces. The dragons, the magic—such power, yet they crumbled from within. Do you think that fate could ever repeat itself here, in Westeros? Could our dragons fail us the way theirs did?”

That question got on his nerves and Aemond’s patience frayed. His thoughts were still tangled with you, and the incessant questioning only worsened his mood. He glanced at Maris, his tone sharp. “You ask too many questions than are appropriate, I think, of a noblewoman, Lady Maris.”

Maris blinked, caught off guard by the sudden coldness in his voice. For a moment, her confidence faltered, and she offered a sheepish smile. “Apologies, my prince. I suppose I can be a bit… overzealous.”

Aemond said nothing, his gaze flicking back to you, now sipping wine with an expression unreadable, though the faintest trace of a smile lingered at the corners of your lips. You raised your goblet slightly in a mock toast, eyes sparkling with levity as if you knew how little interest he had in your stepdaughters.

You both became the last two to depart from the dining hall that night, and walked back to your chambers in stride with each other. The corridors of Storm’s End were quiet, save for the soft rustling of your gown and the faint echo of footsteps. With a sly glance, you broke the silence.

“You were rather harsh with poor Maris tonight,” you said, your voice carrying a playful lilt. “I think you might have left her heart in pieces. All that talk of Valyrian history and you simply dismissed her with a single, icy look. Quite the cruel prince, aren’t you?”

Aemond cast a sideways glance at you, “I have little patience for those who speak without thought.” he stiffly replied.

You let out a soft, playful laugh, eyes twinkling with mischief, completely unbothered by his frigid demeanour “Yes, I noticed. But tell me, Your Grace, do you always deal with such cruelty, or was Maris simply the unlucky target of your wrath?”

Aemond slowed his pace, his gaze narrowing slightly as he looked down at you. “I am not cruel by nature, Lady Y/N. But I value directness. Your stepdaughters prefer to dance around what they truly want.” His voice lowered, carrying a hint of something more, something that suggested this conversation was no longer about Maris. “I prefer a more… forthright approach.”

You arched an eyebrow, your smile deepening, though your eyes remained sharp. “Forthrightness is an admirable trait,” you mused, the tone almost purring. “But sometimes a little patience goes a long way, don’t you think? Not everything worth having is so easily won.”

Aemond stepped closer, closing the gap between you as you walked. His gaze was intense, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Is that what this is, then? A game of patience?” His eye flickered over your face, searching for some crack in your composure, some indication that he was getting through the walls you so carefully kept in place.

It would be so easy, you found yourself thinking, for something to occur between the two of you in this very hallway, without no one being the wiser. You couldn’t deny, the temptation was there for you. What you could not predict was how similar line of thinking was running through the prince’s head as well, how painfully easy it would be for him to press you against the stone wall and take you then and there. He wasn’t sure you’d even resist.

He forced himself to steer clear of those thoughts when he next spoke, “I wonder, Y/N, how long you intend to keep me waiting.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully, gaze unwavering. The flirtatious spark in your eyes faded, replaced by the calculation of powers you had to keep track of every moment as the regent of the Stormlands. “What exactly are you waiting for, Prince Aemond?” you asked, your low voice carrying all the weight of a challenge.

Aemond’s eye darked, the tension between you both thickening. He leaned in, his voice low and smooth. “An answer, perhaps. To the alliance. You know why I am here, and yet you continue to delay. You say patience is a virtue, but I wonder how much longer we’ll pretend this is a game.”

Your lips twitched into a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “It’s late, my prince,” you replied after a beat, stepping back ever so slightly, putting just enough distance between you both to break the moment. “Surely, even a man as determined as you must know when the hour is too late for such discussions.”

Aemond hummed lowly in frustration, sensing the shift. You were pulling away, retreating just as he thought he had gained some ground. His voice remained steady, but there was a hard edge to it now. “The hour is late, but the war waits for no one, My Lady.”

You sighed at his tenaciousness but did not reply, turning around towards your chamber “Good night, Prince Aemond. Do try to get some rest. You’ll need it—” You turned to have one final look at him as you closed your doors, “—I believe Cassandra is planning on accompanying you to our library here in the morrow.” You smirked, as you shut the door on him.

Aemond stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. He had come close, but once again, you had slipped through his grasp, leaving him with nothing but the lingering tension and the maddening sense that you were still in control of this dangerous game.

Ellyn, the third-born, was, if anything, the easiest to deal with—if only because she was utterly uninspiring. She made no effort to engage him in conversation, content to let her sisters fight over his attention while she sat in silence, staring into her food.

“It rains often here,” Ellyn said one afternoon, as they both stood by the windows watching the storm outside. “You get used to it.”

Aemond glanced at her, waiting for more, but that was all she said. No follow-up, no elaboration, just a dull observation about the weather. He resisted the urge to sigh. This, too, was a waste of time.

He found himself watching you again, speaking with one of the castle’s servants in the courtyard. Even in these small, everyday moments, you commanded attention. It was infuriating how easily you pulled his focus away from everything else. He was here for an alliance, not to be distracted by a woman who was clearly dangling him like a child’s toy. What infuriated him even further was, he didn’t think you’d meant for this to occur at all. He was falling into a trap all of his own making, tormented by his own desires. Your simple presence doused those flames. Who needed enemies when his own lust was doing the work.

As he caught you stretching your neck, clearly tensed and in pain after having to run around and manage the affairs of the household as well as the work that should have been your lord husband’s, he could not stop himself from wanting to reach out and ease that burden for you. He wanted to ease all your burdens truth be told…

He closed his eye and took in a deep breath to steady himself. No, you were not the one he was here to court, at least not beyond courting an alliance.

Floris, the youngest, at least didn’t waste his time. She barely spoke at all, her fear of him palpable. Every time he caught her looking at him, she would quickly avert her gaze, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. At dinners, she sat in near silence, her eyes fixed on her plate, only daring to glance up at him when she thought no one was looking.

Floris was undeniably beautiful, he noted one night at dinner—delicate features, soft dark hair, and a quiet grace that set her apart from her more eager sisters. She had a certain fragility, the kind that made her seem as though she might shatter under the weight of his gaze alone.

As he had expected, the moment their eyes met, alarm crossed her expressions. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she quickly averted her eyes, her hands fidgeting, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Aemond allowed a moment of silence before speaking, his voice low and steady. “Lady Floris, you’ve barely spoken all evening.” Floris was startled, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes flickered up to him for the briefest moment before falling back to her lap. “I... I didn’t wish to intrude, my prince,” she stammered.

He leaned forward ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do I frighten you, Lady Floris?” Her eyes darted to him again, wide and filled with anxiety, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer. Aemond leaned back, feeling more indifferent than curious now.

Floris was beautiful, yes, but her beauty was fleeting to him. It lacked depth. His mind wandered, almost involuntarily, to you. How could he think of Floris when her stepmother sat just across the table, quietly capturing his eye without ever saying so much as a word?

You were something else entirely—your beauty had a sharpness to it, a confidence, a power that Floris sorely lacked. You knew your worth and how to wield it, and it was the graceful way you held yourself that lingered in his thoughts far longer than Floris’s timid presence ever could.

You took no note of him this time, too engrossed in conversing with your bannermen Ser Byron. Aemond couldn’t explain why the sight of you leaning towards him and talking in whispers with the man set the hair on the back of his neck on fire. That closeness with another man was not appropriate of an unmarried woman, he bitterly opined.

He was glad when Ser Byron had to abruptly leave after a servant delivered him a letter in the middle of dinner. But the hurried steps the knight took also arose his suspicions about the letters contents. “Has something happened?” he had asked you as he watched Swann leave, you simply dismissed it as some trivial dispute among your staff that needed mediating. He said nothing but did not think to take your word as it was.

Like a moth to a flame he sought you out once more as you walked back to your chambers. Sensing he was following you with quiet, almost hidden footsteps you abruptly spoke up “You seem troubled, my prince,” smiling at him as you stopped in your tracks and turned around towards him, “Are my stepdaughters proving too much for you to handle?”

“They are persistent,” Aemond replied, his tone carefully neutral. That earned him the first real, open laugh he had heard out of you. “Yes I suppose that is one way to put it. Are you still as adamant on marriage with one of them after meeting them or have we finally deterred you?”

The prince stuck out his chin most stubbornly, “I still intend to secure the alliance if that is what you ask.” That caused your smile to falter as you shook your head and turned towards your chambers, “of course you do.” Here you were delighted at one light moment with the dark prince, but Aemond Targaryen was nothing if not steadfast.

“Your persistence could almost give theirs’ competition.” You teased before leaving.

Aemond’s patience was bound to eventually run its course. For days, he had watched you receive messages, carried in by suspicious birds, and each time you’d dismissed his inquiries with vague answers and a smile that only fuelled his frustration. After receiving a letter from his grandsire demanding to know his progress, he realised he had very little to show for his time here and decided he had been played with quite enough. Tonight, he had no intention of being so easily brushed aside.

He strode through the corridors, his jaw clenched, his boots striking hard against the stone floor. Without hesitation, he pushed open the heavy door to your chambers. Inside, you sat on an ornate desk, your husband’s, a letter in hand, with your gaze flicking up to meet his slowly. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move. You merely raised an eyebrow, as though his intrusion was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“Prince Aemond,” you greeted scornfully, not attempting to hide your displeasure at his unannounced entry, “You enter, insolently, without permission. I hope you have an urgent excuse behind such an incursion on my privacy?”

“Enough of your games, Lady Y/N,” Aemond snapped, his voice dangerous as he advanced toward you. “I’ve seen the ravens, the messages you’ve been receiving. Do not insult me by pretending I do not know who they are from.” He spat out.

You remained still, your expression unreadable as you took your time to set the letter aside. "And who, pray, do you imagine my correspondents to be?” you refused to match his tone, carefully keeping yourself in check.

“The bitch mother of bastards – Rhaenyra” Aemond hissed her name like it was a curse. “You’ve been stringing me along, all this while sending your little birds to her. I won’t be made a fool, not by you.”

Your eyes flashed at the accusation, but your voice remained steady, cutting. “Foolishness is something one brings upon oneself, Your Grace. If you feel such, do not lay the blame at my feet.”

The prince’s temper flared, and he walked forward in a swift stride, his presence filling the room with barely contained fury. He pressed his fingertips on your dark oak desk, to imposingly lean forward towards where you sat. If the feeling of looking up at a furious dragonlord pressing down upon you made you scared at all, you didn’t show it. “Do not make the mistake to think I am unaware of your little schemes. Keeping me here, playing coy while you weigh your options. But I warn you, Y/N—”

You took a breath, your chin lifting as you met his gaze head-on, interrupting his little speech “You warn me?” Your voice dropped, deadly calm, as you slowly rose from where you sat to match his stature. “And what will you do, Aemond? Bring your dragon down upon me? Burn Storm’s End to ash because I don’t bend to your will?”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a cold smile, his voice softening into something more dangerous. “You think I won’t?” This was not a man who would let insults go unanswered.

You were the storm’s daughter too though, not one to back down at the first sight of strong winds. “Burn it down if you wish, but it will not win you the Stormlands. It will not win you this war.”

You stood only inches apart now, close enough for you to feel him breathing down on you. Aemond’s eye narrowed, his anger palpable as he spoke, each word laced with cruel intent. “It would be nothing more than rubble if I wished it, and you, Lady Baratheon, would be nothing more than a forgotten name in the ashes.”

Your eyes blazed with fury, never leaving his as you sidestepped the table to stand next to him. “You think threats will bend me? That I am some weak-willed lady who’d cower before your dragon’s mere breath?” Your voice was sharp, holding back a tidal wave of anger. “I am no stranger to men like you, men who believe they can brandish fear like a sword.” After all, Borros had tried to break you and failed, you had prevailed over him. Your son was your victory. Now your husband laid six leagues under the ground while you sat on his seat. If Aemond Targaryen thought he could break you, he would be proven wrong too. “Know this—Storm’s End will stand long after you and your beast are dust. Dragon fire or not.”

They were too close, the air around them crackling with the force of their anger. For a moment, neither spoke, their eyes locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to give an inch. The heat between them had shifted, it had become something trecherous, as Aemond’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

Without warning, the tension snapped.

Aemond moved first, his hand gripping your arm as he pulled you to him, his mouth crashing down onto yours with a force born of fury as much as lust. You responded in kind, your fingers grabbing onto his leather coat as you kissed him back with equal fervour, both of yours’ anger feeding the fire that had long been building between you.

Aemond’s hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers almost clawing at your soft skin. Your hand instinctively bawled itself around the leather beneath it, pressing your body impossibly close to his.

It was not a kiss of tenderness, but of conquest, a desire ignited by the very battle that raged between you —fierce and unrelenting. Neither of you attempted to be gentle, perhaps being rough and demanding was just in both yours’ natures.

Aemond only broke the kiss to knock down the various trinkets that had been occupying the late Lord Baratheon’s desk, to then lift you with ease and make you sit atop it. You felt guilty at destroying your late husband’s things so callously as you caught sight of the now broken, spilled ink bottle on the floor, when the thought of how Borros had never even bothered to learn how to read to actually make use of the thing, made it disappear. Besides the dragon prince did not leave you much time to have thoughts anyway. His mouth was soon upon yours once again, as he parted your legs to make space for himself between them.

When his cold hand suddenly slipped underneath your heavy black dress, you couldn’t suppress a gasp at the feeling, which he used to slip his tongue inside you, deepening the kiss. The feeling of his hand trailing up your thigh made the hair on the back of your arms stand. Your hand found its way to the prince’s perfectly kept up hair, entangling themselves in his silver locks in knots, as if you wanted to ruin it, ruin him. When you tugged at his tresses sharply, you caused him to growl into the kiss, a sound which made you deliciously crave for him.

It seemed you had called forth some beast in that act though, for Aemond abandoned your lips entirely and the hand on your thigh moved towards your core, starting to remove your small clothes. In your own impatience, you helped him guide the cloth down till it was off of you, your hand then moving to undo his breeches with hurried fingers.

You gasped at the feeling of having his length in your hand, it had been a long time since you’d felt anything similar, having been widowed many moons ago. You spat in your hand to use it as moisture before you pulled on his manhood firmly, feeling your cunt become warm and wet at the very feeling of having him in your palm. Aemond’s breathing had become more ragged, responding to your actions. His hand found your neck, pressing itself around the frail little thing till you saw stars and the movement of your hand became sloppy, but you never once told him to stop. Your head titled back as if transported off Storm’s End to a world altogether new in pleasure. When his hand finally released you, you coughed back to reality, and your hand stilled.

His hands moved to your shoulder as he pulled himself to your ear to breathe down, “I don’t remember telling you you could stop, Lady Baratheon.” His words left you on edge and you swallowed, quickly nodding as you continued to move your hands over his now hardened length. He gave you a twisted smile, as his hand faintly pulled your hair stands away from your face, “You look more suited to play this obedient servant of the crown than that feeble attempt at playing the lord of the castle you have been doing, my lady.”

Even if your brain could have managed to come up with some biting remark for him, the sudden invasion of two of the prince’s spindly fingers inside your pussy cut those thoughts out. “Seven hells” you cussed out at the feeling. Aemond hummed approvingly at your response. His free hand found itself pulling on the gown as it draped over your shoulders, tearing the cloth with a screech so it would expose to him your bare shoulder.

His lips moved over the uncovered, soft skin of yours with gentleness which contradicted the brutal pace at which his hand moved against the walls inside you. It seemed he wanted to torture you with his pace, tease you just as much as punish you for how you had been holding out on him since he had arrived. Aemond Targaryen demanded nothing if not complete control, and you had taken that from him the moment you had met him. Such a treasonous act demanded retribution.

You felt a sharp pain when his lips against your skin were replaced by his teeth, biting hard enough to leave the place blue for the next day, but not content with letting you adjust to just that, he also placed another finger inside you in that moment, overwhelming you with sensations.

“Aemond—” you gasped, only to have him command you, “you do not yet have the leave to call me by name. if you’re forgetting your manners, we can cease this now” “no!” the negation tumbled out of your mouth embarrassingly fast, the feeling of his fingers moving inside you having caused all your previous haughtiness and resolve to disappear. “Your Grace—” You corrected yourself, “—I think… I think I’m” before you could get the word close out of your mouth, you found yourself suddenly empty, his fingers removed.

You didn’t know if you had it in you to beg him to fuck you, but thank the gods you didn’t have to go that far. For it only took a moment for Aemond to replace his hand with his cock, filling you in one go till tears formed in your eyes. He mercilessly filled you till there was nothing left but the tight of feeling your walls squeezing around him. “When was the last time you were properly fucked, hm? Did fat old Borros Baratheon even fill this cunt half way?” He taunted you, but you could merely moan in reply, your mind clouded.

He emptied you and let manhood hit you to the tilt once more in a swift action, knocking the wind out of you, your mouth hanging open in a silent gasp. Aemond did not prepare you for his pace by starting slow, but instead pulled out and pulled back inside of you with the full force of his length till your fingers grabbed the edge of the desk beneath you for some kind of support. His hips moved at a brutal pace, his hands holding onto your legs to keep you in place, to keep you open for him. You hadn’t been fucked in so long, to be filled like this repeatedly was too much for you. You shook your head and tried to keep a hand on his chest, “slower, please… your grace…” your breathed, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“shhh” in an act of uncharacteristic tenderness, Aemond pulled you to himself till your chin rested on his shoulder, his hips never ceasing their assault. “not yet.” You whined at his denial, tears starting to run down your cheeks, but you did not reject him. He continued to touch your sensitive spot with each thrust, and you simply took it, almost helpless in your obedience.

“How docile, how sweet…” he cooed. He liked this, for the first time since Vhagar had landed in these lands he had felt a sense of control. It wound him up more than anything else, to have you in his hands, for the first time his plaything, rather than the other way around. The way he could elicit your face to distort in pleasure, cause you to give up that stature of authority and move as he commanded, made him harder than he thought possible.

The way your breathing had become more rapid and your walls were closing in around him, he knew you couldn’t this take much longer, and so he finally allowed, “Let yourself come on your prince’s cock, Y/N” You curled your toes at the pleasure surmounting, your mouth unable to stifle a cry as you came around his cock. Your cum streamed down your thighs, ruining the dress you wore in the process.

The act had left you too tired to even sit up, you collapsed till your back hit the wood of the desk as Aemond continued to chase his high inside you. You could only whimper at the feeling, till you felt his cock twitch and unburden itself inside you, your mind too numb to protest.

As Aemond pulled out of you, you closed your eyes attempting to even out your breathing and calm your heart. Your mouth had gone dry and an ache had formed between your legs from the vigour of the prince’s pace.

The sound of the prince’s leaving steps sounded across the room till the door he had brazenly pushed open earlier, shut close shut behind him. Once you were alone you finally opened your eyes and sat up on the table.

As you walked over to the washbasin your servants had placed in the corner, to splash water to cool down the fire the prince had ignited within you, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Dishevelled hair, torn clothes and flushed cheeks. This wasn’t how you’d expected your negotiations to leave you.

Aemond was up at the crack of dawn, despite the little sleep he had received the night before, his body too set in its routine to allow him to sleep in. He’d remained distracted all morning though, from his usual training to breakfast, his mind still buzzed from the night before— with you.

His thoughts lingered on the memory of your body pressed against his, the taste of your lips still vivid in his mind. Truth be told such thoughts had barely allowed him to sleep, he had to do everything in his power to restrain himself from marching down to your chambers to have you once again. Come morning, it seemed his feet had made up their own mind as they carried him to the grand hall where you broke fast every morning, determined to speak to you. But speak to you about joining the war, or joining him, he wasn’t sure as he took strong steps towards those stone gates, until a shaky, scared servant reluctantly blocked his way with bowed head.

“Prince Aemond,” the servant began cautiously, “Lady Baratheon is indisposed this morning.” That gave him pause. Now that he looked around, there seemed to be more activity around the castle, it was certainly peopled with more men than usual. There was something different in the air, you were up to something. The servant carried on stammering “She-she re-regrets that she is unable to see you, but she extends the c-c-courtesy of allowing you to escort one-one of her stepdaughters for the day….should you wish.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the message, his eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn’t the refusal that stung—he had known you would be up plotting, woman of action as you are —but the implication that he should entertain one of your stepdaughters instead. His mind briefly flickered to Floris, Cassandra, Maris, and Ellyn—each dull and uninspiring in their own ways. None of them possessed your sharpness, your strength. His patience for their company had worn thin days ago, and now, after the night he had shared with you, the thought of spending an entire day with one of them felt intolerable.

“Which of the ladies would you prefer to accompany today, m-m-my prince?” the servant asked, still refusing to meet his eye. Aemond barely suppressed a sneer. “None,” he stared at the closed gate ahead of him. He wondered what you were doing behind those doors, wondered if you were mulling over his proposal or planning how to betray him to his half-sister. He wanted to know how you were thinking of this situation, how your mind would tick at the facts before it. He wanted you. He placed one hand on the stone gate, feeling the cool surface beneath his palm. You were so close to him, almost within his reach.

Yet, he thought as with decisive steps he turned around and started to walk away, so far.

He spent the day inspecting the grounds, trying to gauge the situation. He understood soon you’d called your bannermen to counsel you, but which way they would sway you remained unknown.

He mulled over the previous night in his mind often, no matter how much he tried to deny how he felt with you, he had to admit you had awoken something in him. You were unlike any woman he had seen – someone bold, someone who challenged him. You had surrendered in the end, but not without making him work for it. It had been a hollow victory, one that left him dissatisfied and wanting for more.

As the day wore on Aemond found himself restless. The usual routine of the castle felt stifling, and your absence only deepened his bitterness. By nightfall, his frustration had grown, it was perceptible in the way he stared into the fire, sitting in his chambers, waiting for news.

A soft knock at the door of his eerily quiet chambers alerted him. Aemond straightened, his brow furrowing as he rose to open it. Beating him to it, to his surprise, you opened it without invitation, dressed in nothing but a white, silk nightgown. The firelight flickered behind him, casting a warm glow across your features.

Your lips curved into a faint smile, “I hope I’m not disturbing you, my prince,” you teased. Aemond’s gaze lingered on you in a suspicious manner, his expression unreadable. “You rarely come without purpose, my Lady. What is it tonight?”

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you as you moved further into his chambers. “After much consultation with my bannermen,” you began, your voice steady with a note of finality, “I have made my decision.”

He was intrigued as he matched your steps to meet you half way across his chambers, agitated to hear this “And what have you decided?”

“Storm’s End will declare for King Aegon.”

Aemond’s chest tightened, his thoughts racing as he processed your announcement. He had done it, finally done it. He had brought you to his brother’s side, fulfilled the promise he had made to his mother and grandsire. He had proven himself worthy. He would not be the son who shirked duty like his brother, no, he would be considered the one who stepped up when his family needed him most. His chest swelled in self-pride at the thought.

But there was something more to it of course, he thought as he saw how your eyes followed his every move, as if attempting to pierce through him and grasp his soul. He had to be in your debt for this, he knew that. He wasn’t sure how well he could have done at his task had you made up his mind against him. “The crown will not forget your loyalty” his leather boots took the final steps to close the gap between you both, his arm snaking around your waist to pull you to his chest. He stared down at you as he added in a whispered voice “…and I’m certain it will find a way to express its immense gratitude.”

You words were raspy as you answered staring up at him, captivated. “Consider it a reward for your… persistence.” He hummed in response, bending just a little so his lips were at level with yours, never touching but hovering like phantoms.

Your own lips curved upwards as you began to comment with a hint of amusement “My stepdaughters will be waiting with bated breath, eager to hear which one of them you’ll choose as your bride.”

Aemond’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, he turned his head so his nose grazed your neck as he took in your scent, his breath tickling your skin. “Any suggestions to make my choice easier? You do know them better than anyone.” He muttered against you, before pressing his lips to your ear lightly.

You tilted your head thoughtfully, allowing him access to your neck, trailing kisses down it. “Cassandra is the eldest,” you began dryly. “But she’s air-headed, always prattling on about nonsense. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sensible word out of that one.”

Aemond chuckled softly, as he considered your words. “And the others?” he baited you to go on, his hands starting to lift your sheer nightgown to allow his fingertips to graze your thighs.

“Maris is clever,” you continued, your breathing hitched at his actions though there was a flicker of exasperation in your voice as you added “Too clever, sometimes. That girl never learned the art of silence. Always chattering, always thinking she knows better.” You sighed, your expression shifting to mild disdain. “Ellyn is dull. Always whining about something—nothing ever pleases her.”

Aemond arched a brow, smirking, finding your frankness far more entertaining than the thought of any of these girls. “And Floris?”

You laughed softly, a melodic sound that carried a trace of mockery. “Floris is beautiful, yes. But she’s already scared half to death by the mere sight of you.” Your eyes flicked to his face, and before he could react, you lifted your hand and reached toward his eyepatch, smitten. “I wonder why that is...”

Your fingers brushed the edge of the leather patch, but before you could go any further, Aemond’s hand shot up, gripping your wrist firmly. He pulled your hand away, his gaze dark and intense as he leaned closer. “And you, my lady?” he asked, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it. “Are you no longer scared?”

Your lips parted slightly, and your heart raced as you stared up at him, unflinching. A slow, wicked smile spread across your face. “You could not scare me if you tried,” you murmured, goading him.

In a flash Aemond had pulled you to him by grabbing your wrists. He wrapped his long, slender fingers around those dainty things, and pulled them behind himself, till you crashed into his lips.

With your body held captive like this you felt as if this was the prince taking his war prize in advance of the actual battle. His lips left no room for you, gave you no quarter. You weren’t protesting much about the abduction though. The prince may conduct himself as an aloof noble, a dragonrider who was above mere mortals in public, but when alone like this, you’d realised he showed a hunger of a poor man, a man denied, who was searching for his redemption.

He only released your hands to lift you up, your legs wrapping around his thin torso for dear life as he swiftly carried you to the bed, your lips refusing to leave his even as your arms hung around his shoulders for anchor. It was only when he threw your back to the mattress that he broke the kiss. You realised the prince was already hurrying with untying the strings which held his breeches, an impatience within him.

He used his knee to pry open your legs, making room for himself between them as he took his cock out in his hands and helped himself, looking down on the site of you sprawled all out for him, in just a sheer nightgown. Hair all over the place, legs open and ready to receive him. He mused with the hint of a smirk, how the mighty, commanding lady Baratheon had been reduced to this state.

You could feel his gaze upon you as if dragonfire itself, but you refused to turn away. You looked into his face, the expression of fervour in his eyes. He had you under him, in every way possible, and you knew he was relishing in that feeling. He had his army, and he had the woman.

You, on the other hand, were far more discreet in your sense of achievement. After the day of discussions you had had, the terms you and your bannermen had drawn up, you knew that the crown would not get the Stag for cheap. But you were happy to let them enjoy in this victory before you presented your full terms, after all a content prince was probably easier to haggle with than an irked dragonrider.

Yet still, the thought popped in your head as the prince leaned forward to enter you, pressing you beneath his weight, you didn’t have to give up all your sense of control. Your legs hooked around him, and your palms pushed at his shoulders to flip you both.

“You are our guest under this roof. Allow me, my prince.” Your voice sounded more as if you were taking charge, than acting the welcoming host. Last night he had been the one to make you feel helpless, and as much as you had enjoyed the feeling, you weren’t one to take what came at you lying down either.

You were the one looking down at him now, his silver hair covering the white sheets till the colours melted under the moonlight, his expression remained distrustful, still reluctant to allow himself to be beneath you, give you the reins this once. You didn’t want to allow him to dwell on that feeling and change your positions. You wasted no time in lifting yourself up and gathering your nightgown till it pooled around your stomach, taking his length in your hand and positing it with your cunt.

If the prince was going to protest, those words left him as soon as your warmth sunk down on him. He grunted as his head titled back in pleasure, your eyes unable to leave the sight of him as you yourself bit down on your lower lip at the feeling of the initial insertion.

“Sīr ȳrda” so tight, he let out through gritted teeth as his hands found your hips, though you were unable to understand his ancient tongue you took it as encouragement. You placed your palms on his chest for support as you rolled yourself on his cock, feeling him hit your spot with every move. You hadn’t been this bold with your late husband, who would visit you every second day to pump himself in you with a few thrusts and leave once he was satisfied. You would have never had the liberty to take him on like this, riding atop him, chasing your pleasure impaling yourself on such a cock.

You kept your movements slow, with little experience in such a position you didn’t think you could take faster snaps before becoming overcome. The prince had already displayed his aversion for patience though.

His hands moved to snake themselves around your waist fully as he sat up, “allow me, my lady” he almost mockingly threw your words back at you, with an almost sadistic half-smile. He lifted you slightly before thrusting himself upwards at you, quicker each time. You drew in a sharp breath at the feeling of becoming filled so fast, again and again and again. You refused to give him the satisfaction of telling him to slow down this time though, simply bracing yourself to take him.

Still subconsciously looking for some semblance of control, your fingers found his hair. you couldn’t help yourself from clutching at his long locks, jerking his face to jut out his chin. He grunted lowly in response, his hand coming down on your buttocks suddenly with a loud smack as punishment. You whimpered at the sensation; in pleasure or pain, you weren’t sure. Your eyes wandered to the pale skin of his neck, how it glistened with sweat under the moon. You pressed a kiss to it, tender, trailing up to his lips as you felt your thighs becoming feeble with his every movement. You moaned as you kissed him fully, your tongue slipping inside his mouth.

You felt his fingertips slip under your nightgown and trail up and down your back almost affectionately, but his cock hit your walls so mercilessly you could feel a throbbing ache. He was a storm of contradictions, Prince Aemond. Just when you thought you could understand him, he would turn everything upside down.

He gave you agony and satisfaction in such an equal measure, your body had become mush, acting only on his unsaid whims. He broke the kiss to gaze upon your serene face, twisted from the bombardment of sensations. “Do you swear–” he thrusted into you, “—fealty–” another thrust, “–to your prince?”

You were so close now, you could feel it, your nails were digging themselves in his skin, breaking it. You couldn’t answer him in your haze, which caused him to slap your bare buttocks once more, “yes” you immediately replied with a gasp.

“My prince I’m close… Aemond…” Aemond’s hand reached to hold your face in his hand as you could feel that wave of pleasure about to crash, “come undone for me, y/n” he whispered in your ear, which broke the dam for you.

You chanted his name as you came, feeling him reach his peak in your walls soon after. Somewhere far in your mind you had the thought to obtain some moontea the next day, seeing as you had allowed the Targaryen inside you twice now, but in that moment, you pushed such things aside. You sat together, you stradling his lap, him still inside you, his face pressed to the crook of your neck as he panted lightly with exertion. Your hand reached to brush the hair falling down his back as you sat there, with only the moon to witness your moment of solace.

He finally broke the silence with a hum, pulling you both down to place you next to him in bed, not bothering to pull out of you. “Stay.” His words had the force of an order, but his eyes pleaded a request. You smiled at the fondness he couldn’t bring his tongue to convey but that his expression betrayed. “As you wish.” You felt no hurry to leave his side either, you realised.

The soft light of dawn filtered into the room, casting a pale glow across the stone walls. Aemond stirred, the warmth of the bed a stark contrast to the chill in the air. His hand stretched out to find you missing from his side. He looked around the room, and didn’t allow his face to disclose the relief he felt when he saw you were still with him. You stood in your nightgown, staring out the window in silent contemplation.

Aemond sat up, as you turned to face him, realising that your expression was at ease, but there was a trace of calculation behind your eyes, as though the events of the night before were already giving way to something more pragmatic.

“We need to work out the details of the treaty,” you stated as a morning greeting, stepping away from the window and crossing the room toward him. “Before the official declaration of Storm’s End for King Aegon, we must solidify the alliance, the exact conditions.” Gone was the sultry Lady Baratheon of the night. In the morning it would be the reigning lady of the house who was meeting him. “And you need to decide which of my stepdaughters it will be.” You matter-of-factly added.

Aemond studied you for a moment. There was no playfulness in your tone now, no teasing—only the cold reality of the marriage alliance that had brought him to your doorstep in the first place.

You were no longer the naïve girl who had held hopes of falling in love with your husband when you had first married. Borros had made sure of disabusing you of that notion. All that stood in place of that girl now was a hardened woman, one who knew fiction from reality. And a prince falling for her was certainly the former. You would get what you needed, security for your son, and Aemond would achieve his objective and marry one of your husband’s pliant girls. You held no grudge against him, you were just interested in moving along with what needed to be done.

He did not share your straightforward view though, because as he considered your words, something else occurred to him, something that made his lips twitch into a faint smirk.

“It occurs to me now,” he began, almost thoughtful, “that my specific instructions were to secure House Baratheon through a marriage alliance. It was never specified that it must be one of Borros’ daughters that I marry.”

Surprise overtook you so fast your face couldn’t hide it under its usual, crafted mask. You watched him in silence for a moment, your brow arching ever so slightly. Did he jest? Or did he mean what you believed he did?

“And what exactly are you suggesting, my prince?” you did not want to bring your hopes up, you had trained yourself not to, yet your measured voice carried an unmistakable edge. A glimmer of hope.

Aemond rose from the bed, his gaze never leaving you. He’d met all four of your daughters and not one of them held his interest for a moment. You though, were intelligent and knew how to hold yourself against him. You wouldn’t be a pretty liability he would have on his arm, but an intelligent counsellor to be at his side through the upcoming war. He recognised the value that would have. In addition to that, even he couldn’t deny the attraction he had for you, how your magnetism pulled him in. He couldn’t resist you if he tried.

So then why try? A voice in his head had dared. Why try, when marrying you would secure the Baratheon’s just as much as marrying any of those silly girls would.

He walked to you, his smirk deepening as he spoke. “I’m suggesting that there may be a more suitable match within House Baratheon than your stepdaughters.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, attempting to suppress a full grin. “An intriguing offer. I would love to see Otto Hightower’s expression when he’s apprised of that.” From what you knew of the Hand, he wasn’t a man who took to surprises warmly. “Leave my grandsire to me.” He assured you as he stretched to place his hands on your arms as a pledge. “All you need to worry about is preparing for your arrival at King’s landing.” He would tell Otto Hightower what he knew to be the truth: having you by his side would bring all of them closer to victory, than the alternative.

A slow smile broke across your face, you stood on your toes to press a quick kiss to him. “As my Prince commands.” You finally answered, your words on their face were an open attempt at fawning at him, but he could sense the oblique pride and challenge that hid behind them. You hadn’t even known how you’d managed it, but even as he stood as the one who had achieved all his aims, you felt like the victor in this arrangement.

#aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond imagine #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #fics i wrote

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entitled-fangirl · 4 months ago

Text

Lost.

Cregan Stark x Pregnant!reader

Summary: the reader accompanies her brother and Cregan to the Wall to discuss an alliance. But the news of Luke's death causes turmoil among them.

Warnings: Blood, cursing, grief, death, miscarriage, Cregan fucking crying

A/n: based on this ask!

Masterlist

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She had to practically beg him.

"No. No, and you need to drop it," he said as he began to lace up his boots.

She whined and pulled herself from the bed, her hair a mess and still only in her shift, "Cregan."

Cregan let out a soft growl, "You dragons just don't see reason, do you?"

She smiled and neared him. Her hands rested over his, keeping him from lacing his boots. "I want time with my brother again. Is that so terrible?"

"It's a two week trip to the Wall."

"That's at least a month with him." She gripped his hands tighter, "Please, Cregan."

He sighed, "The prince will have plenty of time with you before and after. I won't have my wife and unborn child far from the maesters." He let out a forced laugh, "Or near the men of the Wall, for another matter."

"There are maesters there, Cregan. And we all know I am safest with you."

He stared at their connected hands for a while, a million thoughts ringing loudly in his head, but all unvoiced.

"We still have a few months until the birth," she continued to reason. "And you know I grow cold at night when you're gone."

Cregan smiled up at her. He pulled his hand from hers to rest over her small swollen stomach.

As much as he wanted to lock her away from the threats of the world, he knew doing so would hurt her more than letting her go.

He chewed at his lip. "If I let you," he began, "You will take no chances. On anything."

"None," She agreed. "Nothing at all." Her hand joined his on her stomach. "I'll stay by your side. I promise."

"Alright."

…

"Ready to go?" Jace smiled as his sister neared.

She grinned back as she took his arm, "I've been ready since I heard you were arriving, brother."

He chuckled lightly as the two began to walk to the stable, "Must I say, you practically glow like the sun nowadays."

She huffed, "Do not lie."

"I don't," he said. "There is more color to you."

"That is only the cold nipping at me and coloring my cheeks."

He laughed again, "Maybe so. But either way, You are a natural, my dear sister. A healthy boy is on the way, I know it."

"A boy?" She asked with raised brows. "Oh no, Cregan and I think it's a girl."

He hummed in thought, "No. It's not. I know these things."

She laughed and playfully hit his arm, "You know nothing of this!"

He grinned and shrugged, "All the same. You'd raise a wonderful boy-"

"-Or girl."

"-or girl. Either way, I shall be a very proud uncle."

"Oh, you must wed Baela soon brother, please."

"So eager?" He asked with a smile.

"Our children would be such wonderful friends." Her eyes lit up and she squeezed his arm, "Or such a beautiful betrothal! Think of it!"

Jace look away in thought, "Perhaps so. I hadn't considered that."

"Only," she began again. "I shall pray your boy does not inherit your unruly curls!"

"Ah, you're the one having a boy first. I said so."

"Oh. So, you wish to have a girl, brother?"

He bit his lip, "If the gods wish it, then yes."

"You'd be wonderful to a daughter, Jace."

His brows furrowed, "Let us focus on the baby at hand, please. And get you to the stables before Cregan has my head."

…

Cregan helped her into the lift at the bottom of the wall, pulling her to him to make room for Jace.

"I sent a letter to mother before we left," Jace began. "About the child. Luke, Joffrey, and I will choose a dragon egg and send it to you upon my return home."

Her eyes lit up, "Thank you. That was… That was very thoughtful."

Jace looked up to Cregan, who looked at Jace as if he was going to explode any second.

A dragon? In Winterfell? Around his child?

But he said nothing.

"Do have Luke pick it." She finally said. "He has the best taste in such things."

Jace laughed lightly, "I will. But I will not tell him you said so. I can't have him getting prideful."

A silence fell over them as the lift brought them further and further up the wall.

"So, what is this that falls from the sky and shivers my bones?" Jace asked.

"This is only a late summer snow, my prince." Cregan finally spoke, "In winter, it will cover all you see."

"It's quite beautiful, Jace." She smiled, "If you have a warm cloak, that is."

…

Cregan and Jace walked together along the ice halls of the Wall, the Lady Stark behind, making her rounds around the men at work, thanking them, and chatting as she moved.

"Starks do not forget their oaths, my prince." Cregan began, "But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In winter, my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to king's landing. I need my men here."

He looked behind him to his wife, who was in an intense conversation meters back, a hand resting on her stomach as she nodded along with the man that spoke.

"While your men guard against wildings and weather, the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne."

The two began to walk up to the outlook, Jace continued, "If my mother is to defend her claim to hold the realm united, she needs an army. War is coming to the whole of the realm, my lord." He looked out over the wall. "We cannot wage it without the support of the North."

Silence filled the air, save for the sound of the wind blowing loudly.

"Do you think my ancestors built a 700-foot wall of ice to keep out snow and savages?"

"What does it keep out."

"Death."

A man approached the two, "My lord, a raven's arrived. Urgent news from Dragonstone."

Y/n's head perked up, and she immediately excused herself from her conversation to go to her husband.

Cregan unraveled the note, his eyes flitting across the paper hurriedly, and a furrowing in his brows formed.

She moved to Jace and his arm wrapped around her side, pulling her to him. "Cregan," she said. "Is everything alright?"

He looked up at the two Velaryons.

Then held the paper out to Jace.

Cregan then reached out and took his wife from the man, having a new sense of needing her near him.

When Jace read the note and his hand covered his mouth, she became worried, "Jace?"

He didn't answer, but Cregan's grip on her tightened and one hand rested protectively over her swollen belly.

"Jace. Please."

"It's alright," Cregan whispered into her ear, "We're alright." He looked up to Jace, a silent plea to keep calm in front of her.

Jace's jaw clenched, but he forced himself to smile with gritted teeth, "Just a slight hiccup, dear sister."

He gripped the note with an iron grip, not caring of the tears or crinkles it could bring.

He shook his head and began to storm off.

"Jace…" "-It's fine!" He shouted. "Everything is just fine."

He stormed off before she could get it out of him.

She turned around in Cregan's grip, "My love. Please tell me what has happened."

He shook his head and brushed a piece of hair from her face, "No. You needn't worry about these things. It's bad for the babe."

"Cregan-"

“Please do not ask me to bring you torment, my girl,” Cregan said with a tilt of his head.

“Cregan, you torment me by keeping me in the shadows.”

“Trust me when I say, I am not.”

She pulled herself from his hands, “No. You do. Now, tell me.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened and his voice became stronger, “I won’t.”

“Speak the words, Cregan.”

He stared back.

“Say it.”

Silence.

Her voice grew desperate, “Say it.”

He simply stared, a slight tilt to his head.

“If you love me as your wife, you’ll not keep this from me.”

He immediately took a step and his voice lowered, “Do not use such words-“

She growled, “then fucking say it.”

He took steps to her, their faces not far, “You won’t hear it from me.”

“Then I will find it elsewhere," she sneered in his face.

She stormed off, Cregan left to stare over the wall.

He wanted to chase after her. Stop her and correct it all. But he just couldn’t.

This news changed everything.

…

She opened the door, finding Jace in the midst of a fit of rage, throwing his cup against the wall.

“Jace?”

He looked up at her, forcing himself to calm. She moved to him and held her arms out.

And he collapsed against her, weeping into her neck.

“Jace. Jace, it’s alright.” She cooed lightly to him.

“He’s gone. He’s gone and I wasn’t there.”

Gone? Who?

Her mind began to race and her heart dropped.

Surely not Daemon. Jace wouldn’t weep as if his world crumbled.

Gods, Jace hadn’t wept at all since the day Ser Harwin died.

“Jace. Look at me.”

She pulled his face to look at him, “What happened?”

“I promise you, I’ll kill them all. I will.”

“Calm yourself, dear brother.”

“CALM MYSELF?” He roared and pulled back from her. “Our brother is dead and you tell me to calm myself?”

Hot tears sprang to her eyes and she sniffled lightly.

A hand shot to her stomach.

“Luke?”

Jace brows immediately relaxed, “gods, you didn’t… Stark didn’t…”

“Luke is dead?” She whispered as a shaky hand covered her mouth.

“I didn’t mean to… please, come here.”

The two siblings embraced, Jace holding her tightly against him and brushing through her hair as she began to wail against him.

Her hands clutched at his cloak and it quickly became wet with her tears.

Cregan threw the door open and his entire body stiffened at the sight.

She turned her head against Jace’s chest. She spoke through broken hiccups, “Luke…”

Cregan’s eyes softened as he saw her puffy eyes, “I know.”

Jace tightened his hold, “Aemond hunted him down on his dragon.”

Cregan watched her eyes completely glaze over and her breath quickened.

She let out a low groan.

“Sister? Sister, please.”

She pulled away and a hand quickly moved to her stomach, her brows furrowed.

“Cregan…”

“Fuck…” Cregan immediately moved to her and pulled her into his arms. “My love, please steady yourself.”

A few more tears slipped from her eyes, “It hurts, Cregan.”

No.

No. No. No.

He gripped her biceps in an iron grip, “No. No, you’re alright.”

She shook her head, “No. I’m not.” She gritted her teeth and her eyes closed. “I’m not. Please.”

“My girl.” He cooed, “Let us sit you down.”

She gasped at a sudden feeling.

“Sister…” Jace took a step towards her.

“Please," She begged and held a hand out, stopping him. “I…”

A low and pained groan and her knees buckled.

Cregan caught her with ease, holding her up. “My prince. Bring me that chair.”

Jace moved immediately, pulling a wooden chair across the floor with a loud scrape.

Cregan lowered her into the chair, cringing at the whimper that left his wife’s mouth.

“Perhaps a maester…?” Jace asked.

“No-“

“-Yes,” Cregan nodded. “Yes. Please.”

“Cregan,” she cried. “I can’t. I can’t lose her-“

“-if we do not fetch the maester, then she will be.” Cregan’s eyes were set, as if challenging her to fight him on it.

“Fine. Fine, please.”

Jace quickly left in practically a sprint.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

She turned to the Stark, “What?”

He looked like he was ready to cry. His bottom lip quivered, “if you do lose her.”

Her eyes saddened and her hand moved to his face, “I can’t.”

“You will, my love.” He forced a deep breath to hold back the tears and let out a breath, “She is gone now, I’m sure of it.”

If she wasn’t in pain enough, that multiplied it.

…

Four hours later, Jace and Cregan sat in the opposite end on the room, watching the maester work endlessly.

But they were silent. Their eyes were both fixed on the blood that stained everything.

She had fallen asleep long ago, from the pain or loss of blood, they weren’t sure.

But it gave their ears a break from her piercing cries that rang through the entirety of the Wall.

When the maester moved to the two men, they stood.

“My lord, my prince,” he began. “The Lady has lost much blood.”

“Will she live?” Cregan immediately asked.

“I…” he bit his lip. “She will, my lord, but…”

“That is all I need. You may go.”

“Lord Stark-“

“GO!” He growled.

The maester bowed his head and quickly left, pulling the door behind him.

Silence filled the room. Both men still stared at the poor woman who slept away the pain.

…

Jace had left not long after, wandering the halls of Castle Black in thought, so it was only Cregan in the room when she woke.

She let out a low groan, and he held her hand in his. "Lovely, how are you feeling?"

Her eyes studied him before a light sob racked through her.

He lightly kissed her knuckles, knowing that was the only comfort he could bring to her at the moment.

"I told you it wasn't your fault."

"But I…" She hiccuped and wiped her face with her free hand, "I pushed for you to tell me. I… I forced you to let me accompany you here."

"You did not do any of that," he reprimanded. "None of it."

Her eyes held a hollowed look to them, "I lost the future of Winterfell."

Her brows furrowed and his hand smoothed the hair from her forehead.

"A boy," she sniffled. "Would've been."

He felt a punch to his gut.

He'd seen battle before, but nothing caused him as much pain as this moment.

He looked down at their intertwined hands, "It does not mean that all is lost, my girl."

"Then why does it feel like it?"

His eyes watered, and his nose scrunched in frustration. He wanted to curse as his bottom lip trembled for the second time today, "I don't know."

A single tear ran down the Wolf's face.

"But I promise you," He sniffled. Another tear down his face as he let out a soft breath, "You have not lost me."

"I couldn't give you an heir."

"And I do not know how to comfort you through it."

She pushed herself up and he shook his head, "No, you need to rest."

But she managed to sit herself up against the headrest.

Her hand brushed his cheek and he couldn't stop the tears that began to rush down his face.

"Oh, Cregan," she cooed.

His hand brought her other one up to his lips again, kissing her knuckles fervently this time, as if she would disappear if he didn't.

"Hey. Stop," she tilted her head. "Cregan. Stop."

His eyes looked to her through a blurry haze.

"It's not your fault either, you know." She finally said.

He forced a laugh and shook his head. "I fear I'd go mad without you, my girl."

"As I with you."

The two managed to catch their breath in the silence that followed, a promise that things would get better if they only let it.

He leaned forward to her, gently connecting their lips.

She let out a whine, accepting his kiss eagerly.

His hand moved to the back of her head, pulling her to him. He hardly cared about the salty taste of the tears on their lips.

He pulled away first.

"I'll promise our graybeards to the queen," Cregan stated as he sat back down.

She huffed, "Don't pity me and feel as if you must defend-"

His grip tightened on her hand, "I will have the head of that boy on a fucking spike." Cregan growled.

"He did not lose our child, I did!" She said with a raised voice.

His jaw clenched as his eyes bore into hers, "Aemond Targaryen lost the war the second he chased your brother with Vhagar. The graybeards will march when the time is right. In exchange for Aemond's head by the time the war is done."

"Cregan-"

"-He is why our son is dead. And the North will remember that."

She looked down to her stomach, rubbing a hand over what used to be there only hours before.

Cregan Stark's gaze became more rigid than the ice around them.

"Winter is coming for the Greens."

.........................................................

A/n: Okay, hey, now that you're depressed from this fic, let's talk. I'm making a Cregan Stark tag list! Let me know if you want on it!

#cregan stark x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #creagan stark #cregan stark #cregan stark x y/n #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon #house targaryen #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon imagine

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pucksandpower · 3 months ago

Text

Find Me Again

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: in which two soulmates are destined to always find each other only to be torn apart lifetime after lifetime after lifetime … until finally, they’re not (aka the reincarnation AU)

Alexandria, 30 BC

The scorching Egyptian sun beats down on Alexandria as you hurry through the bustling streets, your sandals slapping against the warm stone. The air is thick with tension — whispers of Octavian’s approaching army have the city on edge. But your mind is elsewhere, focused on the stolen moments you’ll soon share with Lando.

You slip into a secluded alleyway, heart racing as you spot his familiar silhouette. Lando’s face lights up when he sees you, though worry creases his brow.

“There you are,” he murmurs, pulling you close. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

You melt into his embrace, savoring his warmth. “I’m sorry I’m late. The palace has been in chaos with all the rumors flying about.”

Lando’s arms tighten around you. “It’s true then? Octavian draws near?”

You nod against his chest. “I fear so. Cleopatra grows more desperate by the day.”

He pulls back, cupping your face in his calloused hands. His dark eyes search yours intently. “Come away with me,” he pleads. “We can leave the city tonight, find passage on a ship bound for Greece or Cyprus.”

Your heart aches at the longing in his voice. “Lando, you know I can’t abandon my duty to the queen. She needs me now more than ever.”

“And what of my need for you?” Lando’s voice cracks with emotion. “Each day I’m torn between my loyalty to Rome and my love for you. I cannot bear the thought of you in danger when Octavian’s forces arrive.”

You reach up to caress his cheek, feeling the stubble beneath your fingers. “My brave soldier,” you murmur. “Always trying to protect me. But I’ve survived far worse than regime changes. We’ll find a way through this, as we always do.”

Lando leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “I wish I had your optimism. Every time I close my eyes, I see visions of you lying lifeless amidst the chaos of battle.”

A chill runs down your spine despite the oppressive heat. “Don’t speak of such things,” you chide gently. “We make our own fate, remember?”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know. I just ... I can’t shake this feeling of impending doom. Promise me you’ll be careful, my love. Promise you’ll do whatever it takes to stay safe.”

“I promise,” you whisper, sealing the vow with a tender kiss.

Lando responds eagerly, drawing you closer as the kiss deepens. For a blissful moment, the world fades away and there is only the two of you, lost in each other’s embrace.

A distant shout breaks the spell. You reluctantly pull away, both breathing heavily.

“I should go,” you murmur regretfully. “Cleopatra will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”

Lando nods, though he doesn’t release you from his arms. “When can I see you again?”

You bite your lip, considering. “Three days from now, at sunset. Meet me by the lighthouse?”

“I’ll be there,” he vows solemnly. “Be safe, my love.”

With a final lingering kiss, you slip from his embrace and hurry back towards the palace. Your heart feels lighter despite the looming threats, buoyed by Lando’s love and the promise of your next rendezvous.

But fate, it seems, has other plans.

The next few days pass in a blur of mounting tension. Cleopatra grows increasingly erratic, oscillating between grandiose plans to seduce Octavian and talks of ending her own life. You do your best to comfort and counsel her, all while stealing moments to daydream about your upcoming meeting with Lando.

On the fated evening, you’re helping Cleopatra prepare for bed when she suddenly fixates on a basket of figs brought by a servant.

“Ah, how fitting,” she muses, a strange glint in her eye. “Did you know, my dear, that the Egyptians that came before us believed figs to be the fruit of the afterlife?”

A chill runs down your spine. “My queen?”

Cleopatra waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t look so worried. I was simply contemplating the cyclical nature of life and death. Come, help me into bed.”

You obey, tucking the sheets around her with practiced ease. As you turn to leave, her hand darts out to grasp your wrist.

“Stay with me a while longer,” she implores. “I find I cannot bear to be alone with my thoughts tonight.”

Your heart sinks, knowing you’ll miss your rendezvous with Lando. But duty wins out over desire. “Of course, my queen. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Hours pass as you sit by Cleopatra’s bedside, listening to her reminisce about better days. Just as your eyelids begin to grow heavy, a commotion in the hall startles you both fully awake.

“What’s happening?” Cleopatra demands, sitting up.

Before you can answer, the doors burst open and a breathless messenger stumbles in. “My queen,” he pants, “Octavian’s army has breached the city walls!”

Cleopatra’s face hardens. “So, the end has come at last.” She turns to you, her gaze intense. “Fetch me the asp.”

Your blood runs cold. “My queen, surely there must be another way-”

“Do not argue with me!” She snaps. “I will not be paraded through Rome as Octavian’s prize. Now go, quickly!”

With a heavy heart, you hurry to retrieve the venomous snake from its hidden chamber. Your hands shake as you return, presenting the basket to Cleopatra.

She reaches for it eagerly, but pauses. Her eyes meet yours, softening slightly. “My faithful friend,” she murmurs. “You have served me well. I release you from your duties. Go, find that Roman boy of yours and flee while you still can.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “You knew?”

Cleopatra’s lips quirk in a sad smile. “I’ve always known. Now go, before it’s too late.”

Torn between duty and desire, you hesitate. In that moment of indecision, everything changes.

Cleopatra reaches for the asp, but in her haste, she knocks the basket from your hands. The snake falls to the floor, immediately striking at the nearest target … you.

Pain explodes in your ankle as the asp’s fangs sink into your flesh. You cry out, stumbling backwards.

“No!” Cleopatra wails, lunging to catch you as you fall.

The world begins to spin as the venom courses through your veins. Your last coherent thought is of Lando, waiting faithfully by the lighthouse. As darkness closes in, you pray he’ll forgive you for breaking your promise.

Hours later, Lando fights his way through the chaos of the conquered city. He charges into the palace, heedless of the danger, desperate to find you.

When he bursts into Cleopatra’s chambers, his worst fears are realized. Two bodies lie motionless on the floor — the queen and beside her ...

“No,” he chokes out, falling to his knees beside your lifeless form. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

Lando gathers you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as sobs wrack his body. “You promised,” he whispers brokenly. “You promised you’d stay safe.”

But promises, like empires, are so easily broken. As the sun rises on a new era for Egypt, it sets on this chapter of your shared story. Yet even as this life ends, the seeds of the next are already taking root, waiting to bloom in another time, another place.

For true love, like the mighty Nile, cannot be contained. It flows ever onward, carving new paths through the landscape of eternity.

Pompeii, 79 AD

The ground trembles beneath your feet as you race through the chaotic streets of Pompeii. Ash rains from the sky, coating everything in a ghostly gray shroud. All around, people scream and push, desperately seeking escape from the fury of Mount Vesuvius.

“Lando!” You call out, your voice hoarse from the acrid air. “Lando, where are you?”

A hand suddenly grabs your arm, yanking you into a narrow alleyway. You whirl around, ready to fight, only to find yourself face to face with Lando. His usually immaculate toga is torn and stained with soot, his dark curls matted with ash.

“Thank the gods,” he breathes, pulling you into a fierce embrace. “I thought I’d lost you in the crowd.”

You cling to him tightly, savoring his familiar warmth amidst the chaos. “We need to get out of the city,” you say urgently. “The mountain — it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Lando nods grimly. “I know. I’ve been trying to make it to the harbor, but the roads are completely blocked. It’s madness out there.”

Another tremor rocks the ground, stronger than before. Pieces of masonry rain down from the surrounding buildings. Lando shields you with his body as you both press against the alley wall.

“We can’t stay here,” you say once the shaking subsides. “It’s not safe.”

“Nowhere is safe,” Lando replies, his eyes haunted. “But you’re right, we need to keep moving. Come on, I know another way to the docks.”

Hand-in-hand, you dash back out into the crowded street. The air grows thicker with each passing moment, making it harder to breathe. You pull the edge of your stola over your mouth and nose, squinting through the haze.

Lando leads you through a maze of side streets and back alleys, avoiding the worst of the panicked crowds. But with each turn, your hope dwindles. The mountain’s fury seems to be growing by the minute, raining down fire and ash with terrifying intensity.

As you round another corner, you come face to face with a wall of rubble blocking the entire street. Lando curses under his breath, pounding his fist against a fallen column.

“It’s no use,” he says, defeat creeping into his voice. “Every path to the harbor is cut off. We’re trapped.”

You squeeze his hand reassuringly. “Then we’ll find somewhere to wait it out. The gods won’t abandon us. We just have to have faith.”

He turns to you, a sad smile playing on his lips. “Always the optimist, aren’t you? Even in the face of certain doom.”

“One of us has to be,” you reply, managing a weak smile of your own.

Another violent tremor shakes the ground, nearly knocking you both off your feet. In the distance, you hear the ominous rumble of collapsing buildings.

“Quick, in here!” Lando shouts, pulling you towards a sturdy-looking stone building. You duck inside just as a fresh barrage of burning rocks pelts the street where you were standing moments ago.

As your eyes adjust to the dimness, you realize you’re in some kind of workshop. Half-finished statues and blocks of marble are scattered about, coated in a fine layer of ash that has sifted through the cracks.

“A sculptor’s studio,” Lando muses, running his hand along a nearby bust. “Rather fitting, don’t you think? To spend our last moments surrounded by art meant to outlast us all.”

You shoot him a reproachful look. “Don’t talk like that. This isn’t the end. We’ll get through this, just like we always do.”

He sighs, pulling you close. “I admire your spirit, my love. But I fear this time, the Fates have other plans for us.”

As if to punctuate his words, the ground gives another violent lurch. The air grows even thicker, filled with choking dust and sulfurous fumes.

“It’s getting harder to breathe,” you gasp, fighting back a coughing fit.

Lando guides you to a relatively clear corner of the room, helping you sit on the floor before settling beside you. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, drawing you against his side.

“Just try to take shallow breaths,” he instructs, his own voice strained. “Like this, see?”

You nod, focusing on matching your breathing to his. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your labored breaths and the distant rumble of the mountain.

“Lando?” You whisper after a while.

“Hmm?”

“I’m scared.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I know, love. I am too.”

“Tell me a story?” You ask, your voice small. “Like you used to, when we first met. Remember?”

Lando chuckles softly. “How could I forget? You were the most stubborn student I’ve ever had the misfortune of tutoring.”

“Hey!” You protest weakly, managing a smile despite everything. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh no?” He teases. “Who was it that insisted the Odyssey would be vastly improved if Odysseus had simply asked for directions?”

You laugh, the sound quickly dissolving into a cough. “Well, it’s true! Twenty years to get home? Penelope should have moved on.”

Lando shakes his head in mock dismay. “Such disrespect for the classics. I clearly failed as your tutor.”

“Never,” you murmur, snuggling closer to him. “You taught me far more important things than dusty old stories.”

“Oh? And what might those be?”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You taught me what it means to truly love someone. To find a home not in a place, but in a person.”

Lando’s eyes shine with unshed tears as he leans down to kiss you softly. “And you, my darling, taught me that life is meant to be lived, not just studied. You brought color to my world of scrolls and stone.”

Another tremor shakes the building, sending a fresh wave of dust raining down on you both. The air grows thicker, each breath a struggle.

“Lando,” you wheeze, gripping his hand tightly. “I don’t want to die.”

He pulls you onto his lap, cradling you against his chest. “Shh, it’s alright. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Promise you won’t leave me?” You plead, your vision starting to blur.

“Never,” he vows fiercely. “Not in this life or any other. Wherever our souls go next, we go together. I promise.”

You manage a weak nod, focusing on the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. As consciousness begins to slip away, you’re struck by a strange sense of déjà vu.

“Lando?” You murmur, your voice barely audible.

“Yes, love?”

“I think ... I think we’ve done this before.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “What, died in each other’s arms while a volcano erupts? I think I’d remember that.”

You shake your head slightly. “No, not exactly. But this feeling ... like we’ve known each other forever. Like we’ll find each other again, no matter what.”

Lando is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. “Maybe we have. Maybe we will. I’d like to think so.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

As the world crumbles around you, you cling to each other. Your last thoughts are not of fear or regret, but of the love you share. A love so powerful it transcends time itself.

And as this chapter closes, another waits to begin. For some bonds are too strong to be broken, even by death. Your souls are destined to find each other again and again, weaving an eternal tapestry of love across the ages.

Salem, 1692

The air in the Salem courthouse is thick with tension and the bitter scent of fear. You stand before the assembled judges, your wrists bound tightly with rough rope that chafes your skin. The crowd of onlookers murmurs and shifts restlessly, their faces a sea of suspicion and barely concealed hostility.

Lando sits among them, his face a mask of anguish as he watches the proceedings. He wants nothing more than to rush to your side, to shield you from the madness that has gripped the town. But he knows that any show of support would only damn you further in the eyes of the court.

Judge Hathorne’s voice rings out, silencing the whispers. “The accused will step forward.”

You take a shaky step, raising your chin defiantly despite the terror coursing through your veins.

“You stand accused of witchcraft and consorting with the devil,” Hathorne intones gravely. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” you declare, your voice stronger than you feel. “I am no witch, merely a midwife and herbalist. I have done nothing but help this community.”

A snort of derision comes from the crowd. You turn to see Goodwife Putnam, her face twisted with malice. “Lies!” She shrieks. “I saw her dancing naked in the woods, consorting with dark spirits!”

“That’s not true!” You protest. “I was gathering herbs for my remedies, nothing more!”

Judge Hathorne raises an eyebrow. “And can anyone vouch for your whereabouts on the night in question?”

Your heart sinks. You had been alone that night, as you often were when foraging. “I ... I was alone, your honor. But I swear on all that is holy, I am no witch.”

A ripple of whispers sweeps through the crowd. Lando’s fists clench at his sides, his jaw tight with the effort of remaining silent.

“Very convenient,” Hathorne remarks dryly. “Goody Putnam, you may continue with your testimony.”

The woman stands, her eyes gleaming with a fervor that chills you to the bone. “I’ve seen her speaking to animals as if they could understand her. And just last week, my cow’s milk turned sour the very day after she visited our farm!”

“That’s ridiculous!” You exclaim. “Milk spoils, it’s a natural occurrence. And I often speak to animals, as do many others. It does not make me a witch!”

But your protests fall on deaf ears. One by one, your neighbors step forward with increasingly outlandish accusations. Every misfortune, every unexplained event is laid at your feet.

“She cursed my crops!”

“My child fell ill after eating her bread!”

“I saw her flying on a broomstick!”

The claims grow more absurd, but the judges nod solemnly at each one. You feel the noose of suspicion tightening around your neck with each passing moment.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Lando leaps to his feet. “This is madness!” He shouts. “You’re condemning an innocent woman based on nothing but gossip and superstition!”

All eyes turn to him. Judge Danforth fixes him with a steely glare. “Master Norris, you will remain silent or be removed from this courtroom.”

“I will not be silent while you murder an innocent woman!” Lando retorts. He turns to the crowd, imploring them. “Can’t you see what’s happening? We’re tearing our community apart with these baseless accusations!”

A murmur of uncertainty ripples through the onlookers. For a moment, you dare to hope that reason might prevail.

But then Abigail Williams, one of the young girls at the center of the witch hunt, lets out a blood-curdling shriek. She points a trembling finger at you. “Her specter! I see her specter tormenting me even now!”

The other girls quickly join in, writhing and screaming as if in the throes of possession. The courtroom erupts into chaos.

“Order!” Judge Hathorne bellows, pounding his gavel. “Order in the court!”

As the commotion dies down, he turns to you, his expression grave. “The evidence against you is overwhelming. Unless you confess and repent, I have no choice but to find you guilty of witchcraft.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. You know that a confession might spare your life, but it would mean living a lie. And worse, it would lend credence to the madness gripping Salem.

“I will not confess to crimes I did not commit,” you say quietly but firmly. “I am innocent before God and man.”

Judge Hathorne’s face hardens. “Then you leave us no choice. You are hereby sentenced to death by hanging. May God have mercy on your soul.”

The crowd erupts into a mix of cheers and shocked gasps. Lando’s anguished cry rises above the din. “No! You can’t do this!”

He rushes towards you, but is quickly restrained by two burly constables. “Let me go!” He shouts, struggling against their grip. “She’s innocent!”

Your eyes meet his across the chaotic courtroom. Despite everything, you manage a small, sad smile. “It’s alright, Lando,” you call out. “Be strong. This isn’t your fault.”

As the guards move to lead you away, Lando breaks free and rushes to your side. He cups your face in his hands, his eyes wild with desperation. “I’ll find a way to stop this,” he vows. “I won’t let them take you.”

You lean into his touch, memorizing the feel of his hands on your skin. “There’s nothing you can do, my love. Promise me you’ll stay safe. Don’t let them take you too.”

“I can’t lose you,” he chokes out, tears streaming down his face.

“You won’t,” you whisper fiercely. “Not really. I don’t know how I know this, but I swear we’ll find each other again. In another life, another time. This isn’t the end for us.”

The guards roughly pull you apart. As they drag you away, you keep your eyes locked on Lando’s, drawing strength from his gaze.

The next few days pass in a blur of fear and desperate prayer. You cling to the strange certainty that had come over you in the courtroom — that somehow, someway, this is not truly the end for you and Lando.

On the day of your execution, you walk to the gallows with your head held high. The crowd that has gathered is subdued, some already beginning to question the justice of what’s happening.

You scan the faces, searching for Lando, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Your heart aches at his absence, but you understand. It would be too painful for him to watch.

As the noose is placed around your neck, you close your eyes and think of Lando. Of his laugh, his gentle touch, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You hold onto these memories as the world falls away beneath your feet.

Your last conscious thought is a promise — to find him again, no matter how long it takes.

Miles away, hidden in the woods, Lando feels the exact moment you leave this world. He collapses to his knees, a wordless cry of anguish tearing from his throat. But even in his grief, he feels the echo of your final promise.

“I’ll find you,” he whispers to the uncaring forest. “In this life or the next. We’ll be together again. I swear it.”

And so another chapter closes, the threads of your shared destiny stretching onward through time. The cycle continues, each life bringing you closer to the moment when you’ll finally break free of this endless dance of death and rebirth.

Yekaterinburg, 1918

The Ipatiev House looms dark and foreboding in the Yekaterinburg night. You pace the confines of your makeshift prison, the once-opulent rooms now a stark reminder of how far the mighty Romanovs have fallen. The sound of raised voices and heavy footsteps from the floor below sends a chill down your spine.

“They’re coming,” your sister Maria whispers, her eyes wide with fear.

Before you can respond, the door bursts open. A group of armed men file in, their faces grim and purposeful. Your heart nearly stops when you spot a familiar face among them.

“Lando?” You gasp, scarcely able to believe your eyes.

He meets your gaze, his expression a turbulent mix of emotions. “Grand Duchess,” he says stiffly, the formal title at odds with the intimate moments you’ve shared in secret.

“What’s happening?” You demand, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Why are you here?”

Yakov Yurovsky, the commandant of the house, steps forward. “The Ural Soviet has decided to execute the Romanov family,” he announces coldly. “You are to be moved to the basement immediately.”

A wave of terror washes over you. “No,” you breathe. “No, this can’t be happening.”

Your eyes lock with Lando’s, silently pleading. For a moment, you see the conflict raging behind his eyes. But then his expression hardens, and he looks away.

As the guards begin herding your family towards the stairs, you manage to maneuver closer to Lando. “How could you be part of this?” You hiss under your breath.

His jaw clenches. “The revolution demands sacrifices,” he mutters. “Even from those we ... care about.”

“Care about?” You repeat incredulously. “Is that all I am to you now? After everything we’ve shared?”

A flicker of pain crosses his face. “You know it’s more complicated than that. Your family’s rule has caused immeasurable suffering. This ... this is justice.”

“Murder is not justice,” you retort, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger.

Before he can respond, you’re roughly pushed forward. The journey to the basement is a blur of terror and disbelief. Your mind races, desperately seeking a way out of this nightmare.

In the dank cellar, Yurovsky instructs your family to line up against the wall. You find yourself between your younger siblings, instinctively trying to shield them even as your own knees threaten to give out.

“Wait,” you cry out as Yurovsky raises his hand to signal the firing squad. “Please, spare the children at least. They’re innocent in all this!”

Yurovsky’s face remains impassive. “There can be no Romanov heirs left to rally around. The old regime must end here and now.”

You turn to Lando, making one last desperate appeal. “Lando, please. If what we had meant anything to you, don’t let this happen. Help us!”

For a moment, you see the Lando you knew — the passionate young man who spoke of creating a better world, who held you under the stars and whispered promises of a future together. But then the revolutionary mask slips back into place.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely audible. “But this is bigger than us.”

As the soldiers raise their weapons, time seems to slow. You think of all the lives you might have lived — the futures now forever lost to you. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over you, as if you’ve faced death with Lando before.

“Ready!” Yurovsky’s voice cuts through your reverie.

You straighten your spine, determined to face your end with dignity. Your eyes find Lando’s one last time.

“Aim!”

“I forgive you,” you mouth silently, even as tears stream down your face.

You see Lando’s composure crack, anguish flooding his features. He takes a half-step forward, as if to intervene, but it’s too late.

“Fire!”

The basement erupts in a deafening cacophony of gunshots and screams. You feel a searing pain in your chest as bullets tear through you. As you crumple to the ground, your fading vision fixates on Lando’s horrified face.

With your last breath, you whisper, “Find me again.”

Then darkness claims you.

Lando stands frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from your lifeless form. The smokey smell of gunpowder mixes with the metallic scent of blood, turning his stomach.

“Finish them off,” Yurovsky orders dispassionately. “No survivors.”

As his comrades move forward with bayonets, Lando stumbles back, retching. He staggers up the stairs and out into the cool night air, gulping it down desperately.

What has he done?

He’d believed so fervently in the revolution, in the need to sweep away the old order to build a better world. But staring at his blood-stained hands, Lando feels nothing but horror and soul-crushing guilt.

Your final words haunt him. “Find me again.” But how can he, when he’s destroyed any chance of a future together?

As dawn breaks over Yekaterinburg, Lando makes a decision. He can’t undo what’s been done, but he can ensure the truth isn’t buried along with your body.

Over the coming weeks, as the Bolsheviks spread lies about your family’s fate, Lando works in secret to document what really happened. He gathers evidence, writes detailed accounts, and arranges for the information to be smuggled out of the country.

It’s a dangerous game. If caught, he’ll be branded a traitor to the revolution. But Lando no longer cares about ideology or politics. His only goal is to honor your memory and ensure that history remembers the truth.

Late one night, as he prepares to flee the country with his damning documents, Lando allows himself a moment of quiet reflection. He thinks of your smile, your compassion, the way you challenged him to see beyond his rigid beliefs.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to the empty room. “I failed you in this life. But I swear, somehow, I’ll make it right. If there’s any justice in the universe, we’ll meet again. And next time, I’ll protect you. I’ll choose you over everything else.”

As he slips out into the night, Lando feels a strange sense of certainty. This isn’t the end of your story. Somehow, someway, you’ll find each other again.

The wheel of fate continues to turn, carrying your intertwined souls towards yet another lifetime. But with each cycle, the bond between you grows stronger. Perhaps next time, you’ll finally break free of this tragic pattern and find the happiness that’s eluded you for so long.

Jonestown, 1978

The humid Guyanese air hangs heavy over Jonestown, thick with tension and the cloying scent of tropical flowers. You stand among the gathered crowd, your heart pounding so hard you fear it might burst from your chest. Beside you, Lando’s hand finds yours, squeezing tightly.

“This isn’t right,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the droning speech coming from the pavilion. “We need to get out of here.”

You nod imperceptibly, not daring to speak. Jim Jones’ paranoid ravings have reached a fever pitch in recent days, and you both know that even the slightest hint of dissent could be deadly.

“My children,” Jones’ voice booms out over the loudspeakers, “the time has come for us to make our final stand against the oppressors who seek to destroy our paradise.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. You scan the sea of faces, seeing a mix of blind devotion and barely concealed terror.

“Our Congressional visitors have betrayed us,” Jones continues, his words slurring slightly. “They will bring nothing but destruction. We have no choice but to enact our glorious revolutionary suicide.”

Your blood runs cold. You’d heard whispers of this plan, but had desperately hoped it was just another of Jones’ manipulative tactics.

“Lando,” you whisper urgently, “we have to run. Now.”

He nods, his face pale but determined. “Follow my lead. When I give the signal, we make a break for the jungle.”

But before you can move, you feel a vice-like grip on your arm. You turn to see your mother, her eyes wild with fervor.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She hisses. “This is our moment of triumph. You will not ruin it with your lack of faith.”

On Lando’s other side, his father has a similar hold on him. The older man’s face is a mask of grim resignation. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, son,” he says quietly.

You watch in horror as Jones’ lieutenants begin distributing paper cups filled with a sinister purple liquid. The bitter almond smell of cyanide fills the air.

“No,” you breathe, struggling against your mother’s grip. “Mom, please. This is insanity. We don’t have to do this!”

But your pleas fall on deaf ears. Your mother’s grip only tightens as she accepts two cups from a passing aide.

“Drink,” she commands, thrusting one towards you.

You shake your head vehemently, clamping your mouth shut. Beside you, Lando is engaged in a similar struggle with his father.

“You can’t force us to do this!” Lando shouts, drawing the attention of nearby cult members. “This is murder!”

Jones’ voice cuts through the growing commotion. “Those who resist are traitors to our cause. They must be made to comply, for the good of all.”

Suddenly, you’re surrounded by a group of Jones’ most fanatical followers. Rough hands grab you, forcing your head back. You struggle wildly, but it’s no use. You feel the cold rim of the cup pressed against your lips.

“No!” Lando cries out, fighting to reach you. “Leave her alone!”

But he too is overwhelmed, multiple hands restraining him as the poisoned drink is forced upon him.

The sickly-sweet liquid burns your throat as it’s poured into your mouth. You choke and splutter, but can’t prevent some of it from going down. Beside you, Lando’s muffled cries tell you he’s suffering the same fate.

As the hands release you, you collapse to your knees, coughing violently. Your vision swims, the world taking on a surreal, nightmarish quality.

“Lando,” you gasp, reaching out blindly.

His hand finds yours, gripping it weakly. “I’m here,” he manages, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you.”

You crawl closer, fighting against the growing weakness in your limbs. All around, people are collapsing, some screaming in agony while others slip away in eerie silence.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, cupping Lando’s face with a trembling hand. “We never stood a chance against this madness.”

Lando’s eyes, clouded with pain, meet yours. “This can’t be how it ends,” he says desperately. “Not again.”

A strange sense of déjà vu washes over you. “Again?” You murmur, confused.

He nods weakly. “I don’t know how, but I feel like we’ve been here before. Facing death together, unable to stop it.”

As the poison works its way through your system, flashes of other lives flicker through your mind. Ancient Egypt, Pompeii, Salem, Russia — each time, finding each other only to be torn apart.

“I remember,” you breathe, wonder mingling with the pain. “We keep finding each other, but we never get our happy ending.”

Lando pulls you closer, both of you shaking with the effort of fighting off the inevitable. “Next time,” he vows, his voice barely above a whisper. “Next time we’ll break this cycle. We’ll find a way to be together.”

You manage a small, sad smile. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he murmurs, pressing a weak kiss to your forehead.

As consciousness begins to slip away, you cling to each other. The sounds of screaming and Jones’ maniacal laughter fade into the background. In these final moments, there is only you and Lando, and the love that has somehow endured across lifetimes.

“Find me again,” you whisper, echoing words spoken in another life.

Lando’s grip on your hand tightens fractionally. “Always,” he breathes.

As darkness closes in, you’re filled with a strange sense of hope. This tragic cycle can’t go on forever. Someday, somehow, you’ll find a way to break free and finally have the life together you’ve been denied so many times.

Your last thought, as you slip away, is a prayer to whatever cosmic force keeps bringing you together.

Next time, let it be different.

Next time, let us live.

And as your souls depart this tragic scene, unseen wheels of fate begin to turn once more. The cycle continues, but perhaps this time, with the weight of so many shared lifetimes behind you, you’ll finally find your way to a happier ending.

In the years that follow, as the horror of Jonestown is revealed to the world, two names are lost among the hundreds of victims. But your story — the story of a love that refuses to be extinguished — lives on, waiting for the next chapter to unfold.

Monaco, 2024

The soft glow of computer screens illuminates Lando’s face as he leans into his microphone, his eyes darting between the chat and his game. “No, chat, I’m not going to sing the Baby Shark song,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You lot are absolutely mental, you know that?”

The door to his streaming room creaks open, and he glances over, his face softening into a warm smile as you pad in, wrapped in an oversized hoodie you’ve stolen from his wardrobe.

“Speaking of sharks,” Lando grins, addressing his audience, “look who’s decided to join us. It’s my favorite cuddly shark!”

You roll your eyes fondly at the nickname, a reference to your habit of playfully nipping at his shoulder when you’re feeling particularly affectionate. As you approach, Lando pushes his chair back slightly, making room for you to settle onto his lap.

“Come here, you,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist as you curl into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. To his stream, he explains, “Sorry chat, the missus is feeling a bit clingy tonight. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

You mumble something unintelligible into his skin, making him laugh. “What was that, love? The stream can’t hear you when you’re trying to become one with my neck.”

Lifting your head slightly, you repeat, “I said, don’t let me interrupt your gaming. I just wanted cuddles.”

Lando presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re never an interruption. Besides, I think the chat’s been asking for a cameo from you all night.”

You turn to face the camera, waving sleepily. “Hi, chat. Sorry I’m not more entertaining tonight. Long day at work.”

The chat explodes with greetings and well-wishes, scrolling by almost too fast to read. Lando chuckles, giving you a gentle squeeze. “See? They love you. Probably more than they love me, to be honest.”

“That’s fair,” you murmur, nuzzling back into his neck. “No one loves you more than I do.”

Lando’s breath catches for a moment, and you feel his heart rate pick up. Even after all this time together, simple declarations of love still affect him deeply. It’s one of the many things you adore about him.

“Alright, chat,” Lando says, his voice a touch huskier than before. “You’ve gone and made her all sappy. I hope you’re happy with yourselves.”

You can’t help but giggle at his attempt to deflect. “Oh please, you love it when I’m sappy.”

“Maybe,” he concedes with a grin. “But if I admit that, they’ll never let me hear the end of it. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.”

You snort inelegantly. “What reputation? Everyone knows you’re a big softie.”

“Oi!” Lando protests, poking you in the side and making you squirm. “I’ll have you know I’m very tough and manly. Right, chat?”

The stream erupts with a mix of agreement and playful disagreement, peppered with emotes and inside jokes. You watch the scrolling text with amusement, marveling at the community Lando has built.

“See?” Lando says triumphantly. “They agree with me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure at least half of those messages were sarcastic, babe.”

Lando waves a hand dismissively. “Details, details. The point is, I’m incredibly macho and not at all a softie.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum skeptically. “Is that why you cried watching Up last week?”

“Hey!” Lando exclaims, his cheeks flushing slightly. “That’s classified information, that is. You can’t just go revealing my secrets to the entire internet!”

The chat goes wild at this revelation, demanding to know more about Lando’s movie-watching habits. You can’t help but laugh at his mock-outraged expression.

“Sorry, love,” you say, not sounding sorry at all. “But if I have to put up with your sniffling during Disney movies, the least I can do is share the joy with your fans.”

Lando groans dramatically. “That’s it, I’m filing for divorce. Chat, you’re my witnesses. This is grounds for divorce, right? Revealing a man’s most intimate vulnerabilities?”

You roll your eyes fondly. “We’re not even married yet, you goof.”

The words slip out before you can think better of them, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room shifts. Lando’s eyes widen slightly, his gaze locking with yours.

“Yet?” He repeats softly, a note of wonder in his voice.

You feel your cheeks heat up, but you don’t look away. “Well, yeah. I mean, unless you had other plans?”

For a moment, Lando seems to forget entirely about the stream. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “No other plans,” he murmurs. “Just you. Always you.”

The intimacy of the moment is broken by the chat exploding once again, this time with a flurry of ring emotes and excited keysmashes. Lando blinks, seeming to remember where he is.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Well, chat, I think that’s my cue to end the stream for tonight. Got some, uh, important things to discuss with this one.”

You bury your face in his neck again, half embarrassed and half thrilled by the turn of events. As Lando rushes through his usual sign-off, you can feel the barely contained energy thrumming through him.

The moment the stream ends, Lando spins his chair to face you fully, his eyes bright with excitement. “Did you mean that?” He asks eagerly. “About the marriage thing?”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a soft smile. “Of course I did. Lando, I’ve loved you for lifetimes. There’s nothing I want more than to marry you.”

Something flashes in his eyes at your words — a fleeting moment of recognition, as if some long-buried memory is struggling to surface. But then it’s gone, replaced by pure joy.

“Lifetimes, huh?” He grins, pulling you closer. “Well, in that case, I suppose we better make this one count.”

As his lips meet yours in a tender kiss, you’re filled with an overwhelming sense of rightness. After so many tragic endings, you’ve finally found your happily ever after. And this time, you’re not letting go.

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips. “In this life and every other.”

Lando’s answering smile is radiant. “And I love you. Always have, always will.”

As you lose yourselves in each other’s embrace, the echoes of past lives fade away. This is your time, your chance at happiness. And you plan to make the most of every single moment.

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daycourtofficial · 7 months ago

Text

His shadows know

Pairing: Azriel x reader | WC: 3.8k | Warnings: none

Summary: His shadows knew you were mates before either of you did and they do everything they can to push the two of you together.

Author’s note: happy 2k kick off day!!! 🎉 this is actually the oldest draft I have - I began writing this in October I think? I loved the idea but got stuck for so long on where to take it so shout out to @tsunami-of-tears for reading it and giving me feedback - this story would be lost to time without you thank you thank you thank you

Being a scholar in the Winter Court had several perks - your home had a rich and deep history, you spent most of your time reading, and you became great friends with your High Lord and newly appointed High Lady - Kallias and Viviane. Your friendship had great perks, one of which was their allowance for you to travel with them to the Night Court.

Rhysand had spent centuries keeping up the appearance that it was a terrible place to live, that the people were terrible, everything was terrible, leading to none of the high lords ever spending time in the Night Court. After Velaris became known to the other high lords, Viviane wrote immediately to Mor asking for the chance to see the city of starlight. Mor immediately agreed, also requesting for you to come as well. You and Mor were friendly, but she liked you and knew you would love the city.

The three of you winnowed together, being greeted by Rhys, Feyre, and Mor upon your arrival. After some pleasantries, Kallias and Rhysand started speaking about some political matter, so you slipped out and started wandering around the palace, admiring the beautiful architecture and paintings lining the walls. Many portraits hung in front of you - some depicting battles, some depicting members of the royal family.

You were stopped at a beautiful portrait of their newest addition, Nyx, when you felt a little tug on your arm. You looked down to find the cutest little blob of darkness dancing around your arm. It tickled as it swirled and skittered across your skin. The little shadow made the rounds around your body, swirling around your arms, your waist, your legs - as if it was checking to make sure everything’s okay.

“You are adorable” you whispered to it, when a second and third one appeared. “How many of you are there?” You whispered, unsure if it can even respond.

“There’s no keeping count of them. Or keeping track of them, I suppose.”

The voice startles you and the shadows, who wrap around you, almost trying to guide you to the voice. You turn to see the most devastatingly beautiful male you’ve ever seen - dark, sun-kissed skin covered large muscular arms, massive membranous wings behind him. Light poured behind him allowing the wings to look almost pink from the stretched skin, but everywhere else behind him was cloaked in shadows that moved lazily, slithering across his shoulders.

Hazel eyes look down at you, a smirk on his face.

“Are you in charge of them, I suppose?” You ask, a smile grazing your lips.

“I wouldn’t say that. They don’t always listen to me. They seem to like you, though.”

While you were speaking, a few more joined to inspect you, fast blurs of darkness roaming your skin leaving goosebumps in their cold wake.

“Hmm, maybe they see me as a threat. I can be quite frightening, you know.”

“Frightening? Yes, I can see you’re trying to pinpoint your next target. Unfortunately, I do believe you are wasting your time. Studying Nyx’s portrait won’t help you determine his weaknesses.”

“I’ve actually uncovered quite a lot about his weaknesses from his portrait.”

“Pray tell,” he leans against the wall, studying your face.

“I think his weaknesses include both nap time and bed time, along with his incredibly short legs. Dare I say, he’d be very easy to pick up and maneuver.”

“Unfortunately, you’ve picked a target that is so heavily protected you may never get the chance to see him.”

Your face lights up in delight, “so I am a frightening threat? Why else go through the trouble to hide him from me?”

“Nyx doesn’t like strangers,” his tone was so matter of fact, the shadows peered over his shoulders to watch the exchange.

“Hmm, you could introduce us. Then it’ll be a fair fight.”

“Unfortunately for you, I believe he is napping. And disturbing him from a nap is the worst part of my job.”

“So it is part of your job to wake him up?”

“I have to train him against all these frightening threats that wander the halls.”

“I only see one frightening threat.”

The shadows began dancing between you two, pulling you both closer and closer, until you realized you could put your hand out and touch his face. Your fingers twitched slightly at the intrusive thought.

“And does this frightening threat have a name.”

“Y/n.”

He smiles at your name - you assume he already knew who you were, he just wanted you to say it for whatever reason.

“And does the one who has the terrifying job of waking Nyx have a name?”

“Azriel.”

“And you also aren’t in charge of the shadows, but you provide them with suggestions?”

He laughs as he says, “They usually listen to me, especially when I command them, but sometimes they just find something they like and want to investigate.”

“Is that what happened? They wanted to investigate me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Did they like what they found out in their investigation?”

“Sometimes they investigate pretty things or things they’ve never seen before. They won’t tell me why they came after you, but they tell me they like you.”

“Can you tell them that I like them? Or can they hear me when I talk to them?”

“They can hear you, you just can’t really hear them.”

“They’re very beautiful.” You were talking about the shadows, of course. Definitely not also about the male in front of you.

“Yes they are.” He says, gazing into your eyes, perhaps speaking about more than just the shadows.

The spell between your shared gaze is broken when a door opens and Mor comes running down the hall. “Oh, good, Az found you. We thought you got lost somewhere,” she sounded out of breath, as if she were roaming the halls for you.

“I’m sorry, Mor, you know I love to wander.” You look at Azriel, his hazel eyes meeting your gaze. “You never know what you’ll find.”

It had been a long day. Velaris was stunning, a beautiful gem in an otherwise terrifying sounding court, but you desperately need a warm bath and a few moments of peace. You adored Viviane and Kallias, but you needed to be away from him for a few hours. You needed peace and quiet.

And maybe a few moments to think about the beautiful male you were flirting with earlier.

You prepared yourself a bath, lowering your entire body into the warm water. You tilt your head back, enjoying the warmth on your aching muscles from walking around the palace all day, when you see out of the corner of your eye a tiny little shadow.

“Hello, sweetie,” you coo towards it. You can’t help it - they’re absolutely adorable. They remind you of little pets, but less messy or noisy. One or two of them had followed you around during the day. You weren’t sure if anyone else noticed or not, especially because you didn’t see Azriel again for the rest of the day.

The shadow came to the edge of the bathtub, climbing up your arm, nestling into your hair. “You are a silly little thing aren’t you?” You ask it, with no response. “Will you ever speak to me?” You ask, again with no response. “Will you keep me company?” The shadow didn’t necessarily respond, but you felt the shadow’s agreement as it nestled further into your hair as you sank into the bath once more.

After your bath, with the shadow still keeping you company, you put on a nightgown and decided you wanted to go down to the kitchen to look for some cookies, certain that Rhysand would only have the highest quality of late night snacks. You reiterate your thoughts to the shadow, when the shadow holds you back by your wrist for a moment.

“Is everything alright?” The shadow keeps a hold on you, not letting you go. A moment or two passes, and the shadow lets go, causing you to move forward a little. “I can go now?” You ask, which the shadow ignores again, but doesn’t keep you in place any longer. You walk to the door, opening it only to collide directly into someone.

“I’m so sorry I-“ you’re cut off by the laugh of the beautiful Azriel.

“It’s okay,” he says, and you take this opportunity to glance down and you realize he’s wearing a loose pair of trousers with no shirt on. His bare chest was just as beautiful as the rest of him - black ink trailed across his shoulders in an abstract way that your eyes lingered on. If you weren’t so preoccupied by checking him out, you might have noticed the shadows surrounding him, trying to slow him down.

A small blush creeps down your cheeks as you ask, “is your uh tiny general happy and napping?”

He smirks and says “well I’m not sure about how happy he is, but Cassian is definitely asleep. He’s kept on a separate floor because of how loud he snores.”

You hit him in the chest, “you know I wasn’t talking about - wait he sleeps on a different floor? Is it really that bad?”

He motions for you to follow him up the stairs, and before you’re even halfway up, you hear impossibly loud snoring. “Oh,” you giggle, “yeah I’m not sure how anyone sleeps in the same city block as him.”

“You have no idea. Cassian’s really susceptible to pollen, so during the spring time it’s absolutely ridiculous. We once banned him for a week so we could all sleep.”

You laugh, and then try to shush yourself so he doesn’t wake up. “Stop - if I laugh I’ll wake him up.”

“What are you doing up?” He asks, his hazel eyes looking down at you with such fondness you wanted to curl up in his gaze and rest in it for a while.

“Oh I wanted cookies, actually.” You reply. “Why are you awake?”

He stammers a little, not wanting you to know that he was walking by your door to see if you were still awake. He had wanted to see you again, your earlier encounter occupying his thoughts all day long, when he assumed you had turned in for the night.

“Uh, I was doing a patrol.” He settled on.

“Oh yeah? Wanted to make sure the terrifying threat was contained?”

He smirked, “what do you think I’m doing now? I figure if I feed the threat, it might spare me.” He gives you the sweetest looking puppy dog face, and you have no idea where it came from, but it absolutely melts your heart.

“Stop that!” you say, while hitting his chest.

“Stop what?” He says, continuing his pouting.

“You look like a sad puppy dog, stop!”

“Will it make the frightening threat not want to kill me?”

“Hmm, the frightening threat will leave you be, for now.”

You two head into the kitchen, and he immediately starts searching through cupboards.

“Mor and Cassian have the best cookies,” he says, while reaching the higher shelves to pull out random boxes that contain cookie tins.

“I didn’t know being a spymaster included knowing everyone’s taste in cookies.”

“You never know what might become necessary information.”

He looked down at you, offering you a cookie. You accepted it, and as your hands were connected by the cookie, a few shadows danced around your arms to some unheard song. He seemed a little surprised at them, his mouth dropping just slightly.

“Are they always this kind to night court guests?” You asked, nibbling on the cookie.

“Only the pretty ones.”

“And do you always flirt with night court guests?”

He leaned in closer, “only the pretty ones.”

You took a step closer, until you’re almost touching noses.

“And do you always commit crimes with your guests?”

His breath was fanning your face. It smelled of sugar cookie and mint, and you think about what it would feel like to inhale him.

“Only you.”

He pulled out a cookie and offered it to your mouth, which you happily accepted. You don’t break eye contact as you grab the cookie with your mouth, pulling it from his fingers.

“I can’t say I’ve indulged in criminal activity with anyone else.”

His grin grows as you bite into the cookie, a few crumbs falling but a few shadows swoop down to catch them before depositing them in the trash.

“Good. I am in charge of catching criminals in the night court, and I’d hate to have to catch you and lock you up.”

A blush spread over your cheeks. You opened your mouth to respond, when Azriel straightened, his wings going rigid.

“Hide the evidence.” He whispered, as he pulled back and quietly put the cookies away back where they came from. Before you can ask him about the abrupt change, you hear loud footsteps coming down the stairs into the kitchen, before seeing Cassian appear.

He looked at the two of you, surprised that anyone else was awake at this hour. Now he was hoping the two of you wouldn’t stay too long so he could reach his secret stash of cookies.

During the afternoon the next day, your little shadow companion kept following you around, almost acting as a guide dog. When you came down for breakfast, it guided you into the seat next to where Azriel was sitting, even guiding your hand to grab an apple at the same time as him, causing your fingers to brush against each other.

Currently the shadow was dragging you through the hallways of the house, into what appeared to be a massive library. It guided you to sit in a chair at a table where there seemed to be some paperwork piled on top. The shadow left you for a moment, returning with a book for you.

“Ah, thank you,” you say, petting at the shadow. It curled around your finger in reciprocation before slithering back into your hair. You began reading the book, only getting a chapter in when someone sat across the table from you.

“The threat has found where I liked to do work,” Azriel stated, looking through his papers. You smiled up at him, “I have to be prepared to strike at any moment, you know.”

He chuckled, a soft look on his face. “Well, if you plan to attack in the library, please try to keep noise levels to a minimum, Clotho gets very upset when I cause too much noise. I’m on thin ice with her.”

“Oh, I see. You have a reputation for hosting parties down here,” you muse.

He looks at you, a lazy grin on his face, “my parties are known across Prythian, only the best, most exclusive guests may attend my library events.”

“And am I on the guest list?” You ask, leaning against the table. “Of course,” he replied, leaning towards you over the table, “you might be a threat, but I’ve heard you’re one hell of a dancer.”

You laugh loudly, then remember where you are and try to quiet down. “I’ll have you know that I’m a lousy dancer, but I would be very interested in attending one of your parties anyway.”

The longer you stayed, the more the shadows kept maneuvering around you. Instead of just one you now had a small trio who accompanied you everywhere, hiding in your hair, wisping around your neck and wrists like jewelry when you were alone.

One night at dinner, you’re seated next to Azriel for the fourth evening in a row. You’re not sure if any of his family members pick up on this, but Kallias and Viviane also sit in the same place each night, so perhaps it wasn’t anything noteworthy.

“Can you pass me the potatoes please?”

You knew if you turned to the right, Azriel’s face would be right next to yours and your noses would be able to touch.

“Of course, can’t give you any reason not to trust me.” You winked at him, reaching over for the potatoes. When you turn back, Azriel’s expression has changed ever so slightly, and his eyes search for your face, something you can’t quite pinpoint in his eyes.

“Here you are,” you say, moving the bowl towards him.

“Here I am,” he says, not reaching for the bowl, instead keeping his gaze fixed on you. You laugh, expecting there to be some joke, but he keeps his gaze fixed on you and you find it impossible to breathe with the way he’s looking at you.

Surely someone else notices the way you two are locked in this embrace, but when you quickly glance around the table, no one seems to notice or care.

He reached for the potatoes and looked at them. “How can I be sure you didn’t poison these?”

You laugh, the spell of the moment gone, and you’re able to think properly again.

“I guess you’ll never know.”

He placed the bowl down, smirking. “Better not take any chances then.”

The rest of the dinner continued, everyone amused at Nyx’s babbling and insistence of sitting in Cassian’s lap despite how many times he’s put back into his own high chair, and yet your eyes kept finding those potatoes Azriel never ate, the bowl untouched since he took it from your hands.

A quick knock to your door the next morning stops you from packing, and you stride over to open it. “Hi, Azriel,” you say, leaving the door open for him to come in as you turn back around to put your folded clothes away. Several of his shadows move towards you, trying to unfold your clothes when you aren't looking.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, shutting the door behind him gently, turning back to you with his hands in his pockets. You swat at the shadows, refolding their undoing.

“Unfortunately, my trip always had an expiration date attached to it.”

You breathe deeply, trying to ignore how good he smells when you feel him come up behind you, his chest close enough that you can feel his body heat through your clothes. From behind you, he lifts one of his hands up, almost touching you, but not quite getting far enough before retracting his hand.

He clears his throat, “what did you think of my home court?”

You smile, doing the latches on your luggage. “It’s quite beautiful. Do you get all four seasons here?”

He nods his head in agreement when you turn to face him, not noticing the shadows behind you undoing the latches to your suitcase and unpacking once more for you. “That must be nice,” you muse, “I love Winter, but I am quite tired of the cold.”

“I’m used to the cold, growing up in the mountains you grow quite accustomed to it.”

“Then you’d feel comfortable visiting me in the Winter Court?”

Azriel’s ears reddened at the brazen ask, “I can’t imagine visiting you anywhere and not feeling at ease.”

It was your turn for your ears to redden, but Azriel doesn’t let the silence linger for long.

“Before you go, can I tell you something?”

Surprise overcomes your face, intrigued by his question. You nod, desperate to know what he has to say before you leave. He looked behind you, watching his shadows unpack your bag and put your clothes back where they had come from in the drawers.

“I was very drawn to you when we first met.”

He clears his throat, his wings twitching with nerves. “I was literally dragged to you. I was winnowing elsewhere, but my shadows brought me next to you. I was intrigued why they’d do such a thing,” one of the offending shadows gently passes over his cheek before making its way to greet you.

“They’re funny little things. I thought they were just annoyed with me because I wasn’t sleeping. And then you spoke to me. You were so relaxed with me, immediately. It’s not- most fae aren’t relaxed around me. And I really liked you.”

“I like you too, Azriel.”

He holds up a hand, silently telling you he’s not quite finished. You hold your hands up in mock surrender, allowing him to continue.

“And then you were everywhere. In the hallway, next to me at meals, on the balconies when I landed. It’s like you knew where I’d be.

“Last night at dinner, when I asked you for the potatoes.. I didn’t eat them after you gave them to me.”

You cock your head to the side, confused at this admission over something as minor as potatoes. “Did you change your mind?”

“No, no. I just- I just- the second you were about to hand them to me, I felt it.”

“You felt it?” Confusion coursed through you, completely unsure of where he was going. You enunciated each word, curious over what ‘it’ was.

“I felt it.” His tone held more conviction, but you weren’t any less confused by what he was talking about.

“What did you feel?”

“This.” And you felt a sharp tug in your chest, pulling you towards him, almost knocking you off of your feet. You gasp, holding your arms out to steady yourself, your hands meeting his chest instead.

“That- what- I-“ you look around frantically, unsure exactly of what that was. You look up, finding soft, slight amusement in his hazel eyes. Shadows swarmed around the two of you, circling your arms, your legs, your fingers. They seemed to be saying something, and you closed your eyes to listen.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

You close your eyes, looking deep into your chest, searching for that rope, that tether between your souls. It was shadow and ice, wrapped around each other for as far as you could see.

You gave it a sharp tug, and it was Azriel’s turn to lurch forward. You laugh at his stumbling, holding his elbows to keep him steady.

“Is your offer still valid - for me to visit you in Winter?”

“Only if I can come visit you here, mate.”

Azriel’s knees nearly gave out at the name, the title he’s wanted for centuries. And here you were, right in front of him.

His hand moved hesitantly toward your face, lingering close enough that you could feel the chill from his hand. You nuzzled your cheek into his hand, looking up at him. This beautiful, kind male was your mate.

You had known him for four days - you hardly knew him, hardly knew anything about him or his homeland. But that was okay. You knew his shadows well enough by now.

They were a pretty good judge of character.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin

Thanks for reading! 💕

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #acotar writing #azriel x y/n

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